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He’s sitting at a scarred table at the Devil’s Tavern when James leans in to ask. They must look conspiratorial, James’ head ducked close to his, and his lip twitched upwards in anticipation. James is going to comment on the downworlder at the table opposite theirs. He’s going to talk about her breasts. They’re going to make a lewd joke, and James will drink from his mug, downing it all before they stride up to the room and await the others.
But James dips his head, awkwardly, and Matthew’s sense of perception is left slightly askew, followed by the slightest feeling of panic. Something is wrong. Something is off. Before he can ask, James is saying, “Can I ask you something?” There’s a good hand-width of distance between James’ hand and his own two wrapped around his cup, but he manages to notice the way his parabatai’s pinky stretches towards him, reaching.
Something isn’t as it should be.
Matthew drinks from his cup. “Is it Cordelia?” he asks, because it’s the only direction his panic knows to go towards, and he tries to keep his voice steady. Curious, but calm.
“No,” James says, and then tilts his head away, to the side. “Well, sortof, but—”
“Is she okay?”
James stares at him, his golden eyes deep with something that Matthew can’t quite figure out. His parabatai stares. It’s worry, he thinks, or something like it. Pity? “She’s fine, Math,” and James saying it is an anchor, but only for a second.
His mind reels.
“You, then?”
“Me?” Jame’s eyebrows furrow, the color of his eyes darkening just slightly.
“Are you ill?” And Matthew’s heart clenches, suddenly shameful. If James was, wouldn’t he have felt it? Wouldn’t he have noticed anything unusual? Anything off? He thinks back to how James was with Grace, the aura that was constantly clinging to him. No. Not like that.
And then James is laughing at him, an honest laugh but one that lacks humor. “God, no.” Matthew has opened his mouth, a defense lingering there waiting to be shot, but James culls it with a bump into Matthew’s side and a, “Can’t you just listen?”
He’s silent, but the tavern around them roars, cups clinking and ladies laughing, and cards shuffling along the tables.
“We were wondering if you’d be, a, um, well, if you’d be a witness.”
James won’t look at him now. Can’t even catch a hint of gold hidden under his dark hair, and Matthew wonders why he’s acting so strange, so foolish. James pulls his pinky back to curl his hand completely around his mug. His knuckles are white.
They’re talking about the wedding. The real one. The small secretive one James and Cordelia had planned as a do-over, an honest exchange of vows between themselves. Privately, of course, James had told him weeks ago, just between Daisy and I. He hadn’t seen it as an exclusion, as a decision made to sting, but Matthew had thought about it, turning the idea over and over in his head and wondered if James would ever tell him when they’d planned to do it and how it went. And then he’d wondered if that was selfish, a sense of entitlement to James that made him feel this way. But he’s honored, and the corner of his mouth tilts upward. “You idiot,” he says. He bumps back into James playfully, and it upsets his parabatai. James loses his balance, his cup jostling and sloshing some dark ale across the table that James hadn’t hardly touched.
“Shit,” James says, wiping it away with the cuff of his shirt at the same time Matthew says, “Of course I’d come. I don’t understand why you think—”
“You misunderstand,” James says. He’s so damned confident that Matthew thinks something is wrong. He’s overstepped, because maybe when James said between Daisy and I he’d actually meant between Daisy and I and Matthew can’t find a way to backtrack or logic himself out of this faux pas.
This was not how the night was supposed to be going, with this strange feeling of walking into a hedge maze and finding dead ends at each go, or like walking a tightrope that slackens out from under you at each moment. It’s the unexpectedness, the unknown that throws him off each time. It’s the way that James continues to polish at table when all the alcohol that will soak into his shirt already has.
“That’s not what I meant.” And then he’s cursing under his breath and rubbing at his forehead with the back of his hand.
“I’m sorry,” Matthew blurts and James holds up a hand to stop him.
“Don’t. It’s,” and then he’s glancing at Matthew and picking at grooves on the table and looking like he’d rather be reading a book in a corner than talking to Matthew at all. “Would you be witness that we’re man and wife?”
Matthew chokes. “ What ?” He has a sudden sensation of falling, and yes this is a damned tightrope now that he thinks about it, and he’s struggling to make sense of this topsy-turviness that James just threw at him. “You mean, while you—?”
In the dimness of the tavern, Matthew can still see the heat rising to James’ face, can see the embarrassment and regret and horror in James’ eyes as if this wasn’t the reaction he was expecting. “I thought–“ and then, “We thought–“
Matthew goes to stand at the ridiculousness of it all, but James grabs his wrist. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes frantically, “I didn’t think you’d be so offended by it; Math , I'm sorry .” James’ eyes are wide, pleading, and his hand is cold and sweaty. “I swear .” He doesn’t know what to say, so he remains quiet, his brain short circuiting as the downworlder at the table next to them eyes them curiously. Matthew looks away, looks at the girl behind the bar who narrows her eyes as if to inquire if a Shadowhunter brawl is about to unfold and if she should go ahead and kick them out or wait. Matthew sighs. He sits. He draws himself up tight and James is saying, “Just forget it. Forget everything I just said, please ,” as he’s pushing his tankard towards him in surrender. An offering.
Matthew takes it. The alcohol is sour and bitter and nips at the sides of his tongue as he drinks, but he throws his whole being into drinking the lot of it in one go as James lays his cheek along the table and says too formally, “I’ve overstepped, and I know how you feel,” Matthew stares down at him from atop the tankard’s rim, his throat bobbing with each swallow, “ felt , I mean, but we can’t exactly ask anyone else can we?”
Matthew lets the mug drop to the table loud enough that James flinches and the downworlder at the bar curls her lip in annoyance. “Can I get another?” Matthew shouts, smiling, and she only rolls her eyes as reaches for a pitcher to top him up, looping around the bar to get to their table.
“Do you need another?” James is asking.
“Oh, shut up, Jamie.” Matthew won’t look at him.
“You’ve had mine and yours.” It’s a plea, but Matthew won’t look at him.
“Yes, but that was before .” His eyes are trained entirely on the barmaid as she fills Jame’s mug- still clutched tightly in Matthew’s hand. Matthew smiles at her the whole time, compliments her graciously, and James has known his parabatai long enough to know avoidance when he sees it. Matthew tells her joke as she leaves and it falls flat, but continues to talk in her direction as she walks away, swinging her hips, and maybe it didn’t fall flat after all because James watches her glance back at Matthew and he quickly looks back at Matthew to see a genuine grin creeping up his face and that makes James angry.
He grabs Matthew’s wrists as his friend goes to drink and he opens his mouth to furiously apologize again but Matthew cuts him off, leaning in aggressively close.
“No. No. ” Matthew points a finger at him, as if he’s disciplining Oscar instead of his parabatai. “It’s my turn. You don’t get to throw that at me and then act surprised when I ask for another drink.”
James flinches, his face looking uncomfortably as if he’s been slapped. There’s a slight hitch in Matthew’s chest for making James do so, but he’s not sure that James won’t ask again. He’s not sure that James won’t ask someone else. He’s not sure, because James still has a bit of resilience in him; he’s still firmly gripping Matthew’s wrist to prevent him from drinking. It’s a losing battle; Matthew dips his head down to the tankard and slurps from the rim. He drinks anyways.
“Math,” James says and he squeezes his wrist, not painfully, but enough to show he’s unhappy. Disappointed even, maybe.
Matthew doubles down, pulls away from his drink to meet James honey eyes and spits, “ Why in the seven realms of hell would you even ask that ? Not ask me , but that. ” The look on Jame’s face is so dumbfounded and the grip on Matthew’s wrist slackens to the point that Matthew can’t help himself not gloat. He’s leering at James who struggles to maintain control of the situation.
“ Math ,” he pleads.
“You thought I’d let you grovel for my forgiveness without that answer? Honestly, James.” Matthew takes a swig of his drink and sends a flirtatious look at the barmaid refilling drinks for a group of werewolves.
He glances back at his parabatai, but it's only in passing, and his focus is only realigned when his brain catches up to notice the spark of embarrassment James is trying to hide deep away. It makes him feel guilty, achy in the hollow of his chest.
“You know why.”
And Matthew does. Has put the clues together enough to know that James is desperately trying to rewrite the lie told to the entire London Institute into a truth. The new exchange of vows. The witness to their marital bed. Matthew bends low over James’ mug—his mug now—and closes one eye and then the other, analyzing the difference in shift of perspective of the bubbles drifting around the top of his drink. “I’m the insurance.”
James neither confirms or denies the statement, but he doesn’t have to. Matthew keeps speaking. “Because if the Clave finds out and they start pulling apart at this… fabrication ,” James winces at the word, “I’m the one that pipes up and says…” Matthew flits his hand in the air and James gives a roundabout awkward nod, avoiding eye contact to pick at the frayed hem of his shirt.
“Ah.” Matthew says, and then even softer, “It would be a touch unfavorable if our parents discovered this was originally a sham,” and it’s Matthew’s turn to wince. “It could ruin us all.” Their table falls silent but around them the bar is roaring. He takes another drink and stares at the remnants in the mug, swirling the cup about his hand. “What were you thinking?”
James laughs to hide his embarrassment and he rubs at his neck. “I don’t know, honestly, I–“
He spooks James when he pushes the mug the few inches back across to him. An offering. “No. No. I meant, what were you thinking ?”
It’s parceled out as a meal to discuss private affairs so their help is sent away, and Cordelia isn’t quite nouveau to insist he serve himself but once everything is plated and they’re all seated, she doesn’t rise again to collect the dishes and they remain on table long after they’ve finished.
It feels natural after a while, as if he’s only here to share a meal and that they may end the night in the foyer discussing politics or theater, and that is exactly how it ends until it doesn’t.
Cordelia is curled in a chair with mending in her hands and she works as she laughs at something silly he admits to Oscar doing. It’s so domestic and relaxed that he’s forgotten himself until she’s politely trying to cover a yawn and James is looking over the top of his book.
“Should we retire for the night, Daisy?”
The words itch on his skin, but Matthew smiles softly and leans back into his chair as he crosses his legs. “Right. Of course. It’s getting late.” He rubs at the fabric stretched over his knee with his thumb as if to scour away a stain. “My apologies for keeping you both up so.”
Cordelia places her mending aside and Matthew doesn’t know if he should continue to sit or stand, so once James rises to his feet, he does as well. He tells himself it’s not due to nerves. He tells himself they move in tandem. He tells himself James has risen so it’s only natural he does as well.
“There’s a spare room up and to the right, Math,” she says. Despite her work away, he watches as her fingers continue to move, to deftly braid her hair into a single plait. “Once you tire of course.”
James leaves his book on the sofa as he reaches for her hand, pulling her close. “The bedding is fresh. But retire when you’d like. We’ll see you in the morning?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” And it feels to formal, so he flutters his hand at them, away and says, “I think I’d like to sit for a while longer though.”
“Of course. Anything you need?” And James is eager, so appreciative and attentive that Matthew wants to look away, to tell his parabatai that no thank you, he requires nothing else. When James is like this, it’s like looking into the sun.
He says nothing, just flits his hand again to cast them off as Cordelia says, “Good night, Math,” and James is nodding his head in farewell.
“Goodnight, you two,” Matthew is responding and when they turn away from him and go up the stairs, he sinks back into his chair and holds his head in his hands.
He stays that way for a few moments, feeling untethered and uncomfortable and wholly unlike himself until he goes for his jacket hanging against the wall and touches the cool metal of a flask. It’s only quarter full; he’d told himself he wouldn’t need it for tonight, had told himself for months now he wouldn’t even consider drinking a drop in James’ home.
So he steps outside onto the porch and holds it pressed to his forehead for a moment before he releases an unsteady breath.
He drinks and he calls himself a fucking idiot.
He’s not exactly sure what he’s supposed to do, so he wanders around aimlessly and tries not to feel invasive as he goes through their things. He’s already ate, but he finds himself going through their cabinets and pantry, sampling as he goes. He cuts a chunk of cheese for himself and slices brown bread, and then he’s searching for more liquor to get him through this night.
He finds none, and he thinks this is very Jamie like to have locked up the alcohol on a night such as this, so he eats and drinks water from the pitcher like a heathen before he goes back into the living room.
There’s a chess set he admires, picking up each and every piece just to see the craftsmanship, and once that’s done, he engages himself by opening up various drawers in a bureau. There’s stubs of candles and oil for the lamps and bits of twine and then in a drawer apart from the rest he finds stacks of letters all written in Cordelia’s Persian and he can’t read a single one.
He replaces them, shuts the drawer, and brings in water himself from the pump in the backyard to wash the dishes.
His mother had taught him as a child, had told him keeping tidy was a skill everyone ought to know. So he washes the dishes and piles them to the side and tosses the scraps into a bin outside by the back door.
Halfway through he has to stop, has to go around the room and brighten the lamps to account for the darkness of night before he can continue.
He’s finishing up when he hears creaking on the stairs and turns to see Cordelia looking down at him from the middle of the stairs. “Come to bed, Mathew.”
She says his name like James would, like its two whole syllables blended together. It’s not like how his family calls him, the two syllables completely separate, completely hard and singular in their phonology. Chiding and harsh and what have you done now.
“I—“ he says, and he nods to his hands elbow deep in suds and that’s when he realizes she’s wearing a shift and his cheeks flush.
He wants to look away, but he can’t. He can’t even close his mouth and he’s vaguely aware of a loose clump of his hair having become unruly and fallen into his face; he’d waxed it into place before he left and he knew it wouldn’t hold well if he sweated, but he wasn’t exactly planning to wash three sets of dishes in water he’d pumped and hauled in himself.
“Math,” someone else says, and he drags his eyes from Cordelia to see James looking down at him from the second floor landing and his mouth snaps shut.
He looks back at the water, at the way the surface agitates as his fingers curl below. His cheeks are hot. “I’m,” he coughs, shoves his face into his shoulder as he does it. That damned bit of hair bobs and he tilts his head with the hope that it’ll realign itself. It doesn’t. “I’m almost–“
His eyes slide towards the stairs again, at Cordelia blinking down at him and James leaning against the bannister, head resting against the wall. James’ shirt is loose, marks dark along his skin in the thin light, and Cordelia is wearing a shift and Matthew turns back to the dishes before him and tries to calm his quickening heart.
“I appreciate you checking on me,” he manages, “but it’s absolutely unnecessary .” He’s almost finished, a couple of forks that need to be properly polished and two cups from dinner, and he ardently scrubs at them with a rag. “I’m finishing up, and,” and then it slips out, the words rushing past his teeth and he plants his hands on the edge of the washing basin, water running to the counter as he says, “Why are you both indecent ? Why aren’t you in bed ?”
James snorts at him, his eyes half-lidded in a satiated way that Matthew is familiar enough with, but it’s Cordelia who crosses her arms and asks, “Why aren’t you in bed?” Her undergarments move with her, and when she does, he notices the ties in front are haphazardly done up.
“ I’m washing dishes, ” he says as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. He plunges his hands back into the water, reaching for one of the cups.
“Don’t you have any idea what time it is?”
“Do you know what time it is?” And he glances back at her, but she seems unphased, and it’s exasperating, having this conversation with her. “We can’t just keep turning words around on each other, Cordelia, you,” and then he glances at James in recourse. “Honestly James, won’t you–“
But his parabatai is giving him a lazy smile and a moment later Cordelia is rushing him and the only reason that her lips do not connect with his but instead at the corner of his mouth is that he stumbles back and away.
He laughs awkwardly, the back of his hand rubbing against his mouth and he wonders if he’s dreaming. Except Cordelia is standing in front of him, her head tilted just so and he fears glancing up at James, confusion and dread settling into his gut.
“Was that too forward?” She asks, and Matthew laughs again, feeling like he wants to sink into the wall.
He can’t stop, and he slides further away from her on stockinged feet and hers are bare. She frowns at him, frowns as he grips at the table behind him. “I was, wasn’t I?”
He’s blocking a lamp, his position in front of the table like this, and the room is so dim, but he’s sure they can still see his panic.
“I won’t–“ and then, “I can’t–“ until he finally manages out a firm, “ Jamie .”
But it’s James who responds, who lazily asks, “Can’t you?”
Matthew’s heart stutters. Stops.
“Is this a joke?” He finally manages, and he slides back and away and bumps more firmly into the table. He tries to maneuver around it and the light fluctuates with him, making the room brighter and brighter still with each centimeter he moves. But Matthew cannot find the edge so easily and he wonders why the hell they’ve such a long table for two people.
Cordelia is still looking at him, frowning and he has the uncomfortable feeling of her undressing him and reaching through his pockets as if searching for a slip of a hidden thought tucked away from both of them. She crosses her arms and shifts her weight to one hip. “You’ve been drinking.” It’s an accusation, but it isn’t accusatory. She doesn’t pin him with a stare and her tone isn’t unkind. She only blinks. And that is much worse.
“ No ,” he says but it sounds too defensive to his ears and he feels like such a child in front of her. He straightens himself; he hadn’t noticed he was slouching —cowering?— and says, “No. Not much. Just the wine served at dinner.” And it’s a lie and they know it’s a lie, but he doesn’t care, and as if he can’t damn himself anymore he looks pleadingly at James and asks, “Where is the wine?”
James doesn’t answer, just stares, and in the absence of proper lighting his eyes look black. James who lounges along the banister an arm across it and his head laying atop while his other arm dangles freely, fingers curled, only stares at him.
“Come to bed,” Cordelia says. She moves to take his hand, but the table is behind him and there is nowhere left for him to run.
Matthew gives a pained sound, a soft whine that fights to remain deep in his lungs. She got his hand, pulling him away and up and his free fingers slide against the edge of the table’s wood.
“She’s tenacious,” James speaks, finally. “Best to just give her what she wants.” Their eyes slot together for a fraction of a second, and when green meets gold, Matthew sees that James is not angry, isn’t anything perhaps other than curious. Matthew won’t look away, his eyes pleading and asking, though he isn’t sure for what. For this to stop? For this to be okay? He wants it to be okay.
Matthew’s heart is pounding against his rib cage, and he knows the drop in his stomach, the tingling over his limbs for what it is. It’s the same adrenaline that dumps into his bloodstream in battle, the same endorphins that course throughout him when James carves a healing rune against his forearm.
They’re halfway up the stairs when Cordelia turns on him, her grip loosening, but he’s not looking at her. He’s analyzing every line and every twitch of James’ form and James is watching him. He wants to run.
“Is it fine if I try this again?” Cordelia is asking and his eyes dart back to her, the last few stairs behind her.
“I don’t understand,” he begins. He’s whiny, he can tell, but for once in his life he’s confused and terrified and he’s got his feet on two separate boards because she’d been pulling him up after her. “I don’t know what this is.”
It’s James who responds, who’s shifted just slightly so both arms cross over the railing and his chin digs into the meat of his forearms awkwardly. “It doesn’t need a name. Not if you don’t want it to.”
And then Cordelia is kissing him, properly this time, and where she’s higher up, it’s him she’s having to bend down for. He whines into it, his fingers reaching for her, lightly touching the fabric of her shift, eyes slotted closed and when her tongue parts his lips, he chokes back a noise.
Cordelia must hear it, because then she’s pulling back and looking at James, and Matthew is only half conscious of the way his body dips forward, chasing after her. She doesn’t look at him, has eyes only for her husband as she says, “Come to bed, Matthew.”
He wipes his mouth, stares at his socks and lets a breath shutter from his lungs. They’re green, specially ordered from Scotland, but even the finest lambswool isn’t keeping him tethered to the smooth oak beneath him.
“Math,” James says. His voice is low and commanding and for a split moment he expects to be tossed from their doorstep. He looks up, eyes wide and moves his hand to grab at his wrist where his parabatai rune is marked. He wonders if it will shatter. “Math,” James says again, and he smiles. “Come on.”
It’s a smile of the fey.
Their bedroom is darkened. Deep curtains and rich fabrics and rugs along the floor with a bed slung right up in the middle. A wash basin on a pedestal in the corner and small fire sputtering into coals and a hard embroidered chair where Cordelia’s outerwear has been laid across the back.
He’s never been here, not in this room, and why would he be? He isn’t exactly sure why he’s here now, but he’d do anything for them, would fetch them the sun if he could, would let the star burn his hands as he offered it at their feet.
He doesn’t want to think what’s expected of him, but as soon as he’s across the threshold, Cordelia is pulling him towards the bed, pulling him atop her, kissing his neck and James is pressed behind him, crushing his chest against Matthew’s back.
“ Wait,” he pleads, “wait.” His hands fist the fabric of her shift and James nuzzles his nose behind his ear and Matthew can only just barely focus enough to ask, “Is this okay? Is this–?”
“‘s fine,” James answers, and Cordelia is humming in agreement, and Matthew is growing halfway stiff in his trousers. “It’s going to be fine; just don’t think .”
Matthew wants to argue that point. He wants to say not thinking has gotten him into more trouble than it’s worth. He’s opening his mouth to say as much when James is reaching around him, around his chest and is untying the stays of Cordelia’s shift. Matthew can’t help himself. He whines as one of her breasts peaks out, perfect and round, and he ruts into Cordelia’s thigh below him as James ruts into him.
“How much did you drink?” Cordelia is asking, but it’s all breathy and her lips are swollen. She reaches up to touch his cheek, to smooth out his hair.
“Not enough,” he laughs, and it must come out as funny when deep inside he feels hysterical because Cordelia only smiles as she undoes the buttons on his shirt and it’s all moving so fast. Behind him, James takes his shirt and pulls, moving in tandem with Cordelia and once it’s off, James slots back into place, his shirt scratching at Matthew’s bare back.
Cordelia is kissing him again, and when he pulls back to take in a lung full of air, he expects a reprieve, a moment to catch his breath. James ruts against him once more, and then he’s taking Matthew’s hands and guiding his fingers to Cordelia. She’s already wet and warm, and James’ hand is underlaid with Matthew’s, his middle finger guiding Matthew’s pointer and middle into her alongside him.
“Jamie.” Her voice pitches when they breach her, and Matthew falls in on himself, curls his fingers and tries to withdrawl, but his hand is pinned there, against her. James curls his own around Matthew’s, his thumb running circles slowly around his wife, right above the heel of Matthew’s palm.
“It’s too much,” Matthew says, worry coating his words.
“She’s fine,” James says at the same time Cordelia reaches to grab his wrist, to keep him positioned there.
Matthew wants to sob and he can barely stop himself from rocking once more into her thigh. He’s harder than he’d like to be, and his cheeks are hot. He whines as he takes his free hand to shove it down into his trousers.
“ Math ,” Cordelia whispers. He feels her tighten around him, and he shudders. His hair is falling back into his face and he tries to flip it out of the way, but it’s James who cards a hand through his hair and pushes it away.
James leans over him, hooking his chin onto Matthew's shoulder as he looks down at Cordelia below them. “Gorgeous, isn’t she?”
“I’m right here ,” Cordelia says, and her words are huffy but she groans and arches her back as James continues to rub circles against her.
Matthew hides his face as he grabs his prick. He doesn’t want to look at them, but suddenly James is guiding him–guiding his thumb to the small nub above Cordelia’s entrance that has her whining, and then James is pulling his hand away whispering against the shell of Matthew’s ear to not stop, praising his motions.
Matthew can’t help but to look, to glance at James face hovering attentively behind him, and then his eyes are sliding back to Cordelia below them.
James reaches around him again, pulling his wife’s shift down even further until both breasts are completely free and he’s taken one in hand, squeezing and groaning as he knocks his head against Matthew’s. Matthew can feel him behind him, his cock pressed against his ass. He shudders again, biting his lip to quiet himself.
He goes to kiss Cordelia, his fingers slipping in and out of her as she whimpers beneath him, and she’s so slick, his fingers sliding along easily. He abandons his own erection to hold her hand, interlacing their fingers. He doesn’t miss how she grips him back. He doesn’t miss how her fingers curl and her nails dig into the skin on the back of his hand.
He’s in the middle of kissing her when there’s a pair of hands on his trousers, fingers working on the button, and his brain short circuits when he feels James pull him out. He cries out at the touch, drives himself forward to bury his face into Cordelia’s neck.
“James,” he says, and he must look panicked because James knocks their heads together again as he leans into Matthew’s ear.
“Don’t think,” he says. He gives a languid stroke. Once. Twice. By the third time, Matthew finds himself matching James pace to his own, sliding his fingers back into the woman beneath him, matching tempo. Matthew gives a dry sob.
“Don’t think, Math,” James whispers.
He can’t help but think. He doesn’t understand, can’t figure out why he’s here, what he’s doing.
His hips are stuttering, but not exactly from the pleasure of it. His mind is reeling, slingshotting itself to various dark corners and he finds himself overwhelmed with it all. His body keeps moving, keeps performing because if he’s honest with himself it’s a dance he’s already stepped, a scene from a play he’s already seen, and he’s slept with enough men and women to just go through the motions when he’s thinking too hard too much.
He focuses on the crook of his pinky splayed on the sheets that aren’t his tied to a wedding mattress that isn’t his beneath a woman who is not his wife and his hips are stuttering but she’s enjoying it. Cordelia is chanting his name, shortened to the intimate form that James uses. He clenches his teeth hard, wonders if he bites so hard will his own teeth crack? He lets up only to let out a gasp because he feels like he’s drowning. He can’t keep holding his breath and keep thinking and keep rolling his hips, and she deserves this. Deserves any pleasure he can possibly offer at her feet even if it comes at his expense.
He’s so careful trying to listen and getting his body to respond in ways that makes her happy. She’s so damned vocal, James’ Cordelia, and he has to keep himself from thinking not his not his not his. Reminds himself that James who is whimpering not a meter away, sitting in the chaise with his trousers about his knees and hand around his cock, asked for this. He finds that he doesn’t really mind if he’s being used for their pleasure, not honestly. Not in the ways that matter.
But he can’t stop himself from thinking.
He bends low to apologize, buries his face into the side of her neck and into her thick hair where he can smell her perfume and tries to imagine it’s not Daisy who is turning ‘Math, Math, Math’ into a mantra. It’s not good for him. Not good for his mind that clatters thoughts all atop another and he can’t keep up. “I’m sorry,” he says, nose pressed to her neck.
He matches her pace, meets her hips to slide back fully into her and shifts his weight to one arm braced above her as he uses the other to pull her close. Her legs curl around his hips, locking him into place, and he knows it will be soon. His eyes are wet and he tells himself he’ll blink it away but he doesn’t reopen them. He shuts them tighter.
Behind him, he hears James whine, a sudden gasp and the chair squeaking. He imagines if he turned his head he could see his parabatai curled over himself, hair in his eyes, his completion on his hands, and his cock tipped with semen.
He won’t let himself look, won’t even open his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says into Cordelia’s hair, “I’m sorry.”
“Math,” she breathes out, and off to the side James says, “God, the two of you,” and Matthew clenches his eyes as he says a bit louder, “I’m sorry.” His eyes are wet, and he turns to kiss her neck, but she must sense something amiss.
Her breathy “Math,” suddenly morphs into a “Math? Matthew?” And the drastic change of her tone is what causes him to open his eyes, to lift his face to look at her. A few stray tears land on her cheek just before she slams her lips to his and moans into his mouth, just before he realizes she’s peaked as well, right behind her husband. Her muscles contract around him and she detaches herself from his mouth to bite at his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” His voice cracks as he pulls out for a final push to feel her glide along the underside of him.
“Fuck,” James says, and Matthew has just met his parabatai’s eyes, noted the satiated look about him when he topples over the edge after them.
It’s falling. Like a running jump from a cliff with legs still kicking and waiting to hit the ground and as he falls he cries out. Not a name, he won’t sully their names like this, but a breathy short scream ripped from his throat.
And then he’s drawing Cordelia closer involuntarily, the need to feel her skin against his both refreshing and polarizing as he rides out his wave with a last apology as he pulls himself from her.
When he lands, while he rides out the last of hormones fogging his head, Cordelia worms her way from underneath him, extracting herself from him and calloused fingers hesitantly touch his shoulder. “Math,” James is saying, his voice thick with concern, “are you alright?”
“Matthew.” Cordelia is pulling her shift about her, arms tucked close over her breasts, her expression equally fearful.
He glances between them once before he’s shoving himself away, excusing himself with a quick nod he hopes they’ll understand before sliding to the floor and groping under the bed for a chamber pot. He hopes to find one, hopes they aren’t too modern in this aspect, and once he fingers brush cool ceramic he drags it to his face just in time to catch the meal they’d shared previously.
It’s not proper, he finds himself thinking, but he can’t stop retching. He finds he aches all over, his calves burning and his abdomen cramping as nausea rolls over him. He grips his wrist as he does so, fingers curling into his parabatai mark as if he’ll rip it from his skin. “I’m sorry,” he says again, but it’s quiet and he doesn’t know if they’ve heard him. He’s crying, and he presses the heel of his hands into his eyes. He shoves them all away fairly quickly, before they can notice, before they can attest to the mess he actually is.
Cordelia is inched over him, carding a hand through his hair and James is saying softly, “I’ll make you some tea.”
“No,” Matthew manages. His voice is raw, shot through, and he hovers above his mess for a moment more before he wipes his hands on his thighs and grips the handles. He stands with it. “I’m leaving. Let me clean this up and I’ll be off.”
“Math,” Cordelia is chiding, but it’s James who nods towards the bed and says, “No, Math, it’s unimportant. Put it back. We’ll deal with it in the morning.”
Matthew feels raw, like he has nothing else left to give, and he can’t even offer up an affronted grimace as he hefts the pot. “It will start to smell.” He wants to laugh at himself. To laugh at the irony that vomit in a privy is more of an affront to this room than the fact that he’d just bedded his parabatai’s wife. He keeps his mouth shut, afraid that if he laughs he’ll get sick again.
In front of him, James works his jaw as if debating with himself, but he eventually gives in and reaches to button up the line of clasps to secure his trousers. “Alright,” he says, “Then I’ll go with you. We’ll be back, alright Daisy?”
They both turn to her, her white chemise still untied down the front and Matthew can still see the darkness of her nipples, still raised along the swell of his skin. She pushes a stray bit of hair behind her ear and goes about tying herself back up and Matthew is uncomfortably aware that he alone is undressed.
“Of course,” Cordelia is saying, and Matthew can hear the edge in her tone, an unvoiced worry. About him, he wonders. He shifts on his feet, eyes his own trousers on the floor and is glancing about for his shirt when James is taking the privy from his hands. He gives it up immediately and leans down to scoop his trousers, tossing in leg after leg. His fingers shake as he buttons himself up, slipping against fabric and missing holes until he’s cursing. “Matthew?” says Cordelia, and he glances up at her as she finishes, “Let me?” She has a hand stretched out tentatively, and Matthew is shaking his head and avoiding her eyes as she continues, “I’ve had practice with James. I had practice with you. I can-”
Matthew forces his hands to work, finishes up before she can finish her thoughts. Of course, he thinks, of course she’s had experience buttoning and unbuttoning men’s ware, but it still causes his cheeks to color in sudden embarrassment.
He only finds a shirt because James has placed the chamberpot on the floor and secured one for him. He knows that James knows he wants to run, to drown himself in cups. “I have you,” James says, offering out the fabric and Matthew takes a moment to realize it isn’t his, to glide a calloused thumb across the roughspun material almost identical to the loose white shirt that covers James’ torso. “I know it’s not to your tastes,” James is smiling softly at him, “but-”
“It’ll do.” Matthew throws it over himself, self conscious of the way it fits awkwardly, hanging about his collarbones and falling past his wrists. He’s not much shorter than James, he knows, but he’s leaner, built differently. He bends to grab the chamberpot and won’t glance at the either of them as he makes his way out the door and down the stairs.
He can hear them talking anyways, even as he puts distance between the couple. “He needs space,” and “I told him not to think,” and then he’s rounding into the next room and out the door.
He dumps his mess down a public grate right outside their home, and he doesn’t have the energy to balk at the act of scooping out his own bile when bits stick to the sides of the pot. It’s how James finds him in the dark, his sleeve pushed up as he shakes off the vomit clinging his fingers.
“I’ll take that,” James says and gently pulls the privy from his opposite hand. His voice is so soft that Matthew wants to snap at him, to shove him, to gnash his teeth like some feral child raised by wolves.
Instead he shakes his hand one last time and stares as James walks around back to the water pump. He wonders if he should lie, plead an upset stomach or too much drink, but James has known him for far too long and they’re both aware that if anything he’s drunk too little, that he was too sober. Matthew feels too much now, without drink constantly clouding his mind.
“You don’t have to treat me like this,” Matthew says, following behind. He wants to push his hair back, out from his face but his dominant hand is covered in sick. “I’m not a child.”
James pushes down on the lever and lets it rise only to push down again. The metal squeals, but he persists until water sloshes out the pipe and he gestures for Matthew to wash his hands. “I know,” he says quietly, as if he regrets what’s transpired, as if this wasn’t in the plans to watch his parabatai piece himself back together again.
The water is cold, but Matthew’s hands come away clean and he wipes them on his britches. James' trousers aren’t clean. He notices a slash of dried semen wiped unceremoniously against his right thigh. “This was my mistake,” Matthew clarifies, “I own it.”
Matthew says it with such conviction that his parabatai grimaces, almost dropping the chamber pot. Matthew reaches for it,surprised at the lack of resistance in James’ fingers as he takes it. He goes to place it under the spigot, but James doesn’t move.
“Your mistake?” He asks slowly as if the words are foreign on his tongue. Matthew nods toward the lever and James forces his weight down atop it, water spurting once more. “Math,” and it’s too close of a reminder of the sin he’s just committed so Matthew cuts him off as he fills the ceramic privy with water.
“Mine. I shouldn’t’ve been here. I should’ve said no.” He watches the water rise as James watches him. He can feel the burn on his face but he doesn’t look. He shifts his body, stands taller as if he wasn’t just spitting up on the floor of James’ bedroom. “Do you expect this to continue? Once we go inside?” It isn’t meant to be barbed and pointed but it is, and inside his chest his heart rolls. Backlash from James, the hurt resonating across the bond. Matthew splashes the water out into the yard.
He expects James to be docile, to turn inwards, but occasionally James’ hurt manifests as anger and in this moment it does. “ I told you not to think. ”
“Oh?” Matthew spits back, just as poisonously. “Then you might’ve just set out your finest on the counter with a placard saying, ‘For Matthew. Drink up!’ ” He holds the chamberpot out towards him stiffly, and when James won’t take it, he shoves it into his chest so that James has no option to not take it.
“Instead you put my fingers to your wife and say, ‘Don’t think, Matthew, ’ as if that will just magically nip everything in the bud and—“
“Are you fighting?” Cordelia’s voice shocks him, and he’s even more taken about when he turns and sees her at the doorway barefoot still dressed in her shift with a shawl thrown about her shoulders.
“No,” Matthew answers, and he’s half aware it’s too curt. “No, I’m just leaving.”
“Well that’s nothing new, is it?” James hisses, walking past Matthew and shaking the last of the water off the privy. “If anything gets uncomfortable, off to God-knows-where you go.”
“You’re right,” Matthew hisses back, and his own chest cracks this time. “I was wrong. It’s not my fault; it’s yours . I should’ve known something was wrong when you propositioned me at Devil’s Tavern. It’s wholly unlike you to ask something of that sort from me.”
“Matthew,” Cordelia asks. Her voice is gentle. “Are you quite alright?”
He runs a hand through his hair and barks a laugh. “Tell him, Daisy, won’t you? He climaxes once on the settee and-”
Before he knows it there’s a fist landing his cheek and his stomach and Matthew laughs at it all. There’s blood in his mouth, teeth cutting into his lips and cheeks. He refuses to swing back, but he blocks the advances that he can with his forearm. He deserves this, he tells himself, for being so stupid. Behind them, Cordelia is yelling, reprimanding, and when she’s close enough, James backs off with anger glowing in his eyes.
“You think I’m an idiot,” James is saying, and it's such a shift from his normal demure character that Matthew is smiling as he wipes his bloody mouth against the hem of his borrowed shirt.
“Yes,” Matthew looks at the red on his wrist, the black of his mark shining through the fabric and presses the hem back against his mouth. It’s ironic, he thinks, his blood sinking through the fabric to his parabatai rune while wearing his parabatai’s shirt. He wants to laugh. “ Yes .That’s what I’m trying to get through your thick skull, Jamie.” Matthew does laugh then, at the irony of it all and Cordelia is holding onto James arm as if to stop him if need be. She eyes Matthew cautiously.
“We’re all utterly fucked if any of this gets out and I can only shoulder the blame so much before they come after the two of—“ He pulls his hand back again, the hem utterly ruined with his blood. Even a proper laundry couldn’t scour it clean. He runs his tongue along his teeth, but they’re all aligned, not one loose.
“I don’t give a damn about propriety,” James is hissing and Matthew makes a wide sweeping gesture towards the both of them as he says, “This whole thing was about propriety!”
“Inside,” Cordelia is saying, and even she has the sense to know not to invite discord down on the three of them in the open, even if it’s the dead of night.
“No need,” Matthew is saying. He runs a hand back through his hair as if a quick brush can fix the mess it’s become. “It’s over. You’ve had your fun.” He straightens his shirt and goes to roll up the cuffs so he looks a bit more presentable. It’s hard to look presentable in a shirt too broad for him with blood on the hem. “I’m leaving.”
“Like hell you are,” James says, “ I’ve not finished .”
And he’s itching for a fight because Matthew’s eyes alight and he says, “Haven’t you though? Would you like to watch again as I—“
And it’s Cordelia this time who looks equally as betrayed before she schools her face into neutrality. “I’m making tea,” she shouts above him, “That is, if you’d like to join us for a civil discussion.”
James doesn’t move and neither does Matthew, each staring at the other, chests rising and falling and Matthew feels the anger reverberating along the bond, and he wonders for the second time that night if it will shatter, if this will be the death of them. He wants to clutch his wrist again, to pull it close to his chest, but it feels too vulnerable, too on the nose of his feelings. He pushes his hand through his hair instead.
“Otherwise,” Cordelia continues, “I’ve folded your shirt up and it’s laying across the banister.”
Cordelia turns from them, back stiff and Matthew’s chest hurts as he breathes, his own words sinking into his skin. James stares at him, jaw clenched tight, and that’s the end of it. He goes to his wife, careful hands guiding her back through the house and Matthew stares after them until he feels compelled to follow, like some downworlder charm stuck under his skin pulling him towards them.
When he’s inside, when he leans heavy against the door until the latch clicks, he brings his mark to his lips and tries to align his thoughts. He’d be crushed, he tells himself, if the bond actually broke. He knows about Will’s. Everyone knows about Will’s. It’s something to be protected, parabatai bonds, and Matthew wonders if James can feel the sudden humiliation coursing through him.
He finds his way to the table in their dining room. The oil had burned low, but James is replacing it and then he’s turning the dial to brighten the room. He slides into a seat two chairs down, furthest away from them when he catches James eyes for a fraction of a second, his eyes reflecting the glow. He looks away, looks to see Cordelia pouring steaming water. Matthew realizes too late that she’s planned for this, that she’d already set the kettle on, and he’s piecing this thought together while she slides teacups across the wood finish. It doesn’t matter that he’s positioned himself away from James; Cordelia arranges the saucers directly around him, forcing her husband to move a chair closer.
James is the first to speak, the one that pushes his teacup to the side and says softly, “I’ll have your arm now, yeah?”
Matthew won’t refuse him, not when he’s just finished thinking of James’ father whose own parabatai mark is scarred over in silver. Damaged. He proffers his arm out, his left, and Cordelia is scurrying to the drawers he’d searched earlier and is bringing back a stele that she hands silently to her husband.
James doesn’t look at him or her. He rubs his thumb across the skin of Matthew’s forearm before carefully drawing a healing rune there, and Matthew can feel it working, his cut lip mending itself in his mouth. “I’m sorry,” James says. He goes to say more, but Matthew pulls back his arm and the stele drops to the tabletop.
Cordelia joins them, sets the teapot directly on the table and begins to serve them. When their cups are full, she reaches out to touch Matthew’s hand with her fingertips.
“What’ve you got to be sorry for?” Matthew asks. He doesn’t mean for it to be bitter, but there's a bite hidden in his tone and he ducks his head down. He touches his teacup. “I’m the one who should be sorry. And I am,” he looks up eagerly, meeting both of their eyes. “I didn’t intend to harm either of you,” and his words come out desperately as he turns to Cordelia, “Daisy, my words were—“
“I know,” she says and she offers him a soft smile that has his muscles relaxing.
James grabs for his other hand, both of his wrapped around Matthew’s. “I apologize if you felt like I was coddling you.” He jerks his head back, motioning to the backyard. “Out there.” James squeezes his hand, his fingers stretching to touch the rune— his rune. “But God, I was worried for you. I didn’t want you to leave. You looked so miserable after.”
Matthew throws his head back to laugh and sinks low in his chair. With both of them holding his hands, he can’t reach for his tea. Can’t fill his mouth with something that will hold in all his words so he babbles on. “Well, yeah, it was a miserable idea, wasn’t it? Sleeping with the both of you.”
Too late he’s realized he’s misspoke. Too late as he’s watching Cordelia’s hand slip from his and James fingers go stiff. James won’t look at him, only has eyes for his wife, but Matthew can feel this , can feel the way James heart stutters and stops and that his parabatai has all but stopped breathing as he looks to comfort his wife.
“No, no , no. ” Matthew backpedals, and he pulls both his hands to go after Cordelia’s. “Daisy,” he says, “My Daisy,” and he doesn’t care that James can hear him address her as such. “You were gorgeous. Darling . And James is so, so lucky to have you as he likes, but—“
“But you didn’t enjoy it,” she finishes for him, throwing words into his mouth. “You did it because you thought—“
“I told him not to think.” James sips his tea.
“—that this was something you needed to give to us.”
“ No. No, it’s not that,” but Matthew can’t tell if it’s a lie or not, he’s lied so often to himself that often his feelings don’t properly translate. He can’t untangle his thoughts to rightfully assign them meaning, but he knows he’s misstepped and he takes the moment to pull back and down his whole cup in hopes it gives him courage. It won’t. The sugar will only make him jittery.
“No,” he amends, “I did enjoy it.”
“So much that you wanted to run after?” Cordelia’s words hit too close, too soon. And that’s exactly what it is.
His face must give himself away, his panic returning because James sits his cup back on the saucer in front of him and grabs at his wrist, anchors him there. “It’s alright,” he says, and Matthew’s face must twist into something else because James tightens his grip until it hurts and raises his voice as he says, “I’m not coddling you, Math, you’re not a child. I’m just telling you it’s fine, damn you. It’s fine to be frightened of this.”
Matthew for what it’s worth doesn’t cry even though he wants to. He takes his hands and presses them to his eyes. “I don’t understand .” He waves his hand once dismissively. “I’m just, I’m trying to process.”
Cordelia pours him another cup of tea and James ladles in a spoonful of sugar. “You’re thinking too much,” James says, “ again .”
“And you’re not thinking enough .”
Cordelia pushes his cup towards him. “We’re being civil,” she reminds them. When they don’t respond, she presses, “Aren’t we?”
But they don’t answer, they all just sip their tea. Matthew is the first to speak, to look between them. “ Why ?” It comes out too fragile for his comfort, and James shoots him a look that edges on concern and pity.
“Because,” Cordelia is saying. “We care for you.”
James is quick to add, to explain, “This wasn’t planned. I swear to you, Matthew, when I originally asked you, it was with pure heart. You were only supposed to spend the night. You were only supposed to be here to vouch for us.” James has grabbed at his hands again, is leaning over the table. “This wasn’t meant to be nefarious. It wasn’t meant to leave you questioning things.”
“You’re so instinctive.” Matthew laughs, and he wipes at his eyes. “You read and read and read, but you don’t ever think about where actions will end. You just let the story unfold,” and then he staring down at his tea, at the sediment lingering at the bottom of his cup. “You can’t always just let the story unfold, Jamie.”
“We care for you,” James is pleading.
“We would never do something to hurt you.” Cordelia moves closer, scoots her chair to press against his and he can feel her warmth.
“And I’m thinking now,” James objects.
“What is this, then?” Matthew asks, “What are we?”
“I don’t know,” Cordelia is saying. She looks slightly hurt, like she’s puzzling over something in her head and can’t make heads or tails of it.
“Whatever you want it to be.” James is shifting closing, dragging his chair around and sitting in it backwards, his legs splayed and Matthew is reminded of the seed smeared on James trousers, dried. “Did you like it? Honestly?”
He thinks James is going to kiss him, James is leaning in close, but he’s already confused enough. “Yes, but–”
“Honestly, Math?”
“Of course.” And he’s looking at James who stares at him with fire in his eyes and Cordelia who bites her lip as she stares at her husband. “Of course , but I thought we were friends .”
“We are.”
“ Platonic friends. Just friends.”
“We can still be.” And James is trying to kiss him, is trying to offer up something that Matthew is unsure of.
“Platonic friends don’t end up in their wives beds,” Matthew is arguing and Cordelia is pushing against James' collarbone with her hand, is silently telling him to focus.
James can’t be stopped. He touches his lips against Matthew’s clavicle and smiles up at him. “Then we’ll find ourselves in your bed.” He smiles, and it’s fey. “You don’t have a wife.”
Matthew finds himself laughing at that, finds himself giving in. To his side, Cordelia smiles as well, slots his arm against her breasts.
“No one can know,” Matthew says, and he’s still scared of it. Terrified for himself and for them. Worried about the repercussions if anyone discovers them.
Cordelia smiles into his neck. “No one will,” she insists.
“It’s settled then?” James is asking, is pulling away to grab at his teacup and bringing it to his mouth where he drinks deeply. “You care for us as well?”
“Of course I care for you,” Matthew thinks it's the stupidest thing he’s heard tonight. The evidence is written everywhere, has already seeped deep into Cordelia and is splattered with his own blood on his wrist. A parabatai mark clutched one too many times. His cheeks flush. “You absolute idiot,” he says. It’s fond, and James smiles at him.
“Then to bed?” Cordelia is already rising, is on her feet and leaving cups to cool on the table. She’s pulling at his hand. “We can discuss more in the morning.”
“The dishes,” he objects. “I can wash the dishes,” but James is already pulling at him as well, pushing him towards the stairs.
“You already have.” Cordelia is leading him, again, up and up and up. She doesn’t ask, Am I being too forward? It feels raw, and new, but fine. It’s going to be fine.
“The new dishes,” he says and it's a losing battle. He smiles despite himself. He lets himself be led again, up the landing.
“I’m not pumping any more water,” James is dimming the lamp below them, and once it’s extinguished they’re plunged into darkness. “You can do that yourself.” Behind them, witchlight flares up, cool and calming in the center of James’ hand.
“I already have,” he says and it's friendly. It’s natural.
“Tomorrow,” Cordelia sighs. She's exasperated, he can tell, probably tired of the both of them. “Do you have any idea of what time it is?”
“No,” Matthew responds, “I haven’t the slightest clue.” He turns his head over his shoulder where James is bounding up behind him, past his folded shirt on the banister, and up the landing. He, lets himself be led once more through their doorway after Cordelia. He lets himself relax, into the room they’ve carved out a place for him in.
She pulls him down again, onto the bed, and then over over over until she's clinging to the edge of the mattress and then clambering atop him as James shucks off his shirt and climbs in after them. “I get the middle,” Cordelia is telling him as they settle down. She turns to glance at her husband, to laugh as he flirtatiously grabs her breasts through her shift.
“You get the middle,” James concedes, but he’s smiling into her neck as he says it, then glancing at Matthew and reaching to touch his wrist before pulling away. “You’re fine, Math?”
Matthew nods at him, turns to face them both and tries his best to smile, to not looked dazed at it all, confused. His heart thumps solidly against his ribs and Cordelia throws a leg over him, hooking him and drawing him closer. “I’m alright,” and it isn’t a lie. He knows that much.
“Good,” James is saying, dipping his head back into the groove of Cordelia’s neck. She smiles at Matthew, touches his arm. Under the coverlet, he feels calloused fingers creep to his hip. “I’m glad.” He feels nails rake across his skin, just to let him know he’s there, and in the dark, he can barely see them curled up next to him, but he feels their heat, and he feels the bond deep in his chest roll with emotion.
He can’t see her smile, not with how dim the embers have burned low, and how the witchlight on the bedside table has faded to nothing, but he can hear the feel the smile in Cordelia’s voice as she presses her lips to his skin.
“ Good ,” she says, “because it’s time for bed.”
The fingers on his hip rub in a soothing circle and Cordelia’s leg shifts ever so slightly, but he warm. He’s fine.
It feels like home.