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On certain nights, Matteo falls asleep the same way he tends to wake up for mass every Sunday—which is to say not at all. He doesn’t consider these sporadic bouts of sleeplessness to be a huge problem, preferring to think of these moments as a reprieve from the difficulties of everyday life. The difficulties in question being things like having to make at least ten seconds of eye contact with his biology teacher every five minutes during lectures to avoid getting called into her office again. She’s made her annoyance about Matteo’s inattentiveness very clear through the numerous threats made to his participation grade. He can almost appreciate the straightforward nature of her actions as cold as they are. Her assumption that his behavior stems from a lack of discipline and respect for the material, instead of the deep-rooted lethargy he wears over his bones like a second skin, absolves him of the uncomfortable discussion that might occur if she were to simply ask him if anything was wrong.
That particular question has never felt very simple to Matteo along with any other query regarding his emotional state. He really isn’t sure whether what he’s more afraid of: the concept of being forced to have a serious discussion, what the discussion might result in, or what he would even have to say for himself. There’s a sort of control to be found in being passive within his own narrative. Silence, compliance, and apathy are the safest of his demons. For the single year in his life that he had attended therapy (the year his parents had gotten divorced) he had been inundated with the importance of something his court-appointed therapist would say during their bi-weekly sessions: There are only two sources of motivation in life, love or fear . Which is to say that fear, at the very least, was familiar.
For these reasons, Matteo welcomes the unsteady hands and listless gaze that come as a result of sleep deprivation the next day. He’s generally too tired to notice but sometimes he’ll catch the loaded glances Jonas gives him if doesn’t actively participate in his friends’ lunchtime conversations. The looks are few and far between, Jonas having been accustomed to Matteo’s demeanor after nearly seven years of friendship, but the weight of them further chips away at his cracks every time.
He can feel Jonas silently asking, ‘you ok?’- with himself always responding with a wan smile and a nod. ‘All good.’ He thinks that sometimes Jonas knows he’s only being placated, but the glances stop anyway. His attention is altogether elsewhere, conversation steered toward blonde ambitions. Matteo pushed the rice around his plate, stomach in knots.
Tonight is shaping up to be one of those nights he mentioned before. He’s been staring up at the left corner of his bedroom ceiling for five hours, lying very, very still. Usually if he zones out enough, he finds that he can stop thinking completely. That doesn’t work this time. Matteo has an idea about why he isn’t able to shut his mind off. He had turned the sound on his phone to the lowest setting, but the occasional buzz persisted. His mood could have something to do with his cellphone deliberately being placed face down on the floor across the room, which could in turn, possibly be related to the content of the texts he’d received while he sat on the bus earlier that afternoon. He’s too preoccupied with actively trying to ignore the meaning behind the bible verses littering his inbox to let his thoughts fade out.
Mama:
"The Lord is righteous, yet I rebelled against his command.
Listen, all you peoples; look on my suffering. My young men and young women have gone into exile.
I called to my allies but they betrayed me. My priests and my elders perished in the city while
they searched for food to keep themselves alive. See, Lord , how distressed I am! I am in torment within,
and in my heart I am disturbed, for I have been most rebellious. Outside, the sword bereaves;
inside, there is only death.” Lamentations 1, 18-20.
Read at 3:47 PM
He managed to make it to the flat before his composure splintered. He moved like a man possessed towards the bathroom, locking the door, and leaning heavily over the sink. Almost instantaneously his breath quickened to an upsetting pace, choking on words that were not his own. His ears start ringing. This was the sort of agony that reminds you that you’re alive. Matteo wilted like the purple anemones his mother would pick from their neighbor’s garden and sit on their living room windowsill but didn’t bother to water. He never thought to ask why she let them die every time.
Twenty minutes later he found himself lying down in his current position, phone shut off and tossed to the floor. At some point he’d convinced himself that it was a good thing none of his flatmates were home to watch him fall apart. For the most part, he meant it. There was no virtue in shared pain for him, he didn’t find that it helped him to talk about his feelings. Pity wasn’t a very strong motivator.
Eventually twisting his head to look at the clock on the nightstand, he blinked a few times in disbelief.
4:02 AM. Ok. Shit.
Though Matteo could make a professional career out of pointedly not acknowledging the decline of his own health & wellbeing, even he’s self aware enough to know that getting four hours of sleep total over the past 3 days is not good. It could even be considered really fucking bad. Perhaps.
He pulls at his hair and lets out a long sigh. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. Ok, I’m just gonna close my eyes and count sheep or something. I mean, it worked when I was six.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7……76, 77, 78, 79 ….. 322, 323, 324……
He jolts awake to the sound of his alarm at 8:30 the next morning after falling asleep around 7:00, feeling like someone beat the absolute shit out of him in the dead of night. He’s been pinching some of Linn’s chips for the past week or two, so his money is on her. Fifteen minutes pass before he finds the strength to stumble out of his cocoon of blankets and get dressed. He blearily looks around at the clothes strewn across the floor, picking up the first soft looking sweater he lands on. Matteo doesn’t bother with many comforts in life, but he’s a slut for a cozy grandpa sweater, he will admit. This one is two sizes too big and there’s a small hole in the collar, but he wears it anyway. Turning towards the mirror, he notes his bloodshot eyes. Sliding sunglasses on with one hand and grabbing his backpack with the other, he starts walking towards the door but stops in his tracks. He can faintly hear Hans humming and puttering around in the kitchen, and Matteo is not in any shape to interact with any human being let alone his aggressively jubilant flatmate, but he hasn’t eaten since yesterday morning so… onward.
He slips out of the room and quietly slinks into the kitchen. Hans’ back is turned towards him and he lets himself hope for a second that he can get in and out without being noticed, turning to reach for the carton of orange juice sitting on the counter and-
“Good morning!”
Oh my god. Fuck. It’s like he can smell fear.
Hans continues to power through unperturbed by the tortured look that Matteo knows he’s wearing, “Happy Tuesday! You look more rumpled than usual, butterfly.” He takes a brief moment to really look at Matteo, observing the dark splotches under his eyes and mop of hair that hasn't seen a brush in ages.
“Right. Thanks Hans.” He mumbles, not really bothering to make eye contact and shuffles over to the cabinet to grab a glass. He misses the resigned frown that slips across Hans’ face for a moment before he regains his composure, waiting a beat too long to respond.
“Ah, sorry,” He amends, belatedly realizing that Matteo isn’t in the mood to be teased. “I just meant that you don’t look well. Do you feel sick? Did you sleep well? Oh my god, do you have a fever? ” Hans manages to work himself into a tizzy without any help from Matteo, rushing over to press the back of his head to the sullen boy’s forehead.
Matteo’s fight or flight response had kicked in the second Hans started speaking, so he was already throwing himself out of Hans’ path and towards the fridge before his flatmate’s hand got within 5 inches of his face. Matteo rolled his eyes, responding in the flattest tone he could muster, “I’m fine, chill out. I was just up late doing homework.” His voice wavers a bit halfway through the second sentence realizing that it wasn’t the most believable excuse coming from him. If the older boy noticed his hesitation, he chose not to mention it in favor of putting his hands on his hips and in a gentle tone saying, “Ok, ok. Alright. I just worry sometimes.”
A quiet, annoyed exhale proceeds the quick and vaguely unconvincing, “Yeah. I know.” that tumbles out of Matteo’s mouth, attention turned back toward his glass of orange juice. Feeling a wisp of guilt for his dismissive tone, he steels himself for a moment and turns to meet Hans’ eyes, feigning a more lighthearted expression. It must be convincing enough because that particular line of questioning dies soon after and Hans starts rambling on about a deeply uncomfortable interaction Linn had with their landlord the night before involving a pumpkin pie and several cats, while Matteo grabs a bread roll from the pantry. After it’s thoroughly slathered in honey and butter, he shoves the whole thing in his mouth like a gremlin just to see the disgusted grimace spring onto Hans’ face. That makes him feel a little better.
Soon after that, Matteo takes his leave from the apartment and ambles towards the bus stop. The sun peeks through the clouds for a moment while he waits on the sidewalk. A few deep breaths and he’s composed again. Chill. Everything’s chill. The bus shows a few minutes later, Matteo having resorted to counting blades of grass on the patch of green that managed to burst through a long crack in the concrete out of boredom. It wasn’t an inherently unpleasant thing, boredom. Most people tend to find it unbearable in large doses, but to him it was kinda like sleeping while you’re still awake. At least you can control a daydream. That sort of luxury doesn’t carry over to an unconscious state and he’d prefer not to be at the mercy of the repressed trauma lurking around in his brain.
He moves towards the last few rows of the bus before settling down in the window seat behind a boy with defined curls. Before he can get a better look at the face attached to the mane, a sound makes itself at home in the air. He’s clearly developed a pavlovian response to his text notifications because he flinches and has to close his eyes for a second. He really, really, really hopes it isn’t from his mother. He’s not sure if he can handle something like that so soon after yesterday's events. Take a deep breath. Open it and get it over with.
His right hand trembles for a few seconds before he taps the notification. Oh. He snorts and rolls his eyes when he sees that it’s from Jonas.
Jonas:
Wazzaaap luigi
U ready for the test in algebra?
Matteo:
What test
Jonas:
:/…the 1 i mentioned last weds during lunch bro
Matteo:
Ahhhh
right
that test
Jonas:
U forgot huh.
Matteo doesn’t respond, instead finding it more appropriate to slide off of his seat onto the floor in utter despair.
I should’ve stayed in bed.
——————————
Twenty minutes before the lunch bell, Matteo slips out of Biology class with a feigned plea to visit the school nurse for help with the stress-induced migraine he got from, I don’t know, thinking too hard during the plant reproduction pop quiz or something.
It’s not a total lie. If Matteo had actually tried to put in that much effort during the quiz, it probably would have hurt his brain a little.
After walking aimlessly through the halls with his hand trailing across row after row of blue lockers, he stops to throw his head back and stare unyieldingly into the void of the yellow-toned, fluorescent lights on the ceiling. There was a fifteen second window that followed, consisting solely of Matteo not registering the stinging pain that tends to develop as a result of staring at a bright light for more than three seconds. After realizing that he should probably look away, a dull throb unfurls behind his eyes.
Matteo takes a moment to quietly question every decision he’s ever made in his natural born life, reflecting upon his dwindling supply of brain cells, and mourning the loss of yet another comrade.
He briefly considers actually going to the nurse to ask for an extra-strength Tylenol to fix the fake illness he managed to will into existence, but he decides against it, getting an odd thrill from sticking to the lie he’d told his teacher in an attempt to passive aggressively subvert authority.
There’s a lot to unpack there.
Matteo also partially based his decision on the undeniable fact that he would feel pressured to spill his guts about the situation in a misplaced display of anxiety, the nurses’ station mirroring the environment of an actual hospital and managing to evoke just as much fear.
The thought of lying to a medical professional, whether it happens to be the overly friendly man employed by his school, whose only credentials consist of being the owner of palms that are, decidedly, far too sweaty for the amount of tactile interaction with minors that’s involved in his chosen profession or if it’s the doctor that sometimes shows up in the corner of his vision during sleep paralysis who he’ll often dream is tasked with delivering the results of a surprise drug test, personally ordered by God, to be read aloud to his Nonna.
Like why would God go out of his way to tell a sweet, old woman that her grandson did shrooms once, or possibly twice, but definitely no more than three times?
Oh cool, now she knows her familial legacy will live on in someone who once had a desire for personal growth and development and replaced it with visiting Etsy every night so he can look at the listing for that one really nice, ornate bong made in a glass-blowing class the seller took in the 80s. His serotonin levels are directly linked to the doctor-patient confidentiality agreement he has with his physician not being violated by his Holiness, thank you for asking.
Sometimes he finds himself thinking so deeply about the hypothetical, yet ever-present weight of his Nonna’s disappointment, for so long that he effectively performs mental gymnastics to such a degree that he manages to hurt his own feelings.
He ducks through the throng of students milling about on the grass during their study hall and decides his destination on the fly. He finds himself crouching in the alcove beneath the science building and closes his eyes for a moment. The chatter of students from above carries through the concrete like TV static, muffled voices blanketing the space like a pair of noise cancelling headphones.
The moderate breeze is enough to filter out the smoke trailing out of the pitifully small joint nestled between his fingers. Two more deep puffs and it’s practically ash in the palm of his hand. He doesn’t really make a point of smoking during school but after the past 48 hours Matteo has had, he feels it can’t be helped. I mean, he gets an hour of sleep, is assaulted by the cherriness of his flatmate, embarasses himself on the bus, and then almost gets cornered by Sara while walking through the front gate earlier. He figures that he can say he didn’t hear her calling his name from across the street because of the music he was blaring through his headphones on the way in, when she inevitably catches up to him later on.
It wouldn’t take much to realize that he wasn’t even wearing headphones this morning, but Sara wouldn’t call him on it. She never did.
It isn’t really her fault that he doesn’t want to be bothered with interacting with her. He thinks that her, uh, enthusiasm could probably be appreciated by the right person.
Matteo is often annoyed by the fact that she’s generally oblivious to his not-so-subtle rebuffs, but it’s not like he’ll ever tell her straight up that he isn't interested in her. Or girls in general. The rosy-cheeked blonde’s unfailing devotion to him is stifling, but ultimately useful. He’ll take selfies with her for their snapchat stories and let her hang off of his arm in the halls if that means there are no rumors floating around about his sexuality. It’s just… easier that way. For the time being, he’s content with cutting off pieces of himself to fit into the mold of everyone’s expectations. He’ll focus the reserves of his energy on being Sara’s boyfriend, a passable student, a dutiful son, etc. because none of it really matters. It’s just another role for Matteo to play.
With the evidence crushed beneath his shoe, he slinks out of the makeshift hideaway and into the building, the scent of his favorite form of stress relief faintly lingering on his person.
He’s making his way to the cafeteria when a hand claps down onto his shoulder. He startles for a moment but is met with his group of friends. Jonas is the first to greet him while Carlos and Abdi trail behind, discussing the latter’s oddly detailed, prospective, “5 Step Plan to Make Sam (and Hopefully Every Other Girl at School) Fall in Love with Him.”
It’s a work in progress.
“Luigi! What’s up?” Jonas says, “I didn’t hear from you on Saturday.”
“...Saturday?”
“...Yes. Hanna’s party? The one that you said you’d to go to with me so that you could ‘diffuse any exes-to-close-friends transitional tension’ between us with an ‘off the wall, yet thought provoking statement to shift the conversation away from feelings’, should it arise at any point?” His bright tone took on an accusatory edge as the question came to a close.
Matteo starts wracking his brain the moment Jonas opens his mouth, but grim realization settles in as his own words from their previous conversation were used against him, the minute shift in his expression reading as an overt admission of guilt.
Yeah, now I remember. The party... the one that Hanna threw at her house on Saturday that I definitely remember (?) promising Jonas I would go to.
“Oh shit,” Matteo punctuates the phrase with a wide-eyed look and absentmindedly throws up finger guns as he fully processes Jonas’ words, “I am so sorry. I’m really sorry dude, I just- I had some family stuff to deal with, talking about rent money, and post-graduation plans…” He trails off looking contrite, slumping down at their usual table.
Jonas’ mouth remains twisted to the side, but the hard look in his eye starts to wane. He was pretty familiar with how Matteo’s spontaneous bi-monthly chats with his parents tended to result in his friend’s self-imposed isolation.
Matteo feels the usual twinge of guilt in his spine that he gets as a result of lying to anyone that seems to care about his well-being. He was fully aware of all the calls he’d ignored on Saturday night. His phone started buzzing next to his head around 5:00 PM, and after checking his notifications, ended up buzzing on the floor for the rest of the night where he'd chucked it.
It’s rare but he's occasionally freely given the gift of sleep by the universe (read: passing out in the middle of the day), so when it happens, he takes full advantage of it.
Jonas hums for a moment, then says, “Yeah, I got it man. Just try to let me know you’re gonna bail next time. Maybe a day or two beforehand so I can cancel on Hanna with an excuse that good?”
Matteo can tell that he is mostly teasing at this point, judging from how Jonas is fighting off a grin with raised eyebrows, probably trying to milk his friend’s guilty conscience for show.
Either that or he can tell how high Matteo is and chooses to be merciful by not exploiting his friend’s weakened defences and diminished mental capacity in a public setting.
Matteo counts his lucky stars either way.
After schooling his expression, he briefly cracks a wide smile, in what might be considered a fit of madness by the people who knew him best, if not for the answering eye roll that’s thrown Jonas’ way along with it. “Yeah, sure. But you’re right, no, I probably should’ve said something..”
“No, it’s fine, seriously.” It wasn’t really, but the curly-haired boy knew that this answer was the least likely to result in conflict.
“Don’t worry about it. Just text me or something next time, ja?” He says, brushing it off by throwing an arm around his friend’s shoulder.
“For sure, dude.” And someday I’ll learn to stop making promises like that.
This discussion isn’t a new one. Matteo doesn’t like to make a habit of flaking out on his friends, but it still happens enough that Jonas has stopped pressing him so hard when it does. This is another thing that makes Matteo’s social life easier. Not necessarily better, but easier.
“Ok, so don’t you guys think I should get my nose pierced?” The conversation halts with Abdi’s abrupt interjection. A twin look of horror stretches across their faces as they process the question while a tormented sigh tumbles out of the facepalming heap of disappointment formerly known as Carlos.
God rest his long suffering soul.
The length of the hush that befalls the group stretches on, borderline cartoonish before it breaks with a series of exclamations in varying levels of distress.
Matteo sputters out a distraught, “What? What the fuck?”
“.... Who told you that?” Jonas says in an inscrutable tone, speaking in a controlled way that conveys a bit of his genuine concern about the possible toxic influence advising Abdi on his lifestyle choices, but the questions are also accompanied by a pinched look that denotes the absolute hysterics he could be thrown into based on the content of the answers he receives.
Before Abdi can respond, Jonas goes on, eyes shining with mirth and losing his battle with restrained laughter, “I really need you to be straight up with me, dude. If someone led you to believe that getting your nose pierced should be your spring fashion statement, then that’s kind of fucked up and we should probably talk about it.” The feigned seriousness fell apart in his closing sentence, background peppered with the increasing torrent of giggles that started coming out of Matteo when he looked up from the table to meet Abdi’s earnest eyes.
“Ok, you didn’t get to hear any of the context behind my question! Just let me explain.”
“Oh, do go on.” Carlos says simply.
“Ok, so I came up with this strategy to essentially guide the female population of this school, specifically Sam, directly into my loving arms. So, I was thinking, hey, a lot of the time girls like brooding and mysterious guys. I just figured that part out after reflecting on living through the height of Twilight ’s popularity. That level of passion cannot be faked,” Abdi says.
Their friend’s reasoning triggers a round of hesitant shrugs in agreement from the boys, unable to find fault in Abdi’s logic so far.
“After careful consideration and focused research, I thought that the fastest way to change my image would be to get my nose pierced,” Abdi continues earnestly, “I wasn’t sure about it at first, but then I remembered that Sam is really into astrology so I downloaded this app that gives me a daily horoscope. The next morning, which was today, I got my first one. Know what it said? Make an unexpected change as the full moon shifts into Aries. Boom.” Miming a mic drop at the conclusion of his explanation, he waits for a response.
The resounding silence he received wasn’t the overwhelming consensus he'd been looking for, further prompting his friends with an imploring, “What?”
Carlos says, “You worry me sometimes. Specifically, every time you make the choice to speak.”
Jonas stays silent and looks like he’s either trying to process Abdi’s explanation again or making an attempt to erase it from his short-term memory banks through sheer force of will.
Matteo starts, “I think I get what you’re trying to say…”
“Wait, seriously?”
Matteo is quiet for a moment, “No, but I was following you for the first half what you said, even though I think that none of what you just told us was based on rational thought. You really lost me after you used Twilight and your horoscope that’s predicted by the stars, then interpreted through an app you paid $3.00 for as prime examples for the basis of making your life decisions."
Abdi thinks introspectively for a moment then says, “So…. does that mean I should do it?”
“Absolutely not.” Jonas interjects, “But I do commend you for sharing your feelings with us and I think your thoughts are valid, but they make my brain hurt, so I’m gonna change the subject so we can experience some closure.”
Abdi shrugs, “That’s fair.”
Lunch halted with the sound of the bell, followed by Matteo reluctantly rising from his seat. He returns a few farewell fistbumps and starts ambling down the hall towards the only class he actually enjoys.
There were only two sections of the Film Literacy class offered per semester. Both classes are taught at the same time, the only difference being the instructors and varying class sizes, his class being the larger of the two with twenty students, while the other only had five. Their curriculum was mostly related to critically discussing books and the film adaptations that are made as a result. The conversations stem from their observations, like whether or not the dialogue in a script sounds like it was copied verbatim or if the tone of a film is so far removed from its source material that you start to feel like the depth of the director’s understanding is limited to Wikipedia articles. When they aren’t having class discussions, they’re watching movies so they can eventually have more discussions.
Matteo generally has no idea what movies are being shown at any given point in the semester.
He is only fond of this class for two reasons: 1. His participation grade is linked to how often he shows up rather than the level of actual effort he puts into learning. 2. The auditorium they use is pitch black on viewing days, allowing Matteo the freedom of taking a nap if the mood strikes.
He’s already made himself comfortable when class starts, slouching down into the desk and lightly doodling on its surface in pencil.
“Good afternoon,” Ms. Alig’s round, wrinkled face and open demeanor setting the students at ease, "I hope you’ve all had a pleasant day so far. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but our class has grown! Dr. Wagner started paternity leave yesterday, so we’ll be adding his five students to our roster. Go on ahead, stand up and wave, say your name! Don’t be shy.”
Matteo looks up to glance around the room in vague curiosity at the new faces, only recognizing Amira from her seat across the room, until the guy sitting in front of him stands, turning to look around the room as well.
There was something familiar about him, a black knit beanie covering the mess of coils that sat atop his disgruntled visage. His arms crossed and uncrossed, clearly discomfited by being the center of attention. He was handsome in a brooding sort of way, brown eyes framed by thick, furrowed brows. He was the place where sharp lines met subtle curves, an aquiline nose resting above a defined cupid’s bow, sloping down to greet his plush lips that were twisted into a wry smile. The silver hoop in his nose only added to the mystique.
Maybe Abdi had a point.
“Hi. I’m David,” he spoke addressing the class, his voice coming out clearer than Matteo had anticipated.
David’s eyes met his for a brief moment before the boy turned back around in his seat to face the front of the lecture hall. The remainder of the class passes in a blur, Matteo’s eyes hardly moving from their resting place on the back of the other boy’s head.
He isn’t pulled from his daze until he registers that David is now facing him, and has been waiting for a response for quite some time. Matteo is shocked from his stupor, scrambling to put his things away while the rest of the class trails out of the room.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I was too busy looking at the back of your head while fantasizing about the front of it to act like a normal, functioning human being, could you repeat that?
He huffs out a quiet laugh before trying again, “I was asking if you had a partner for the presentation yet? With our classes merging there’s an even number, so Ms. Alig wants us to try group work, I guess. I’m David, by the way.”
“Matteo. And uh- no, I don’t have a partner. Or I didn’t before because I guess we’re partners now.” He barely manages to contain the anxious word vomit that often arises in him in the presence of attractive men, shuffling the last of his papers into his bag. Now standing, Matteo could see that he and David were about the same height.
Matteo looked down to gain his bearings before meeting the other boy’s eyes again when he spoke , beginning to fidget with the frayed strings on his sweater.
“Cool, that’s cool. So have you seen My Own Private Idaho before?”
“What’s that?”
“Ah. That would be the movie we’re presenting at the end of the semester.” He relayed this information to Matteo with a slight smirk, his light tone betraying the statement as teasing. This did nothing to assuage the flames that had ignited under the skin of the already rosy-cheeked boy, his obliviousness knowing no bounds.
While Matteo sputtered out a response, David’s smirk grew until it became a grin, fondness practically oozing out of his pores for his new classmate. He let him ramble for almost a full minute before taking pity on Matteo.
“I’m just gonna take that as a ‘no,” that fucking smirk again, “I have class soon, but could we exchange numbers? Ya know, for the presentation. The movie is really good, one of my favorites, so, yeah.” He went on, looking a bit sheepish as more time passed without a response from Matteo who had lost the battle with his attention span against the single curl that had snuck out from under David’s beanie to press against his forehead.
“Yeah, that’s- that would be fine. Cool.”
“Ok. Cool.”
The two exchanged contact information before the bell rang again, signalling the end of the short break between classes used for travel time. With another smirk and a vow to text the other later, they parted.
Matteo continued to his next class in a daze, but one that was far different from the one he had found himself in before, this induced by tight curls and plush lips rather than drugs.
Hm.
David might be better than drugs.
—
Matteo believes that there are certain places in the universe where time ceases to exist. This list of places includes gas station bathrooms, empty churches, the half-lit changing rooms at H&M, and the small, dark space underneath his bed. If you look past the dust bunnies and dirty sneakers, it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary to find him lying there, squished in between the bedframe with his cheek pressed to the wooden floor. Lying there, ear pressed to the ground, he could hear muffled sounds from a room of the flat below. There had been new tenants moving in a few months ago but he’d only exchanged a few polite head nods with a girl that looked to be in her mid-twenties while walking in through the back stairwell. It sounded like they were playing music, something soft and old.
Losing himself in the sound, closing his eyes for a moment and holding his breath, he imagined for a moment that this is what it’d feel like being held, the weight of the bed setting a comforting pressure on his spine. He stretched his right arm out from under the frame to rest his hand against the shag rug, making believe for a moment that the matted fuzz was instead a head of thick, coiled hair. He didn’t often let himself think about these kinds of things. Acknowledging his desires often led to the thought of them being known, even if only to himself, and Matteo found it to be a deeply mortifying experience.
Finally releasing the breath he had taken, he found no relief on the exhale, tension still present in his bones. Twin knocks accompanied by a light call of his name shook the reverie from his grasp, snatching his hand away from the carpet like he’d been burned and settling back at his side. Turning his head to the left, he saw the bottom of the door ajar and a pair of leather loafers filled his vision. A few moments later, Hans' jovial face peered out at him from his eye level.
“Well, hello. How’s the weather down there?”
“Hi, Hans.”
If the older boy found his flatmate’s antics to be questionable, it didn’t show in his expression, sunny smile at the forefront as he flattened himself down next to the bed to mimic Matteo’s position.
Hans then ventured to ask with mirth, “So, what exactly are you doing down here?”
Matteo coughed, a bit embarrassed to be caught, “Sometimes… you just need to lie down.”
“Under the bed? The bed that’s specifically for lying down on top of?”
“Um, yeah?”
Hans pondered that response for a long moment before saying, “Well ok, I guess it is sort of comfortable. Ya know, if you can ignore all of the dirt and candy wrappers and such.”
Matteo shifted slightly to rebuff the claim, but shut his mouth upon hearing plastic crinkle from underneath his torso. They both laughed for a minute before Hans primly rose from the floor and Matteo clumsily dislodged himself from his dusty sanctuary.
“I just came to tell you that I’m going to order pizza for all of us soon, my treat!” Hans carried on with this declaration as if the reasoning behind it didn’t stem from the destruction of their oven after one of his more disastrous culinary adventures. Who knew baked alaska would be so hard to make? Well, everyone other than Hans apparently.
“Oh, cool. Thanks.” Matteo’s lackluster response didn’t even begin to convey the excitement that filled him at the prospect of receiving free carbs, but Hans charged on anyway.
“I’ll let you know when it’s here,” he said, making his way out into the hall, “Ha, I’ll probably come back around to find you meditating in the closet.”
The strength it took for him not to out himself to Hans with a shitty joke in that moment was borderline herculean.
An hour later, Matteo found himself rolling a joint on the balcony. The haze of smoke that began to encapsulate his brain got him thinking about David again. More specifically the way he oriented himself, moving through every space with so much caution it seemed graceful, as if David danced through life with a small, secret upturn of his lips. That fucking smirk. A few days had passed since the last time they spoke in class, Matteo almost preferred the silence to stumbling through their confusing interactions, but he continued to observe David intently as he drew on the side of his notebook during Ms. Alig’s next few lectures. Matteo was no artist, but he could probably draw the back of the other boy’s head from memory alone. Sitting there in silence with the waxing moon to keep him company, maybe he could admit to himself that the faceless boy he’d imagined laying down next to might have defined curls, brown skin, and a silver hoop through his nose.
Dare to dream, I guess.