Page 40 of Matteo's Mettle
“I don’t want to repeat his mistakes,” I explain, sounding miserable and young to my own ears. “And I know it’s not the same thing, but we’ve gone fast and…” I lift my palms up in a gesture that’s stuck somewhere between begging and shrugging, “what if I’m like him after all?”
Matt listens through the entire confession, and it strikes me that we really have come full-circle. Only when we started this whole thing, he was the one needing the catharsis of an emotional purge. Now it’s me.
“Well,” Matt muses aloud, a soft, understanding smile playing on his lips, “that answers a lot of questions for me.”
I feel crestfallen at those words. I’ve tried so hard to be open, to communicate properly, but if he still had questions…
“Stop it,” Matt’s firm voice interrupts my spiraling thoughts. He reaches out to hold my face between his large, warm palms and stares me in the eye. It’s so rare that he takes charge, that his expression or tone match his physical appearance, that I sit in stunned silence while he says, “We’re both far more mature than that, London. And, yeah, I might prefer to sink into little space and let you call the shots, but if I had any doubts at all, I’d tell you. Just like I trust that you would tell me. I mean, you just did.” He leans in and kisses me. “The fact that you’re trying not to repeat your parents’ mistakes proves that you probably won’t. I can’t know the future, but I don’t think we’re at risk that way. So,” he smiles again, “move in with me.”
“You’re sure?” I sound like a broken record. “It’s really not too fast for you?”
It’s only been three months. I love him, but I won’t forgive myself for rushing him.
“I would have moved you in that first night if it wouldn’t have made me seem like a clingy, crazy person,” he assures me with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I’m nuts about you, London. I get that this feels like we’re moving fast, but, at my age, I’m at the point where I can’t let the best things in my life slip through my fingers just because I’ve assigned some sort of arbitrary number to how long I think society expects I should wait to have them.”
Well, then. I can’t argue with that, can I? Not when I feel the same way. Even if I am practically half his age, I know better than to overthink my instincts. I love him, he loves me, and we both want this.
A smile stretches across my face. “When can I move in?”
* * *
“Are you sure you want to donate all of this?” Charlie asks me on the following Saturday, standing in the middle of the living room in my apartment. He gestures at my barely used Ikea furniture. The sectional couch is as pristine as the day I bought it, and the coffee table also looks new.
“I’m keeping the bookshelves,” I remind him, “but Matt’s place is fully furnished, so I don’t have any use for any of it.”
Matt steals a kiss as he saunters past, lugging a huge box of books as though he’s carrying a pile of pillows. Those muscles of his aren’t just for decoration after all. “Are you sure you aren’t attached to anything? What about your bed?” he asks me. “Because we can replace the one in the spare room with yours if you want.”
“Nah,” I wave the suggestion away. “I don’t have any sentimental attachments to my furniture. I’d rather it go to someone in need.” Which is why I’ve told Charlie to take it all and do with it what he will. Apparently, he’s organized a storage unit for most of it, with plans to use it in his safe house/community center project as I’d hoped.
I bend down and heft up my own box of books, groaning a little under its weight. “As long as I’ve got my books and my clothes, I’m good.”
It wasn’t until Matt and I started to pack up my things that I realized just how minimalist my life has been until now. I don’t have much in the way of knickknacks or personal effects. A fuckton of books, yeah, and a wardrobe full of clothes, but not much else. My kitchen cupboards contain the bare minimum in terms of cutlery and cookware, and all of my childhood photo albums are still at my mom’s house a couple hours’ drive away. So all I’m moving across to Matt’s place are books, clothing, my big TV, neglected PS4 and a handful of games Matt doesn’t already own.
I follow Matt to the car and load the boxes into the backseat, the trunk of my Hyundai stuffed to the brim with my clothes. The trunk of his car is packed with boxes, too. Cutting my lease short proved to be relatively easy, and all the guys volunteered to help empty out my place the second Matt mentioned it in the group chat.
“Last chance to back out,” I tease my lover, crossing my wrists behind his neck to draw him in for another kiss. It feels like I’m trying to stockpile them, knowing that spending every second week apart is going to be painful until we’re used to the routine.
Matt rubs our noses together. “Not a chance, Daddy.”
I dive in for another kiss, this one less innocent.
“Oh, I see how it is,” Chance’s voice interrupts us, and Matt sighs into my mouth before he pulls back to glare at his friend, who drops another box at our feet, unrepentant. “You’ve got us all doing the heavy lifting while you guys dry hump out here.”
“Crude,” Matt accuses the somewhat scruffy ginger-haired man.
“Says the guy playing tonsil hockey with his toyboy.” Chance taunts back with a wink to let us know he’s only playing.
I roll my eyes, taking the bait as is expected of me. “He’s the Boy and you know it, bud.” I cock my head. “Speaking of Boys, you’ve been very quiet in the chat lately, Chance. Any news you’d like to share with the group?”
Matt perks up at that, picking up the needling where I’ve left off. “Are you holding out on us? Is there a new little in your life?”
“Fuck you both,” Chance laughs, shaking his head. He gestures between us. “Go back to mauling each other already.”
“That’s not a denial,” Matt observes, grinning knowingly.
Chance rolls his eyes. “If you must know, I’ve been on a few dates and tried a few scenes with a guy, but we’re probably not going anywhere.” He shrugs when he catches the matching grimaces of commiseration on our faces. “It was worth giving it a shot, but neither one of us is devastated that it hasn’t worked out.”
“Still, I’m sorry,” Matt apologizes, guilt painting his expression. “I shouldn’t have pushed the subject.” I give him a squeeze, proud of how empathetic he is.
