Bleeding Hearts

It’s not a date.

It’s not a date, and Mattias is vehemently not frowning over five different silk shirts right now, because he doesn’t care what Blue thinks of him. Not any more than he’d care about anyone else’s opinion, which of course means that he should dress up, just to keep up appearances. And he’s not counting down the minutes on his watch — his casual watch with a crystal watch face from Browlex — as he paces around his lofty Sun District apartment, frantically organising and reorganising irrelevant and, frankly, unimportant parts of his flat. And he’s definitely, definitely not thinking about which of the four dessert places he scoped out he should take Blue to afterwards, because that would absolutely be date behaviour and, as mentioned, it’s not a date.

Yet here he is, changing into shirt after shirt in the hopes that at least one of them will make him look a little more polished than usual, holding up ties to his chest and then throwing them to the bed when he decides they’re just not good enough. The hemlock tie he got as a gift from a client based in the City of Ink? No, too on the nose. You can’t wear a tie with a void creature on it in front of a voidtouched. That summery, golden tie with wisps on it from his trip to Harara? Too gaudy, not serious at all.

Fuck it, none of these ties are working. He’ll just go without, maybe leave the top few buttons undone to let his collarbones breathe a little. He still has to pick a shirt though, and although Off White Shirt Number 5 might be barely distinguishable from Off White Shirt Number 6 to the untrained eye, Mattias sees a world of differences. For example, Off White Shirt Number 5 pairs excellently with his comet cufflinks.

Wait a minute. Cufflinks? Is he crazy? This isn’t a work dinner, it’s a completely platonic outing with someone who he considers beneath his station. He’ll roll up his sleeves for maximum comfort, uncovering his arm spikes. He’s also been told it makes him look hot, like a dishevelled businessman. It’s something to do with his toned forearms, apparently.

Not that he wants to look hot, because it’s not a date. Obviously.

Whatever, it’ll have to be the whitest shirt he owns in his closet, because now he’s got an outfit idea that won’t work with anything less than blindingly bright. He buttons up the shirt with the practised ease of a man who’s done it a thousand times and then stands in front of the mirror assessing his appearance.

His shattered halo floats inconspicuously above his head, its glinting red sheen reminiscent of blood. His hair hasn’t been done yet, but he did have a shower earlier, so it’s flopping softly into his eyes. He’s as shaved as he ever is, stubble neatly trimmed so that it’s visible, but not scratchy or scruffy. The scar stretching meanly across his lips is an unavoidable fact of who he is, but he thinks it adds something to the overall look: it makes him seem sharper, like there’s some danger to him. The shirt clings to his body in the right way, accentuating the muscles he’s worked hard to build and keep, but most of it will be covered up soon. He’s also still in his underwear.

Before he can even move on to the next step of assembling his wardrobe, he’s forced to fold and put away the mess of discarded clothes piled up on his bed. One after the other, he rolls the ties up into balls and sets them in rows within his dresser. It’s a little therapeutic — after a while, he forgets he’s even thinking about anything at all and instead falls into the rhythm of organisation.

That doesn’t last. Once everything is in place, exactly where it should be, he sits on the bed stiffly and pushes his hair off his forehead so he can rub his face tiredly.

Everything stopped making sense the night he met Blue.

His perfectly curated world, each puzzle piece perfectly in his place, has been completely torn asunder by this kid who, by all known logic, should have been easily dealt with. If he hadn’t passed out that night, he would have done it, too — no more Blue, just a black, oozing stain seeping into the wet puddles out behind The Cat’s Alley. Instead, he’s ended up practically married to the guy; Blue’s words, not his. He’d sooner die than call their blood contract, forged in the cramped bathroom of his dingy second apartment, a marriage.

Marriage is about commitment. A promise to be with someone for the rest of your life. And if that’s the only two criteria, then yes, Blue and Mattias may be a little bit married, but it’s not. There’s supposed to be some element of love involved, or feelings, or at least something other than bare annoyance and the urge to bludgeon, preferably with a large blunt object.

Then again, Mattias hasn’t exactly seen shining examples of working marriages in practice. All his colleagues at work talk about their partners like they can’t wait to get away from them, rings left in hotel rooms whenever they go drinking on business trips. Mattias himself has never dated anyone long enough to get anywhere near to the expectation of something like that and he’s never really wanted to. That sense of obligation to someone else is something he could do without, thank you very much.

And that’s not even getting started on his parents. Which, really, he doesn’t want to think about right now, so he doesn’t. He really, really doesn’t.

He thinks about them anyway.

Did they promise to love one another, all those years ago? When did it sour? He can’t really imagine his father loving anyone or anything more than the bottle, but maybe there was a time when things were different. Or maybe not. His dad was always the type to take what he wanted, no questions asked; who’s to say it was any different with his mother? He’s not sure if it’s better to hope there was some love there once or to assume there was never anything at all.

Loving her would have made him weak. He would have had something to exploit. When Mattias finally avenged her, his lip torn and bloody from the struggle, the only thing he exploited was his father’s own hubris, because all that man had ever loved was himself.

He’s still in his underwear and the clock is ticking slowly down until the time when he has to go pick up Blue from god knows where, probably wearing a ratty hoodie and stinking like he hasn’t had a shower in weeks. Thoughts like these are a waste of time. It’s better not to think at all.

The rest of his ensemble is easier to piece together now that he has a vision. The slacks are simple but elevated by their quality, made to fit his body by one of the finest tailors in the Sun District. The fabric used to make them is so dark that it almost seems to suck in light, like the void itself is woven into those fine threads. The matching suit jacket has deep red crystals splattered across its breast in a pattern that is very familiar to Matti, one that Blue will recognise too. The way that the crystals catch the light makes them look wet, like something sticking to his clothes. Dripping down his torso, perhaps.

He runs his fingertips over the crystals, smiling slightly when he feels the latent magic respond from within, curling inside its prison as if straining to reach out to him. It’s the ghost of a fingerprint upon him, a whisper that harmonises with his soul.

These are blood crystals. Crystals that, through whatever means, have endured bloodshed and even absorbed blood itself, turning into a glimmering ruby shade as a result. They’re powerful and fairly rare — to wear something like a blood crystal as a mere ornament is a show of unnecessary wealth, but Mattias thinks it suits him. It matches the red of his horns.

He’s never made a blood crystal himself, but maybe he should try it sometime. He wonders, distantly, what colour Blue’s blood crystal might be. The deep, insidious black of the void? A sticky, slick oil spill, reflecting a rainbow of light? The thought of it is tempting. Holding a piece of Blue like that, owning a fragment of a voidtouched, would be an unbelievable power trip.

He files that thought away for later, shrugging his jacket on carefully so that it doesn’t snag on his spikes.

He only has to fix up his hair and fetch his things before he’s ready to go pick up Blue in the hired car he called ahead of time. He plans on drinking tonight and he’s not so stupid that he’ll risk a DUI, even if it’s cheap cash to him. Just as he’s perched in front of his bathroom mirror fussing with his hair, however, he hears the telltale buzz of someone asking to be let up the lift to his flat.

He sighs. If there’s anything he hates more than that smugly grinning kid, it’s anything that disrupts his routine. Every minute of his day is usually meticulously planned, a perfect sequence that he dances through with ease — including today, as much as he lacks respect for the person he’s meeting. He doesn’t stomp over to the intercom, but his steps are louder than usual, and he peers at the holoscreen in irritation, as if glaring at whoever it is will make them go away.

Unfortunately, he has no such luck. A blue mop of hair peeks out at him from the screen, and oh, that’s not right. That’s not right at all.

“Mr Mattias,” comes the staticky call, “let me in! I know you’re in there!”

Everything is completely wrong. First of all, Mattias is supposed to be picking Blue up, not the other way around. Secondly, they aren’t meant to be going out for another hour yet. Mattias rubs at the bridge of his nose with a tired scoff, because he really should have seen this coming. The kid marches to the beat of his own drum at the best of times and it never fails to mess up some aspect of his perfectly organised life.

One giant blue eye fills up the screen, glancing around as if the kid can see Mattias’ grimace.

Mattias clears his throat and speaks into the microphone. “Get in the lift.” He buzzes Blue up, then rushes to finish what preparations he can.

It’s only a few minutes before a smattering of knocks interrupts his hair routine. He stares at himself in the mirror resolutely, examining each strand of hair. It’ll have to do.

As soon as he opens the door, he’s overwhelmed by the sheer energy that the kid seems to have at all possible moments. He’s positively vibrating, one hand hidden behind his back and his eyes glimmering with excitement.

“Hey! Did you forget our secret knock?” Blue jabbers relentlessly. “You took ages to open the door. Or do you have someone over?” Without asking for permission, he cranes his neck to peer around Mattias’ shoulder.

“No,” Mattias answers far too quickly. He coughs, then tries for something more laidback. “No, I don’t have someone over. And I didn’t even know we had a secret knock.”

Blue’s curiosity seems satisfied for the moment. He does that stupid crinkled eye smile, the one that makes Mattias’ guts twist up in nausea, and then he holds out a crumpled and rapidly wilting bunch of flowers.

“Happy heart day, or whatever!” He’s smiling so broadly that his chipped tooth is on full display. Half of the flowers flop down over his hand.

Mattias reaches out and tentatively takes the flowers. They look familiar somehow, but he can’t quite place where he’s seen them before. Regardless, he goes to search for a vase to stick them in, harried footsteps wandering around the apartment until he finds something sufficient.

“I woulda brought chocolate, but I ate the whole box on the way here,” Blue says over his shoulder as he gingerly organises the flowers into something almost presentable.

“Thanks for the thought,” Mattias forces out through gritted teeth. Then, he turns to face Blue with a storm brewing in his eye. “Why are you here? I was supposed to pick you up in,” he checks his watch, “forty five minutes.”

Blue shrugs with a shit eating grin. “Got bored. And, like, your place is nice.”

Mattias arches one thick eyebrow.

Blue sighs, rolling his eyes. “Fine, maybe I thought we could watch some Spongebull Squarepants before we went out because I missed yesterday’s episode and I don’t have a holoscreen.”

That makes more sense. Mattias flicks his holoscreen on absentmindedly, watching as Blue immediately sits cross legged on the floor with his back against the sofa. Spongebull isn’t Mattias’ favourite, but Blue loves to do the stupid voices and imitate all the different characters, so it should be enough to placate the kid for now.

He glances over at the ragged flowers perched on the counter. An unusually nice touch from someone with no sense of decorum at any point, and even if they’re half crushed, they’re clearly from a florist or a well maintained garden at the least.

Wait a minute.

Just as Blue begins cracking up at some stupid joke on the holoscreen, Mattias turns around with steam practically pouring out of his ears.

“Blue,” he mutters dangerously, “please tell me you did not pick these flowers from the biosculpture in the garden downstairs.”

Blue turns his face to meet his warning stare, all shining innocent eyes. “Okay, I won’t tell you that.”

Oh, Mattias is going to be lucky if he doesn’t get a noise complaint for the chase around the apartment that follows, but all’s well that ends well. Right?