The World Before: MM Romance

by Primrose, Ella

  He falls asleep and only wakes up when he drops forward into the water, face first, and splutters. After that, Mathieu makes sure to have at least two early nights and switch to decaf in the afternoon. He calls Jakob every day, of course, he does to make sure he drags his sorry ass far enough out of bed to get his phone, also forces him to agree to have dinner outside their respective flats the following week. All in all, Mathieu feels rather pleased with himself.

  When Mathieu returns to the coffee shop, Keith continues to grin at him like a maniac, and Mathieu wonders if he gets some sick pleasure from watching him twist his face in disgust and yet still empty the cup.

  Brath only walks in when Mathieu has been sitting in his usual spot for a bit more than an hour, on his third cup already (because that stuff might be disgusting, but it’s addictive). He looks, well, not too well; Mathieu has to admit. He seems stressed, but his eyes find Mathieu almost as soon as he enters. He sinks down opposite him with a groan.

  “Everything okay?” Mathieu feels inclined to ask as Brath puts his feet clad in worn out sneakers up on the table and pulls his jacket up to cover his face. It probably shouldn’t, but to Mathieu, it looks incredibly endearing.

  “No,” Brath answers honestly, voice muffled by his jacket. “I really want to kill someone.”

  “Sorry, can’t help you with that,” Mathieu shrugs. “But you guys got some pretty decent white chocolate muffins today. Maybe that’ll cheer you up.”

  Brath drops his hands and thus his jacket from his face blinks at him a couple of time before letting his head fall back against the backrest of his armchair. “White chocolate? Oh, bless him,” he sighs, then stops short and sits up straight again. He laughs. Mathieu can’t quite follow.

  “Hey, Gareth--Puppy!” Brath calls out, twisting to face the counter and door to the kitchen and the addressee pokes his head in. “I said, bless you.”

  Gareth barks out a laugh and Mathieu wonders if that’s an inside joke he isn’t getting. “That’s a weird nickname,” he says.

  Brath shows him a lopsided grin. “He picked it. Because he liked it. He doesn’t like being called Gareth all the time.” he explains. “Brath isn’t my real name either.”

  “Seriously? Then what is?”

  Brath laughs again, lips parting, teeth shining white. “Oh, I’m not telling you. I want to keep some of the mystery alive.”

  Mathieu takes his time to look at him; at the slouchy leather jacket, on top of a t-shirt that has some atheist slur printed on it again. He can’t read it, because of the jacket, but he knows it’s there. His ripped jeans and old sneakers and his floppy hair falling into his eyes, brushing around a lively face with eyes darker than Mathieu’s ever seen. And he remembers how Brath looks without too-big layers covering his pale and frankly flawless body, how his skin had glistened with sweat, his mouth slack, his lips red and his teeth sharp. It’s such a stark contrast, and Mathieu has no idea what’s in between; if there even is one.

  “Believe me,” he says. “I think you’ll remain a mystery to me.”

  And judging by the sly smile, it’s exactly what Brath wants.

  * * *

  They stay behind in the dimly lit kitchen after the shop closes and Puppy and Keith have vanished so quickly as if they’d disappeared into thin air. Mathieu sits on the floor, back propped up against a cupboard, and Brath is right next to him, plastered to his side, bodies touching from ankle to shoulder. All that’s left of the muffins are some crumbs on a plate that is set down on Brath’s legs. It’s weirdly peaceful.

  They repeat it every night after that. Mathieu will come just before Keith locks up and he and Brath will sit in the kitchen, divide the results of Puppy’s baking experiments between them. Sometimes, he’ll wipe a bit of cream off Brath’s face and then give in to the tension that continues to linger between them and do things that make his toes curls, and his breath hitch and every fiber in his body burn.

  And it’s good. Their late night rendezvous start to be what Mathieu looks forward to most.

  Sometimes, Mathieu wakes up in the morning and wonders if he imagines it all.

  * * *

  He meets Perry for a second time when the obnoxiously tall guy corners him as soon as he’s set foot inside the coffee shop. Mathieu finds him fishy, and he can’t help it; what guy wears white jeans and a white jumper as a combo anyway? Perry leans forward in the chair Brath usually occupies, elbows on his knees and a frown plastered on his face.

  “So,” he says.

  Mathieu just raises his eyebrows in reply and gives him The Eye.

  “You and Brath, huh?” Perry elaborates and winks at him. “I guess you guys…” and he leaves it open, presumably because he wants Mathieu to finish it for him.

  Mathieu doesn’t do him that favor. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

  “Brath is my business.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since I made him my business,” Perry says solidly. “We go way back, Brath and I. Way back. I don’t know if you’re sticking around or if you’re planning to and for how long. But I just wanted to give you a piece of advice.”

  “How kind,” Mathieu can’t help but comment dryly, he waves at Keith to signal him in some way that he’s having his usual, because he fears that if he attempts to get up now, Perry is not above tackling him to the ground.

  “You’ll thank me later,” Perry insists with a serious expression. “I just want to let you know that he might not seem like it, but Brath hasn’t had it easy, okay? So if you’re planning on leaving him...”

  “Leaving him…” Mathieu trails off. “What? Why?"

  “I’m just saying,” and Perry winks at Keith as he sets down coffee in front of Mathieu. “It might get rough if you do.”

  “Rough,” Mathieu repeats and has a big gulp of his coffee that almost burns his throat because he fears a lack of caffeine might have him hallucinating. “Okay. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “What are you doing?” Brath interrupts.

  Mathieu startles so much he almost drops his cup. He catches it, but he spills about half of the content on his shoes. But Brath isn’t talking to him. He’s fixed Perry with an icy stare and a soft tilt of his head.

  “Just giving your boyfriend a piece of my mind.”

  Brath says “He’s not my—” at the same time as Mathieu utters “I’m not his—” and if it wasn’t awkward between them before, it is now. Mathieu finds himself staring at Brath and Brath is staring back, and it feels like there’s a silent conversation passing between them, but Mathieu doesn’t understand a single thing Brath is trying to tell him.

  Perry just shrugs, gets up, says “Whatever,” and ruffles Brath’s hair on his way out.

  Mathieu and Brath reach the silent agreement to not talk about it.

  * * *

  Brath’s mood swings confuse him. He can be entirely cheerful one day and then, without giving Mathieu the slightest hint as to why, downright miserable the next. There is a pattern to how Keith and Gareth act around their friend, and it seems established, like a routine, like they know exactly what’s wrong and how best to deal with it.

  Gareth will feed Brath; he will push plate after plate of chocolate chip cookies and cream puffs towards him. Keith will lean into Brath’s personal space (something Gareth is somehow not allowed to do, but Mathieu has stopped trying to understand the dynamics of their friendship) and talk to him in a hushed voice, just continuously talk, presumably trying to distract Brath or cheer him up.

  Mathieu doesn’t know what his role is supposed to be in this—if he’s expected to have one at all. He doesn’t know Brath that well, has no clue how to get to know him better and he feels pathetic because of it. He is not a teenager anymore, hasn’t been for a while, he’s a grown man, a published and prize-winning author and his books are being translated into thirty different languages. Mathieu is successful and independent, and Brath shouldn’t make him feel insecure.

  And
okay, maybe it’s not insecurity which Mathieu is feeling, but he has no idea how else to describe it. Brath is most likely in his early thirties, and he can’t be older than that. But he has to be some sort of genius, some unmatched wunderkind and he makes Mathieu guess constantly; why he runs this coffee shop when he’s clearly got more potential than anyone Mathieu’s ever met; why he has these mood swings; why Mathieu is interested in him and why Brath is interested in him even more. There’s not a lot that makes sense when it comes to this—whatever, between them.

  But maybe that’s it. And maybe Brath is right, and things don’t have to make sense to be real. Because Brath’s gotten into Mathieu’s head and there aren’t many people who’ve ever managed that.

  It only dawns on Mathieu that he’s become part of a routine too when they’re sitting in the kitchen with no lights on, legs stretched out in front of them, and Brath’s head suddenly drops onto his shoulder.

  “You know,” Mathieu says. “I don’t like it when you’re all gloomy. I prefer you telling me your weird little stories that freak me out sometimes.”

  “I don’t have many stories left,” Brath answers and his cold breath sends a shiver down Mathieu’s spine.

  “I thought you were full of them.”

  “I am. But some stories are secrets,” Brath explains quietly. “And some stories aren’t mine to tell.”

  “Can I ask you something then?” And then Brath raises his head and eyes him curiously, so Mathieu takes that as a hint to continue. “I’ve been thinking. You said you don’t believe in God. You said you’re not an atheist. So I assume you still think there is one. Why not believe in him then? I’ve never met anyone who thought God existed and still wasn’t religious.”

  “Do you know the story of Job?” Brath replies but is quick to continue. “He was a good man, always devoted and obedient and unwavering in his belief. And one day, Lucifer visited God, and they wagered a bet. Lucifer would take everything Job had ever loved and owned, and he’d win if Job would repent his beliefs. God allowed Lucifer to make Job suffer greatly and that whole ordeal is only bequeathed because of course Job bowed before God, and his love grew even stronger.” He huffs out a raspy laugh. “All’s well that ends well they say, but how come nobody sees how vengeful God really is? How He plays with everything He’s created? What if Job had cursed Him? Then Lucifer would have taken his soul, and I doubt God would have done much to save him.”

  Mathieu is no expert on biblical stories, but he thinks he faintly remembers this one. Brath’s face is motionless. “I guess I never thought of it that way.”

  “Nobody ever thinks of it as that way,” Brath says, and he sounds oddly bitter. “It takes two to play a game, doesn’t it? I don’t believe in God because I think He is cruel and selfish. And he doesn’t care.” He pulls on a loose thread on his jeans, pulls with force until it snaps. “You want me to tell another story? I will tell you a story,” and Mathieu wonders if he should’ve kept quiet if he’s upset Brath unintentionally, but he thinks it might do Brath good to let off some steam, even if that’s just by talking.

  “In the moment of creation,” Brath begins, “God separated light and darkness, and amidst all of it, he forged heavenly beings. Most were fragments of light, some he formed out of threads of his soul. There were few, but those were the highest of the angels, and they were all His servants, faithful and obedient, and all was well until God created Man and He commanded His angels to be the servants of mankind. He had bestowed Man with the gift of Free Will, but his angels had been born without, so they did the only thing they knew—they obeyed. One of the angels was named Azrael, and he had been born out of God’s wrath to rain punishment upon those who abused the gift God had granted. He made it rain for forty days and forty nights; he destroyed the tower of Babel; he killed the firstborns of Egypt—all because God commanded it. Azrael saw that mankind was flawed in comparison with his own, yet he did not question his Father’s intentions. But there was one of them, the brightest and most powerful of their kind, who did. And when he refused to continue to serve and demanded to be granted what God had so easily given Man, God punished him and all those who dared to agree. And so he banished them from the high sphere of Heaven and tossed them into an abyss filled with darkness and agony, and he put them in chains to suffer for their disobedience until the end of days.”

  Mathieu looks at Brath. The other man is staring off into space, face partially concealed by shadows thrown over it. “That’s the story of the Devil, right? There are interpretations that he was just a fallen angel,” but Brath raises his hand, then, almost in an afterthought, drops it on Mathieu’s thigh and Mathieu can’t do anything but grasp it tightly because—he’s not sure why he just wants to.

  “Azrael had not rebelled like others, yet he mourned for his lost brother. He knew of humankind’s failings, of their complacency and he too started to doubt. But Azrael remained faithful because he loved God and he wanted to believe that He was just. Many centuries passed, only a short while in the wider frame of time Azrael had known, and God decided that he would no longer need Azrael, that he wanted to cease vengeance and leave mankind to find its own justice. Azrael remembered his brother and how cruel God had been then, and he was angry and taken with grief at the injustice that had befallen them, and he asked himself how their Father could be so merciful with these lower beings and look upon them with so much scorn. And Azrael took his sword, and he led many armies into war against each other before the gates of Jerusalem to show his Father that these people were undeserving of his love and his forgiveness.”

  “The crusades,” Mathieu realizes. “Let me guess. That didn’t work out too well for him, did it?”

  “Indeed,” Brath says. “God ordered Azrael to kneel in front of Him, and He took his sword, and so his Father cast him out much like his brother before him. He had His archangels cripple Azrael’s grace so he would never be able to set foot in heaven again. Azrael fell, and he fell deep, and he never found his way back home.”

  Brath’s knuckles are white where they’re wound around Mathieu’s hand. Mathieu suddenly has a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach and can’t shake it off.

  For some reason, Mathieu finds himself unable to let go of Brath’s hand, to leave him behind in the dark and empty place with just cups and baking trays to keep him company. And perhaps this isn’t part of their routine, and perhaps this takes them outside the boundaries they have quietly laid out; Mathieu might be a bit of a dick from time to time, but he’s not a complete asshole. So he pulls Brath with him when he gets up, leaves the kitchen, and walks out onto the street.

  Brath lets himself be dragged along, quiet and in an even fouler mood than before (and yes Mathieu does blame himself for that because he’s got the tactfulness of a hippopotamus) and Mathieu is glad he only lives around the corner and up the next road.

  His apartment is much tidier than it usually is since he hasn’t spent a lot of time there as of late, but Mathieu doesn’t switch on the lights, just tugs Brath along towards his bedroom, shrugging off his jacket on the way. He kicks off his shoes, watches as Brath pauses to stare at him, then he mirrors Mathieu who lets himself collapse on his bed. He feels heavy and tired in an instant like his body is desperately trying to claw back all the sleep it’s been deprived of lately.

  Blinking, he makes out Brath’s eyes in the dark, almost swallowing up any traces of natural light that are falling through the window. He’s come to rest on his stomach, head turned towards Mathieu, watching him. His forehead is slightly creased—with wonder, or is it confusion? Mathieu can’t decide what it is. He closes his eyes and falls asleep in a second.

  6

  Brath

  Hell. People imagine it to be a sea of flames, an endless fire; scarlet tongues licking and red-skinned demons with hoofs and pitchforks. They imagine heat and ash and clouds of sulfur rising to drench everything in a disgusting odor. Brath has seen drawings and paintings of Renaissance masters and illustrations o
f the Bible, but they don’t come close to reality. And how could they? If any human would ever set foot into Hell, he wouldn’t live to tell the tale.

  In reality, it’s not hot, and there is no fire, just endless darkness, and it’s so cold it even chills Brath to the bones. It is so cold that it’s burning, and maybe that’s where those images come from. There is a certain smell in the air; the smell of souls slowly crumbling and churning and disintegrating with frost, and Brath assumes it does remind him of smoke. There is nowhere to go, no up or down and no way to utilize his senses. Brath has to rely on his memory to move about, and although his soul and grace are mostly distorted, they still shine bright enough that he remains unbothered.

  He is unaware of the time that passes, unaware of the distance he leaves behind him, but Brath feels when he gets close, the slight tension in the still air, like delicate bursts of electricity moving around like a thread to create disturbances—chains. They’re invisible to any eye but His, but they are there, and they have held his brother in place for millennia.

  “I did not expect another visit from you so soon,” he says, and his voice echoes endlessly, obscuring words and making it difficult to decipher them, difficult to hold a proper conversation, but that’s the point. “Or did I miscalculate?”

  Brath shakes his head, dodging the chains that could even cut into his skin, and moves closer. “It’s been two months or so. Am I not allowed to come see you as often as I please?”

  His laughter is icy music in Brath’s ears. “You can visit anytime, baby brother. You know that. But you usually have something to ask of me. After we had spoken last, I thought you’d succeed in undoing His punishment.”