The Selfish Sickness
by Positively

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Notes: About ¾ of the way through this fic! Wow, I can hardly believe it. I'm hoping to get it all published before November starts, so I can do my nanowrimo without feeling bad about neglected works in progress. I'm just starting one hell of a difficult semester, though, so we'll see how it goes.

Matthew has always found the idea of eating in bed erotic. He wonders if it's some kind of oral fixation thing, or maybe it's just the connection of one kind of carnal satisfaction to another. In any case, he isn't ashamed to admit to himself that he's imagined Alfred with a swollen red strawberry between his lips, or his tongue moving against the wet white flesh of an apple.

In reality, Alfred makes no to-do, doesn't even bother choosing something sexy like fruit or chocolate. He just declares without ceremony that "I'm hungry," reaches under the bed, pulls out a bag of (probably stale) Doritos, and starts crunching away.

"This is somehow sexier than I imagined," Matthew admits after a few minutes of watching Alfred eat. Of course it shouldn't be. The whole strawberry fantasy should be much more arousing than a dude shoving Doritos into his mouth and spilling crumbs everywhere, but this isn't a fantasy or idea. This is reality, this is Alfred sitting right in front of him, in his real bed, after real sex, eating. Strings of warmth pull at the bottom of Matthew's stomach warmly, and if he'd been any less thoroughly sated, he might propose another round. "It's actually really hot." Alfred is kind of gross and it makes no sense, but there it is.

Alfred gives a noncommittal "huh," too absorbed in eating to pay Matthew much mind.

So Matthew takes his hand, on its way to the lip of the bag, and ignores his wordless protest. He drags the index finger across his tongue, pulls it into his mouth, swirls his tongue around, sucks a bit, and releases it with an easy slide. Alfred's expression is now one of blank shock.

"Cheesy," Matthew comments, and continues the ritual. He's never tried to be coy before, but now he does, meeting Alfred's eyes from beneath his lashes. The bag of Doritos sags and spills on the sheets.

When he's done with the fingers of both hands he moves on to Alfred's mouth, sucks on his cheesy tongue.

Alfred vocalizes his train of thought: "I will never again be able to eat Doritos without getting a hard on."

The two of them fell asleep at some point after these Valentine's Day festivities. When the alarm goes off at eight, Matthew wakes up covered in more of Alfred's limbs than seems humanly possible. He isn't so much of a snuggler as a smotherer.

"Ugh, turn it off," Alfred begs in a wrecked voice. He tightens his arms and legs around Matthew's shoulders and waist. His flesh is heavy and unpleasantly warm.

"Ngh. Can't while you're strangling me."

Alfred counterproductively squeezes him closer.

It's a weekday, so Matthew's eyelids reluctantly force themselves open. Dim gray light is caught on wrinkles of the sheets and in Alfred's hair. His face is pressed to Matthew's naked chest, his mouth a little drooly and his nose cold. It's impossible to see if his eyes are open or not. All Matthew can see is the top of his head, his clockwise hair whorl, an endearing little cowlick. The alarm clock blares on.

"Hey, don't you have class right now?"

Alfred unravels his legs from around Matthew's fast enough to scrape them with his toenails. "Shit fuck jesus shit shit," he mutters, scanning the floor frantically. "Where is my closet?"

"You're in my room. Unless you wanna wear yesterday's…"

"No time!" Alfred digs through Matthew's dresser, ignoring his weak protest of, "Hey, I was gonna wear that shirt today."

Matthew blearily sits up, stretching his arms. His shoulders crack like marbles hitting a stone floor. "Class is dumb, stay here with me."

"Can't. Got a quiz." Now fully dressed in record time, Alfred grabs a pair of glasses from the bedside table. "Love you," he says, in a tone completely devoid of the significance Matthew would expect for the first I-love-you, and he leans down and kisses him with sour breath.

It isn't until Matthew gets out of bed that he realizes Alfred took the wrong pair of glasses.

When he stumbles out of his bedroom after Alfred, wearing sex hair and Alfred's specs, Gilbert laughs at him for a full five minutes.

"Our prescriptions are basically the same," Alfred defends later that day. "You're a little bit more nearsighted though, right? Everything looks so tiny…"

"Just give 'em back." Matthew rubs at his temples, trying to banish the migraine that he'd named "Alfred" in a fit of petulance.

"They're so cute," Gilbert says loudly from the other room. Antonio, who's helping him with Spanish, agrees cheerfully.

"Shut the fuck up." Alfred's tone is playful, but Matthew wants to shout it at them very loudly. Because he could trust Gilbert to keep the secret, but now that Antonio knows, it's not a secret anymore. And his own sister still doesn't know.

He's going to have to fix that soon.

Later.

"Oh yeah, I almost forgot." Antonio appears in the doorway, Gilbert following behind.

"In a couple weeks, my fraternity is throwing a pre-spring break party for all the lucky bastards without midterms—and all the poor suckers who plan to fail them. You guys interested in going?"

"Sure," says Alfred easily, like he didn't just frantically search for an excuse not to go before agreeing in defeat. Then Matthew remembers that that's just him.

"I don't know, I feel like I shouldn't…"

"C'mon, Matt." Alfred grins knowingly. "Don't be such a party-pooper. The grad schools you applied to won't be able to see your grades from this semester! Decisions are already being made. They're stuck with you."

"Have you got any decisions back yet?"

"No, and stop trying to avoid the subject."

"Alfred." It wasn't his intention to use the "This is a Serious Thing We Need to Discuss" relationship voice, but Antonio and Gilbert exchange a nervous look and edge toward the door. Matthew recovers himself and stammers, "Um, I'll get back to you guys on that. Have to see…if I need to study that week."

"Okay," Antonio replies easily, but Alfred's expression lets him know that they will indeed Discuss this later.

In the shower that night, Matthew calls himself eight hundred different kinds of idiot. It isn't like he has anything better to do with his time, right? Only he does, because parties are stupid and unstimulating for an introvert and nerve-wracking besides. He hates the noise and the bad food and the lack of good conversation. There's really nothing to be gained from it.

Alfred's an extrovert, though, and for some reason he's really into being around other people. He's really good at it too, he's charismatic and funny and attractive and everybody wants to listen to him. Sometimes, when he's around Alfred, Matthew feels like he could learn to be an extrovert too. Maybe there is something to this crazy thing they call social interaction.

But the old jealousy comes back, the fact that Alfred is open and friendly with everyone, that the whole world knows what a great person he is. He gives himself away, and that's why everyone loves him, but Matthew kind of wants to keep him all to himself.

Stupid, selfish train of thought. Stop that.

The fact remains that Matthew will not enjoy himself at a frat party, not even a little bit, and the fact that Alfred will is…worrisome. They are very different people, Alfred and Matthew. Shouldn't they want to do everything together? Shouldn't Alfred offer to stay in with Matthew and be happy about it, shouldn't Matthew insist on going with him and be happy about it?

Then there's the whole sex thing. Was that code for, "We're just blowing off steam, this is a casual relationship with benefits, no need to get obsessive and clingy like you do with everything, Matthew"? It probably was. Relationships made to last don't get sexual this fast, right? Especially if one of the involved parties says "I love you" like it means nothing.

And anyway, the whole thing seems kind of ill-advised, it being second semester of their senior year in college. They'll have a total of four months together before they have to go to grad school, probably a thousand miles apart knowing Matthew's luck, and what the fuck is the point anyway? If Matthew's not going to go to Alfred's parties and Alfred is going to go anyway and make the rest of the world fall in love with him, then what's the fucking point?

And then what's the point of anything at all ever, and Matthew decides he needs to stop having existential crises in the shower because that wastes water.

When he opens the bathroom door, Alfred is standing there holding his toothbrush.

"Took you long enough, man. Thinking of me?"

Matthew can feel himself blushing under the flush of hot water. "N-no," he stammers.

"Liar." Alfred's being playful, but he's right. And not in the way he thinks.

"Tomorrow I don't have class until ten," Alfred says. With an ear to his chest, it sounds to Matthew like a warm rumble. "So I think I can fall asleep in here without being late to class."

"This bed is kinda small, though."

"Oh." His tone is a little cold, and Matthew knows he deserves it. He also knows that they need to talk about everything, a lot of things, like, a lot of things, like the fact that Matthew's brother tried to kill himself recently, and that fact that his sister doesn't know about the two of them yet, and how those two things are all tangled up in each other, and the fact that Matthew is kind of freaking out about where all this is going.

They don't.

"See you in the morning?"

"Yeah, love you," Alfred says, so casual again, and kisses his neck.

Matthew watches his back and wants to cry.

He shouldn't say it like that. It isn't fair.

"Hey, Angie. I kind of have something to tell you."

"Go for it," she says, barely paying attention. They're in the library, both studying for their midterms at the end of the week. There is little privacy here, as a great number of formerly lackadaisical students have suddenly realized that they don't know anything. That's one of the reasons he chose this location.

Matthew's been dreading this week for a number of reasons:
1) he's going to have to either refuse Antonio's invitation and disappoint Alfred or he's going to have to go socialize in a manner he hates;

2) he does, in fact, have two tests on Friday, both of which will involve spontaneous essay-writing;

3) after all that's over, he's going to have to drive ten hours to Quebec and see Francis for the first time since Christmas, talk to him for the first time since their single horrible phone conversation; and

4) it's about time he told Angie that he and Alfred are dating.

"Go for it," she'd said, but that's never really been one of his strengths.

"Well. Um. You see."

"Hang on, do you know Newton's Method?"

"Nope, sure don't."

"Damn. Okay, continue."

Alfred and I are dating. Alfred and I are dating. Nah, too formal. Me and Alfred are dating? Yeah, much better. Only he's still in an interrogative tone of mind, which comes out when he says askingly:

"Me and Alfred are dating?"

Angie jerks back in her chair, upsetting the thousand-page textbook perched on its arm. It falls to the floor with a bang that turns the heads of half the students in the room, but she's already leaning forward to hiss, "Seriously?"

"Yeah," Matthew admits, bending over to pick it up for her. He's glad for the excuse to dodge her incredulous scrutiny. "Well, kinda. I dunno, actually, what to call it. But we've…kissed. And stuff."

"This sounds like a conversation for a not-library, huh?"

"No," Matthew protests weakly, but it's too late. She's packing her bags and soon he'll be away from the librarians' protection.

She's gonna yell at me. She's gonna yell at me a lot.

If he were better at lying, or even interested in trying, he could dodge the shitstorm to come. Easily. He and Alfred had kept it a secret from everybody but each other for a fairly long time; he only had to warn Alfred that people would be better off thinking this a recent development. And all would be right with the world.

But Matthew doesn't understand the concept of lying to cover one's own ass, and he certainly doesn't consider that some people might be better off deceived. He's a philosopher, of the earnest variety. He likes truth, not mucking about with ethical ambiguities.

And so he's going to tell Angie the truth about when this all began—not too long after they got back from winter break, mere weeks after Francis' attempted suicide. She's too nice to accuse me of not caring about the whole Francis thing, Matthew thinks optimistically, but she sure is going to kick my ass for keeping it a secret this long.

So when they get out of the library, he admits, "He told me he loved me."

Angie stops short. "He what?"

Outside the library are little picnic tables, and Matthew tries to walk past her to sit at one of those. Angie doesn't follow. When he beckons, she just stares at him blankly.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Matthew beckons harder from the picnic table. It seems that everyone in the general vicinity is watching them. When she finally sits, Angie meets Matthew's eyes with a sort of dangerous and vulnerable gravitas and asks That Question: "How long has this been going on?"

"A while," Matthew says evasively. "The point is that he keeps telling me things like, 'Love you,' in contexts that are really too casual for my tastes and—"

"Have you said it back?"

"What?" he asks despite having heard the question.

"Have you said it back."

"Uh…no."

"Matthew!"

"The situations he brings it up in are just not—! It's like, we haven't talked about it. And he didn't really…seem to expect an answer. He didn't exactly wait around for one. And it's like—he just said it. On his way to class, he just like leaned down and kissed me and said, 'Love ya, bye.' I really didn't know how to respond."

Angie frowns. "Do you, though?"

"What?" Matthew asks, despite having understood the question.

"Do you love him."

Do I love him? Well, love seems like a pretty strong word. They've been good friends for a total of five months, and together for something like two months. Less than that. More than that? Shit, Matthew is a terrible boyfriend. The point is, Matthew thinks that love is supposed to be something you know after a long time. That it happens gradually, that by its nature takes a long time to build up before one day you look down and say, "Oh yeah, then, I guess we are in love." He wants to love Alfred. He's on his way to doing so, he's pretty sure.

But then again, he's never even been in a real relationship before. "Do I love him." And so he answers with his two favorite questions, in reverse order: "How the hell am I supposed to know? What does it even mean?"

Angie shrugged. "Beats me, little brother," and Matthew does not correct her. "But no rush. As long as he doesn't ask you directly, he doesn't have the right to expect you to say it. Right? So what else have you two done?"

"Um…isn't this like the equivalent of guys telling their guyfriends how far their girlfriends will go?"

"Yeah, exactly, turnabout. C'mon, I doubt Alfred would mind. How is he in the sack?"

He blushes and stammers, and Matthew can tell by the look on Angie's face that she'd asked that as a joke and is shocked to see that Matthew can answer.

Voice going very quiet, she asks, "How long have you two been together? Exactly." Uh-oh. It's the freaky-ass death-calm again.

The breeze whistles through a couple of leafless Crepe Myrtles, and Matthew draws his coat tighter around himself. Spring break is four days away, and he remembers Alfred (four handjobs, two I-love-yous ago) wondering if that meant it was going to get warm soon.

"A couple months. Less. Midway through January." Before Angie can get that victimized look on her face and ask, "Why didn't you tell me?" he launches into an explanation. "It's just that it seemed like really bad timing, and I wasn't sure where the whole thing was going and if it was really going to happen, I'm still not really sure about it with the way he just throws around the word 'love,' I don't know what any of this means to him, and anyway I wasn't sure if you really wanted to know, because of the whole thing with—the whole thing with Francis…"

He looks up from his white knuckles. Angie's eyes narrow. "Ah." Her voice is flat, having reached the bottom of it. "The thing with Francis."

"Yeah," Matthew says. She stares at him, stubbornly silent, but he's too afraid to elaborate. His foot's already in his mouth; talking now would just bite at his own toes.

"I seem to recall you having a tough time with 'the thing with Francis.'"

An excruciating silence. "Um. What do you mean?"

"I mean, I was under the impression that you and I were on the same page, being miserable and whatnot. But really the whole time you had a little friend to kiss it better? I mean goddamn, Matthew, I wish you'd have just fucking told me. Why is everything such a secret with you? Why did you feel the need to hide the fact that you were happy. Why did you have to overact at being sad?"

Matthew can't figure out which sentiment is the true one: I'm angry because I would have been happy for you, or The fact that you went out and kissed a boy at a such a time indicates that you are a horrible person.

Either way, she's angry. Angie likes to keep her emotions tightly under control, likes to think hard before she lets herself act on them. Her current tone sniffs at the anger, tasting it out. She's deciding whether or not to let it build. Matthew's defense mechanism is to remain silent, which is really probably the worst thing you can do when somebody reasonable is angry at you for reasonable reasons, but he doesn't know how to open his mouth. He's almost afraid to diffuse the situation, like maybe he knows he doesn't deserve to defend himself.

"I still don't understand your motivation here. Is it you don't want people to know that you have something to be happy about? Is this more of the Bonnefoy family tradition that you and Francis and Mama are all so fond of? Like happiness is something to be ashamed of? Like you can't let people know you feel it, like you can only let other people see you mope?"

That's not true, Matthew thinks viciously, silently. I don't mope. I let myself feel happy.

"Or maybe Alfred's not worth mentioning yet, since he's still around. That's how you guys operate, right? Everybody's a character in your little tragedy. Can't have a happy little boyfriend without him actually turning out to be a bad thing, right?"

"Stop," Matthew manages to whisper. He can't hear this, he really can't. Or he'll end up like them, like he's always worried he will, like she's implying he will.

Angie tugs irritably on her long dark hair, not meeting his eyes. But he can see her anger in the noble set of her shoulders and jaw. She looks like a queen when she's angry.

Matthew reflects that he's never been angry like that. His anger is hot and misdirected and violent and ugly, and he hasn't let himself feel it since high school. Maybe it means he's grown up into the kind of person who has nothing to be mad about. The kind of person who upsets everyone around him, but sits calmly in the middle, the eye of the storm.

"I'm going back to the library," Angie says tightly, offering no invitation for him.

Matthew knows he ought to beg her to stay, to tell her that he's sorry, to at least try to explain the twisted inner workings of his stupid maze mind, but he doesn't. He lets her walk away.

He will cause the problems for everyone else and take their anger as he can, as the guilty do, and he thinks the word for that is martyr.

It doesn't mean what he used to think it did.

Chocolate is his first thought, and the next is Eduard.

"You look a little shell-shocked," Eduard comments. He's scowling at the gallon of milk he bought yesterday, the level of which is a lot lower than it should be. "Midterms this week?"

"Yeah."

"Me too. Only three more days, though! And then spring break. About time."

"About time," Matthew agrees, though inwardly he remembers Angie's words about the Bonnefoy family tradition, and he is about seventy percent sure that he will not survive the ten hour drive with only her company. He's about ninety-nine percent sure that, even if he manages to live through that awkwardness, the following week will finish the job.

They chat about their respective exams and Matthew's weeklong on-and-off migraine for a few minutes, and Matthew gives himself reluctant permission to pillow his head on his arms. Eduard passes him one of Gilbert's Hershey kisses just as the main door opens.

"Alfred's back," Matthew moans.

"Yes I am!"

"He's talking about his migraine," Eduard informs him gently. "Granted, I think the two reappearances are connected."

"Aw, lame," Alfred says, obviously not catching the insult, resting a big warm hand on Matthew's back. It feels nice, and Matthew's stomach twists with the pain of not deserving to feel nice. Eduard mumbles something about studying in his room and exits.

"What's wrong?"

The very fact of being asked has Matthew tearing up into the cradle of his arms. He doesn't answer because he knows his voice will break, and he might be gay, but he isn't about to cry in front of anybody. His dignity has little to do with perceived masculinity and everything to do with not bothering other people with his weaknesses. He doesn't want to mope. Take that, Angie.

But Alfred, as always, persists. "Is this another one of your dizzy spells? Did you throw up anywhere?"

Matthew shakes his head.

"Hey, look at me."

Matthew's never been able to say no to him, at least not when it counts, so he tries to swipe away the tears and fails to meet Alfred's gaze. He tries for an awkward smile to break the tension.

Alfred's eyes widen and drop. "Hey," he says, coming closer. "Hey, it's okay. Wanna come to my room? Let's go to my room."

"Stop patronizing me" is what Matthew ought to say, but it would probably come out sounding like a sob, and Alfred is trying to be nice anyway. So he lets himself be led into the room, Alfred's hand at his waist like a shepherd's crook.

The tears come in earnest when the door shuts behind them.

"S-sorry," Matthew gasps, hiding his face. "Jesus, it's not—it's just—stress, it happens, you know, midterms." He fakes a rueful grin.

Alfred envelops him in a warm, dark, close hug. "Don't be sorry," and despite his perplexed tone, the kindness makes Matthew cry harder. "Is it really just stress?"

"If it was more than that, would you really want to know? 'Cause like. Pain shared is pain doubled."

Alfred gives him a weird look. "No. Pain shared is pain halved." And Matthew has never been good at refusing him when it counts.

So Matthew opens his mouth and it all spills out without him actually deciding to say it, it all comes out, how his mother slashed her wrists and how he found the body with the note addressed to Francis, even though nobody had seen Francis in five years and Matthew had been with her all the time, had calmed her from the highs and dragged her from the lows but she didn't really care about him, and how miserable he'd been as a teenager, how stupidly selfishly miserable, and how he'd always secretly worried that he'd end up like her, and how, just two and a half months ago, Francis nearly had, and then Francis had made him admit to being just like them, had made him say it, and how Matthew had kept Alfred a secret from Angie because it was awkward timing, and just now she'd told him how similar he was to all the suicidal people they've ever known, people whose blood runs through his veins, and maybe he's cursed, maybe he doesn't even have a choice in the matter, maybe he should just get it overwith while he still has his pride, and how on top of all this he really doesn't want to write those fucking essays on Friday.

"And now," Matthew blows his nose into one of Alfred's proffered tissues, adding it to the growing pile on the bed, "now you're going to be mad at me."

"Why would I do that?" His tone is certainly a little freaked out, but all things considered, Alfred does an excellent job as an emotional punching bag. (Matthew had tried to relate this, but Alfred only asked, "Why do you think letting you cry on my shoulder is like being punched in the face?" And Matthew sketched a vague response about not wanting to seem mopey as he rubbed his hot swollen eyes.)

"Because I was keeping all of this from you. You kept asking, back in January, you kept asking me what was wrong and if I wanted to talk. And I lied and kept secrets and boyfriends aren't supposed to do that. People just don't do that."

"That's all people do," Alfred counters as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Everybody hides things. I mean, I wouldn't have expected you to spout off your whole life story the first day we started dating. That would have freaked me out, T-B-H."

"Then you're freaked out now, and you hate me, and you wish I'd just shut up and stop getting snot all over your shoulder."

"Do you want me to be angry with you or something?"

"Yes!"

The admission sounds stupid in the following silence. But Matthew explains himself with, "When you're nice to me, it makes me want to cry."

"Well, then." Alfred pulls him closer, smashing his nose into a tear-damp neck. "If I'm mean to you, will you smile?"

He already is smiling, but Alfred says, "You have terrible hair. I really hate it. And god, your glasses are just so annoying. Like, your prescription is a joke. I hate everyone who wears glasses. And you're really stupid, too. C'mon, Matthew, only five languages? I'm disappointed."

"Stop," Matthew says, voice high and clogged and miraculously chuckling.

"Oh no, I'm not finished with you just yet. I hate your stupid lips"—he pulls away to kiss them—"and your stupid ears"—as kiss to either side of the head—"and I especially hate your stupid brain that never wants to give you a fucking break." He nestles his nose in Matthew's hair and breathes on his scalp.

After a few moments, Matthew decides that his panic and hurt have been officially contained by the smothering blanket that is Alfred Jones. At least for today. "Okay, I'm feeling better now."

"All better?"

"No. I still have to take exams and then go home with a sister who hates me and a brother who…probably hates me."

He can feel Alfred frowning into the crown of his head. "They don't hate you, Matt. They can't. It's not allowed."

"Don't give me that bullshit about biological imperatives. I've had at least two direct relatives try and off themselves, so you should know that for some reason my family's awful good at dodging certain instincts."

"I didn't mean it like that. I mean that nobody can hate you, Matthew. They just can't. I can't fathom it."

"Oh, well. If the Great Alfred Jones can't fathom something, it obviously can't be true, right?"

"Exactly." He sounds so confident that Matthew almost believes him for a moment. "But…y'know, if you're really that nervous about going back home…"

"Yeah?"

"I mean, I could ask my parents if it's okay for you to come spend the week there. I'm sure they'd be fine with it if I explained that you live up in Canada and don't really want to drive all that w—urk—"

"Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you."

That night, after getting confirmation from Al's mom that he is perfectly welcome to spend spring break with them in Virginia, Matthew texts Angie.

Going with Alfred to VA for spring break. I'm sorry. I figure neither you nor Francis really wants to see me right now. Do you have keys to the car?

A few minutes later she responds: yes i do. what the fuck is your problem?

He stares at it for a full minute, trying to figure out how to respond. He doesn't do well with confrontation or theatrics, and he can't help but think, Ha, that's a way you're more like Mama and Francis than me. But he just texts back, Will you be okay driving yourself?

She doesn't respond.