Work Text:
The rain was tapping against the windows as if it desperately tried to make its way inside. It was hard to tell when the sun had set as the heavy storm clouds haven't left the sky since morning. The traffic must have slowed down (a sin cities like New York don't forgive) due to the rainfall, making impatient drivers play a cacophony of irritation with their horns. Nighttime has already fallen and street lights created impressionistic caleidoscopes of colors on the waterfalls of rain that ran down the old windows of the apartment. You felt yourself shudder thinking of the rain, unwillingly imagining the discomfort of a cold storm soaking thin layers of clothing the unprepared pedestrians were wearing. Had you have been a little more stubborn, you would have been one of them. How good it felt to be indoors.
The coarse dryness of the book in your hands felt comforting, considering the intrusive thundering of rain against the window. Each time you turned a page, the rain as if hit harder against the glass, thinking the dry state of the book was mocking it. The owner of the bookstore called you in the morning to say that your order arrived and maybe that was the moment some higher power plotted the course of that day's events: from the novel to staying the night at Matt's apartment to escape the rain. It all felt a little too calculated to write it up as a simple coincidence.
A content sigh left your lips as you stared at the words so familiar to you. New York City may have become your new home and the discomfort of being a foreigner quickly left you in a city so culturally varying but it still felt so blissfully nostalgic to read something in your native language, especially if it was a genuinely good piece of work. It was a piece of comfort and safety that helped to keep you grounded: a piece of home in your hands.
Matt stirred in the bed you shared with him and that made you realize you had stopped reading, for a moment you have gotten lost in your own thoughts and the rhythm of the heavy rainfall outside.
"Sorry, was thinking of something," you said quietly as you looked for the last passage you read.
"What's on your mind?" You felt his warm breath against your chest. How typical of him to press you into the mattress with his own weight. And how typical of him to never admit it's to keep you safe.
"Nothing in particular," you answered. "The rain, the book... Just some passing thoughts. Anyway, where was I?" The question was directed rather to yourself than Matt who had no understanding of what you were reading.
Having found the place at which you trailed off, you resumed reading the passage aloud, content with how obvious and familiar your native language sounded coming from your mouth. Although he couldn't understand a word, Matt adored hearing you speak your mother tongue. He claimed it sounded almost too natural coming from your lips. He felt as if he had uncovered some intimate and essential part of you. Some people say that depending on the language one speaks, their personality slightly changes. If Matt were to believe that, wouldn't you be the rawest form of yourself right now? None of those little details went unnoticed: slight changes in intonation, the pacing of the words or even the vocal range in which you read; he memorized all of them. The more he experienced that rawness of your soul, the more he wished to be skinned alive before your eyes, to rip his chest open and hear your proclamation of love in a tongue he couldn't even begin to understand.
"Why do you like it so much?" you whispered to him. Had his hearing been a little worse, the thundering rain outside would have drowned out your hushed words completely. "I mean, you can't understand anything from it."
"I like listening to you," he answered equally quietly. His voice was slightly croaky as if the peaceful atmosphere slowly but steadily lulled him to sleep. "And so it happens that you sound wonderful when I can't understand it."
"Should I bring one of my college books then?" Both of you laughed at your question.
Matt's head rested against your chest as you continued to read the book. He could be on the other side of the flat and he would still easily hear your heartbeat but there was something silently intimate about having his ear pressed against your skin. His eyes were closed, half trying to sleep and half focusing on your voice accompanied by the rumble of the rain.
You weren't sure how long you'd been reading when you realized Matt has fallen asleep. His steady, shallow, warm breath brushed against your chest giving you an oddly found comfort: the one savior of the city was asleep on top of you, and if he could sleep on that rainy night, so could you; he was right there, prepared to fight any real or imagined threats that dared raise their hand at you. Because of his vigilante alter-ego, Matt had a rather light sleep, which made you learn to stir in a chameleon's way: slowly and dexterously. He deserved a slow, restful night.
It was hard to tell whether he felt the chaste kiss you left on the top of his had, as he didn't move. His stubble felt weirdly nice against your bare chest, the roughness of the beard being a constant reminder that he was right there, closer than a hand's reach. Matt was generally a man that skillfully built walls around him, for one reason or another, and it was perhaps that knowledge that made you realize how his hands were clinging onto you, holding you in place. Was he afraid you would leave him? Or that someone would take you away from him? That affectionate side of him felt like a sweet secret, an enigma he silently pleaded you to never reveal.
You put the book on a bedside table, next to his red-tinted glasses, and tangled your arms around his body. He felt so strangely vulnerable it made your chest clench with a plethora of emotions.
For some reason, you couldn't sleep on this oddly peaceful night. Was it too good to be true? The rain danced against the windows and Matt was unconsciously clinging onto you for his dear life. It felt wrong to sleep right now as if for some time it was supposed to be you looking after him, and not the usual way around. Absentmindedly, your fingers traced his skin, without much thought they dragged up and down his body like one does to soothe a wounded and scared animal. Was that who he was?
Little did you know, he wasn't fully asleep yet, and so your hushed confession of soft affections and a love Romeo knew only in his dreams have reached him but Matt could only take a guess what those tender, ethereal words could possibly mean.