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My dearest, Dominic.
I shot myself through the roof of my mouth this morning with Vyvyan Ayrs’ Luger.
A true suicide is a paced, disciplined certainty.
People pontificate, “suicide is a coward’s act.” Couldn’t be further from the truth.
Suicide takes tremendous courage.
Dominic, you were the sole love of my short, bright life. You and I both know that.
I do hope you will be able to find it in your heart to forgive me...
.
.
.
1936
Dominic wakes with a start to the sound of knocking at his bedroom door.
“Mr. Howard?”
Matt blinks into consciousness beside him, almost glowing in the soft morning light. As the knocking continues louder, he unraveles his arms from around Dom’s waist and sits up.
Apprehension contorts the sharp features of his face. He was to leave his love behind in Cambridge today. For how long, he could not tell.
More knocking.
“Management would like a word with you, please, sir.”
Matthew reluctantly slides from the sheets and gathers his hastily discarded clothes- which were scattered all over the hotel room due to the events of the previous night.
Dom watches on in silence as Matt’s pale, thin frame bends to pull up his trousers then straightens to work the buttons of his white shirt. He makes a mental effort to commit every detail to memory for while Matt was away. They could not speak to each other now; With people so near, it was too risky.
“Mr. Howard, open this door, please.”
The smaller man sends him a reassuring smile which fills Dom with a warmth and melancholic joy nobody else in the world could bring him with such a simple act.
Matt pulls on his suspenders and grabs a stray vest from the chair, gesturing towards it with his eyebrows raised. Dom nods and Matthew grins, the action crinkling his nose and sending tremors of adoration up Dom’s spine. He throws it on- and all the while the knocking grows ever more desperate.
There’s mumbling outside.
At last fully dressed, the boy climbs back onto the bed for one final embrace. Matt straddles his boyfriend’s legs and holds Dom’s head in his hands, his fingers intertwined with locks of soft, feather soft hair. Then Matt kisses him- passionately, painfully, lustfully. It almost breaks Dom’s heart.
With that, Matt leaps up, scampers away, and heaves open a window. He jumps through and grunts at the impact of his body clumsily hitting the ground on the other side, earning a soft giggle from the blond.
He dusts himself off and ducks in the window to wave goodbye before closing it again. Dom is left alone.
~
I hated leaving you like that. Wasn’t the good-bye I had in mind.
By the time you read this, I will be on my way to Edinburg. On my way to fame and fortune. I know you haven’t heard of him, but trust me- Vyvyan Ayrs is one of the musical greats, Dominic.
The tragedy is that he hasn’t produced a new work in years due to illness.
My scheme, is to persuade him to hire me as an amanuensis and aid him in the creation of a masterpiece before shooting up through the musical firmament eventually obliging George to admit that, yes, his son he disinherited is none other than Matthew Bellamy, the greatest British composer of his time.
I know, Dominic, you groan and shake your head. But you smile, too, which is why I love you.
P.S. Thanks for the waistcoat. I needed something of yours to keep me company.
~
The train ride to Edinburgh was lonesome, but Matt kept himself entertained by writing his weekly letter to Dominic and then watching as the outdoor scenes flew by outside the window.
He fiddled with the buttons of the borrowed vest.
It was a nice article of clothing. Dom would be lucky if he ever got it back.
Once he had arrived and deposited the properly addressed envelope to a mail bin, he realized that to arrive at Vyvyan’s home before sundown, he’d need further transportation besides walking.
He spots a stray bike, hops on, and speeds away without a second thought, not heeding the threats of violence from the angry man running behind him.
“Sorry!”
Matthew yells back and waves at the man with a shit-eating grin on his face as he flees the scene of the crime.
Not two hours later, Matt walks through the gates of his soon-to-be mentor.
As he treks up the grassy hill to the door of the mansion, he imagines his future with Dom. Together, in love, and rich beyond their wildest dreams.
That’s what he was gonna do; he was gonna make it big. He was gonna make Dom proud and save him from the tedious life of the lower middle-class.
Matt stops in front of a lavishly decorated doorway and exhales. After a moment to collect himself, he rings the doorbell, checking his far too messy hair using his reflection in the window.
A young lady dressed in a lovely purple gown answers.
“Oh, Mr. Bellamy, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Matt says.
“Ah, come in, come in. Vyvyan has been expecting you.”
Matthew, as politely as he could manage, removes his coat and arranges himself standing in front of the old master’s grand piano.
The one-and-only Vyvyan Ayrs was seated not 6 feet away on a couch nearby.
“Mr. Ayrs! Greetings and good afternoon,” Matt says.
“All right then,” replies the man, “Surely George has taught you something useful - let us see what you can do.”
His voice is rough with age, but with a sort of admirable eccentricity to it.
“I’ve had this little melody for viola rattling about my head for months. Let’s see if you can get it down.”
Matt nods and readies himself with the pencil and paper placed atop the piano. Once he’s labeled the page accordingly, he looks up and awaits further instruction.
The man begins voicing a tune, barely actually hitting any real notes at all. “Da, da-da da.”
Matt falters, but writes out the notes he hears once he’s realized what was expected of him.
“Short and simple, got it?”
Matt looks up and nods again, eyebrows knit together. This man was looney.
“Well, now it gets interesting,” Ayrs informed him with a grin.
Ars continues his warbling performance, and Matt sends a sideways glance towards him before returning his attention back to the task at hand.
Soon, the last note is voiced and Matt, who easily kept up in his transcribing, looks back to the man with an arched eyebrow.
“Good! Play that back.”
He closes his eyes and listens.
“Would love to, sir.”
Matt places the paper on the music stand and sits himself at the piano.
He pauses.
“Um.. what key are we in?”
Ayrs seems offended.
“What key?! D minor, of course.”
“..And, uh... time signature?”
“For Christ’s sake, did you hear it or not?”
Yes, definitely offended.
Matt gives a sheepish smile and tries to explain.
“Just- ah, needed a little more-“
“YOU need?” The man interrupts.
Matt lowers his head.
“My dear boy, who is working for whom, here?”
“I apologize, sir. I-“
“Are you an amanuensis or an apologist?” He interrupts again. “Now, pay attention; Three-four, changed to four-four on the fourth bar, and back to three-four on bar five. If you can count that high.”
Matt scribbles everything down.
He goes on, “Crotchet G, pause for quaver, repeat G quaver, then E flat on the down beat,” and then quickly hums the notes again.
“...And so on.”
Christ , he really is a master.
Matt finishes and looks back up expectantly.
“All right, let me hear it,” Vyvyan says.
After a pause to prepare, Matt sets forth playing what he had written.
It was a dissonant and unnatural concoction, but it was accurate to what he had heard from the man.
Ayrs pulls a face of utter disgust.
“Stop!”
Matt looks up.
“Please, you’re hurting me... must’ve misheard me I said I had a melody not a malady .”
Matthew remained seated. If what the man had voiced to him was not what he had wanted, Matt would just have to fix it for him.
The lady, who had been sitting quietly near Vyvyan during the whole scene, helps the man stand and begins escorting him out of the room.
He grumbles disappointedly, “Darling, if you would be a dear and show the boy out-“
Like the stubborn young man he was, Matthew continues playing, but this time, he allows himself the creative freedom to translate the sound as he pleases. He expertly improvises the accompanying notes, transforming it into what he thought it ought to be - what the piece had the potential to be.
This time, the dissonance did not clash, but complimented. The sound was not offensive and unnatural, but pleasantly unique.
Ayrs and the woman both pause as the sound causes an ethereal atmosphere to descend upon the room and Matt smiles to himself. This was going to be a piece of cake.
“It’s beautiful,” the lady says after a moment.
Matt looks up to meet their eyes with a cheeky grin, still playing.
“Yes,” Ayrs agrees. “That’s it. That’s my melody!”
~
My dear Dominic,
You alone could understand how I am feeling right now.
Today, Ayrs and I presented our first collaboration to Tadeusz Kesselring, Ayrs’ favorite conductor, who arrived from Berlin.
It’s called “Eternal Recurrence.”
Wish you could hear it. It’s the most accomplished tone poem I know of written since the war, and I tell you, Dom, that more than a few of its best ideas are mine.
~
Matthew and Ayrs sat patiently as world-renowned Tadeusz Kesselring himself reviewed their work.
After some time, the composer spoke up.
“At our time of life, Ayrs, a man has no right to such daring ideas,” Kesselring had mused.
Ayrs chuckled, “I suppose I’ve won a rearguard action or two in my war against decrepitude.”
Matthew just sat and smiled pleasantly.
Several days later, Matt found himself back at the piano, alone. He’d been sneaking out of his room each night to work on a grand piece of his own...
Matt scans the room.
Once certain no one was listening, he begins a run through of what he has down so far.
Some time later, he senses a presence and ceases playing to turn and face it.
“That’s it. The music from my dream.”
It was Ayrs.
“This is from my dream!” He continues. “That night I came to your room- this is the music I heard in my head. Somehow, I gave it to you.”
Matthew continues playing his piece.
“I’ve been working on this piece for weeks, now. I suspect you heard it and incorporated it into your dream.”
The composer grunts.
“I call it The Cloud Atlas Sextet ,” Matt says.
Ayrs moves to sit down next to Matt.
“This is... obviously the result of our collaboration,” states the older composer.
Matt frowns down at his own hands. His long, spidery fingers gliding elegantly up and down the keyboard.
For the past several days, his thoughts have been captivated mostly by Dom’s most recent letter to him. The letter had opened Matt’s eyes to something which, looking back, was painfully obvious; That Vyvyan Ayrs, though talented himself, was taking too much credit for Matt’s own talent. Everything they were creating together, no matter how much Matt had contributed, was his .
‘Matthew, my love,’ Dom had written.
‘I truly believe that you have the talent and tenacity needed to achieve these dreams you have, and- I love you, so much- but you need not continue this lolling about in the shadow of The Great Vyvyan Ayrs any longer!
I’m sorry if I am being brash, but I can’t help the feeling that you are wasting time and giving away your amazing talent. Can you not see that he is using you?
Darling, Matthew, come back home to me - if you so wish. You’ll become a great on your own, I know you will.
I miss you. X’
It was a very compelling letter. Matt could not disagree, for he too felt that his service as an amanuensis was being taken advantage of.
This speak of The Atlas being “theirs” only cemented this feeling.
Matt finishes his run-through at an awkwardly timed pause- he hadn’t decided yet how to progress the chords into the following section.
Ayrs speaks up, “You must continue your work on this piece immediately.”
“I-I’m sorry, Ayrs, but I’m afraid I must leave here by morning,” Matt confesses.
“I have... important matters to tend t-“
“You’ll do no such thing. You’ll leave only when I say you can leave.”
Ayrs always had a way of interrupting him.
“You’ll continue working on Vyvyan Ayrs’ ‘Cloud Atlas’ ...”
Matt leaps up from the stool in shock and offense.
“...and when it is finished, then I will decide what to do with you.”
Well, bugger this, then. Matt grabs his work and steps away from the piano.
“You can’t keep me here! I’m leaving.”
He rages silently and storms away, then stops in the doorway.
“Good luck with your composing,” Matt hissed. “I’m sure a horrid old fuck like yourself is still capable of creating something completely inmemorable.”
“I suggest you think about this, Matthew,” Ayrs retorts, standing to follow.
“Think about your reputation.”
Matt freezes.
“Reputation is everything in our society. Yours, my disinherited reprobate, has expired.”
What is he on about? And why the fuck does he always have to talk like that?
Ayrs continues, “Did you not think that we would inquire about someone who would be living under our own roof for months? Mackerels himself wrote, and I quote: ‘He is a whore who’s liaisons with perverts and sodomites of both sexes are commonplace. Lock up the silverware.’ Unquote.”
Matt stands with his mouth slightly agape as though to protest.
The accusations weren’t entirely true, but he couldn’t very well argue bisexuality as a justifiable state of being to this man, so he opted for silence.
Tears prickle at his eyes as his old role model threatens his entire livelihood.
“Be warned: leave here without my consent and all the musical society will know of the degenerate Matthew Bellamy. After that, even if you compose one of the greatest symphonies ever written, no one will hear it- because no one will want anything to do with you.”
~
...Two things became clear.
Hanging myself from Edinburgh’s flagpole was preferable to letting that parasite plunder my talents a day longer. I must complete my Sextet.
I can’t do it here, so tonight I’ve planned to make my escape.
“It will end in tears.” You warned me.
I’m just so hopeless, aren’t I, Dominic?
I took Vyvyan’s luger from his room as he slept just prior to writing this. The room stank of bitter medicine.
I can’t quite say why I took it. An intuition, a sense of significance, maybe. That from this point on, there was no going back...
~
Later that night, or rather early morning, Matthew was packing his belongings, the small handgun hidden safely away in his pocket.
Of course, Ayrs was awoken my Matt’s scurrying about and came to his room to investigate.
“What are you doing, boy? I thought I made myself clear,” he says.
“Do what you want.”
Matt’s voice is hard.
“I’m leaving.”
Ayrs just smiles.
“Fine, Bellamy. Go. I’ll take this,” he says as he snatches Matthew’s work from the bedside table and turns to leave.
Matt’s heart leaps in his chest.
“Give that to me,” he commands in fury.
“It’s mine!” Ayrs says.
“I’m warning you.”
“Under the conditions of this relationship I’m certain it is within my legal rights.”
“Give it to me,” he says quietly.
“Give it to me or I swear to God I will kill you as you stand!”
The gun is pointed at Ayrs’ chest and instantly the room’s atmosphere went tense and quiet.
“Please, you’re a coward,” he states.
“I’ll do it.”
The gun shakes in Matt’s grip.
“You won’t pull that trigger,” Ayrs says, reaching to take the gun away.
“Your kind never does.”
It happens so quickly.
In an effort to pull the gun away from his grabbing hand, the trigger is pulled by accident.
The gun fires a bullet straight into Vyvyan Ayrs’ body.
Matt gasps in horror, the pistol still held out in front of him and smoking from the tip. All he could hear was a slight ringing in his ear and the bullet shell clinging hollowly.
Ayrs groans as Matt glances downwards to see a small puddle of blood dripping from the wound. He could not bring himself to look directly at it.
The man’s face is contorted with shock and agony as they lock eyes, and finally he drops to the floor with a grunt.
Matt panics.
He snatches his music from Ayrs’ hands and runs.
~
Dominic set to packing in an absolute frenzy after reading the latest letter from Matt. Not only had his proposition gotten people hurt, but it also put his dearest in terrible danger.
This was all his own fault.
The bullet, thankfully, had passed right through Ayrs without hitting anything vital, but now the man was out for blood.
According to his letters, Matthew was in hiding.
Dom shut his suitcase, threw on a coat, and made the last-second decision to bring his trusty old trilby hat as he left the house.
Matt hadn’t given much info on what his plan was exactly, but Dom had to find him, to protect him.
He had to make things right...
On the train ride to Edinburgh, Dom dreamt of Matt. He dreamt of Matt in a room with shelves and shelves filled with fine china.
The boy smiles at him, mischievously handling an expensive looking vase before throwing it to the ground.
The sound it makes is not loud or jarring as expected, but rather a quiet hum.
Matt goads him into following suit, and soon they’re both laughing and prancing around on thousands of shards of broken ceramic.
Amongst the mess they were creating for themselves, they still found happiness - no - exquisite joy in just being. Being together.
~
Dominic, I climb the steps of the Scott Monument every morning, and all becomes clear. I wish I could share with you this brightness.
Don’t worry, all is well.
All is so perfectly, damnably well.
I understand, now, the boundaries between noise and sound are conventions. All boundaries are conventions, waiting to be transcended. One may transcend any convention if only one can first conceive of doing so.
In moments like this, I can feel your heart beating as clearly as I can feel my own, and I know that separation is only a convention.
My life extends far beyond the limitations of me.
~
The cruddy hotel Matt was staying at was his chosen residence for two reasons.
For one, being run by one, single man, the chances of being caught were lower. Secondly, (and arguably most importantly) this hotel had a piano in one of the rooms. He, of course, rented out that room.
The place was really just a house which had been repurposed.
His room was small, consisting only of a cot, a desk, the piano, and a cramped bathroom.
It was perfect.
The long jacket Matt stole makes him look bigger than reality as he enters the tiny lobby.
He’s stopped midway up the creaking stairs to his room when the man at the front desk calls for him.
“Uh, uh, oh. A word, if I may?”
He gestures toward the newspaper sprawled on his desk and Matt’s heart skips a beat.
’ MAESTRO RECOVERING - ASSAILANT STILL AT LARGE’
“Dangerous times we live in, eh? Quite a scandal.”
Matt smiles tightly and nods.
“They say this ruffian, Matthew Bellamy, is a composer...”
The man turns to face Matt skeptically.
“You’re a composer too, aren’t you, ’Mr. Ewing’ ?”
Matt had prepared for this kind of interaction by adopting the title of ‘Mr. Ewing’. It seems that was not enough.
“What do you want?” Matt says.
“The constable asked to search my rooms. I know how hard you’re working, so I told him there’s no one on the third floor. It costs quite a bit of money to keep an entire floor empty.”
As relieved as he was that the man was kind enough to do that for him, he was asking for Matt to pay up - he had no money.
Matt sighs and trudges back down the stairs, and the man behind the desk stares on greedily. Emptying his wallet of all its contents, the man is left disappointed to see but a few coins on his table.
“That’s all I have,” Matt says.
“Oh.”
The man grumbles for a moment before his eyes catch sight of Matt’s chest.
Matt follows his gaze and feels his heart sink to the floor.
“What a beautiful waistcoat,” the man says, reaching out to feel the material of the vest. Dom’s vest.
~
...The end rushes towards me.
Unable to eat or sleep, the mortal coil has become a noose.
Would rather become music...
A bold double bar line is etched onto the sheet, the sound of pencil against paper echoing around the hotel room like a cymbal crash.
It’s done.
The final bar of The Cloud Atlas Sextet is done.
Matt leans back in his chair and stares blankly at the pages on the desk in front of him.
~
Dom began his search before the sun rose on his first day in Edinburgh. He was unable to sleep well in the same town as Matthew and being still not with him.
He starts off by heading towards the Scott Memorial mentioned in Matt’s letters.
It’s an enormous gothic castle-like structure, and it positively shimmered in the early morning light. No wonder Matt loved it so much.
~
...Finished is a frenzy that reminded me of our last night in Cambridge. Watched a final sunrise, enjoyed a last cigarette.
Didn’t think the view could be any more perfect until I saw that beat-up trilby.
Honestly, Dom. As ridiculous as that thing makes you look, I do believe I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.
I watched you for as long as I dared. I don’t believe it was a fluke that I saw you first.
I believe there is another world waiting for us, Dom. A better world. And I’ll be waiting for you there.
~
After searching and waiting for over an hour at the memorial, Dominic decided to move on to the hotel nearest to the building.
The man behind the desk greets him, “May I help you, son?”
“Yes, ah, thank you, I’m looking for a- a friend who came to Edinbur-“
Dom jumps when he sees his very own waistcoat sitting ill-fitted around the man’s torso.
~
...I believe we do not stay dead long. You can find me beneath the same stars where we first kissed.
Yours eternally, M.B.
~
After finishing his last letter, Matt doesn’t even bother mailing it. He knows it’ll find its way into Dom’s hands eventually.
With great solemnity and resolve, Matt grabs the Luger from his desk drawer and makes his way to the bathroom.
He gingerly steps into the tub and lies down- why make a mess?
He cocks the gun, slowly but surely, and turns it to face himself.
He breathes slowly to steady his shaking hand.
He swallows and opens his mouth, inserts the barrel between his teeth, and bites down gently.
Here comes eternity.
~
Dom’s heart races as he makes his way up the stairs to floor 3 where he could finally see Matt again.
He’d hug him and tell him that he was there, and that everything was going to be alright.
It took two long seconds for the loud bang to register.
Dom ran.
Matt’s room was the only one with a wide open door. He threw himself in its direction.
Please, no, please let me save him, please, no, no.
He sees a familiar head of dark hair in the tub and whines.
Half of him wanted to leap to his lover and make sure he’s okay- because he was, surely- and the other half wanted it all to stop. Just end it. No more.
The two reactions met in the middle, and Dom made a slow crawl towards the tub, every inch revealing more and more blood.
He kneels. He’s ok. He has to be. He’ll be fine.
He reaches out, holding back sobs, and holds Matt’s face. It was warm just like how it was when he slept.
Shaking, Dom moves to hold him. Maybe he’ll open his eyes and everything will be okay.
He lifts Matt’s limp torso up and presses his head to his chest.
Blood. Hot, red blood coats Dom’s hands and arms.
Finally, he lets out a horrid wail, despair finally crashing down on him like binding lead weights. There is no sense in crying, only liquid dripping down his face and he screams for Matt to come back to him.
He could still feel him. His soul, his life force. He could practically reach out and grab it, but it was no use.
Matt was gone.
.
.
.
.
.
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1994
“Play that one song that goes kinda like ‘doo-dodo-do’.”
“You mean like... this one ?” Matt says as he plays one of the two’s favorites on the cheap piano.
Dom claps his hands together.
“Yeah! That one. It’s really nice.”
“It’s called The Cloud Atlas, dummy,” Matt teases, blowing a strand of long hair from his eyes.
Matt giggles as Dom punches him and stops playing to tackle his offender to the ground.
“AHAhah- fine! Okay! It’s the Cloud whatever.. I really like when you play that song,” Dom says, sitting up from the ground and nudging Matt, who leans back on his elbows thoughtfully.
“Y’know, sometimes I wish I had written it. It feels kinda... timeless.. doesn’t it?”