Summary: Three years ago, Metropolis.  Faith's passing through the city, Lex is passing
through the club.  Both of them are running away.

"Nothing spoils a confession like repentance." --Anatole France

MATTHIA  by Jayne Leitch
C. 2002

Matthia's used to be a church--huge, old, ornate, Catholic--on the outside edge of Ryder's
Mile.  Now, without the pews but with expensive sound system, it's open to a different
kind of worship.

Many different kinds, Lex thinks as he enters the gutted chapel, heated by a crush of
bodies and echoing with a bass beat so loud it's almost subliminal.  His first time
here--after months of Club Zero clubs where the young, idle rich only pretend to play at
unseemly rebellion and nobody's ever *supposed* to die--and he can hardly absorb the
seedy decadence of the building, the patina of religion that hasn't quite worn off yet.  He
looks up; stained glass windows high on the walls paint sacred glories in colours that
catch the strobing black lights with a psychedelic glow.

The music is hard--industrial-house-electronica-rock--and the DJ, set up in the pulpit,
mixes in soaring chorales, masses, hymns.  Lex picks out the descant of a requiem
braided through the growl of electronic noise, and feels a smile twist his mouth, even
though there's nothing to find particularly funny.

Devoted bodies twist and twine and wrap themselves around each other on the dance
floor; the flare of a strobe freezes them in obscene visual flashes one moment, throws
them into steaming shadow the next.  It's impossible to breathe without tasting a heady
mix of alcohol, sweat and desperation; impossible to move without getting close enough
to someone else to share the taste on his tongue, her lips.

Lex slides into the crush and tastes the humidity of a hundred people who've been
dancing for hours.  His pulse, already racing from the pill he took at the last club and the
drink he swallowed outside this one, thrums under his skin with what feels like a tangible
vibration; he finds the closest warm body and grinds against it, letting sensation and
motion overpower his mind as he runs his hands over wet skin and damp synthetics.

He doesn't have to think about anything while he dances, but he does--his brain never
seems ready to stop, despite his best efforts--and while Lex's body sways and slides
against willing hands and arms and hips and thighs, his mind spins randomly through the
ways Matthia's is nothing like Club Zero: dark, not candy-lit; black leather, not colours
and jewels; fists and nails, not guns and knives.

His shoulder ached at the club he was at earlier; Lex feels no pain here.  To prove it, he
reaches out and wraps his arm around a girl, pulling her flush against him.  She doesn't
miss a beat; leaning into him as she moves, she tilts her dark head back to roll against his
shoulder, raises one hand to reach behind her and curve around the back of his neck, her
body never losing its sinuous rhythm.  Lex flattens his hand against her taut belly and
inhales; her hair smells like dirt and smoke and sweat and heat.

She turns suddenly, and he looks down into black-lined dark eyes and a red, feral smile.
Her hands smooth over his chest to his shoulders, and as she shifts to straddle his leg, he
feels her nails bite through his shirt and into his skin.  His own hands slide down, fingers
playing on the textures of bare skin and leather pants, before landing on the tight curve of
her ass and pulling her even closer.

She wiggles in his grip, and grins.  "I wrestled an alligator last month and won," she says,
scarcely audible as she shouts across the bare inches separating their mouths.  "You
really wanna try me?"

Lex can't help grinning back--she looks tough, her body's firm, but he's never heard a
more outrageous line--and briefly wonders what kind of guy she thinks she's picking up
before deciding that he doesn't care.  He pulls even harder, lifts a little until she's
practically sitting on him, and watches her eyes narrow, the curve of her mouth sharpen.
"I killed a man last week.  You really want me to try you?"  He punctuates it by hooking
his hands under her thighs and lifting, just enough to upset her balance and make her fall
forward--

--or at least that's what he intended.  Instead, her hands tighten on his shoulders and she
manages--somehow--to stay upright, sitting on air and supporting her whole body with
her grip on his shoulders and his grip on her legs.  She tilts her head; arches an eyebrow.
"I don't know if I believe that," she says, and Lex hears the hint of a hard accent--Boston,
maybe--colouring her amusement.  "How'd you kill him?"

The strobe hits his eyes and Lex blinks, twice, three times, seeing Jude's body falling in
stop-motion behind his eyelids.  The flare clears slowly; when he can see again, the girl is
watching him.  He shrugs.  "There was a gun."

"You shot him?"  She rearranges her arms, shifting against him in a way that would seem
casual if it weren't for the press of firm breasts to his chest, the long drag of her thigh on
his hardening cock.  The blink of exaggerated innocence in her frank, calculating gaze.

He swallows.  "Yes I did."

"Wow."  Offhand, casual--but she shifts again, socketing his hip between her legs, and he
notices that they're moving closer to the edge of the dance floor.  "Are you sorry about
it?"

And Lex isn't dancing anymore; now he's walking, steadily, still supporting almost all of
her weight as they move toward the wall, where a confessional booth stands cloaked
behind a heavy velvet curtain.  "More than I want to be," he says, surprising himself, and
he watches her eyes narrow as she stares at him.

"The 'gator was a piece of cake," she announces, finally, and plants a quick, hard kiss on
his jaw before pulling out of his grip.  She steps around his body to face him straight on.
"I'm not sorry I won."  Dragging a hand down his chest, she plays with the fabric of his
shirt; her fingers stop just before they reach his fly.  "Try me."

Lex kisses her, twisting his fingers through her long hair while their tongues rasp between
their teeth; she tastes like bubblegum and tequila.  He doesn't notice her moving until she
pushes him through the curtain, into the confessional, and down onto the narrow bench
against the wall.  She tugs the curtain closed, then stands before him, between his legs,
wrapped in red leather and black vinyl and looking like molten sex.

"Mmm."  She stares down at him with dark eyes, and Lex shivers, feeling strangely
caught.  In one liquid movement she's in his lap, knees on the bench at either side of his
hips, and his hands wrap around her slim waist, just under her shirt.  "So you killed
somebody," she murmurs, pressing close and grinding down.  His hips jump, eager, and
she laughs, a low, throaty purr.  "Don't worry.  I can get you off."

Lex breathes, his eyes fluttering shut as she rolls against him, all wiry strength and damp
skin.  The cramped space behind the curtain feels quiet, the heavy fabric deadening the
music into little more than a bass beat through the wall behind Lex's back, a treble
vibration through the thick, musky air they suck at with shallow, noisy gasps.

The girl is strong; she keeps her balance with only the slightest pressure from his hands,
and lets her own skate under his shirt, pushing at his muscles and scraping sharp nails
over his nipples until they sting.  He opens his eyes, watches her face as she explores,
waiting for the flare of surprise--disgust--when her fingertips find his undressed stitches.
It comes as expected: her eyes widen, her lips part, but a moment later and her fingers are
still stroking over the injury, her smile turned hungry, her tongue flickering out over her
lips.  When she leans in for another rough kiss, Lex sucks her tongue against his
own--then arches off the wall as she curves her fingers and lets her nails catch on his
stitches, feeling the pull on his skin like every nerve ending is hardwired to his cock.  He
hisses into her mouth.  "*Jesus*, yes--"

She does it again, clawing recklessly at the sutures while rubbing across his lap like a cat,
and Lex shudders, his hands scrabbling up her back and into her hair.  He wants her to
pull out every stitch, wants to feel the cut breaking open and the hot rush of blood on his
skin--but instead she ends the kiss, pulling sharply back, and Lex hears a whine of
objection leave his mouth.  He opens his eyes to find her smiling, lips set in a cruel red
curve as she pulls her hands out from under his shirt and moves them to his fly.  She bites
her lip as she undoes his pants, but her hand is steady as she pulls him free--steady and
warm, and he bucks up into her fist.

"Wait--wait."  Her voice is low, slurred air, but she moves quickly, the fingers of her free
hand catching the top button of her pants before Lex can think.  She works too slowly; he
bats her hand away and flicks through the buttons himself, feeling her shiver when he
peels the fly open and finds her wet, without panties.  Muttering a raw curse, Lex slides a
finger over her, one long, hard stroke that ends with his finger buried up to the last
knuckle inside her.  She moans and squeezes his cock--not enough, and Lex turns his
hand a little, pushes the pad of his thumb over her clit and has to clench his teeth against
the vicious jerk she gives him in response.  Suddenly, her free hand grabs his wrist, pulls
him out with a shudder--and she slams their hands down onto the bench, rolling forward
and up and growling, "Fuck, come on, come *on*..."

Lex blinks, and tightens the hand he has on her waist. "Wait, don't you want a--"

"I'm clean, don't worry about it."  And before he can say anything else she's rocking down
on him, hot and tight and *wet* and her head falls back and she's riding him.

Lex feels the back of his head hit the wall, and hears himself rasping out sounds,
senseless half-words he can't even understand.  He has a condom in his back pocket,
thinks he might regret not making her wait later, but right now he can't help loving the
way she feels--good, hot, liquid on his skin.  She moves on him, rhythm slow and hard
and aching with control, and Lex thinks she looks like something he'd like to own:
reckless, sleek, sexy and strong.  Her hair streams around her shoulders; she shakes her
head and strands catch on her lips, open in a slack red O; again, and they plaster to the
long, damp column of her throat, pale skin stretching down to the low black cut of her
shirt, hitching with every breath she drags in, every push of her hips on his.  Lex
swallows a groan and leans forward, mouthing a breast through shifting fabric; she hums,
and one of her hands cups the back of his skull, holding him in place as his tongue laves
at a nipple until it peaks, hard under the cloth.

Her rhythm stays maddeningly slow, determined, and Lex murmurs, frustrated when she
doesn't seem to hear.  He pulls against her hand, and it falls away.  When he looks at her
face, he sees her eyes squeezed shut, lines of concentration in her expression--he doesn't
know where she is, but wants her, God, *here*.  He moves his hands over her; he pets
her, digging his fingers into the corded muscles of her shoulders, her neck, but all she
does is tense--and then she starts to speak.  Harsh syllables, ground out in a low, rough
voice on every exhale, every push forward; nothing Lex wants to hear, but the music
from the other side of the curtain might as well not exist.  It takes him no time to make
sense of the private litany: "Fucking bastard--can't touch me--can't hurt me--nothing hurts
me he's--nothing he's--dead--"

And Lex lets out a broken moan, his hands clutching at her body while he watches Club
Zero behind his eyelids: laughing Amanda, laughing Jude, crying Amanda, furious Jude.
The flash of metal; pain in his shoulder.  Music pounding at his ears, loud enough that he
doesn't even hear the gunshot, only sees Jude slammed by the impact of the bullet and
falling to the floor, messy red circle staining his shirt.  Laughing Amanda, crying
Amanda, her hand on the gun before she drops it.  Lex's hand on the gun as he picks it up,
holds it like a precious thing, smears his bloody fingerprints all over it while Amanda
crouches over Jude and watches him die--

"--he's *dead*!"  The girl shakes, her rhythm faltering, and Lex's eyes snap open.  He
stares at her, a little wild, a lot frantic; feels her fingers digging bruises into his skin
while her eyes stay tightly closed, keeping her wherever she is inside her head, and Lex
curses.  Wraps his arms around her, pulls her hard against him in a grip that makes her
jolt, and in one smooth, mindless motion he stands, turns, and pushes her against the
wall.

Her eyes open wide at the impact, black and unfocused and staring at him like he caught
her doing something wrong, and Lex stares back, thrusting into her, pinning her on the
wall with a fast, rough fuck.  A moment passes, thick with harsh breaths and a few too
many silent battles--then she wraps her legs around his hips and rocks with him, biting
her lower lip while her eyelashes flutter.

The wall is stone, hard and grainy under Lex's palms.  He finds himself curling his
fingers, tearing at it with his blunt nails, scraping his skin raw while his legs and back
burn with the strain of movement and the weight of her body.  He loves the sensations:
pain a private universe blocking out everything but the physical; pleasure a hot, tight knot
in his groin that keeps the physical from becoming unbearable.

Lex gasps; he drops his head onto her shoulder, turning a little to bite a kiss onto the
stretch of her neck.  She stiffens--then moans, low and wordless and practically tactile,
and shudders, clenching around him in hot, strong waves that white out Lex's capacity for
rhythm.  Breathing gone ragged, he pounds into her once, twice, and chokes out a curse
as he comes, mindlessly thrusting and thrusting until it's over.

The nothingness recedes.  Thought comes flooding back, and Lex finds himself standing
motionless, pressed against the girl, in the girl, breathing hard.  His forehead rests on her
shoulder, hitching up and down unevenly with each gasp; she catches her breath much
faster than he does.  After a long, speechless moment that pounds with the beat of the
music, she slides her hands onto his waist and pushes him back a step--not forcefully, but
with a matter-of-factness Lex doesn't want to dwell on--giving her just enough space to
slide out from under him and step away, as far as she can go in the tiny space behind the
curtain.  Lex doesn't move, palms flat on the wall, head bowed, and he listens to the
rustle of clothing as she pulls herself together.

"Well, bless us, Father," she says suddenly, and Lex flinches at the laughter in her rasping
voice.  "I think we've sinned."

"I didn't kill him."  The denial is out of his mouth before Lex knows what he's saying, and
it hangs in the heavy air of the confessional, impossible to take back.

There is a long moment of deliberate silence.  Then, "What?"

Lex takes a deep breath; pushes off the wall and tucks himself in, pulling himself
together before turning around.  When he does, she's staring up at him, eyes wide and
wary.  "Not in the literal sense," he says, slowly and without emotion.  "There was a gun,
but I didn't pull the trigger.  Not...literally."

"No?  But the guy's still dead, and you've got all those stitches holding your shoulder
together."  The girl laughs, a harsh sound that's echoed in the sharp curve of her mouth.
"And you're not locked up, and you just got off, and you should be *happy*.  You're
young and free in America, and you're wasting it on a guilt trip that isn't fucking yours?"
A shake of her head, an arch of her brow, and it would seem for all the world like she
pities him if it weren't for the anger in her voice.  "Damn.  Find the fun already."

Lex purses his lips as she turns to leave.  "Who is he?"

She freezes--just for a second--before spinning back around.  "Who?"

"The fucking bastard who can't touch you."  They're close, two people in a booth for one
that smells of sex, and Lex thinks he can feel her pulse start to pound, her breath catch in
her throat.  He smirks.  "I understand he's dead, too."

"You understand jack."

"Really?  You're not locked up either, and I'm pretty sure I got you off at least once--"

She hits him with enough force to send him reeling back onto the bench.  Lex fingers his
jaw in a daze, wondering if she broke it; his lip has split, and he licks blood into his
mouth with a tongue that feels too thick.  When he looks up, the girl is glaring at him,
body a quivering bundle of fury shifting its weight from one foot to the other.  She raises
her hand, and Lex sees through watering eyes that her knuckles aren't even red.

"When people die," she says, biting each word like she doesn't want them leaving her
mouth, "sometimes all you get to do is walk away.  When you kill people--"  She breaks
off; her hand drops back to her side and clenches into a white-knuckled fist.  "You're
lucky all I did was hit you."

Lex stares after her as she pushes through the curtain in a whirl of violence and long hair,
leaving him alone.  A moment later, he winces; exhaustion is already numbing the sting
of his jaw, but an ache has begun to radiate through his shoulder.  A tentative touch
presses sticky redness through his shirt, smearing blood from torn stitches on his fingers,
and Lex lets out a long breath.  "I didn't kill him," he repeats, absently, then stumbles to
his feet and out of the confessional.

End.

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