Salvation in the Secular Age {MH/GD}

{I Never Took My True Heart, I Never Wrote It Down}

Play "We Used to Wait" by Arcade Fire, "Single" The Neighbourhood, and "Make Them Gold" by CHVRCHES. Sorry  I have been completely slacking on my playlists! Also, this gif of them like so singularly personifies them---thank the universe for these boys, I swear.

{Matty's POV}

From the moment I opened Claire's book, the hardback, though light in weight, felt heavy in my hands. Half of me knew I would read it cover to cover in a matter of hours, the other half knew I shouldn't have opened it in the first place.

I wasn't ready to do this. I wasn't ready to accept that perhaps she was over me. She had a new boyfriend, and along with him being tall, wealthy, intelligent and handsome, he actually seemed like a decent man. Though on the surface, Owen O'Donnell seemed nothing like George and I, there were parts of him that filled the void we'd left in Claire. He was smart and handsome (like me, of course), but big and nurturing (like George).

Owen hated me, and I liked that quite a bit, because that meant he was intimidated, which in turn meant that Claire might still be interested in me. She couldn't stop smiling at me that night of her book-launch party, nor could I at her.

Perhaps I was being a romantic, perhaps I was overanalyzing things. But I could not and did not want to let go of her.

I paced around my apartment, one hand steadying the novel as I read Chapter Three, the other hand cradling a fag to my mouth. My eyes scanned the words carefully, over and over.

The lines of friendship blurred as his lips introduced themselves to mine, a long, sinful "hello". The taste of his mouth was sweet, familiar to that of a candy we shared as children. I wanted more--no, I needed more, and I requested it from him as I pulled him closer, parting my legs and my lips the same. One hand was at my breast, discovering my erect nipple, the other was between my legs, curiously venturing, asking permission. His mouth left mine, moving to adorn my body with kisses, as he tugged down my jeans. He kissed my hipbones, my navel. Things were spinning, things were blurring so much I couldn't see straight now. When he kissed my ache for him, the only separation being the thin fabric of my panties he'd gotten wet, those lines between friendship and something more were completely nonexistant now. It took everything I had in me to tell him to stop; and everything he had in himself to listen.

I slammed the book shut and thew it to my couch, reaching into the pocket of my black joggers to retrieve another cigarette. My legs marched to my terrace, the sun warming my skin but hurting my eyes in this sunny summer morning.

It's a novel, Matty, I told myself. Things are exaggerated, told in half-truths. Perhaps Geroge didn't almost get into Claire's pants before you did. Perhaps, in writing it, she chose to change some aspects to strengthen the dramatics of the storyline.

Or, perhaps, she ommitted some things. Perhaps George did fuck her before me.

A growl escaped from my throat as I stomped back into the apartment and grabbed the book, nearly as immersed with it as I was with the woman who wrote it. I read for quite some time, two cups of coffee, and six more cigarettes were used, and I had found myself at Chapter Seven.

I remember asking myself the question "What is love?" all of the time before I met him. And, though he spoke so eloquently it made my soul sing, my boyfriend answered me not in words, but in actions. He told me that love is how he made my body ache and tremble for him. He assured me that I was safe when he held me in his arms, and pulled me close. With every kiss, be it tender or passionate, he told me that I was precious to him. Love is how he watched me when I was nervous and sad or both, and the look on his face when he realized he was the only one who could make me feel better.