oneshots & reacts; slytherin boys

M.R. | T.N. | Feel

DISTORTED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! IT DOESNT SPOIL SHIT REALLY, BUT ITS SET IN THE FUTURE WHEN THEYRE TOGETHER ALREADY!!!!!!!!!!!!

(for those of you who don't know, distorted is my dystopian romance mattheodore fic. it has general themes of death, violence and loads of trauma, so this might not be for you.)

mentions of wounds, possible death, implied suicidal ideas, trauma n shit, kinda angsty????

The sky is always so simply beautiful, isn't it? Dark, inky material, looking like velvet that you can reach out and touch. The little diamantes of stars stitched into it all, looking so comfortably nestled in the folds of cosmos. Reflections rain down from the moon, crescent shaped with a sharp and clean cut edge, the blur of distance just enough to make you want to reach out and grab the rock, cradling the moon in your palm.

Mattheo lets out a soft sigh, and leans back on the roof, his legs dangling over the edge just above the balcony. It's risky to be out here, right now, but he's been stuck in the house for way too long, enough for the air to turn rotten and stifling with his thoughts. He feels trapped in there, and no matter how scared he is of the Owls, the fear of his own mind overpowers it all. So he simply braces his hands on the finally cold tiles of the roof, and lets the back of his skull rest on the moss coating it as he looks up.

He wishes he could be like the sky. Appreciated, admired. Simple and savoured with its beauty, laid comfortably in the heavens. And yet all he has is a scarred face and too much baggage for anybody, let alone him, to deal with. What would he give to be able to exist with a beauty that men want to reach out and understand? His life. More, maybe.

Compared to the sky, Mattheo is worth less than dirt. He's disgusting, twisted with rotting roots, ugly and dirty. He can suffocate, and he does so with ease, unable to control the landslides of who he is. He can't wish it upon anybody to be forced to deal with him, and yet deep down, he wants loving hands to pick up the grains of who he is, set him into a pot of care, and understand everything he needs to bear life. Maybe if he had that, he'd be just as beautiful as the sky.

He knows better than to play around in the sandbox of what-ifs. It all seems to be pretty sandcastles of fantasies, until the disgusting needles and sharp edges of the hopelessness of it all tear at playful child fingers that bury through the golden seeds of dreams.

Two hands slam on the edge of the roof, fingers digging into the tile, and Mattheo sits up, hands braced next to his thighs as he watches Theo pull himself up. He's not wearing a shirt, and the bandages Mattheo has to fight to replace and put on every few days are still lining and twining around his midriff, covering the deep and nasty wounds that are sure to still be there.

Mattheo ignores it, and only runs his gaze over Theo's straining biceps, his ears picking up the softest of grunts as Theo finally manages to drag himself onto the roof. He twists, and still without a glance in Mattheo's direction, moves over to sit right next to him. His hands are roughed up still from lifting Mattheo up into the lair, and he waves a palm in front of Mattheo's face, coaxing his eyes to look up.

"Hey." He says. He tilts his head, ocean eyes searching through the depths of Mattheo's brown ones, and he offers him a smile as he pulls his knees up to his chest. "What are you doing out so late?"

"Thinking." Mattheo replies, one last gaze cast across the taller before he looks back up at the sky. "Watching."

"For Owls, I hope. If you get killed just because you were thinking, I'll laugh, but I'll also be quite sad." Theo says, his voice rumbling low. "I thought that you out of everybody would know that late night musings on an open roof aren't the smartest thing to do."