3. Matthew

3

MATTHEW

T onight's storm is even worse than last night's, but I don't have to work tomorrow, so I don't mind it. The cloud-to-cloud lighting has my full attention as Fischer sleeps through it behind me. I think about the Sistine Chapel. The Creation of Adam, specifically. God's fingertip touching man's. I get there isn't a lighting strike in the original, but I wonder if lighting might have inspired it in any way.

It was probably just inspired by the Bible, though. The thunder grows more distant as the minutes tick by, and so it startles the hell out of me when Fischer shouts, "Help! Somebody fucking help me!"

I flip over wondering if he asked for something, and I didn't hear it, or if his leg is spasming or something, but he's barely moving. He's just—screaming.

I put a hand on his back, and his arm shoots out, like he's reaching for me, fingers wide like he's trying to grasp onto something. I immediately grab it. "Fischer," I say firmly.

The screaming stops and turns to heavy panting. I scoot closer so he doesn't have to reach so far to hold my hand. So I don't have to speak as loudly to wake him up. "Fischer—hey."

He sucks in a gasp and lifts his head, looking over his shoulder, his eyes wide with panic. "Matty?"

"Yeah. I'm right here. I've got you."

"I'm cold."

I crowd him, wrapping an arm around his chest because I know I run warm. We're both wearing t-shirts, but his is soaked through with sweat.

"Jesus. Were you having a nightmare?"

"I don't know. Why?"

I almost laugh. Why. This guy. "You were yelling for help."

"I feel like I just ran a race. With zombies."

"Didn't sound like you were winning."

His heart happens to be right beneath my wrist, and it's still galloping. "Guess not."

"Can I get you some water?"

His hand moves to hold my forearm against his chest. "No. Just…hang here a second. Sorry."

"It's no problem."

I rest my head on the pillow behind his, my nose landing in his great-smelling curls. A blend of essential oils and vanilla. It feels incredible to hug him. To hug anyone besides my parents and sister, really.

Or maybe it just feels good to hug a man. When he brought up my lack of a social life last night, he kind of hit a sore spot. I've been struggling with this celibate spell. If I'd known when I offered to help him out that day at the hospital that I wouldn't be getting laid for several months, I might have made some other arrangements—other than moving into his apartment, I mean—not meaning I'd have pawned him off on someone else.

But I can't lie—being the only one he trusts to help him accomplish the simple activities of daily living goes to my head, and I'm selfish about it, which is why I don't let my mom help half as much as she offers to, and why I'm more than happy to be the one that gets to hold him when he wakes up screaming in the middle of the night for however long he lets me.

His heartbeat settles, and his breath evens out. I'm about to ask him about the water again when I realize he's asleep.

Fischer's taking narcotics for pain and muscle relaxers for spasms. All of which make him slightly out of it most of the time. And when he's not out of it, he's sullen and gruff—never rude, but never overly pleasant either.

As in, I don't know if he'll like it if he wakes up with me spooning him, or if he'll shove me off and ask what the hell my problem is. The idea of that happening is awful to contemplate. It would definitely mess with me. Rejection always does.

I give it a few solid minutes before I try easing my arm off him, but his body resists, crossing his forearm over mine and wiggling closer to me.

Oh fuck—I was not expecting that.

I swallow hard and try to will away the surge in my cock, which only ends with a full erection on my part and my own shirt soaking with sweat. "Fischer," I whisper, thinking maybe I can wake him up enough to get free.

What I get instead is a rub of his ass crease right up my dick. "Mmm." I bite back the moan and squeeze my eyes closed. Being turned on by this is sooo not okay.

I try to think of anything else, but with my face in his hair, and his nipple pressing against my palm through his shirt, and—all the rest—it's impossible.

Rain hits the window, and a soft flicker of lightning illuminates us in midnight blue. My balls thrum. It takes all my will power not to grind against him, get myself off. It is so wrong. He should turn me off automatically, but that is not what's happening. I want more .

While I can't say the time we've spent together has made him feel like the big brother I never had, he definitely feels like a friend. We have almost nothing in common, but we get along better than I've ever gotten along with anybody, and that includes my twin, who's my best friend.

I might be a lot younger than Fischer, but I'm the one who sets the schedule, takes care of him, and makes sure he's got everything he needs. The role reversal somehow balances out our age difference. Like—he asks my opinion on his weaning schedule and always checks with me to make sure he's using his crutches right—he's partial weight-bearing, and it's been confusing, but I watched a few videos and came away fairly confident about how it's supposed to be done.

Point being, I like him. And I like that he seems to like me, too. It's not exactly something I'm used to. My fear of rejection makes me kind of a loner, as evidenced by the fact that my sister is still my best friend even though she's off at Parson's making her own friends and doing her own thing, and I'm trying to talk down an erection while it's nestled against our brother's ass.

Not that I'm conceding Mom's point about sharing a bed—it hasn't been an issue before, but Fischer might want to reconsider sleeping next to a perpetually horny twenty-year old. I mouth the word, " Fuck ," into his hair as my forehead creases in extreme concentration on the unsexiest thing I can think of: the steps down to the subway.

I think about the grime. The chewed gum. The empty chip bags, the smell. I think of the always oily turnstiles, the stuffy air, the dismay when the car that stops in front of me is packed to the gills.

Finally, my cock returns to its resting state, and I breathe a sigh of relief. After a few more minutes, I pry myself off him, remove my shirt, and manage to fall asleep.

I clap for Fischer as he limps without crutches from the bedroom to the living room. He holds up his arms in triumph. Five months since his surgery, and he's practically independent.

"Now let's see those splits," I say.

He grins wide. "Fuck off. But give me two weeks."

"How's it feel?" I ask.

"Not bad at all. A little stiff, but…"

"That'll get better the more you use it. Speaking of which."

"Yeah, let me get my jacket."

He heads back to the bedroom, and I text Maggie that we're on our way. She's bringing a boy to dinner, and it's a family affair. Mom and Dad are driving in from Larchmont, and we're headed to the Upper East Side. Apparently we'll be dining at the Plaza, which I've never been to, but understand it means this dude is loaded.

Because I'm with Fischer, who can barely walk and hates the train, we take a cab across town from his Hell's Kitchen apartment, speculating about what Maggie—a quirky fashion student—sees in a guy who wants to do a "meet the family" at the Plaza. We decide he's probably a black sheep who plays in a rock band, living off his parent's money while cruising the Village for hot girls who'd look good shaking a tambourine. All of which is ridiculous, but it passes the time.

Stuart March isn't a black sheep, though. He's a finance student at Columbia with an expensive haircut and a suit I can only assume is designer. I'm immediately suspicious, but Fischer gives him a friendly handshake.

Maggie looks up at me expectantly—waiting for me to be impressed. She's wearing a close-fitting dress—a first—and heels. Her hair is up, which is also unusual, and her contacts are in. "You in there somewhere, Mags?"

She gives me a pointed glare before forcing me into a hug. "Be nice."

"I am. You look great. I'm Matthew," I say to the guy.

"I figured." He flashes me a charming smile. "Nice to meet you."

"Mom and Dad are at the bar," Maggie says. "Let's go say hi."

Fischer's limp is barely noticeable, but that doesn't keep my hand from hovering a few inches away from his lower back in case he loses his balance. Mom and Dad stand, smiling as they see us approach.

Introductions go smoothly, we're seated at a round table, and a server takes our drink order. Fischer and I share a few looks as Maggie and Stuart talk about how they met—an open mic poetry night—and a few of the dates they've been on. All places I've never heard of, but Fischer has. Eventually we all know Stuart well enough for the conversation to shift elsewhere, and that starts with Mom directing a question at me.

"Matthew, now that Fischer's back on his feet, are you planning to stay on at the hotel or get a place of your own?"

She's smiling, but there's something in her eyes I'm not sure I like. I have some issues with the question, too. "I haven't really thought about it." The owner of the hotel where I work was kind enough to offer me one of the first floor rooms when I was hired. It's nice enough, but Fischer's place is nicer.

Dad speaks up, aiming his inquiry at Fischer. "And what about you? Any plans for getting back to work?"

"He just started walking without a crutch today," I say. "He's still in PT."

My mom's eyes narrow slightly. "He's a grown man, Matthew. Let him answer your father's question."

I turn to look at Fischer, who's studying her strangely, too. "I have been working," he says. "Never stopped."

"You know what your father means, hon. Are you planing to continue your international work?"

Fischer's international correspondent work is what wound him up half-broken with a panic disorder that got diagnosed last month when the nightmares started to come with persistent regularity. The less drugs he took, the more the reality of what happened to him settled in.

We don't sleep on opposite sides of the bed anymore, but unless my mom somehow knows that, I don't get why she's looking at us like this. Still, I'm paranoid that on one of her visits she installed a camera.

Our nights would make boring content—angsty dreams and even angstier come downs as I talk him back to reality with my arms wound tightly around him and my mouth against his skull.

It's not like a camera would catch my boners since Fischer's ass is always covering them. And unless there's one in the bathroom where I go to take care of myself so I can get back to sleep—no one should be the wiser about it—not even Fischer.

"We'll see what the surgeon says at my next appointment," my brother says.

"When's that?" Mom asks.

"A couple weeks," is his quick answer.

"Have you been getting out at all?" she asks me.

"Yeah. I go to work. Maggie and I have lunch a couple times a week."

"Oh," she says, with a conspiratorial smile. "You know what I mean. Are you seeing anyone?"

"No, Mom. But I promise I'll let you know if anything changes. Maybe I'll take you and everyone to dinner at Chipotle to introduce you."

Maggie bristles.

"I'm kidding. God."

"You're hilarious," my sister deadpans.

"Genuinely," I say to her, "I apologize. This place is great," I tell Stuart.

He smiles at me, unbothered. I wish I could say the same.

The rest of dinner is less annoying. The food is good, our mom drinks enough wine to chill her the fuck out, and Dad is in storytelling mode.

It's not until we're leaving, and Maggie pulls me aside that things go south again. "Seriously—you're not planning to live with Fischer indefinitely, are you?"

"Why does it matter?" I ask, but also— no . I've been saving money, enough to put a down payment on a place if I find the right one, but I'm not in any rush. I've gotten a small promotion at work, putting me behind the front desk, squarely in the hospitality category, and I'm enjoying it. I've started looking at higher paying jobs in the field, but again, I like to be where I'm needed, and Fischer doesn't need to be sleeping alone right now.

Not that I think he wouldn't survive without me, but he's never so much as hinted at it being time for me to move on.

"When was the last time you went on a date?" my twin asks.

"I don't know." Also, I've never dated. I hook up. I'm not trying to get married anytime soon, unlike some people in their heels with their fancy UES updo.

"Is Fischer dating?" she asks.

"No."

"Then what are you guys doing?"

My head rears back at the question. "Fischer's straight."

"A better answer would be ‘Fischer's our brother.'"

"Yeah—who's straight. Is it a crime to live with my brother all of a sudden?"

"You don't think it's weird that you share a bed? I mean whose idea was that?"

"You need to stop listening to Mom," I tell her. "And she needs to join this century." Our parents are old. Maggie and I were an accident-slash-miracle when my mom thought she'd entered early menopause. She was forty-four when we were born.

I go on, "If I can let you slide by looking like a Stepford wife, I think you can open your mind to the fact that guys can share accommodations without it being weird. You should be glad I have a friend. Otherwise when would you get to meet fun guys like Stuart?"

"Are you being sarcastic?"

"No—he seems okay."

"He's great ."

"Sure. He's awesome."

"And I don't look like a Stepford wife. I got this at a vintage store."

That sounds more like the sister I know. "Anyway would you have a problem sharing a bed with me?"

"No," she says. "But we shared a womb. Naked."

I laugh. "I haven't slept naked in months if that makes you feel any better."

She seems to check herself and lets out a self-deprecating laugh. "Sorry. You're totally right."

Mom steps into the conversation, tipsy and grinning. "You need to get out more, Matty." She pats my chest as she's speaking. "You're too young to hide yourself away."

"Note taken," I tell her.

She gives me a hug before my dad pulls her off me and into the car they have waiting. He waves goodbye to the rest of us.

"Our car is almost here," Fischer says.

"You want to come out for another drink with us, Matty?" Maggie asks, excluding Fischer for reasons I can't put together. Because he's old?

"No, thanks," I say.

"It's fine," Fischer tells me. "I'm not trying to hog you."

"You're not—" I force myself to take a deep breath, suddenly overwhelmed. "I'd like to go home."

"Thanks for coming to dinner," Stuart says, reaching out to shake both our hands. "It was wonderful to meet you both."

Maggie gives me another hug and apologizes again. "Are you okay?"

I was . "Yeah." I give her a final squeeze and pull away.

"Here it is," Fischer says, meaning our ride.

We say good night and get into the car. Before it even pulls away from the curb, I say to him, "I think I might be the one having nightmares tonight."

"Don't worry," he tells me. "I know exactly what to do."