Matt’s eyes had begun to clear and his gaze gained brightness and cognizance the longer he focused on Audrey. She was telling stories about Noah, stories he remembered from far in the back of his mind, things Noah had mentioned when they talked at night. 

The automaton that had left the funeral with them died and Matthias Trousdale straightened his spine and gritted his teeth; grief wasn’t done with him but he would face it now. He [i]could[/i] face it now. He was drawing strength from his friends, from Arty’s ferocity and Nate’s soulfulness and Audrey’s cheerful tenacity. “Noah’ll be alright,” Matt said, his voice gritty from disuse. His throat was sore. Bowing his head, he swallowed and continued, “Whatever happens, don’t leave again.” If it was selfish, he didn’t care. His fingers clamped on his knees but he forced himself to look up again, to meet the looks he felt them sending his way. 

He vaguely remembered stumbling out of the apartment, crashing shoulder-first into the opposite wall and staggering down the steps. Some part of him had been screaming that he needed to go home and he had heeded it mindlessly. Matt had almost fallen down the stairs before he made it outside, and, disoriented with pain, had reeled across the street into the side of a parked sedan. For almost an hour he had leaned against it, and then he had walked unsteadily towards the highway to Eaton. 

The next thing he recalled with any clarity was Ross’s face hovering over him, and then smothering nothingness. He had been glad for it, in the end. 

Against his knee, Matt’s fingers twitched at the memory and he rolled them into a fist. He was dizzy, but it wasn’t bad, and he sat back in the waiting room chair to recover. When was the last time he ate? Had the Logans been taking care of him again? Had Mrs. Logan been feeding him and making him drink? Matt shook his head faintly and refocused on the others. 

Arty, who had been prodding experimentally at her wounds, turned incredulous eyes on Matt. “You with us?” 

“Mm,” Matt grunted an affirmative and tipped his head in a nod. It was hard to keep engaged; the oblivion was still so close. He shut his eyes tight. Feeling everything was exhausting after a week of mechanical anesthetization. 

Arty slapped him, hard, in the back of the head with her cast. 

“[i]Fuck![/i]” Matt bolted forward out of his seat and almost tripped into Audrey’s lap. He caught himself on the armrests of her chair and spun to glare at Arty. “What the [i]fuck[/i]?” Someone, a nurse probably, tried to politely shush him, but he was too busy glowering at Arty to hear or care. 

“Are you awake now? Are you a functioning human being?” She asked, folding her arms across her chest as she leaned on the wall near the water cooler. 

“What was that for? Jesus.” He rubbed the area, which ached, but couldn’t feel any real damage. It hurt like a son of a bitch, though. Classic Arty, punching something to solve a problem.