Trials and Errors (6 page)

Dougie heard the crash even over the running water. He froze, listening. Held his breath. There it was again, accompanied by a muffled shout. Mat. What was he fucking
doing
out there?

Dougie should go check. Not because he was worried or anything. Just . . . in case.

He heard another crash as he shut the water off, another muffled yell. And something else this time, a sound like . . . cracking wood?

Oh no, tell me you didn’t, you damn idiot, tell me you’re not breaking the chair.
Nikolai would kill him. Kill them both. He couldn’t be a good boy and do what Nikolai wanted if Mat was wandering free.

He darted from the shower, snagged a towel along the way and swiped at himself with it as he ran into the bedroom. Found Mat lying dazed on the floor on top of a pile of splintered wood, arms and legs still bound to broken bits of chair, groaning in pain.

“You idiot!” Dougie shouted, and then he saw the blood on Mat’s arms and wrists and hands. “Oh God, Mat, what have you done? You’re bleeding!” He rushed to his brother’s side and fell to his knees, quickly untangling the wood and rope from Mat’s raw skin. Nikolai would probably consider that to be helping, but they were already in shit anyway, right? “God, what have you done?” He took his wet towel and dabbed gently at the wounds, his hands shaking so badly he could barely manage. Not that Mat seemed to care; he pulled his arms away, and for a second Dougie thought he was just that disgusted by Dougie’s touch, but then he saw Mat’s fingers curling around the straps of the gag—two on each side, strong and thick, one buckled tight at the base of his skull and the other higher up on the back of his head, connected to each other by smaller straps that prevented Mat from slipping the top one off. Mat yanked and twisted and clawed, but Dougie hadn’t missed the two little padlocks holding the buckles shut, and not even his big strong brother could break out of those straps. He couldn’t even fit one fingertip beneath them for leverage.

“Stop it, Mat. They’re locked. You can’t open them, Nikolai probably has the key. You’re just going to hurt yourself and make Nikolai even angrier than he’s already going to be. Please, just stop.” He realized he was crying again, fresh tears, except this time they didn’t feel desperate, they felt strangely cleansing. “Oh Mat, I’m so sorry, this is all my fault. This could have been over and done by now if I—if I—”

He couldn’t even say it.

Mat grasped either side of Dougie’s face and pulled him down so that their foreheads touched. He didn’t speak, not that he could. Didn’t even grunt around his gag. Just closed his eyes and breathed slowly, slowly, slowly, until Dougie felt himself breathing along. He wanted to pull away, wanted to say,
Too late. You threw me away. You can’t have this anymore just because you’re desperate. You’re not my brother anymore
, and then pin Mat down and ride him, just like Nikolai wanted.

But he couldn’t, because even though Mat couldn’t speak, Dougie heard his words loud and clear:
I love you.
I love you.
Breathing, in, out.
I’m sorry. Please.
In. Out.
I love you.

And Mat was crying again. Those big, stupid, silent tears.

“You idiot,” Dougie cried back, softly. “You stupid, fucking idiot. Why— I was finally— And then you—”

God, I love you too, Mat. I love you so much, even though I wish I didn’t. Even though you don’t deserve me. Even though you don’t really want me, not forever like Nikolai does.

Despite his endless list of
even thoughs
, Mat must’ve seen something, some change in Dougie’s eyes, because he took his hands from Dougie’s face and threw them around Dougie’s shoulders instead, pulled him down tight, chest to chest, and locked his arms behind him, crying into his shoulder and bleeding all over his back and he was so warm—God, feverish—so hungry and alive with need, desperation, joy, relief, a thousand conflicting emotions Dougie felt welling in his own chest, too.

And no matter how much Dougie didn’t
want
to feel all those things, no matter how afraid he was that Nikolai would come in at any moment and find them together like this, hate him for it, cast him away for it, he just . . .
couldn’t
make himself stop.

He didn’t know how long he lay there like that, half on top of Mat, them clinging to each other and choking on tears like drowning men. He lost track of time, lost track of
everything
because it was all so fucking slippery right now, broken and sharp and dangerous, and he couldn’t even begin to figure out how to navigate his way through it without doing irrevocable damage to one or the other or both of them.

All he knew was that he loved Mat. And he
hated
Mat. Hated him in ways he’d never even been able to conceive of in his “before” life, because Mat had broken everything, hadn’t he, he’d ruined it, ruined it all, and now Dougie didn’t know how to fix things with Mat or Nikolai or
anyone
and he was still fucking
stuck here
and had to live this fucking life and how was he supposed to when all he’d given and suffered and worked for had been shattered in a single fucking minute with his brother?

He should leave. He should go right now, walk out that door, find Nikolai, fall to his knees and beg and beg.
Correct me, punish me, take me back. Make me see the right path.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He just eased out from beneath Mat’s arms, rose shakily to his feet, and hauled Mat up beside him. “Come on,” he said, and “God damn you,” and led Mat to the bed so he could take care of him properly, like Mat needed, like Mat
always
needed because he was a fucking mess, a train wreck, a wild beast, the bull in Dougie’s fucking china shop and fuck him, seriously,
fuck
him.

He should’ve. He should’ve just fucked him and been done with it. Said good-bye for good. Everything would’ve been so much simpler that way.

Instead he went into the bathroom, into the medicine cabinet, found a roll of gauze and some tape, wet a clean washcloth and brought the whole mess back to Mat. Cleaned and bandaged his wrists. Surely Nikolai wouldn’t fault him for that, would he? The master’s property had been damaged, he was fixing it. That’s all. Just looking out for Nikolai’s interests. Most definitely
not
looking at Mat’s eyes, which had gone all round and soft and dewy. But Mat would have looked like that at
anyone
who showed him some fucking pity, that was all. Nothing personal. Nothing personal.

Dougie didn’t know what to do with himself after that was done. Wait, he supposed. Just . . . sit here and wait for Nikolai to come back and make everything okay again. Even if Nikolai was the one who’d broken everything so badly.

No,
you
did. You should’ve listened to him. Everything would’ve been fine then. You would’ve been free. For the first time in your life, totally, honest-to-god free.

His “before” voice scoffed.
Just the opposite, idiot. He was trying to trap you forever.

“No,” Dougie moaned, and covered his ears with both hands even though it was stupid, pointless, the arguments were coming from within and he couldn’t run away from that, now could he? “Stop it.
Stop it
.”

Mat looked at him like he was losing his fucking mind.

That’s because you are.

No. Everything had been fine, better than fine,
great
even, until Mat had shown up. He wasn’t crazy. He was fine. He’d get through this. Nikolai would help him get through this. He just needed to trust. Be patient. Wait. Just like always.

He stood, walked around to the side of the bed Mat wasn’t sitting on, and climbed in. Put his back to Mat and pulled the blankets up over his head. He’d just . . . lie here until morning. Think of nothing. Trust. Be patient. Wait. Run piano exercises in his head because he couldn’t ever focus on anything else when he was trying to remember all that complicated fingering.

Except he couldn’t
not
focus on Mat, somehow. Couldn’t avoid noticing when Mat stood up from the bed, started pacing around the room, looking for . . . fuck-all knew what. A weapon, maybe. Oh, God, he wouldn’t
hurt
Nikolai, would he? Because then Dougie would have to try to stop him and that would be
ridiculous
because there was no fucking way in hell he actually could stop him and—

Stop. Stop thinking.

He lurched upright when he heard the door open, halfway to sliding to his knees before he realized it was just Mat, not Nikolai. Just Mat, hand frozen, looking stunned beyond comprehension that the knob had actually turned beneath his fingers.

Nikolai must have kept Mat’s door locked all the time. No wonder, he supposed. Couldn’t exactly have a wild animal wandering free in his own house, could he.

Dougie figured Mat would make a break for it now, abandon him like he had before, but he didn’t. He just stood there another moment, blinking stupidly, then peeked out into the hallway, then pulled back inside, and very, very quietly shut the door again.

Dougie buried himself back under the covers after that, but he couldn’t help but hear Mat, whose activities around the room had turned downright frantic. Opening and closing drawers, rummaging around, tearing through the closet, the bathroom, every cabinet and nook. What was he
looking
for? Why wouldn’t he just sit down and wait for Nikolai to come back?

When Mat finally,
finally
stopped poking around, he sat himself down on the edge of the bed by Dougie’s hip and rubbed his back and shoulder through the blanket. The gesture was so familiar, so very Nikolai, that Dougie let himself be soothed by it, let himself be coaxed from his cocoon to meet Mat’s questing gaze. His heart both thrilled and sank at what he saw there: that old familiar calm competence, steady and loving, that had seen him through so many trials in his past. That openness—
Do you trust me?
—that had fooled him so often before into believing Mat had offered him real, selfless love.

He did. He does. He will again if you let him. Even if you don’t let him.

Dougie covered his ears again.

A little furrow formed between Mat’s brow, and God he looked so frustrated at his inability to speak, even as Dougie was grateful for it, so grateful he wasn’t sure he’d be able to speak himself if the need arose. He couldn’t hear what Mat had to say. He’d lost enough for one night already.

Mat just sighed through his nose and held up his index finger:
wait.
Stood, extended all five fingers flat, palm down, and gestured once, then a second time:
stay here.

As much as Dougie hadn’t wanted to look at him before—still didn’t want to look at him now—he couldn’t help following Mat with his eyes as his brother walked back to the other side of the bed and pointed at a pile of stuff he’d accumulated there. The first things Dougie saw were two fairly long, jagged pieces of broken chair, and he understood, even before his eyes next landed on the clothes and shoes and jacket Nikolai had bought him for their winter-weather hikes, that Mat planned to escape.

Escape. Escape.

But I
live
here. I can’t run away from my
life
.

Except he had left his life behind before, hadn’t he? And that small part of him that’d gotten louder and bigger throughout this disastrous clusterfuck of an evening, the “before” part, was
screaming
at him to do it again. To go, now, before it was too late. Before that part of him was dead forever, before Nikolai drowned it in the tub like a fucking unwanted baby and all that was left was
here
,
this
, whatever this was.

Because whatever this was, it wasn’t Mat. It wasn’t the real world. And as much as he didn’t want to leave Nikolai, as much as he knew Mat didn’t
really
love him, as much as the “real” world terrified him, as full of wild animals as it was, that little part of him, “before” him, was still alive and kicking and strong enough to recognize this for the chance that it was. Maybe his only chance. His
last
chance. And if he’d really blown it with Nikolai for good, then what was left for him here anyway? Why stay at all?

His eyes went back to those two bits of broken chair. Mat had let him down before, let him down a
lot
, pushed him away and hated him and let people hurt him, but Dougie had seen him with
yantok
sticks in his hands before, fluid and elegant and
deadly
, and knew,
knew
, that Mat wouldn’t let him down tonight if he chose to go with him.

He looked at the clothes again. Then at the door—the unlocked door because
Nikolai trusted him
. Then at the clock.

Ten p.m. already, really? Wow. The household would be in bed by now. Yesterday at this time, he’d been curled up in bed with Nikolai and Roger, listening to the two men breathing softly in sleep before nodding off himself.

Now he was downstairs with Mat, and Nikolai was angry with him, and every scrap of stability he’d found for himself was fucking
gone
and there was no right answer here, no way to fix this, any of this, he couldn’t stay and he couldn’t go and he was broken,
broken
, didn’t know what to do, needed someone to tell him what to do.

Mat must’ve seen him staring at the clothes and weapons, seen the despair on his face, the confusion, the anger, the fear, because he picked up the jeans Nikolai had given him and held them out.

Those were a gift, Mat, please don’t—

Mat shook the jeans—
Take them, damn it, put them on!
—but when Dougie stood frozen, doing nothing, Mat threw them down on the bed and picked up the sweater instead. Fumbled with it until he’d opened the neck hole. Held the sweater, neck hole first, out to Dougie, and when Dougie was still too stunned to move, physically pulled the sweater over Dougie’s head.
Dressing him?
Dougie let it happen, raised his arms so Mat could pull them through the sleeves. Then the jeans again. Mat held them out for him, and this time, Dougie took them.