summary: mattheo and alcohol don't mix, add in a heartbreaking quidditch loss, and everything goes to shit
warnings: angst, yelling, anger, cursing
words: 2.5k
300:80. That's how bad Slytherin lost—220 points. Slytherin hadn't had a loss that bad since they lost to Gryffindor their second year, when Harry "Golden Boy" Potter caught the bloody snitch in his mouth.
Everyone's game had been off since Tracey Wolfs became captain, only coming out on top of the short list because his cousin was one of the star female players on the Holyhead Harpies. He got none of the so-called "family talent" he bragged so much about. Mattheo knew making Wolfs captain was a no-go, which made the devastating loss burn a little bit brighter.
Watching a sea of red and gold erupt in a cacophony of cheers ticked him off even more, driving him to slink off the field, broom limply dragging behind him as he bypassed you and the locker rooms to shower and sulk in his dorm.
It was childish, really, leaving you, bathed in green and his name, on the stands and with a smile, expecting the usual from him. Mattheo usually flew up to your spot in the Slytherin section, a sly grin on his face, and would leave you with a kiss just as fast as he came. That, obviously, did not happen.
But if Mattheo was being honest, he was dejected and embarrassed and felt like he had disappointed his father, of all people. He could claim nothing bothered him, that Voldemort had no control over him, but it'd be a lie. A bold-faced one at that.
That cool, calm, and collected facade he wore as a second skin cracked, and no one, especially you, was going to see it.
The party in the Slytherin common room was in full swing, everyone deciding a good party shouldn't go to waste, opting to drink away their sorrows. It was only missing one person, their star player—Mattheo.
He was sitting on his bed, staring at the wall, possibly plotting the death of the entire Gryffindor team and Tracey Wolfs. An almost empty bottle of firewhiskey sat capped on his bed, right next to his crossed legs.
Alcohol and Mattheo didn't mix, the whole school knew that, you knew that. It was a dangerous combination, one that turned his blood sour, personality vitriolic.
So, when you knocked on the door, a small smile on your face, a drink in your hand, his foggy brain turned off all sense of logic.
You knew he'd be upset, but something looked different. Felt different. The whole thing was unfortunate, really.
"Hi, love," you murmured. "Can I come in?"
A thick pause of silence passed as he stared at you. "Sure… You went to the party?"
"Yes, I was just waiting to give you some time." You moved to his bed, staring at the bottle of alcohol sitting on his comforter. "…Looks like you had your own party."
He didn't laugh, he just stared holes into your forehead. "Mhm. Did."
"Are you okay? After what happened?"
A sigh slipped past as he plopped himself unceremoniously next to you. "Fine. Truly. That git Wolfs won't be, though."
"Mattheo," you chastised, a hand going to your forehead. "You can't hex your own captain because he made a few bad calls."
Your hand dropped from your forehead, which was most likely wrinkling by the second, and slowly reached for his hand. He pulled away before you could even brush the pad of your finger across his skin.
The rejection stung more than you cared to admit.
"You've hardly looked at me since you… since the match." Your voice was light and quiet. "I'm worried about you, is all."
"I said I'm fine." He spat the words out like the sheer idea of them turned his mouth bitter.
"I've said it because it's true."
His jaw flexed, his eyes closed.
"You left the pitch solemnly. Disappeared for hours without even a word to me. And now, you've almost drank yourself to alcohol poisoning." You glanced at the bottle. "You hate all kinds of whiskey, even the expensive kind."
The silence was heavy and it carried a certain sense of dread that settled low in your stomach.
"Losing hurts. I know that. But you have got to see that this is only one match."
His gaze traveled upwards. It was the first time he'd truly looked at you all day. "One match?"
"Now, you know that's not what I meant-"
"Then what did you mean?"
"I mean it shouldn't define who you are."
He stood, hands balled into fists at his side. "It's so easy for you to say that."
You laughed, hollow and thin. "Bloody hell does that mean?"
"It's easy for you because you don't know what it means to feel like this," his voice was lower, rougher. "Everyone watching as I get tossed around like an idiot."
"Shut up!" He groaned, running a hand down the side of his face. "You don't know anything."
"I was out there cheering for you, you did not look like an idiot!"
"I know you were cheering, I saw my name on your bloody jumper. Wish it could have helped."
He shifted, bending down over you until his arms bracketed your frame. He was so close to you now that you could smell the alcohol on his breath. "I wish it could have helped."
It felt like you were swallowing needles. "I came here so you wouldn't be alone."
His head dropped so you could just see his hair. "Great. Well, you've seen me now so you can get back to your own party."
"I'm not leaving you like this."
He looked up again, eyes glassy. A flicker of softness passed over him but it hardened just as quickly as it left. "Wonderful."
"Why are you so angry with me?"
"I'm not angry with you! Fuck. How are you so blind?"
"Blind?" You spluttered, pushing at his broad shoulders. "I can assure you I'm not blind. If anyone is blind, it's you. This game, this loss, just made you feel something that you think you shouldn't have! Something that you don't want to admit!"
"Felt what? Tell me. Oh, Merlin, please tell me."
Mattheo blinked slowly. He was incensed; angry; irate. It all was too much, and not what he wanted to hear from you. Something, the only thread he had left, must have frayed too thin. "Merlin, when are you going to stop acting like my fucking therapist? All you do is whine and tell me how I screw everything up! I'm obviously… humiliated, according to you, and you're trying to turn this into a lesson like you're my bloody shrink! Get it through your thick fucking skull that I don't need your help. Fuck."
"Oh, I what?" He reached out a callused hand, grasping onto your wrist, tugging at the hand pressed against his frame. "What? What? Just fucking say it!"
You flinched, pushing at him harder.
Mattheo loosened, letting his hand drop to his side. Brown eyes met yours, the face he saw reflecting in your iris' didn't look like him—he looked like his father; the same sharp nose, the same curls, and the same tongue that lashed out harsh words to anyone who got too close.
His spine unfurled as he stumbled away from you.
Your name came out like a whisper. Reverent; sad; almost silent. "I- I'm so sorry."
Mattheo opened his mouth again. Your lips quivered. He stopped.
"Don't… you dare do that to me again, Mattheo Riddle."
He was talking to you now—you knew it. Most likely apologizing again. But the ringing in your ears overpowered any semblance of hearing you might have had left. It was confusing and overwhelming, and none of it was as simple as it should have been.
Tears pooled at your waterline, tearing lines of salt down your cheeks, that, you thought, may scar from how much they burned.
Your boyfriend had never been angry with you like that, never that close to feeling like he would lay a hand on you. His touch had never felt so severe.
Lines blurred at the edges as you stood, shaky hands fumbling for the doorknob that seemed to get further and further away from your clutches.
Something within you paused when Mattheo spoke your name again—bone-dry, broken, and utterly depressing. White noise rushed in your ears.
"Please, I- I can't explain what came over me; I don't know what came over me," he began. "I'd never, never, lay a hand on you. Know that. Please. I'm so sorry for yelling. Please don't leave."
He was begging now, begging for that piece of your heart he had so selfishly stolen from you like a thief in the night.
With your chest heaving, you turned your head to the side, just catching a glimpse of that face that never left your mind, even when you slept. You wished you hadn't. The regret you felt was immediate. The boy you had known to always be stuck on his high horse, always hidden behind concrete walls made of unachievable expectations and words that cut deeper than knives looked like his wings had been clipped.
He stood before you, his shell cast to his feet.
"You don't understand. I cannot… cannot breathe without you near me. I don't deserve you, and my actions tonight have not reflected that. You have to believe me. I—fuck—drank too much and I knew it wouldn't work out well for me, but I was just so disappointed that it happened. What I did just now was cruel and unforgiving and it wasn't me. Well, it was me, but not how I should have acted. I kept thinking about my father, and you know what happens when I do, and—"
"Mattheo." Your tone tip toed the line between anger and empathy. You turned to face him fully now. "I do understand because I love you. I need time."
Usually Hogwarts felt massive with its ever changing hallways and moving staircases, but it felt far too small when the only person Mattheo wanted to see wouldn't dare to even glance his way.
You were everywhere and nowhere all at once.
At the far end of the table, smiling softly at something Pansy said.
In your favorite chair in the common room, your nose in a book.
On your knees in front of the greenhouse, clipping away at flowers, your hair shoved beneath your favorite woolly scarf to prevent the snow from dampening the strands.
Every time, he'd hesitate before letting his feet carry himself to you. Though, you were always quicker, traipsing away to do something that didn't involve him.
It wasn't cruel or maddening, just mind numbing… just far away. From him.
He didn't blame you. How could he?
That blasted night played over and over in his head like a broken record. Your pretty face flinching, the warmth of your wrist in his hand, and that look in your eyes which haunted him the most. You looked at him like you were afraid.
That realization settled in his chest like lead.
Sleep didn't come as naturally anymore, dinners were skipped, and trudging to class seemed as strenuous as swimming the length of the Black Lake. So, he spent most of his time in the astronomy tower, smoking the occasional cigarette, but never picking up a bottle of alcohol.
On the fourth day of not speaking to one another, the fourth day of Mattheo treating the astronomy tower ledges as his new bed, you decided to go visit him.
He didn't hear you walk up the stairs, only startling when your silky voice cut through the cool air. "You're going to fall to your death if you get any closer."
Mattheo's head whipped around so sharply he dropped the cigarette he was fiddling between his fingers. It was immediately crushed beneath his foot.
He sat back down again. "I- I wrote and rewrote a letter apologizing probably a billion times over, but none of them sounded quite right. All of them started with I'm sorry and I didn't think that would cut it."
"It wouldn't have." You words were blunt, but the look in your eyes was softer.
"I know. I didn't want to keep asking for you to forgive me." His gaze was downcast. "I remember everything I said to you. They have replayed in my mind over and over again."
"I grabbed your wrist." His voice caught in his throat. "Merlin, and you looked at me like you didn't know who I was."
Your jaw clenched. "I didn't."
It was like a bludger to the stomach.
"You looked like, I don't know, something different."
Olive skin turned alabaster as as the blood drained from his face. He couldn't breathe.
"Love, I am so sorry. I don't want you to feel like you can't trust me, or- or, fuck, that I would ever put my hands on you. You know… my father and that I would never do what he did to me to someone else. I've been wracking my brain to find something else to say, what would make this better, but if I'm being honest, I can't figure anything out. I'm scared it won't be enough."
"Matty," you sighed, slowly walking over to him, hands finding the sides of his face. "I know that. I'm sorry that I've been ignoring you, too."
His mouth opened in a silent gasp. "Don't, please, don't apologize to me. You've done nothing, and have never done anything wrong."
Your head shook. "I could have said something to you."
He said your name in a sigh. "This is what I mean," Mattheo hesitated when he raised his hand before placing it on your forearm. "You apologize for things that don't need to be apologized for. I told you things like I don't need your help, which is so far from untrue. I don't know where I'd be without you."
A small, pursed-lip smile graced your lips.
"Thank you. Something you need to understand more than me is that I don't know where I'd be without you, too. Just, I have to stress, if you do something like that again, act like that again, I- I don't know what I'll do, but I know that it will be your second, and last, chance."
His hands skimmed across your arms and moved to your midsection, where he squeezed you into a hug.
"I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you, I promise, darling."
You mirrored his action, hugging him so tightly you thought he may have trouble breathing. "Good. Will you come to classes and dinner, now?"
I forgot to put my taglist I hate me
