Notes From the Passed pv matt Finished

Date: 12th January 2025

Life was full of changes, of uncertainty, ironically if anything sometimes that felt like the only certainty in it. Sometimes those changes lean to the positive and recently Matthew's life had begun to shift in such a notion but in the grand scope of his short life Matthew knew one thing more than most; A great deal of the time change was accompanied by hurt. Most of the hurt in his own life has been well without his control and puppeteered by the cruel twisting's of fate but within that pain a strength was forged.

There weren't many things Matthew wouldn't wish on his enemies, in fact he had manifested a disturbingly petty attitude towards the ignorant these days, but there was one thing in his life he didn't wish on a soul. The thing that still haunted him whenever he was low and on days where he yearned for the council or advice only one person could give, a voice he would never have in his life. It was days like that he found himself most drawn to music, drawn to the serene pull of magic when a collection of notes suddenly became verse and simple chords devised melody.

Having decided to shift his outlook as positively as he could Matthew found himself dedicating more time to his practice than he had ever before, learning new techniques and expanding his repertoire and today as he wandered into the rehearsal rooms he was under no pretence that it would be anything out of the ordinary. In actuality, over the winter break the rooms had been relatively empty and he had grown used to the solitary space as a normality. Thus when he came across the form of one Archer Theodore Duncan head slammed down on the keys of the grand piano in what could only be described as a terrible display of discordance he found himself rather perplexed at how to proceed.

Archer was certainly no longer an enemy, in fact before the winter they had been very close to bordering on actual friends but despite his lack of knowledge on the depths of the boy he was certain that privacy was a key component in his personality. Yet in the same breath Matthew contemplated how his previous assumptions, well more accurately both of their previous assumptions, had failed them in the past already and if the boy was anywhere near as pained as the piano he was assaulting then wasn't it his duty to help. As a somewhat friend? Or more simply, as a decent human.

Taking timid footsteps into the room all notions of Matthew's trepidation on what to do fell away as the deep painful sobs came into focus. Archer wasn't just upset he was devastated by something. While the what was uncertain the desperation was palpable and in a move his previous year self would have balked at he found himself running to the fellow Slytherin's side and kneeling before him a gentle hand lightly resting on the boys knee as he spoke all softness and slowly careful not to spook the broken boy that crumpled before him. "Arch, what's wrong. Do you need me to get someone, where's Zeno? If I can help you please let me."

Interacting with @Archer Duncan

Archer was oblivious at first as a new presence entered the room. He barely even felt it when a hand was placed on his knee, barely heard the soft words of the boy, barely understood them after having shut away the heartless facades of condolences from near strangers practically bombarding him the past weeks. He didn’t need futile reassurances saying this too will pass, or that time will heal everything; he needed his mother and Merlin if only hopefulness was ever enough.

Sliding down from the piano’s chair he couldn’t feel himself as his head dipped into Matthew’s chest, couldn’t feel himself as tired arms wrapped around his waist, couldn’t feel himself as everything slipped away into darkness. There was a difference, Archer realised, between not feeling anything and not wanting to. Every time he opened his eyes everything seemed glazed over in monochrome, every time he closed them dancing flames sparked behind his eyelids. He had already lost track of time but for however long since the fire he had only smelt smoke and obsessed over nonexistent ash that refused to be washed away. Everything was hot to the touch, just as how the heat had overcome the French winter to envelope him in a claustrophobic embrace. It was easier to live with the numbness, to pretend nothing had happened even if his psyche refused to forget. To lose himself into that darkness would be a welcomed respite.

If Matthew had not been there he feared he might have disappeared entirely. Gone was his life’s anchor and gone was everything he knew. The books and maps he had placed his life into were no use anymore when the centre of his life had perished. What good were notes and graphs if they would all succumb to flames? There was no use in any of the things he trusted anymore, no hope that his mother’s favourite poem could speak of would save him. He had convinced himself to just accept this was the end, for his was a pain no words could describe. Yet now that when a person he had always hesitated to call a friend was his only tether to the world what more could he do but cling onto him as if he might as well be all he had left?

Blinking as tears still flowed onto Matthew’s clothes out of disoriented eyes Archer wanted to forget where he was, who he was with, and most of all the symphony of pain still replaying like a thunderstorm in his mind. Hazily he recalled a night spent with a girl not much older than him yet with many more emotional burdens on her shoulders, how that night he had been so mistaken, how he had allowed himself to enjoy with all the carefree happiness in the world when he could have acted.

“Non,” he murmured through shuddering breaths while holding on to Matthew as if for dear life, hardly caring that it was probably in a language he couldn’t understand. “Juste… rester avec moi, s’il te plaît, ne pas t’elever.” Soon whatever sliver of composure he had managed to recover quickly dissipated, and sobs overtook his body once more.

@Matthew Campbell

translation: no, just stay with me, please, don't leave.

It all happened so fast and the memories it evoked were all too devastating. Archer sunk from the piano seat straight into Matthew pushing them both further to the floor as he used his body as a pillow taking on the burden of Archer's weight that seemed far heavier than the physical. Allowing his head to drift into his abdomen he swept the messy hair out of Archer's face only to be met with the most harrowing stare void and lifeless, all colour drained. He was a walking visage of death and such calamity could only be caused by one source.

Matthew was no stranger to grief, he had lived with it every day of his life, it lingered in his very shadow and he could tell the signs from a mile away. Recalling the endless nights waking in a daze to find his father collapsed in on himself on the couch reliving a universal turmoil no one should have to face. Seeing the same reflected scene in his young Slytherin friend was heart-breaking for the glassy lost look in his eyes was one he had seen in the mirror countless times. Though it was true Matthew didn't know Archer very well, in fact they had been frightfully withholding on accepting that they were even friends, in a moment like this he was simply glad to have been of service. No words would help, no medicine could be administered but he could be there.

The boy gripped to him for dear life as tears drowned his t-shirt in a whirlwind of emotion but Matthew never said a word, never adjusted to stop him. Whomever Archer had lost, whatever had happened Matthew had seen this a hundred times and it simply had to be felt. To repress the issue would only cause deeper issues down the line, god knows Matthew knew all too well. It was impossible for his own eyes not to pinprick with devastation watching the small boy be utterly torn apart, ripping seams he never knew he had until he was entirely unravelled. Using his shoulder to wipe his own eyes dry he gently kept Archer's hair combed from his eyes allowing him to release everything. Matthew would be his anchor through this storm no matter where their friendship stood. In fact he was quite sure even as enemies had Archer ever been in such a vulnerable state Matthew would have been powerless to resist helping him.

No one deserved to suffer this alone and Matthew wouldn't allow it for a second. Just as he thought the boy may never run out of tears he had a bout of clarity and began to speak in a language Matthew recognised but was frankly shite at. Desperate to say anything he found his tongue tripping over the syllables of his past lessons mentally cursing Mrs Patterson for not trying harder with him, "Je suis désolé Archer, Je ne comprends pas mais je suis rester." Whether he had been correct or not mattered little for the emotion he poured into every word spoke with the most comfort he could summon. Unsure of what else to do he held tighter instinctively while the boy returned to his crying his entire body drowning under the wave.

With all the silence of soundlessness he spoke words meant only for his ears, "Let it all out Arch, you're safe here I promise." Being powerless was always a nasty emotion but the pain only amplified with the knowledge that there was no one alive capable of resolving Archer's hurt. Only one person could and that person was as equally the solution as the cause. Matthew with all his personal experience with grief was still useless to prevent its gnarled claws but desperate to help he felt himself pleading with the world for any form of peace he could provide. Emotion bubbling over refilling is eyes with watery tears he begged the one person he himself couldn't have for help. 'Please mum, help me help him, let me share your gift.'

Emotion heightening his wish he felt as the surge of serenity began to radiate from him reaching the parts of Archer that couldn't hear him and with any hope letting him know someone was here for him. There would be no calming the situation in the way his gift typically manifested, nothing could calm that pain but at least he might feel supported. Surely that counted for something. As the aura began emanating Matthew heard himself humming a lullaby to the boy he hardly remembered but knew the source. 'Thank you mum'.

Interacting with @Archer Duncan
Broken French Translation - "I'm sorry Archer, I don't understand but I'm staying"

Matthew’s words were rung out against hopelessly deaf ears. Archer barely heard them and even if he did understanding his broken syllables was a matter too difficult for the fragmented state his mind was in. To Archer Matthew’s inability to understand went beyond simply the barrier of tongue, his pain was one not for anyone to understand, least of all this boy whom he had spent so little time with. Even he himself did not truly understand the taxing ache in his heart.

"Let it all out Arch, you're safe here I promise."

While he knew Matthew’s intentions to be helpful the words only aroused nothing but bitterness in his heart. Matthew spoke as if Archer had anything left in him anymore. For the past weeks he had felt like nothing more than an empty shell of himself and he was sure anyone crossing his path would have readily agreed. Tears were the only thing still in him but what good were they ever? Would he cry enough tears to extinguish the raging inferno that had overtook his home? No. He was safe… did that even matter anymore? Nothing mattered anymore.

How surreal it was that only a few months ago he had been the one to sing in comfort, to piece together half-remembered rhythms with offtune music. Now the lullaby that had once seemed so familiar disappeared into the voids of his mind threatening to sink with the other memories of his maman he couldn’t save. Despite all the layers he was dressed in the terrible coldness had refused to leave him ever since he saw those horrible, flickering flames, licking at the house in their sick dance of glee. Matthew’s song was clearly one he barely remembered himself, yet as he hummed the broken remnants to the boy as shattered he felt an inexplicable calmness settle over him, hands holding his trembling body, stroking his teary cheeks, parting away the hair that fell onto a face normally in rosy in complexion. The familiar voice he refused believing he would never hear again spoke to him, in its gentle, melodic whisper.

“Be brave, my little lionheart.”

She was here. She was back. Archer’s hopes had been answered, his faith had been enough. He couldn’t see anything, but he didn’t need to as a phantom hand - no, not phantom, one made out of flesh and blood as much as Matthew’s was - gripped onto his shoulder, easing him away from the boy with such tenderness he thought it could have been a dream. He could imagine those eyes, those pools of hazel she always said inherited, could imagine that laugh as she told him, then the little pat she gave to his shoulder. It had all just been a nightmare.

“Wake up, Archie.”

Archer peaked his eyes open, fearful of the early morning sun’s shine…. Sighing to find an overcast sky- No. There was no sky. In fact there was no window, there was no bed, there was no home and there was no Marguerite. He couldn’t see the trees or the birds or his mother, only the fabric of Matthew’s shirt, darkened by the salty tears that had drenched into it. The hand on his back was not the calloused yet warm one of his mother but one of a boy he could just barely claim as a friend. No… no, how could this be true? He had heard her, had felt her as if she was here, that smiling figure greeting him with wide open arms. Pulling away from Matthew in absolute panic wide eyes shot across the room as tears made way for pure alarm. Spinning around trying to find a sight that was never even there he felt a sharp stabbing pain in his head from the disorientation. Rambling out words in English though they were barely more comprehensible he demanded, “Where is she? She was here! I swear…. Why can’t I see her? Where is she?”

Finally sitting down in sheer defeat, exhausted eyes turned to the only tether to the world he had left, then before his sense could understand himself or stop himself from the rising sound in his throat. A scream ripped from him, not one of words just a pure sound of anguish. It left his lungs in pain but in comparison to the one in his chest cavity it meant nothing.

Then, very quietly, after a long gathering of heavy breath, Archer said words that if not for being in Matthew’s embrace his friend would have never heard, “Please play for me.”

@Matthew Campbell

It was hardly a boy that scuppered away from his touch when Archer ran. No this thing was a being comprised entirely of pain, of grief, of confusion. Archer had been robbed of a childhood in just the same way as Matthew and somehow he could just tell. Words only reinforced this truth. Rambles of various degrees of comprehensibility solidifying the one reality Matthew couldn't bare to accept. Archer and he were just beginning to discover their similarities but this was not one he wanted to share. This was a pain that couldn't ever be cured only placated.

When rapid feral searching turned to deathly still despair and the banshee's wail was summoned Matthew looked on eyes instantly battered with tears and mouth pursed tight in shared suffering. The scream itself was shattering, caving him into his own knees with the sheer weight of it, Matthew was sure it would never really leave him as the echoes persisted in his ear, death's call. All else in the world fell silent in comparison deferring to its command. Archer was the harbinger of death and this scream was his announcement, his ghastly proclamation to the world.

The urge to hold him was too strong. Archer was entirely alone and no one could survive all that without help, his father wouldn't have without him and he without his father. Matthew had to do everything he could so rushing to his side he held him once again as he quivered under the touch laboured breaths desperately clinging to air. What else he could do was in truth very little, for until Archer was ready to talk, able to seek solace he could only be a shoulder, a lighthouse in the storm promising there was still light.

Words as small as the crumpled form beneath him barely voiced as he asked his question, as he longed for a shelter from the crashing waves. In this moment his sole duty was to the boy's wishes so holding his hand as he rose he moved up to the piano seat. As he sat and fingers traced the ivory keys he couldn't help but take a deep breath himself as the emotions threatened to drown him too. The pain was almost unbearable and the music would be the release the only question was what to play. Music was capable of delivering great many tragedies and joys but in such a monumental moment what was the correct response.

There were any number of classical pieces he knew to fit such overwhelming grief but none of them had ever spoken to him like the one he would choose. There was something so simple in the notes, like the music didn't matter at all, it was the composition behind that delivered the blow, the space that lingered between the notes that really spoke. It was neither grand nor wildly complicated but it wove soul through it in its simplicity. Matthew knew he could never replicate the wonder of Archer's mothers playing, in truth he wouldn't even know where to begin. Marguerite had travelled all over the world and heard music from hundreds of places he could never compare but still he yearned so deeply to help. To give Archer anything but more pain.

When the instrumental ended a timid voice filled the space at first as quiet as Archer's own had been but quickly a gentle melody beneath would pick up and the voice although still soft would become clearer. The last time Matthew had sung in front of the boy it had not exactly gone to plan and the hope in the piece was a risk in his current state of repeating that pattern. Still the song had a profound importance in his own memory and he had never shared it before. The two were already connected thus it felt only right, one last connection. Matthew could never be Marguerite, but he had been Archer so he had to play what was true to himself.

Interacting with @Archer Duncan

Shutting his eyes shut tight as a soft voice spilt into the quiet nothingness it was as if an empty pitcher had just been filled with a welcoming orange juice on a clear Scottish morning. At first it had been a bare trickle, as if Matthew’s lyrics had been programmed to fade in, yet soon enough it was almost as if there was no longer anything else in the grand Rehearsal Room. Still squeezing down his eyes further despite the comforting intention of his once adversary he only found his mind an unexpected war zone. With one side, weak, fragile, broken and torn still in a state of constant denial and apology as the other side’s shadow loomed over it in menace, hands clutched onto the sides of his head, and in a terrifying moment he no longer knew if they were his own, a long gone spirit’s, or a malicious phantom.

Threatening to block his ears the only source of his tether Matthew he forced them away as his head rose slowly. Eyes flashing open as if he had a sudden revelation Archer found himself breathing heavily as his respiration slowly eased into the rhythm of Matthew’s music. Staring off into the distant wall at nothing in particular the lyrics would ultimately fall on a boy who was refusing to acknowledge them. Still it would be a losing battle as they wormed their way into him, and just like the first time they had met Matthew struck something in Archer. So what could he do? So how would he forgive himself? And why, in this world where for once he felt true loneliness, even in the presence of another, was there no one, not a beam of light that had snuck into this never-ending darkness, to do as little as point him in the right direction, even if they could not walk him all the way through?

…Wake up.

He couldn’t. Not when he did not open his eyes to that familiar, wonderful smile that now only belonged to his youth but a kaleidoscope of a freak show, the labyrinth of mirrors designed to spin him around on his feet and trap him in their echoing halls. Everything felt wrong — the lyrics, the melody, the piano, the chair against his back and the boy’s back that pressed at it. It was as if a force from above had held the entire atmosphere in hands with childish curiosity, treating the scene as if it was clay the urchin had found by the riverbank, warping it until the tune became a jarring cacophony of Acheron he could no longer pinpoint. Just as the myths described the trapped souls called out for him to join, etching deep into his heart not merely another reminder of his mother’s passing but more so how much he was at fault for it. If only he had been quicker, or more clever, or less clumsy…. He had been too naïve, still thinking for the positive when deep down he knew, just as today, the world around him was crumbling into shambles. He should join them in the torrent of pain. Damn it, everything was wrong.

And another domino falls.

Feeling as if he had truly cried away all his tears Archer didn’t turn to address Matthew for decorum was the least of anyone’s worries in a room so sank in grief. Instead still keeping his eyes on the wall as if he was threatening to bore a hole through them he placed a finger on one familiar title his psyche refused to forget. A title of a perfect combination, a title of unity, a title now that he could only forever relate to half of. When the boy finished Archer could not have said whether he had only suffered more as his audience, but one request was managed, “Matthew…. King and Lionheart. Please tell me you know this song.”

Being there to help someone that isn't capable of receiving it was decidedly one of the worst feelings Matthew had ever had the displeasure of experiencing. It wasn't the first time he would face this conundrum and it almost positively wouldn't be the last. Matthew had grown up in a room basked in the very same energy that now seeped into every crack of the rehearsal room. With its suffocating spell that choked not only the throat but at the eyes, dragging wet streams across his paled skin. Matthew would never say that he wished he hadn't entered, he couldn't allow Archer to suffer it alone regardless of his own pain but he could certainly wish this pain out of existence. No one deserved it. No one.

Growing up with nights like this, where he returned home and had his breath instantly wretched from his body, he felt the deepest reaches of fear enter his mind. That fear was in essence a very real part of his anxiety that persisted ever since, a fear of how he would find his father. A fear that the grief they both felt was inescapable, forever persistent and entirely detrimental to stability and function. It was times like this he saw the toll her death had taken on his dad, times like this he let the worst of thoughts infect his mind. These were the days he wondered if the wrong person had passed.

As the tears continued to run he felt himself still under the broken silence of the tainted room. A small voice barely heard in the cacophony of thoughts hurling about in his mind, asking him if he knew a song. No, not asking, pleading. The song struck a chord in his memory and for a second a dash of hope emerged with the notion of the song being in a printout his father gave him a long time ago. Yet as much as he tried he couldn't think of it off the top of his head and flipping desperately through his sheet music he couldn't find it. Worried that this would be just another way in which he had failed to help those that grieved around him the dark bubbles of anxiety began to grow within. Hands began to sweat slightly but before long they stopped.

Just as before a soft whisper entered his mind and the calming nature he drew on from his mother eased his suffering. With his thoughts realigned and his mind unclouded it allowed his brain to focus on the missing piece of the puzzle. Scrambling about in his bag while the boy below him still sat surrendered to the world's pain he drew out a large book of older annotated sheet music. Unfurling back the cover he was greeted with the wholesome strokes of his father's handwriting, the ying to the yang of his mother's journals that were so recklessly taken from him.

Apologising softly, "Sorry Archer, but I can't play that on piano," he pushed back the stool shifting the solemn boy beside it as little as he could while still leaving him room to manoeuvre. The young snake lifted his jumper to his face lightly dabbing away the salted streams and shifted his eyes until a guitar came into focus. Mustering all the strength he could summon he formed his face into a picture of solidarity and smiled lightly over to the boy as he spoke, "But luckily my dad loves Of Monsters and Men and has their acoustic sheet music." Timidly stepping back towards the fragile figure below he spread the sheet music out on the piano and began to tentatively play the first few chords.

Pausing to get the feeling of the piece he looked down towards the young boy with hurting eyes that made his eyelids grow heavy, "I can play the music, but I'm afraid I don't know how the lyrics go, unless you do. Regardless I hope that this at least helps a little." Waiting for the unresponsive boy to show any signs of life he would focus on the small signs of anything and if none presented themself he would simply play the wordless song into the hollow space trying to fill it but knowing that nothing truly ever could.

Interacting with @Archer Duncan

banner by urs truly| interacting as Archer Duncan

He felt as if he could hear only the first note of that song and recognise it anywhere, and even though his throat was still dry and parched, the words welled up in him like the tears once more.

“And in the sea that’s painted black…” Archer began, nose still stuffed from the tears that had fallen but forcing each word into a shape of clarity. His voice raw from screaming, every syllable a tender, fragile sound as if they might break into illegible letters with an ounce of pressure. Soon he fell into the embrace of the familiar melody as a mind cluttered searched for the next lyric. Images were sent adrift in his mind as they drifted by pieces of flotsam — blending into the rehearsal room’s walls he thought he saw the familiar coast of the Atlantic, dark and treacherous under the skies of a storm.

“Creatures lurk below the deck,” he continued, not looking up at the pianist who followed with notes, silently grateful that like always, he did not sing a cappella. In that gaping chasm lodged in his heart any sound was a blessing as gracious as a cornucopia amidst a famine. Like the deep cave his heart was trapped in the music reverberated along the walls in echoes, the wordless presence of his accompanier and friend rendering the empty space as more whole then it actually was, returning to him the moments the lines left his mouth as they enveloped him in their resonance.

“But you’re a king and I’m a lionheart.” Although battered and more off tune than not, on that line his voice sudden snagged, cracking towards the end on the line his maman would have sung. She would have held his head to her chest, fingers circling around where his crown would have been before she pulled away to point at the both of them with a tender smile. All glorious on his imaginary crown he had felt as if he could survive everything, that was of course, before the nightmare dawned on him that was losing her. How could he even hold the sceptre without it shaking in his grasp without the lionhearted mother behind him, how could he even bare to think, to feel, or to love? Archer winced at another sharp pang up his nose as the next line brought the heat of an apocalypse he would do anything not to relive.

“And as the world comes—” As his singing voice grew raspy, all the words eventually trailed off halfway. Archer thought that night he might as well have seen the Four Horseman when the hellfire tore through a house, all his memories gone in the flashes of seconds, the person he adored most meeting the same, dreaded fate as if she was but a page in a book caught in the inferno. On days curled on his bed with the door locked for hours he wished he had been subjected to the Underworld then and there, to drift about on the fields of Apostle with all his pain erased. After a few seconds played verse-less he gathered his breath for another attempt, everything he had told himself he thought he could shoulder gone at a mere linguistic arrangement, “—And as the world comes to an end.

“I’ll be here to hold your hand.” They came out smoother this time, but none of the seven words felt true. His mother had not been by his side for what somedays felt like seconds and other days years, but the only person who had sinned was himself. Even when it had been extended towards him, held waiting for eons and through the battering wind and storms, Archer had not been there to hold his lionheart’s hand. An admittance of his guilt, for he knew, in another world where he was brave, where he was the lionheart and his mother the rightful queen, she would still be a live.

“‘Cause you’re my king and I’m your lionheart.” Not it was but a dream. A quiet whisper, barely enunciated, and by no means proper singing, broke from his lips at the line, all the weight of his whole life crashing down on the clause incomplete, now but a mere delusion he would never experience for the second time.

“A lionheart…” He repeated the term, savouring the word despite the hiraeth pain it brought him, now completely without a melody at all, as the title drifted off into hazy, veiled half-memories. He felt as if he was asleep once more, soon slipping into an euphoric dreamscape, the colours and lights of the rehearsal room dissipating around him as he lost himself in the heavenly sounds. Archer just hoped that he would not ever wake up, that the music would not ever end, that he would drown in its beauteous intoxication and never, never, ever come up for the world’s sharp, acidic air.

Haunting was not nearly powerful a word to absorb the depth of pain summoned in the room that night. Archer's voice was a banshee's cry, all harrow and woe. A pain Matthew could not fail to recognise, a desperate plea not to himself, or to any one that could really hear, but to the universe itself.

Heartbreak was too simple to encompass such pain. Archer's grief was both intangible and not, lingering in every note and catching on the snag of his throat with each pained word. This was no simple melody, no random string of poetry put to song, it was a lament. Archer was grieving and despite a life worth of experience Matthew couldn't do anything but keep playing. some things need to be seen through regardless of the damage, regardless of how much they hurt.

Each accursed syllable was almost unbearable and Matthew felt the tears streaming down his face but did not make a sound. Nothing but the melody and Archer's voice dared break the silence. So he stifled every sniffle, drew no attention to the shared space between their grief. No, he just focused on the keys desperate that each verse might bring forth some kind of relief and bring any semblance of meaning back to a boy he had once considered an enemy. All the way back in Rome, they knew one truth with certainty:

As men, we are all equal in the presence of death.

Archer Duncan, was once someone Matthew was convinced would sooner perish than be called friend. But as the room grew more sombre, and the world shrunk so miniscule that it felt like nothing except them existed; the young Slytherin was certain he had been wrong. Had his hands not forced each note to carry on, he was overcome with the urge to hug the once foe, to engulf him in a shawl of warmth and swallow whatever pain he, himself could manage. But to rob him of this wish would be a sentiment far harsher, the music was his support, Matthew was merely a tool. For after all they were not yet well acquainted to be called true friends.

Then it was time for even melody to fade, a lone voice calling forth a word that seemed so meaningful for the boy. Always full of curiosities was Mr Archer Duncan, always damning the judgements Matthew had placed upon him. Til' the final breathless lionheart faded the room into nothing but that lingering taste of devastation. When Matthew finally dared to look upon his partner in not just song, he saw the simple haze of whatever comfort was possible had ran its course. Brushing the tears from his face Matthew gently rose like a ghostly spectator determined not to wake the boy and rob him of this exhausted bliss.

Lifting the pillow from his piano stool Matthew timidly placed it under his head lifting with the soothing softness of a saint, something he had done many times for his own father in similar states. Drawing forth his winter cloak from his bag Matthew draped it across Archer's body. There was no telling how long such peace would last, but if he could give Archer even a second more in comfort he would. However, the raw, harsh silence was too growing too strong. Matthew knew he was seconds away from an all out collapse, resurfaced grief was dangerously bubbling forth and would break free. Thus it was time to leave. Unable to recognise what consequences may come from his vanishment. Too drenched in grief to provide any more assistance. The door gently closed, and two boys were once again alone in their pain.

Matthew has exited the thread | Interacting with @Archer Duncan