Chapter Text
Matt starts with the basics.
He sits. He breathes.
In the warm familiarity of his apartment, his ribcage is a cavern, lifted, hollow. And his spine is a delicate stem, holding him up, swaying, stretching, curving to his neck, his chin, his shoulders loose, his lips parting.
Relax.
His calves, his ankle bones, his thighs; feather-light against the floor. His palms are up. He is present.
Then the sounds, the layers. The layers and layers. He lets them all pass by. They are there, but they are unimportant.
In. Out.
In.
Out.
Forced.
His nose twitches. He readjusts.
Everything should be nebulous now; neither here nor there, neither pleasant nor unpleasant. He's done it so many times before it's practically muscle memory, or it should be. Matt can bask, simply, usually, in the soft, unending decay of it. His city, breathing, in and out with him.
Not tonight.
Matt sighs. Futile. His head already throbs. A dull, measured tightening of the tissue around his eye sockets.
Tonight his city is different.
Tonight his city is charged particles. His city is simmering.
Times Square is less than a mile away and it brims with more than its usual cacophony of activity. It's thick and sooty, like a smoke that Matt can inhale; whole, sticky lungfuls of it. And there are no heartbeats, no footsteps to differentiate, only the collective static of millions merging into one, moving as one, stagnating as one, malignant and everywhere; leaching into the very fabric of him.
And of course Matt had promised and agreed, albeit dismissively, and shallowly, as he often does – when the promise is only for the benefit of himself, that he would at very least, wait until after midnight. Foggy especially, was insistent.
But not moving at all is far worse, and crime doesn't stop just because the city decided to get loud.
He opens his eyes.
~
Matt waits in the shadows, barely there, with his back pressed to the alleyway wall and catches the robber mid-flight by the scruff of his hoodie. Fabric jars against his windpipe, the clunk of flexing cartilage, punctuated with a dry, wheezing sound before he woozes backwards in slow motion. Matt catches him again then, sparing him the impact of his deadweight body on the approaching ground and instead he twists to force him back up against the wall where he had just been standing. He squirms blindly for a moment, like an animal caught in a snare, instinctively rolling, thrashing, willing to escape without his skin if it will ensure his freedom.
"You." The man says when his eyes snap open; the edge of fear in his voice is satisfying, the acceptance, even more so. He goes limp, nothing more than a hunk of meat held under the press of Matt's heavy forearm.
"Drop it."
His clasped hand opens and the bag hits the ground with a weighty thud, the inside consisting of mostly cash, two bottles of liquor – one now, the tang of scotch flaying hot at sensitive tissue.
The first punch is absolution, always the most deserved. The second is a punishment to himself, and the third too, for getting here just a little too late. He splits the man's lip open twice, a split on top of a split, one for each of the innocents – the store clerk, held up at knife point, and the elderly man with the heart condition who just came in to buy cigarettes. Their bitter pulses still ring in Matt's hears.
When the robber nearly chokes on a mouthful of his own blood, Matt thinks maybe he's had enough. So he sweeps the inside heel of the man's supporting leg and he concertinas to the floor, slumped at a right angle to the wall.
"Happy new year, asshole."
~
Even the rain sounds different in Matt's ears tonight. It's light, sadly not enough to spoil the show, and Matt hears it played back to him twice before it even hits the ground, the hollow prrrr refracted off a million raincoats. He stands up high on a rooftop, thinking that maybe he can get above it, can see over it, through it, but the sound carries; the toneless boom of a mediocre ex-talent show singer, the smell of frying onions, the fast-food vender's spatula scraping at charred metal. Then around that, a halo of general busyness, bars, receipts printing, a waiter dropping a tray empty glasses in a busy restaurant. A unified gasp.
Matt loses track of time up to a point. His body does whatever it does; the sound of distress, of a drunken fight gone too far, of a young woman walking alone somewhere treacherous, heart beating fast, is too ingrained a sound or a feeling to miss — just muscle memory, Matt supposes. That is until the anticipation of the jostling crowd below chimes the time. The shuffle of their feet rough, like stone against sandpaper, the screams, the whistles, the numbers ticking down from twenty.
He shouldn't have gone out early.
~
Matt makes three, rushed and ugly landings before the climax even hits. The rooftops are angled now, shifting, and the short drop from the ledge to the stairs outside Karen's window feels like a leap into the unknown.
His boots hit solid and for a moment he is earthed before a tremor throws him sideways again, foot slipping off a metal edge, a step he's taken a thousand times before without fail, miscalculated. Then the squeak of rubber; a sharp spike centered in his chest as he falls. His hands reach for the iron railing in front of him but he clasps it to find that it is just atoms. Atoms and atoms, each of them quaking at the mercy of the sky.
As soon as he lets go, Matt's attention flares out again to something else, this time to the low booff and trill yap of dogs barking, peppered all over the city, their teeth bared upwards, whimpering, howling.
Then small, smaller.
Closer.
Karen, moving inside her apartment. Matt hears her unlock her phone and then discard it onto a hard surface. No texts, no calls. Promises kept. As she drifts into the kitchen, she changes— blurry, like a faint transmission signal, made up of waves and waves and circles where her limbs should be. A vague shape of a person. But she is loose and flowing, tired, but happy.
There's a tune. Matt knows it. Don't Stop Me Now by Queen; she hums it contentedly, an airless, throaty sound that Matt can feel buzzing in the window pane. Her voice crumbles around the high note in the chorus and she giggles.
The rim of a glass clips the metal of the faucet at the kitchen sink. Shaky hands, the good kind, deliciously clumsy and smiling to herself. One hand on the draining board seems to steady her and she gulps down the cool liquid hungrily.
Matt tracks her through to the bedroom, nearer to where he is and he can smell the intensity of her skin as her shape forms there; hear it as it rubs together where her thighs meet. She's wearing a dress with no tights and she's already kicked off her high heels, pausing to flex her achy toes in relief, curling them against the carpet like an ungraceful ballerina.
Then she is safe in her room for the night. Her muscles relax and Matt listens to the fibrous thriizzzp of the zipper of her dress unfurl at her midriff.
If he waits any longer, he'll have to find somewhere else to go.
And so he makes the upwards drag the window deliberately loud, praying that he catches her attention quickly. The exact moment she hears him is obvious because she is silent and always ready — wary. Soft footsteps.
"Matt?"
It's so good to hear her voice. So good that the relief of it catches him off guard. "Shit, Matt. What are you doing here? Are you hurt?"
She's cautious when she touches him; she always is – it's a pragmatic, calculated, pat down, a quick sweep over his chest and stomach – the bits that matter – as she rubs together her thumb and forefinger, checking for red.
"You're not bleeding?"
"No," he manages, although he's lucky not to be; the amount of times he'd nearly fallen trying to get here. His shoulders shrug and then go limp.
Through two layers of old plasterboard and brick, Karen's neighbor is up late, knitting. Probably can't sleep – unsurprising, really – the tap of her needles is insect-like. There's milk over-boiling on the stove and smell of cocoa powder – and on the street below, two women are walking arm in arm, staggering, actually, and there's a flitter of hope in both their slurry voices; one of them rests her cheek on the others shoulder with affection. New year's resolutions, best friends, fuck men.
He's zoned out again.
But Karen's voice is a soothing murmur when she repeats his name. She's close, and too loud, still. But soft, like a woollen blanket encompassing him. He can feel the individual threads of it, the high trebles and the muted mid tones, how they vibrate with worry.
Matt only gets a word or two beyond his lips before the shriek of a stray firework, then two, three, five more, renders him paralyzed again; the sound carving a sure path between his ears, like a blade, white hot, slicing him open and then searing him shut.
Familiarity. That's what he needs to anchor himself to. And there is some of that here; there are memories. Though, not all good ones.
Bookshelf to the right, desk, laptop, Karen's bed.
"You went out early didn't you?"
Matt had half expected her to be stern with him for breaking yet another promise but surprisingly her voice isn't stern at all. If anything, there's a hint of playfulness to it, it's spherical, rather than jagged. He's drawn to it like home.
"I'm sorry." Matt's hands splay out into the air and he tries to convey with his body what he can't seem to form on his tongue.
I'm fine, everything's fine.
But that only makes Karen sigh. It's long and impatient and her breath is warm and tastes of hops and sugar cane. Citrus. Tequila.
Matt would be willing to bet that's Foggy's influence. She's had fun tonight, then.
"No no no," she shakes her head, "you are not going to do this and then say you are fine. Sit down."
It's a command.
He collapses into soft linen, not silk, more cottony, but it's fragranced with her everyday scent; lavender, salt, chemical cherry – the lip balm on her night stand.
"Okay, be honest with me," she insists, "How bad is this?" She worries the skin at the inner corner of her thumb nail before planting her hands on her hips in show of defiance. "Do I need to call Claire?"
He'd really rather she didn't, although he might have gone there if he were closer, or not, she'd only give him an earful, and he's not sure he has the room for all that right now.
Karen at least, might feel sorry for him if he's lucky.
"No, Karen. It's okay. I'm sorry," he says it again, "I'm sorry. I didn't know where else to —" His head is almost between his knees when Karen's hand rubs a gentle circle over his shoulder and then squeezes.
She finds another part of herself to bite, this time the flesh of her inside cheek, before she says, with a new confidence, "I'll get you some water."
Karen darts away and her brief absence from his side leaves him suddenly thread-bare and open.
She is land — and he is on choppy seas.
More fireworks rattle the skies in the distance in every direction. Matt tastes grey. Grey like ashes, grey like nothing at all.
There's a siren; one of many. A fire in a dumpster two blocks away, a commotion on the late night subway train, a couple having sex in an apartment across the street, brutish wet, repugnant sounds.
"Hey… Matt? Here, drink," Karen's back like she never went away, kneeling in front of him with one hand bleeding warmth through the fabric of his pants and the other wrapped around a glass of water. He takes it from her and she slumps heavy on the mattress beside him, closing her eyes briefly and swaying. "You can stay here," she says, hushed. "Sleep in my bed. I'll uh," she swallows dryly, "I'll take the couch."
This is a little too familiar now.
"I can't do that Karen."
"Sure you can. You climbed through my window, Matthew . Like a burglar, and I didn't even flinch. You really think sleeping on the couch is weird to me?" There's humour in her voice and he's glad. He allows an impression of a smile to form at his lips.
"I'll admit, you have a point."
She sighs again, rocking her palm and massaging it gently into her eye socket, forgetting that she's wearing makeup. There's a smudge now, a transfer, on the ball of her thumb. "I always have a point Matt." She peels the empty glass from his hand then reaches up to press the backs of her fingers to his forehead. " And you're burning up. Is that – is that part of this whole deal?" Her panicked tone from before has since evolved into the frequency of at best: mild inconvenience. It's almost laughable.
She is right though, he is sweating, even through the moisture wicking material of his suit.
The mattress reforms as her weight disperses and she turns into ribbons of smoke wrapped around a solid form — once again, he loses her briefly, before she reappears as chunks of heat, holding onto a damp washcloth that's markedly cool in comparison to her body.
And this time, Matt does smile. She presses the soaked fabric to his face, into his hairline and down past his ears to his jaw. When she reaches for the other side, her face is close enough to his that he can taste her pulse, not just hear it — but taste it.
He blinks slow and she moves even slower. He listens to her lungs fill.
There's another whistle-fizz outside followed by a dozen or so more, judging by the sound and the direction of the wind they're coming from the direction of Central Park. Karen hears them too, turning towards the window and frowning; wishing them away, maybe? But it's better now, he doesn't shy or curl his fingers into his temple, he's calmer.
Her caress wants nothing from him and he takes nothing in return.
"You missed Foggy's dancing."
She smiles as she says it; remembering.
Matt raises a brow. "Oh?"
"Uh-huh. It was… " she chuckles, "it was so bad Matt." The cloth is warm now with his body heat, but it's pleasant, the dampness is soothing. Even still, he wishes the cloth wasn't there, he wishes it was just Karen.
"And were you dancing?"
"Was I dancing?" She makes a face, a short, sharp puff of air through her nostrils.
"No."
"Admit it, you were," he teases carefully.
"Umm," she considers, "umm…" again, "okay, maybe a little bit."
"I knew it. No one escapes the Nelson moves. Not even me."
She scoffs. "When did he have you dancing?"
"Well, I could tell you, Karen, but if I did I would have to kill you."
Karen's arm loops around to his opposite shoulder and she buries her face into the back of the side nearest to where she is sitting – he gets a read of her face there. The point of her nose, her cheek bone, her smile, imprinted into the flesh of his back. "You'd break your moral code just to keep your dirty secret safe?"
Matt doesn't hesitate. "I would."
Karen laughs and then shrugs. "Well, I think that's a crying shame. I bet you're a good dancer."
It's Matt's turn to chuckle sceptically. "Ha. Ah no."
"But you're a boxer." She says, "Boxers dance. Sort of. With their feet like — " the air around Karen's fingers creates little waveforms that indicate the miniscule action of walking, or dancing. "Coordination? Yes?"
Matt shakes his head and then nods slowly. It's a motion he knows sits right between patronising and flirtatious. He hedges his bets on the latter. "If you say so, but I'm not showing you."
"Fine, okay whatever."
Karen gets up, then folds to her knees in front of him.
"What are you doing?"
She pulls at the bow he's tied on his laces. "I'm taking off your boots. You're not sleeping in my bed with your boots on."
Matt thinks that's fair. Matt also thinks he's staying, definitely staying — she's making him stay.
"Y'know, Foggy always said you hated New year's eve but I just thought… I don't know."
Karen is a problem solver, and Matt knows that's frustration in her voice. But right now he's just trying his hardest not to groan at the sensation as the stiff leather of his boot comes away from his ankle.
"Crowds and loud noises. Not really my thing."
"Why did you go out then, if you knew this would happen?"
"Someone—"
Karen stops him by holding up a finger, a quick decisive swipe through the air in front of his lips. "Someone needed your help. I know, I know."
"Yeah. There was a robbery on —" Matt can feel Karen glaring at him and now he's sure that he's missed the point of something.
"Did you come to me because I was closest or because you wanted to come to me?" Karen sits half-cross legged on the floor, her dress is just long and loose enough that she's still covered by the fabric even with her legs apart. Matt detects a tinge heat in her tone.
"You weren't closest."
She purses her lips.
"How did you know I'd be in?"
Matt makes soft fists with his hands, not because he's angry, but because he's thinking. He's sweating again too. "I didn't," he answers flatly, "I guess I hoped."
There's a pause that nestles itself between the two of them; Matt isn't sure if it's a drop in pressure, or a rise in one. Either way, air shifts. Karen bows her head then tugs self consciously at her dress, flattening it as she stands.
"I'm gonna use the bathroom. I'd appreciate it if you didn't listen to me peeing."
Matt suppresses one last laugh and nods seriously. Very seriously.
"Consider it done."
She turns on her heel and walks towards the bathroom, softening but not fading; he can see her well. She burns bright to all of his senses.
He leans back into the pillows and closes his eyes.