Work Text:
getting higher (this is fire)
Matty’s always been a bit of a paradox. He’s got a gravitational pull – like he’s the North Pole, constantly dragging things closer to him. But he can draw his shutters in an instant, go from loud tumult to soft sound in a moment. Always keeping you guessing. And George, having watched – for Matty’s thoughts, his reactions – from day one, knows when the lines are blurred, because as soon as he saw a little boy with a bad hair cut laugh at him just because he stuck his head in some shit, well. He’s had an excuse to keep an eye out ever since.
Like he said, it started when they were young. And George is always left being dragged, because Matty’s got this one foot in front of the line. He’s ahead of the game. In fact, most of the time, George thinks he is the game. But somehow he’s not one for being played. He’s the puppeteer, he works people, shapes them to his world. When he does it right, it’s beautiful. A symphony of glorious people that dance around him in a ballet that’s got the critics floored. Or, if George were a critic, anyway.
//\///\\/\
He remembers the first time he felt left behind quite clearly, actually. Twelve years old on a bed with a frame that was going to break seven and a half weeks later when the four of them sat on it at the same time.
“Does your mum come on your room often?”
“Yeah, why?” George was puzzled. Who asks that? Of course his mum came into his room. It wouldn't stay so clean otherwise.
“Oh,” Matty muttered. “I’ve just got a bit of spliff with me. I’d quite like to smoke it.”
“I thought we were going to practice?” George said.
“The lads aren’t even coming today,” Matty responded, like that was an answer that sufficed. “We can just chill the two of us. We’ll just fuck around a bit.”
George blinked. Not opposed, of course. But he had only smoke twice and never while intending to bang on some drums afterwards. Or sound, like, coherent. “Okay, yeah, um. We can smoke, just in the garden, yeah? No one’s home but… I like when my sheets smell clean.”
Matty just snorted at him, grabbed him by the wrist, and pulled him down the stairs.
//\///\\/\
They sit together, for what feels like only the second real day that they’ve had this place together – a little flat in London with light walls and dark furniture. George loves it, maybe because he’s not home enough, but because he lives with his favorite person on earth and they have all the space and all the time to make whatever art they want on their days off. And it’s always a day off when they’re home.
Matty’s on his back on the couch, attempting to write in a notebook while holding it over his head. His hair’s all over his face, jeans on the ground instead of on his legs, shirt just a little too big. George reckons its his own, but doesn’t mention it. Stuff at home is just theirs.
“S’it going?” George calls from the kitchenette, filling two mugs with coffee to keep them up. That phrase is like code for them. Matty had told him once, back when they were young, that he hated when people asked him if he was writing. It was like taking his constantly chattering mind and gagging all of the voices. So George had just laughed, thought back to their French class. And said, “Should I just speak to you like the French? They just say, it goes? And it does or it doesn’t.”
Matty’s lips had quirked up in a smile and back down in an instant, a little weight dragging the skin between his eyebrows into a frown. “I like it. But make it proper English, would you? Don’t wanna go round sounding like an idiot.”
Matty rolls onto his side on the couch, dropping the notebook onto the floor. “Not really.”
“It’s definitely the position. I know all about the position.”
Matty gives him a look, one that says are you aware of what just came from your mouth but George receives it frequently so it does close to nothing when it comes to phasing him. “You can’t be able to write like that, is all m’saying.”
“I can do anything, George.”
And, well, in retrospect, he doesn’t really doubt that.
Sitting up, Matty curls his legs under him and holds his hands out for the coffee, yawning. “It’ll come to me if it wants to. It’s not a big deal.” There’s a pause. George sits next to him. Their knees knock and George, for a moment, relishes in the heat on his hands. “Can we go out?”
“What?” George says. They’re home for once, and Matty wants to leave? Tour starts up in three days. They have three days of this peace, and Matty’s already willing to give it up to a club full of strangers. That’s the thing about him, though. His pull isn’t complete if there’s no reciprocation. He needs the rush of lights, the flood of people coming to him, something to keep him busy from that brain that’s simultaneously too good to him and too bad. Matty’s a life of highs and lows, riding his tall waves with this air to him that makes him something of unstoppable force, and crashing with his lows.
George can’t quite place him right now. And that’s rare. He could think of a million other things to do right now, like go onto the roof or watch bad television on mute or cover songs they used to love in another life or play that stupid board game that they bought when they moved in, the house-warming gift to themselves. But that’s just the two of them, and sometimes George can’t help but wonder if that’s not enough.
“I can go alone?”
“No, I – I’ll come. Can we finish our coffee first? I’m a bit tired.”
“You can stay in, George. I’m just–” he flounders a little; his hands shake “–a little restless. It won’t be long, I promise.”
“Couldn’t we go for a walk instead?”
Matty glares at him for a million reasons, and for a second it makes him feel a little stupid. “You can stay in. I’ve gotta.”
He takes a sip of his drink, grabs his jeans from the floor. George looks at their carpet that’s too clean for having this place for so long. That’s the thing with him and Matty. They’re usually on the same wavelength, where they’ve got each other so well memorized there’s no point in trying to read. But there are shifts and sometimes George can’t keep up with this game that’s got rules that are always changing. He’s quite afraid to break one.
“How long?”
“I dunno,” Matty says. “An hour? Maybe an hour and a half?” He shakes his head. “I dunno.”
“You want me to wait up?” He clutches his mug tighter, feeling suddenly so tired from the past ten years.
“I always want you to wait up,” Matty responds easily, and then he leaves the room.
//\///\\/\
There was never a time where George felt more left in the dust than when they were sixteen, stupider than they’d ever felt, too high for their own good. So dangerous together. They were sat on George’s bed – a newer one, and his mum saw it much less often – laughing their damn asses off. He doesn’t remember at what. Just that everything was so funny, and lovely, and wonderful, and Matty was sat next to him, and God, he’d never had a friend like this before. When their laugher was supposed to stop, it did, and they were left in quiet moments. They flopped down together, stubbing the joint on the ashtray next to the window and laying side by side, Matty’s head edging onto George’s chest.
“Hey,” Matty said.
“Hi,” George responded, trying to hold back the laughter that had settled in his lungs.
“I’ve a question.”
“I might have an answer. Dunno yet.”
“Have you ever, like, thought about blokes?”
“Um, I–”
“It’s like – don’t get me wrong, okay? I’ve just been thinking, and I really feel like there shouldn’t be more to people than the fact that they’re a person? I like you, and that’s it y’know?”
George knew. He almost always knows, is the thing. Matty was always jumping to conclusions, always thinking there was a need to explain himself, too afraid of being caught misunderstood. And he was validated most of the time. People didn’t always get it. But sometimes, the truth and only the truth was enough for George. He gets it.
“You don’t have to explain yourself,” George told him.
“I just don’t want you thinking the wrong thing.”
“It wouldn’t make a difference, Matty. You’re allowed to think whatever you want… especially with me. You’re allowed,” he said again. “Only explain if you want to. Not because you feel like you have to.”
Matty sighed, pushed a palm into George’s hip and breathing into his shoulder. “So have you?”
“I – not really? I guess I don’t do that much thinking at all,” George muttered. Matty half-heartedly laughed at his wording. “About people,” he added. “Or guys? And girls? I just, I don’t know–”
George clearly didn’t have the answer Matty was looking for, so he sat up against the wall, looking at the dresser on the other side of the room.
“I don’t… mind that you’ve thought about stuff like that, Matty. You know that?” George sat up as well. He took Matty’s hand. No fingers curled around his. There were just a few moments of silence, of George with his neck craned to look at Matty’s profile – the roughness of his jawline, the uneven twitch of his mouth, the way his nose slopes – trying to find something hidden behind these questions. Wasn’t there always something hidden?
George could’ve counted to sixty before Matty’s lips were on his, a hand in his hair that was too long, a kiss that gave them so many branches and so many wilting flowers. Just because George hadn’t thought so much about what exactly it was that he wanted didn’t mean he didn’t like what he found. He kissed back with a hand hitching its way under Matty’s thigh, pulling him closer and drawing them tighter together. There was something right about it – maybe it was just their way of understanding or the way they spoke with quiet little glances and inaudible thoughts, but it certainly wasn’t the smoke on their shirt collars or left over memories. This was all now, and something about it felt too alive to be let go of.
So George let himself feel something, with his hands on warm skin and lips and tongue touching this part of his friend that he’d not so often thought to touch. Because they’d always been this kind of burning love – with eating fires and jumping spark and erraticism that was enough to keep eyes flicking back and forth and their own expectations high. They’d never been bored. They’d never been cold. It was uncanny, but beautiful.
They broke apart with a fleeting glance, George’s hands still under Matty’s legs and bum. He kept holding him.
“Me?” George asked.
“Sometimes.” He shifted away, reaching behind him with no hands on his waist for the carton of cigarettes that had been living on George’s windowsill for a few months, and he started the flame.
//\///\\/\
Matty comes home at exactly 2 a.m., exactly two hours and three minutes after he’d left, and exactly the time George had anticipated him. He saunters through the doorway still looking perfectly sober (he’s mastered that), but with shiny eyes and some excitement hidden in the way his hands shake. George’d sat on the couch the entire time he’d been gone, drinking his own coffee and then finishing Matty’s for him.
“You waited?”
“I said I would.”
“It’s late,” Matty says.
“It’s 2,” George responds.
Matty shrugs. He comes to the couch, glances into his now empty mug, then at George’s lips.
“You have fun?”
“Was all right.”
“Meet anyone cool?”
Matty shrugs again. “Wish you’d been there.”
“You said I didn’t have to go,” George says, feeling suddenly guilty.
“I know,” Matty says. “You didn’t have to.” He waves a hand around. “I just like everything better when you’re around.”
“Even when you're not paying attention to me?”
“Just when you’re there,” Matty says.
George just wants to say then why couldn’t you stay in with me? but he’s not one for stupid questions, so he just stays quiet. Matty moves closer to him, dipping his head onto George’s shoulder. There’s liquor on his breath. He’s a little more languid, a lot looser, and so energized, just from being in that warmth of the people for a while. George wonders how many people he flirted with.
“Kiss me?” Matty asks.
George forces himself to take a breath. “Yeah, all right.” So he kisses him, light and fleeting and not all the way there, even though he really wants his hands to chase Matty’s skin where his shirt is half way unbuttoned; trace over the heart over his heart; kiss his neck; tell him he loves him. But it doesn’t feel like the right time, so he just settles for a hand round the back of Matty’s neck and their noses brushing when he lets go.
“I’m not impressed,” Matty tells him. He’s always allowed to want; he’s good at wanting – even better at getting.
“Sorry,” George mumbles.
“You tired?” Matty asks him.
“A little. Not really. Didn’t do much today.”
“You want to?”
George licks his lips, looks thoughtfully down at his big hand on Matty’s little thigh. “What are we doing?”
“Whatever you want. I was already selfish today.”
George drums his fingers on Matty’s leg, lets his fingers touch Matty’s skin through one of the holes in his jeans. He looks at where their legs are brushing, wants to ask him what he’s thinking about so much, what made him have to go out so badly, whether he’s high or low – but. But despite the permission, he can’t bring himself to make Matty writhe like that, no being put on the spot.
“Can we watch a film?”
“‘Course. Which?”
“Anything. M’not picky. Kind of just want to lay down and look at something.”
Matty pushes the hair out of his eyes. “Yeah, okay. I’ll put something on.” He goes to stand, but for a moment, George holds him by the wrist and keeps him sitting, stopping just to kiss his neck once, right underneath his jaw – the place he touches when he’s thinking so much. Matty looks at him, touches his palm, and stands to turn on the telly and shut the lights, so just the white light splatters across their faces in Morse while they sit in an unconventional silence.
//\///\\/\
“Fuck me.”
“What?”
“Bloody do it, George. I want you to.”
George was on top of him, pinning him down with arms that were too strong for his own good, looking at his bony chest rise and fall. He wanted to.
He just kept staring down at him, though, at his lips that were so red from their wine and eyes looking lighter, so unusually earnest when they tended to be so guarded. Sometimes George forgot what it was like when it was just the two of them alone.
“I need it.”
George took a deep breath, bent down to keep his lips on the underside of Matty’s jaw while his hands still held Matty’s by the wrist, his legs bracketing his thighs. They were so together, it was unexplainable. He thumbed across the soft skin where Matty’s arm met his palm, where all the veins criss-crossed in a bold blue. He bit softly at his jaw.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, babe.”
“Okay,” George said. “Yeah.”
He removed his hands from Matty’s wrists, but his arms didn’t move. He didn’t move – just stayed still under George’s touch and let himself be there, beneath him. George cupped Matty’s face, kissed him hard, feeling the light stubble under his fingers and pushing their hips together in the rhythm that they’d had before Matty interrupted. With hands back on his skin, George dragged one of his hands down Matty’s chest, from his neck to the sharp dip of his collarbones, to right over a nipple and then settling on his sharp hipbones.
Matty made a loud whine when George started kissing down his stomach, stopping right above the waistline of his jeans and looking up. “How’d you want it?”
“However,” Matty breathed. “You can be a bit rough. If you want.”
“You like that?”
Matty shut his eyes, lifted his hips a bit. “Yeah.”
“All right, babe.”
Then he flicked the button on Matty’s jeans, pulled them down his legs, and then he was there; in some kind of other world that George couldn’t explain, not when his cheeks were red and his hair was in his eyes and his lips were all red and pretty and his cock was hard against his stomach. No, he could never explain it. Not when it still makes his chest tighter thinking about it. All of Matty was right in front of him, and sometimes he thinks it’s safe to say that he’s one of the only few who's ever seen him like this.
He bit at Matty’s thighs, left a bruise where his legs met his torso, kissed everywhere but where he most wanted it. “You’ve got stuff?”
“Yeah,” Matty said on an exhale, “yeah, under the bed.”
It seemed kind of inaccessible, but George knew Matty had reason. He always has a reason. He reached around, hand brushing the floor until he found a box of condoms and a bottle of lube.
“You’re sure?” he asked again.
“George,” Matty whined, and hearing that, hearing his name like that, was enough to make him do anything.
Slicking up his fingers, George made quick work. He didn’t want to rush anything, but Matty was absolutely gagging for it – pushing back onto George’s hand and clenching his fists in the pillow above his head. Every time Matty said his name, George was sure that another part of his chest caught on fire.
“Please,” Matty said.
George shushed him, responding, “Let me take my time. I’ll give it to you.” Matty just kept wiggling, so George took his free hand and put in down on Matty’s waist, pressing into his hips to keep him still. “Babe.”
Matty looked at him with wide eyes, suddenly unmoving and so amazing in the way he stopped. “Sorry.”
“Just, stay, would you?”
“I will. Yeah.” He put his hands closer together, shifted his shoulders that must have hurt a little bit from being above his head, and didn’t even move when George twisted his fingers in just the right way.
“S’good?” George asked, three fingers crooked up.
“So good,” Matty said.
“You want me to fuck you?”
“Yeah,” Matty breathed. “Please.”
“Okay. I’ll fuck you.”
George took his time, wiping his hand on a tissue from the table next to the bed, standing to let his jeans fall for to the floor, taking another minute to himself to just look at his best friend all spread out for him – legs spread and mouth open and so obscene it hurt his burning chest.
He was pulled back to the bed, finding his way between Matty’s legs that wrapped themselves around George’s waist in a minute.
Holding up the condom between two fingers, Matty asked, “Can I?”
George laughed breathily, trying to stop any thoughts that weren’t about how wonderful this all was. “Sure, babe.”
Matty sat up a bit, opening the condom and chucking the wrapper, used his spindly fingers to roll it down George’s cock and pumped it twice, like he couldn’t help himself.
“Sit back.”
Matty fell back into the pillows, and George poured lube onto his cock, lining up with Matty’s entrance and just staying there for a moment – because he kept needing time to take all of this in. With a kiss to Matty’s open mouth, George pushed in, feeling Matty’s back arch underneath him, right where their chests touched.
“Fuck,” Matty breathed. “Fuck, I always need you, George.”
George gave him everything he had, fucking him quick and hard. Their skin slapped and his hands spanned all of Matty’s waist, holding on too tight and feeling too good. Matty was unabashed underneath him, loud and desperate and constantly asking for more. He was everything that sparked something inside of George. It was all so much; it felt like they could burn entire forests together.
And when they came, it didn’t feel anything close to wrong.
//\///\\/\
When tour starts again, Matty’s still in a strange place. Their three days were fine – no tension, just unbalance. They kissed here in there; late at night when they weren’t thinking straight; early in the morning when they didn’t want to think about anything else; after George made the coffee, when there was no other way to say thank you and you’re welcome.
The first few shows of this next leg of tour, Matty drags a little. George has to watch him from behind his drums, the way he drapes himself across the stage, holds his mic like it’s about to slip from his fingers, lets his voice crack when he gets worked up. George just hits harder when for three shows in a row, Matty doesn't come stand on the bass drum during the chorus of Girls, doesn’t let his hair hang in front of his face while he smiles at George and makes the whole stage ablaze.
It’s okay, though.
On the fifth day of tour, he’s cornered before the show. He’s outside the venue, round the back, having a fag, when Matty pushes the doors open to find him leaning against the wall, cigarette between his lips. George blinks.
“Mate,” he greets. His sound is muffled from the smoke in his mouth.
Matty walks up to him, heels of his boots clacking against the cement of the pavement. He takes the cigarette right from George’s lips and puts it to his own, inhaling deeply and then dropping it to the ground before stubbing it with his toe.
“Kiss me?”
George falters. “I–” But there’s something in the way Matty always poses that question, with a cocked head in his soft sound and a blink of his eyes that take George a minute to count on. He can’t always help himself, even when they’ve been driving in different directions for days on end. “Yeah, all right.”
It’s early; no one’s around. George cups Matty’s jaw and presses their mouths together. They still taste like smoke and a little bit of desperation and George suddenly is reminded what it’s like to miss someone who’s right next to you. It feels out of body, but not in the good way – he’s not floating, he’s drifting. He can feel every moment that they were off kilter and now they’re close but minds are so far away. They’re so far away.
It’s quick because of the fear that George won’t be able to catch his breath after he stays like this too long, but when he pulls back, Matty stays too close. He wraps his arms around George’s neck, pushes himself up onto his toes, and whispers, “Sorry.”
He doesn’t respond, only winds his arms around Matty’s waist, presses them together, feels the burn, and breathes in the spot at his neck where he feels untouchable. They stand like that for too long; longer than their kiss lasted and longer than George needs to make every part of him miss the person whose fingernails are digging into his back.
“Talk to me,” Matty says. No need in asking. He always knows what George wants and sometimes it’s terrifying. It’s only mutual half the time and the fear tends to linger in his chest, right by the hearth in his heart. “Please. You know I’m no good.”
He’s not finishing any of his sentences, and George is tired of translating. He just want them to start speaking bodies again so he can hold his waist and press his thumb to the corner of his jaw and maybe stay close to him at night. There’s so much weight under their eyes. George just wants to kiss him again, but for it to make sense.
“George,” Matty says softly, into the skin of George’s neck.
“Inside,” George responds. Matty takes his hand and walks them in. It feels like smoke rising.
It’s warm inside the building but it feels hot after the cool air on his skin. They go into an empty room; not the one backstage for the band for the chances of Hann or Ross or Johnny walking in. Just a little office with a desk and two plump chairs. It would feel so wrong sitting across from each other. They’d just wind up staring. So when Matty seats himself on one of the arms of the chairs, George stays standing.
“Sit,” Matty tells him.
“I don’t want to,” George says.
“Well I can’t just have you hanging over me, can I? Sit.”
“Next to you or across from you?” George says. His voice low and quiet and not how he’s supposed to be around Matty.
“Whichever. But I like it when you’re close to me.”
George sits on the chair, and it’s weird, because from the arm, Matty’s above him. His crossed legs make his feet touch George’s knee and it’s all so weird. It feels like the world is on fire. Matty touches behind George’s ear. “Sorry,” he mumbles again, and he kisses George’s forehead. “Talk to me.”
“What am I meant to say, love?”
Matty shakes his head, like he can’t believe himself. “Right, that was dumb, sorry. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
And the thing is, George is so compelled to say but neither did you. Yet he can’t decide if that’s true or not. Matty’s so explosive, so capricious. He should say FRAGILE: HANDLE WITH CARE across his chest, but his shell makes him too tough to admit weaknesses even though he’s got so many cracks. George hates seeing him hurt. He’s only been himself is the truth, the part of him that sometimes he can’t help.
So he says:
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” Matty says. He sounds so sure of himself. Sometimes he’s so beautiful it’s terrifying. The rawness set in his jaw makes George want to grab his wrist and feel his pulse forever. “I told myself – I promised that I wouldn’t do this to you anymore. I said so. I can’t – I can’t push you away. Just, sorry, yeah? Sorry.”
George threads their fingers together. Wraps his other arm around his waist. He tilts up his chin and Matty looks immortal, like suddenly, after being so frozen, that every soul has found its way into his chest. His hand comes grasping at George’s jaw, his breath hitches like he can’t breathe. The kiss is desperate, but it’s more whole. Matty keeps pushing George back into the cushion, his knees coming undone and sliding off of the arm until he’s haphazardly placed in George’s lap. Breathless. Remaining.
His nose brushes the top of George’s hairline when he pulls back. “Sorry,” he says again. He sounds tired, but not resigned. “Sorry. I need you.”
George pushes the hair from his eyes. “You’re okay. It’s okay.” He squeezes his hand. Makes sure his eyes aren’t cloudy. Says, “I need you, too.”
And it’s enough, between folded legs and holes in their knees and the little lit candle right behind Matty’s eyes.
//\///\\/\
The show is… unconventional. It’s unprecedented. It’s like suddenly, the stage has become mile wide and they’re runners on steroids with needles in their legs. Matty keeps spinning around, stopping to sing at George with his back to the crowd. But it’s always so artistic, so graceful, like his every move is plotted on a roadmap and each time he looks at George with the mic hanging below his chin, a pothole inverts and the world reseals itself again. There’s a divine presence on that stage, and there’s glory in missed notes and laughs into amplifiers.
There’s a high when they get off stage, so they wait around and meet some fans and maybe there are a few pictures taken of Matty laughing into George’s shoulder or holding onto his bicep. George knows that he feels like he could do this for hours, as long he’s got this person at his side that makes him feel like could traverse lifelines. A striker’s hit and Matty’s burning again.
When they’re on the bus, it’s a little quiet. Soft embers at night when the fire’s dying down. Sitting, George wants to bury his hands in Matty’s hair and hold him. So he says, “I want to go out tonight.”
Matty looks at him, takes the hand off of his knee. “What – but?”
“With you,” George says. And then lowly, right in his ear, with his thumb brushing the back of his neck, “So you can be all mine all night.”
“You sure?” Matty breathes, and his voice is soft and warm and so close.
George pulls back a little, to look at him, right in the eyes. He cocks his head, says, “Kiss me?”
The way Matty laughs is beautiful, but what really steals it all is his lips against George’s, the way he crawls into George’s lap, the press of their legs together. They’re covered in black but it feels like a white light behind George’s eyes as they kiss; hot – overheated hands touching overheated skin beneath too many autumn layers and sweat on the napes of their necks from a show that felt a little like exhibitionism. It’s all so real for once. Everything is alive and Matty’s got his tongue in George’s mouth. Reality can be nice.
George constantly needs him closer; it’s the reciprocation of that pull. George needs to come closer. He hitches Matty’s legs further around his waist, uses his arse to heave their hips together. Anything that makes them closer to one.
“God,” Matty says into his neck, breathing hotly and leaving little kisses underneath his ear. “You should fuck me.”
George laughs, skirts his hands over Matty’s lower back where his shirt’s risen up from George’s petting. “I should.”
Matty bites George’s jaw. “Yeah. You should.”
“Nah,” George says slowly, cupping Matty’s face and holding him still. There’s something stirring behind their eyes. “Later. I meant it when I said I want to go out.” Matty’s expression gets less ambiguous, more focused. “You’re mine, remember?”
Matty preens, almost a little despite himself, and kisses the corner of George’s mouth.
“Course you do.”
George swears Matty almost loses it at that, letting out something of a whine into the warm spot of George’s neck and pushing his hard cock against George’s stomach. “Come on, love. We’re gonna go now.”
“Right,” Matty says. “All right.”
It make him a little while to compose himself, but he still saunters off the bus looking like he’s ready to make everyone in his path fall to their knees.
//\///\\/\
It’s dark, and if anyone knows who they are, no one’s saying anything. It’s not been long; Matty’s still on his first drink and George is hiding his frown along the rim of his pint. It took about five minutes before Matty’s mind was scattered into the air, latching onto all of the people at this club who seem interesting enough to satiate him. It started with a bird; pretty, dark eyes, tall. Matty indulged her, talking about her dreams to design clothes and make art in fields even though the look in his eyes and the subtle tone of his voice told George everything he needed to know. He could practically hear Matty’s voice going, “Sorry, darling, but you’re just not doing it for me.”
Of course, he’s got manners and George is starting to look a little green. She left after a while, though, saying she had an early morning at uni. It was just barely satisfying enough to hear Matty’s sigh of relief when she left.
“My god,” he said. “How is it possible to be so pretentious yet so fake at the same time? It’s like she was proud of shit she was making up. Charmer, honestly.”
George didn’t have to pretend laugh.
But he’s not laughing now, watching Matty settle into another conversation and apparently another drink because some bloke is offering him a Cosmo and probably some other offer that, ordinarily, maybe he’d’ve taken up.
Matty’s blatantly forward, kissing the guy on the cheek instead of the hand that was politely offered to shake upon introduction. The worst part is when he’s genuinely interested, hearing about this guy’s job in the social media branch of some huge company that George doesn’t bother to listen the name of. Matty’s flirting, and whether it’s his subconscious or he’s just trying to piss George off, he’s angry anyway.
He downs the rest of his beer, puts a hand on the small of Matty’s back, and whispers in his ear, “I’m headed to the bathroom. Be good.”
He hears the dude say, “Who’s that?”
But walks away quickly enough that he doesn’t have to hear the answer. He pees, washes his hands, musses up his hair in the mirror. There was part of him that knew Matty in a club wouldn’t be such a good ideal, but the strange optimist in him hoped that despite the people Matty draws in, he’d stick to George anyway.
When he comes back, Matty’s got more color in his face (probably the vodka) and is laughing his arse off (definitely the vodka). The bloke has a hand over the hole in Matty’s jeans by his knee. His drink’s nearly gone, and George feels so stupid. So when he sits down, he curls a hand around Matty’s thigh, pulls him a little closer without having their barstools look connected.
“George, right?” the guy says.
“Yeah, mate. Hey.”
The guy sticks out a hand but George just nods flippantly. He says some name that he intentionally blocks out.
“Matty, babe, we’ve got to go.”
“But we’ve just gotten here,” Matty says. He looks like he wants to pout; George is ridiculously endeared but also horribly disgusted that some bar stranger gets to witness something so cute and rare. It’s unfair.
“It’s been nearly an hour and a half. Busy day tomorrow. Lots of driving. Don’t you think we should go?” He presses his thumb to the inseam of Matty’s jeans.
“I don’t really want to.”
“Show tomorrow,” George tells him.
“Show?” the bloke wonders. (Matty never tells anyone bout the band if they don’t already know.)
“We’re in a band; did he not mention?”
“No, actually.”
“Yeah, well,” George mutters. He stands. He leans in close to Matty’s ear. “We’ve really got to go, baby.”
“Okay,” Matty sighs. “You’re right.”
The guy nods. “Good meeting you.”
“Same to you,” Matty says, standing up. He ducks down to kiss the guy’s cheek again, and George wants to wrench him so close it hurts. “See you round, mate.”
George slaps cash down on the bar for their check, and then wraps an arm around Matty’s waist, slipping a big hand into his back pocket. Matty presses his face into George’s neck once their outside in the biting wind.
A car’s waiting. The drive to the hotel is quiet.
“I don’t know if I liked that,” George says, once they’re in one of their rooms and he’s sitting on the bed. Matty stays standing. His hands have replaced George’s in his own back pockets. It feels weird, like before, with Matty over him. Like they’re young again.
“It was your idea,” Matty responds. George raises his eyebrows.
Okay.
He scoffs. “Yeah, mate, doesn’t mean I like when you go against your word.”
“I can’t help it,” Matty argues lightly, looking dismissive and aloof and like his way with people is never his fault.
“You can, though,” George says. He stays quiet; Matty doesn’t meet his eye. He wants him so bad. “Whatever, Matty.” He’s tempted to lay back and stare at the ceiling, but then Matty’s talking again, soft and irresistible and in that way that makes George want to watch and listen no matter what he’s saying.
“Hey.” He’s suddenly all softened edges and hushed undertones; not sharp and narrow like George is used to. “Hey, George. Please. I-I’m still yours. I swear.” There’s a pause. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”
“Shit,” George swears under his breath. “What?”
Matty crosses his legs even while standing. His toes are all bent in. “I provoked you. It was intentional. I wanted you to be jealous.”
George shakes his head; Matty always finds a way to leave him in disbelief. “No not tha– the other thing. You said.”
“What, Daddy?” There’s something about his voice that’s not breaking. He’s nothing near condescending or judging. No questioning. “What did I say?”
“Nothing,” George breathes. “Nothing. Come here?”
Matty steps forward, sits next to George on the bed. George wraps a hand around the back of neck. Kisses him quick.
“Wanted to kiss you all night,” Matty tells him. “Thanks.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“We were busy. Public affairs, you know. Other people.”
“You were quite invested in the other people,” George reminds him.
“Yeah,” Matty starts, crawling onto George’s lap like they’ve been on the bus this entire time, “but I’m most invested in you. And I’d really like it if we could pick up where we left off?”
“What? Me telling you that I don’t want to fuck you yet?”
“I figured later is now.”
“Don’t assume things, baby. I’ll take my time. And you’ve gotta be good.”
“I’ll work for it, Daddy.”
George swallows, runs his big palm along the Matty’s back, beneath his shirt. Says, “Yeah? And what are you gonna do?”
Matty leans in, starts to suck on his neck and breathe hot air onto wet skin. “Whatever you want me to.”
“Yeah, babe?” George murmurs. “Anything?” Matty nods against his neck. “And what if I don’t want to put in all of that effort of thinking?”
Matty blinks, like making the decision himself wasn’t even an option. “Um, I suppose I’ll try my best.” He lays a kiss along George’s collarbone, and then he whispers, “What’d you want?” And hearing that makes it close to impossible not to answer for him.
“How bout you suck me off then, yeah, love?”
Matty nods. “Yeah, okay.” He leans back to look at George for a minute, kisses his mouth. “Right, ‘course.” He pushes George’s t-shirt up his stomach, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to take it off. George takes the liberty of doing it for him, quick and rushed because he wants all of this so badly, and for fuck’s sake, Matty’s been calling him Daddy.
Dropping from the edge of the bed to the space between George’s legs on the floor, he looks up – eyes all shiny and hair all over the place. With lips tinted Cosmo-pink, the sudden urge fuck his mouth tears through George’s chest at the speed of sound. Composing himself with a breath, he strokes a thumb across Matty’s cheek while Matty’s own hands are busying themselves with George’s flies, trying to get his cock out while pushing into his touch at the same time.
Burying his hands in Matty’s hair, it feels almost like George has to compose himself, waiting for the warmth of a mouth and the way his cock will bump the back of Matty’s throat. Placing a kiss on the head, Matty says, “Is this okay, Daddy?”
If George didn’t think he was going to lose it before, he’s confident in that now. “Yeah, babe. It’s lovely. I’m gonna fuck you up bit, okay? Fuck your mouth a little?”
“Yeah,” Matty breathes, the warm air from his mouth ghosting around George’s cock, “whatever. S’all fine. Good, actually.” His eyes flutter shut. “Lovely.”
George might pull at the roots of his hair a bit when he sinks his mouth down, a warm, wet heat that’s got him sweating in his jeans. The thing about it is that Matty’s usually nothing like this – he’s never soft and pliable and wanting to be something for someone else. That’s opposite of his whole persona. Normally, he knows what he wants and who he is and how he wants things done. But the sense of trust between them lets their walls crumble to dust, only ash in the hearth, because there’s only two beating hearts between the two of them. Years later and they’ve got enough to only be themselves around each other.
So Matty lets go; and if that involves falling under a bit, being told what to do, well.
It works.
Matty’s sloppy and quick and eager, taking him deep and fast, letting George’s cock bump the back of his throat and doing nothing about the way he gags when George’s hips fuck into his mouth. He just takes it. There are rug burns on his knees. He keeps sucking and pulling off to lick at the vein on the underside and focus on the head until George tells him not to.
“Stop,” he says.
“S’it not good?” Matty asked.
“No, baby, it’s so good,” George tells him, smoothing his hair out of his eyes. “Come up here.”
Matty comes up on the bed, sits next to George. His hand goes to the inside of George’s thigh like he wants to pull at George’s cock where it’s curved against his belly.
“Gonna fuck you now,” he tells Matty.
“You are?” Matty asks.
“Yeah, love. Strip, will you?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
He’s hasty, pulling off his clothes quickly, leaving them in a pile on the floor and sitting back on the bed next to George, waiting for whatever’s next. He has his head cocked a bit, in a continuous question of what do you want?
“You look lovely, babe,” George tells him, just to get him to preen. He watches Matty bite the side of his own thumb, watches the way his eyelashes brush his cheek. “Go lay down, on your front. Don’t touch yourself.”
Matty nods, scrambles to the middle of the bed, and he waits as George lube and a condom from where he knows Matty keeps it in his bag. He takes a moment to watch Matty on the bed, and he’s certain that he’s not in over his head because he fucking loves the way Matty’s white skin looks against the white sheets and how suddenly all of his tattoos are so much starker and the world becomes a little less hazy. He’s finished taking his time.
Once he finds his way above Matty, on his knees, he leans down to kiss him, even with his head tilted sideways, holding him too tight and too close but without any regards. Sometimes need will take the better of him; and he needs Matty right now. He needs to be close to him.
“Gonna take my fingers now, okay, love?”
“Okay,” Matty says.
“Stay quiet,” George tells him as he slicks up his fingers. He wants the build up, because if anyone loves a damn climax, it’s Matty fucking Healy. He watches as Matty muffles his face i into a pillow as George’s fingers open him up. His other hand is resting on Matty’s hip, squeezing when he bucks up too much. It’s rough and hasty and probably not good enough, but Matty lets out only one sound after so long quiet:
“Please.”
And his boy is anything but a beggar, so George can’t really help himself when he gets like this – giving up his constant need for control to George because of their trust. It’s exhilarating.
“You want me to fuck you, babe?” George asks, laughing.
“George,” Matty whines, “please.”
George rolls his eyes, says nothing, and pulls his fingers out to roll on a condom and slick up his cock. “You’re gonna take it now, love.”
“Want to,” Matty tells him. “I wanna take it.”
“‘Course you do,” George says. He pushes in slow, letting his hips stay close to Matty’s ass.
It’s only after Matty mumbles, “Daddy,” all high and wanton that George is spurred into action, hips pulling back to push back in, harsh and quick and snapping. And Matty just takes it beneath him, still muffling his noise into a pillow.
“You can speak up a bit,” George tells him, slowing down to suck at the side of Matty’s neck. “You like it like this? Me behind you?”
Matty’s chest heaves. His back has a light coat of sweat on it. His hair is all over the place. He’s gorgeous. “I like it however you give it to me.”
“Yeah? Even when you can’t even feel my hands on your hips, and then it could be anyone, right? Do you like that?”
Matty whines, tries to shove back against George’s cock and get his hands back on his waist. “No,” he murmurs. “I like – on my back. So I can see you.”
“I dunno, baby. You were pretty busy looking at everyone else tonight. Not sure if I want to give that to you.”
Matty pushes his face further into the pillow. “I’ll take whatever. Thank you.”
George literally doesn’t know what to do with himself. He likes watching Matty flounder, beg. But at the same time, he’d much rather give the universe to him. So he says, “How bout you ride me? You’d like that.”
“Yeah,” Matty breathes, “okay.”
So George pulls out slow, watching Matty fight the urge to push back against George’s cock and looks as he winces around nothing. George situates himself on the other side of the bed, lays back and watches as Matty straddles his lap to lower himself onto George’s dick.
“Fuck,” he breathes. George just keeps his arms behind his head, watches as Matty does all the work. “Daddy,” Matty says, “Daddy touch me, please.”
“Here?” George asks, putting the lightest touch on the inside of his thigh. He lifts his hips to meet Matty sinking down.
“Anywhere,” Matty groans. “I know your hands.”
George grabs his waist then, uses his other hand to pull his head down for a kiss. Keeps fucking up into him, warm and close and everything that he needs.
“Close,” Matty tells him into his mouth.
“Come, then,” George says. “Don’t stop though.”
Matty swears, puts one hand on George’s chest for balance and puts the other on top of George’s fingers, tangles them together. And then he’s coming as he sinks down one last time, across his stomach and George’s. But he keeps bouncing up and down, so good, waiting for George to follow. When he does, he collapses onto George’s messy chest and mumbles, “Thank you,” quietly.
Everything’s covered in soft yellow light from the city night outside, and for a moment, time stalls and it feels nice not to have the engine running.
Matty comes back slow, and eventually George grows restless, the water cup empty and the flannel sitting on the night table.
“That was fun,” George says after too long of a silence, him just stroking Matty’s head and keeping his lips pressed to his forehead.
“Fun?” Matty snipes. He bounces back in an instant, like all of that sex suddenly didn’t tire him out. “I’ve been calling you Dad for the past hour, and all you’ve got to say is fun?”
George just laughs and sits up, leaning over Matty to stare down at his drooping eyes and the soft curve of his jaw where he left a mark. “I love you.”
Matty pulls him back closer. “I love when you say that,” he murmurs against George’s collarbone. “I love you, too.”
//\///\\/\
When George wakes up, Matty’s already all over the place. He goes looking for a waist to curl his arm around, but Matty’s sitting on the hotel room’s table, guitar in his lap, and hair wet in his eyes. He hears George move abruptly – George knows; he can see it in the change of his body language – but he doesn’t look up to watch him wake, just keeps strumming whatever thoughts are floating about in his head, and waits for George to say something first. He’s got this weird vow about never interrupting himself. Someone has always got to do it for him. Most of the time, George just waits. It’s too nice to disturb.
But the focus isn’t all the way, so he doesn’t feel guilty in propping himself up on his elbows and saying with his scratchy morning voice, “You showered without me?”
Matty still doesn’t look up, but he snorts, stills his strumming hand. “Yeah, mate. I felt disgusting. You could’ve woken up if you wanted to.”
“Did you even try?”
“Why would I waste my time?”
Something in George’s stomach twists a little bit. After so long, he still gets amazed about the way they know each other. It’s almost uncanny, yet intangibly real. He needs Matty back in his bed. He says nothing though, fiddles with the bed sheet and the duvet. He changes the subject once Matty doesn’t keep talking to him and goes back to his guitar.
Roughly, he laughs with a sleep-scratchy throat and rumbles, “Do you remember when we were in school and all of the teachers hated you?”
//\///\\/\
Matty always beat him out of the building during the one year that their free periods coincided. George was convinced that he had his teacher from the class before charmed, to be let out early. Somehow, Matty was always sitting on the metal support beneath the bleachers. Legs crossed, joint lit, ridiculously grinning. For some reason, George remembers it raining a lot that year, because he always pictures Matty’s wet hair in his face and little grey dots spotting his white dress shirt.
They were only really ever caught once, and it was by Ross, amazingly enough.
“Where’d you guys always go in free period?” he’d asked.
George shot Matty a glance, bit his lip to stop from laughing. “It’s a secret.”
“You two are actually bullshit,” Ross said.
“It’s not that hard to figure out,” Matty laughed. “We can actually be quite cliché when we want to.”
Ross had seemed so irritated; it was brilliant.
He also chose to follow George outside that day, so when he showed up thirty seconds after George sat down, he just scowled aggressively, took a few hits from Matty’s joint, and left, seemingly disappointed.
The look on Matty’s face was priceless; potentially worth all of the disappointments Ross had ever felt.
“Why did he even bother?” George asked.
“They think our secret romance is a lot more scandalous than it is, apparently,” Matty said, eyes bright and glistening as he flicked a bit of ash from the joint.
“It’s no secret, babe,” George responded. “We could probably be scandalous if we wanted to.”
“I don’t think sexting in French counts as a scandal.”
George grinned, leaned into shotgun the smoke from Matty’s lips when he took another hit. Laughed, when he pulled back. “I’m sure Monsieur would be properly scandalized if he knew what the texts that get you sent to the Headmistress every other week actually said.”
“I’m pretty sure that man’s just scandalized by my face,” Matty grunted.
George laughed again, looked over fondly. Their shoulders brushed, and then he couldn’t stop staring. He took the joint from Matty’s fingers and got the last hit, holding the smoke in his mouth and curling his hand around the back of Matty’s neck. Absently, he dropped the butt of the joint to the ground and tried to crush it with the toe of his boot, but he was more focused on the brush of his lips against Matty’s, the way the smoke moved past both of their mouths and rose up between them where the opening between bleachers was crying on the both of them. Even after their exhales, George kept kissing him, fingers dancing on his neck and along the hairs at the back of his neck.
Pulling back, all he could think to say was, “Your face is more of a nice headline than a scandal. Like a missing person being found or summat.”
Unsurprisingly enough, that was the day Matty decided to make a list of “The Dumbest Things George Has Ever Said.”
He still has it.
//\///\\/\
Matty rolls his eyes. “Okay, first of all, my memory’s not going, you cock. You’re barely younger than me. Of course I remember. But secondly, they didn’t all hate me. There was that one photo teacher who fucking loved me.”
“No, mate, Mr. P? I had him the year after and literally every day I’d walk into class and he’d go, ‘You still hanging around that Healy kid?’ And I’d say, ‘Yes, sir.’ And then he’d shake his head and compliment me on my pictures. It was a fun class though.”
“Fuck you,” Matty says. “He was nice at the time.”
“Well of course,” George laughs. “He was the least genuine person ever. He’d talk shit about everyone behind their backs. I dunno why he trusted me so much.”
Matty looks like he’s pondering it for a moment. “The squinty eyes.”
“Suck my dick,” George says.
Interestingly enough, Matty looks like he’s pondering it again. “Later, mate.”
George snorts, “Mate,” and then he knocks their shoulders together.