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Matt hesitates. Then, he groans, “I’m way too sober for this.”
Next to him at her desk, Pidge rolls her eyes but keeps her attention on the whooshes and hi-yah!s of her online game. “You really wanna risk drunk dialing him?” she deadpans, having surely had enough of Matt’s pussyfooting. As if to iterate this, she adds, “It’s already been a week.”
The cursor on Matt’s phone blinks with such a mocking rhythm—absolutely cruel, if he’s to be honest. It’s beating much slower than his heart, at least, that’s for sure. Shiro’s last text hovers over the keyboard like a stubborn ghost, or maybe a bad smell:
<[Coffee then? If that’s easier?]
“He’s too… accommodating,” Matt says with a grimace. “It’s going too well.”
“I’m sure you’ll take care of that in no time,” Pidge snorts. “You’re a slut for self-sabotage. Consider this: he’s crazy about you, dork.”
“Statistically? Unlikely.”
“Stop that.”
Matt sighs, apologetic. “It’s a defense mechanism.”
“You don’t have to be defensive.” Pidge’s eyes never stray from her own screen, but Matt glances to her anyway at the gentle shift in her tone. “You said he was super cool about everything. You’re the one who’s trying to back out.”
“I’m not backing out,” snaps Matt—defensive. He tries again, softer. “I’m not backing out, I’m just… I’m just—”
“You’re ‘just’ scared.”
“No… Well, I mean, okay, yeah. But, like—”
Finally, Pidge swivels in her chair to face Matt with an emphatic smack of her pause button. “Matt. I promise, I will personally cover the additional therapy bills if this turns out the way you think it will.”
Her stern eyes look disarmingly like their mother’s right now—so much so that Matt straightens in a residual Pavlovian response to being chastised as a youngster.
“But,” Pidge continues, “if you don’t text him back right now and tell him you’ll go out, I will personally kick your ass when you come in here in a month whining about letting him get away.”
Matt rolls his eyes this time, mostly at himself, but in part to the way his sister is always unfairly the most rational. Lifting his phone again, he hesitates only another moment before texting back:
[coffee @ 8 sounds gr8]>
Matt just can’t seem to bring himself to look directly at Shiro—no longer than needed for a quick “thank you” when he pays for Matt’s coffee—even upon noting the way Shiro’s dark V-neck fits so, so well. Like, damn.
After meeting Shiro at the coffee cart on Main, Matt had thought not being alone would make things seem less intimate, but it turns out he could feel every set of eyes in the city on him and it made him want to puke. So he’d asked Shiro if they could go to the park and sit, and he’s hardly said a word since.
Shiro never presses—albeit, the awkward pauses in between his experimental dialogue starters make Matt want to rip his own hair out—but that’s Matt’s own fault.
“Anyway,” Shiro says after a third failed attempt at small-talk, “I’m glad you were free tonight.” He pauses with an obvious intention to say—or inquire—more, but he cuts himself off with a sip of his coffee instead.
Matt sips at his own, expertly masking the pain of it burning his tongue by staring far too hard at the now-useless caution on the plastic lid—which doubles as a cover for what must be immense discomfort contorting his facial features. At this point, he might as well go for the record time of awkward silence.
Shiro visibly steels himself in Matt’s periphery, and Matt prepares to wince until he hears in the utmost sheepish voice: “Did I… Did I do something wrong?”
Off-guard, Matt at last lifts his gaze to meet Shiro’s, and the sharp crease of concern in his brow enhances the wounded-puppy look of his dark eyes, nearly bringing Matt to tears upon first contact. “What?” Matt queries, but he’s already shaking his head. “No, no, what would make you say that?”
Unconvinced, Shiro stifles a sigh, and his eyes dart around as if literally searching for the words. “I just… Ever since we talked Saturday, you haven’t said much else since, and I was trying to tell myself that, of course you don’t have to answer every single text or call because you surely have a life and other obligations, but…”
He starts talking faster, shoulders hunching. “But, I kept going over the conversation and I didn’t know if I said something wrong, because no one’s ever come out to me as trans before and I didn’t know for sure what I was supposed say and I really hope I didn’t mess something up because I really like you, Matt, and if I said something wrong I didn’t mean—”
“Shiro,” Matt soothes, hoping he sounds reassuring enough over the incredulous mix of relief and horror at the realization Shiro’s been second-guessing himself all week. The tension of the evening had already been working itself into a knot in Matt’s throat, and he swallows around it.
Placing a hand atop Shiro’s, Matt can’t stop a breathy laugh—a defense mechanism. “Shiro, you didn’t do anything wrong. In fact, I’ve been quiet because, frankly, you’ve been perfect. And that’s…”
Matt considers for a moment, a tight sigh spilling out of him in prelude to his metaphorical guts. “I guess I just… wasn’t expecting that. And it freaked me out because I thought, ‘well, if he’s not reacting negatively, then obviously there’s a misunderstanding here, and it’s gonna become clearer later on and then it’ll be bad.’ Because I’m just—I’ve never—I’m not—”
Matt retracts his hand, drawing back into himself with a shuddering breath. It was a relief to voice these things, but he’d been holding it all in for so long that his insides felt thick and clogged with the emotional equivalent of tangled headphone wires. The knots are finally getting untangled, but Matt begins to unravel on the outside now too.
Fuck, don’t cry!
He takes another breath to continue, but it’s… a lot. It’s always a lot, and Matt has to hold his breath behind a clenched jaw just to keep himself together.
“Sorry,” Matt tries to laugh after a beat. “I guess I’m still…” Matt shakes his head, frustrated, and laughs again.
Shiro leans in closer, radiating palpable waves of I want to help you feel better-ness. Such achingly human compassion. Matt feels stupid for wanting to cry, but that’s an achingly human thing too.
Hovering for a moment’s hesitation, Shiro sets his coffee on the ground and pulls Matt in close. As if he’d been waiting for the embrace without even knowing it, Matt sinks into it with automatic ease.
They sit like, quiet, that for a long time—or at least, what feels like a long time. Long enough for Matt to steady his breathing and for his coffee to cool just a little too much to enjoy now.
“We’ve both got baggage then, huh?” Shiro laughs softly into Matt’s hair, flexing his prosthetic fingers.
Matt twines them with his own and smiles. “It’s like that part in Lord of the Rings when Sam is like, ‘I can’t carry it for you, but I can carry you’.”
“Never saw it, but that’s a good line.”
“What?” Matt jolts upright to face Shiro. “Seriously? You’ve never seen Lord of The Rings?”
Shiro tucks his head, shrugging helplessly.
“Holy shit,” Matt laughs, taking Shiro’s other hand and pulling him to his feet. “Okay, come on, we have to watch it right now.”
“Right now?” Shiro laughs in turn, though Matt doesn’t miss the ease at which he comes along. Isn’t it like, nine hours long?”
“Are you opposed to all-nighters?”
Shiro shakes his head, his smile so warm and gentle that Matt can’t help but return it. Shiro squeezes Matt’s hand, walking closer than he needs too at Matt’s side. “I’ll clear my schedule.”