Archive of Our Own

After their Cincinnati show, they drove straight to their next city: Columbus. They wanted to have two nights in a hotel—including a much-needed day off—before immediately piling back in the tour bus for the five-plus hours to Nashville after finishing their show.

They pulled into the back parking lot well after midnight and despite his broken hour (total) of sleep, Matty was pushing his own understanding of the word exhausted. He still hadn’t found the right routine or balance to get back to his old touring stamina after their extended break. Most shows left him aching but at least upright. Others made him feel like he must’ve been strung up for the entire show, puppeting himself around until the lights went out and all his strings were cut; Matty was more than willing to collapse onto the floor.

Matty drug himself through the lobby to the elevator, pressing the button to go up with a repeated desperation until the doors opened and he, George, Ross, Adam, and John were able to shuffle and squeeze inside. Matty had already forgotten his and George's room number, despite hearing the very kind person at the desk read it aloud to him—twice, since he repeated it back to her in reverse order—as well as giving directions, also forgotten. Matty shifted over to stand in front of George, their chests bumping together and Matty realizing how tempting it was to ask George, silently, to support all his weight. Instead, he began searching for their keycard to try and re-memorize their room number.

“George,” Matty muttered, hands patting George's front pockets. George straightened from leaning against the railing, startled from his own momentary dozing.

“You alright, Matty?” Ross said with an amused look, eyebrows raised. He and John cocked their heads as they leaned forward from the wall. “A bit… Busy over there?”

“Fine.” Matty said, shaking his head.

It took Matty a moment to realize his jolt of unsteadiness wasn’t from any fault of his own; the elevator was moving. He could trust, if he currently had the mental clarity to do so, George had already pressed the button for their floor. But Matty still felt the streak of stubbornness that came right as he was about to crash—he wasn’t tired, George. He was fine, he was fine—and he started checking George’s back pockets.

“Hey, what do you need? I don’t have any cigarettes on me—but also don’t think you should be working an open flame anyway.” George laughed, stilling Matty’s hands by the wrists.

"I forgot what room." Matty was eye-level with George's shoulder. With the crook of George’s neck. It was so tempting to tuck himself into George and refuse to budge, riding the elevator up and down all evening.

“Matty, you’re barely standing—and we’re three floors up. What’s your big plan here?” Ross said, cracking a smile and gently nudging Matty's back.

“Just want to lie down.” Matty mumbled to George, who was easing Matty’s hands out of back pockets.

Only George heard his quiet admission of defeat, of not being quite as up to speed as he wanted despite being on their fifth consecutive month of touring so far. The jetlag was lasting twice times as long and Matty’s body ached like he’d forgotten to sleep at all. All Matty was able to say loudly enough though, after George’s gentle pull of him closer, letting him lean against him, was, “Fuck.”

“Jesus Christ, Matty.” Adam laughed so hard and so abruptly he coughed, turning away to cover his mouth and crimson face.

“He wasn’t answering the question. He’s going to sleep the minute we set our bags down. We both are.” George said, wrapping his arms around Matty's shoulders. Matty took this as a cue to finally settle into the warmth of George's neck. He didn’t need a bed. He was going to sleep right there...

Matty seized back awake—not even knowing when he nodded off—when the elevator settled at a floor. The shuffling of bags meant they were getting off rather than anyone else getting in with them. Matty thought of having to walk again and grumbled before trying to find his footing.

“What’s wrong?” George asked, pulling back his arms but not fully releasing Matty, in case he wanted the touch and warmth back.

“I think you might have to carry me.” Matty sighed, rubbing his hands over his face.

“Yeah? We’ve gotten to that point?” George laughed. He ran the back of Matty’s collar between his thumb and forefinger, smoothing it. Matty nodded, any attempted words slipping out as another sigh.

“We’ve got these, go ahead.” John said, moving the strap of his own bag to rest across his chest before grabbing Matty’s luggage and following Ross out.

“Try and get some sleep, yeah?” Adam said with a tight grin. He squeezed Matty on the shoulder as he shuffled out, George nudging him along by his feet. Adam was joking—it wasn’t really up to Matty if he slept or not—but also still trying to quietly insist that Matty still keep up the frustrating, Sisyphean effort of taking care of himself.

Matty smiled, nodded, and gave Adam a thumbs up as the doors closed over.

“Which number are you?” John pointed down one side of the corridor before pivoting to point to the other.

“Uh, 612. This way.” George said, pulling the keycard from the breast pocket of his shirt. Since when did George ever carry anything that wasn’t a zoot in his shirt pockets? It felt oddly responsible—and when Matty noticed his friends joined in the effort of walking him to his hotel room, he got a sinking feeling as to why George could’ve possibly needed to become such a way.

“You’ll be alright?” Ross asked, watching George hitch Matty up to settle his arm lower around his waist as they approached their room. “Need help getting him in?”

“No, no. We’re fine.” George said with a quiet laugh. He looked at Matty, now leaned against the wall by the room number plaque. He looked back at Ross, a somberness overtaking his face. “He’s barely back to ten stone. Not much to need help with.”

Matty rubbed his eye to avoid having to acknowledge that he’d heard George; to have heard that worry out loud again, even if it wasn’t accusatory.

Even though it had been over a year and a half, Matty was still trying to maintain his physical recovery from his time in Barbados and learn how his body operated without outside influences. The unexpected, unintentional weight loss that struck him after he’d returned home only seemed to compound once they started touring properly in January. No longer being looked after daily by a physician, Matty took no notice of physical changes in himself. Not until George took him by the shoulders one day—at the time so frail and boney they sagged away from Matty’s body like an unsupported bookshelf—and quietly, politely, carefully, pleaded for Matty to tell him what was going on, what was he doing to himself this time…

Understandably, it was hard at first for George to trust when Matty told him he wasn’t doing anything—to trust without the fear or guilt that his eagerness to support Matty could unknowingly enable a lie. Matty was just out of practice paying attention to his body; to his needs rather than his wants. Sometimes he miscalculated and misread the signals, and gave his body too much sleep or not enough—although that was less by his own doing. Sometimes, he was forgetful and went on stage with enough excitement and energy, but not enough food to champion him through the last few songs. Other times, his body just refused to cooperate with his mismanagement and rejected both sleep, food, excitement, pleasure, warmth, touch…

“Yeah, suppose so. Alright.” Ross nodded. He clapped George on the shoulder before winding up to do the same to Matty. He faked Matty out, his hand hovering before gently resting between his shoulder blades. “Get some sleep. Both of you—see you downstairs in a few hours.” Matty had completely forgotten about the morning radio show they had scheduled. His mouth offered no words, just a silent crumpling into a grimace.

“And I’ll see you guys after. At a more humane hour to be awake.” John laughed, placing Matty’s luggage by his feet and placing a hand on the back of his head as a good night.

“’night, Ross! And fuck you, Waughy!” Matty called, yawning into the back of his waving hand.

The excitement of being able to soon flop down on a bed had Matty a little more alert, able to grab his own bag and trudge it into the dark room while George felt around for the light. Much to Matty’s surprise, the room only had one bed—not two Queen beds per usual. There was no empty, untouched mattress for Matty to sense in the dark, across the room. He placed his bag down—George immediately moving it out of their walking path—and flopped facedown onto the bed. He really shouldn’t have in his post-greenroom shower, crumpled all-he-had-while-they-had-laundry-sent-out clothes, but Matty knew his body had very little patience left for dawdling.

Matty felt the bed underneath him change proximity to his body, like he was falling both into and away from it; his exhaustion was finally turning from delirium toward sleep. He heard himself gasp shortly, startled by the sensation of his body going lax without his knowledge—before gasping again as he felt a gentle tug on both his ankles.

“Hey, what—” Matty gasped, twisting to peer back at the hands behind him. George looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes. His hands were splayed open and hovering over Matty’s legs, frozen, as Matty’s shock faded. “I know we talked about it but… Not tonight, George. I don’t think I’ll make it.”

“I know. We’re not. I’m just taking off your shoes.” George said quietly, nodding.

“I’m sorry. I really thought I could’ve… but I… I’m sorry. I tried to—I’m sorry. Soon; we’ll try again soon.”

Almost as an encouragement to himself, Matty tried to talk to George about having sex again—proper sex. How it used to be prior to their seven weeks apart, prior to their consistent arguing and lying, prior to their denial and refusal of what was happening between them and to their relationship every time they were hooking up. How Matty wanted it to be now that they were open and honest and together and happier than they’d ever been. How he always pictured it would be…

As of late though, Matty was too fatigued, achy, or in his own head (sometimes all three) to be able to finish, but wanted so badly to have just one consistent thread of normalcy and connection back in his life.

One night, during the first weeks of tour, Matty greatly overestimated how much energy he would have in reserves after his adrenaline crashed. Midway through his own overeager idea of riding George to celebrate their second show in London going so well—George softly babbling and gripping Matty’s hands on his chest; Matty bracing himself on George's bare chest partially to feel the heaving of George's breathing and thudding of his pounding heart and partially to try and maintain his unsteady, uncertain balance—Matty could feel himself losing out; trying to give an effort his body simply refused. He was lightheaded and exhausted. His throat burned as he gasped and tried to catch his breath, his thighs cramped, and knees throbbed from the repetitive motion and indelicate pace of letting himself fall back down against George’s hips.

Matty collapsed forward onto George, hoping if he tucked his face into George’s neck he wouldn’t see the grimace of pain and discomfort pushing all usual signs of pleasure from his expression. George wouldn’t see him pressing his eyes closed and waiting for everything to stop spinning as he struggled to take a full breath. George ran a hand over Matty’s arched back, bumping along his spine, with the quiet assurance he was doing so good—was it just too much?

It wasn’t until Matty responded, panting and with loosely formed, winded words, that he could do it, he could do; just wait a second—just a minute, that George shook off his own haze of pleasure. He guided Matty to the spot beside him in bed and got a look at his face: both flushed and pale, eyes wide but still half-lidded, embarrassed and apologetic. Matty had just wanted to try and pull closed the wide, split seam between them from the time they spent apart, spent trying to figure out what they meant to each other. Matty just wanted to hold onto the familiar. He wanted a way he could connect to George without having to say very much; a way to be understood when his words were lost to fear.

Since then, their time together was limited to evenings when Matty felt steady and crawled into bed next to George after his shower—tense and twitching muscles relaxed and eyelids heavy with contentment—and quietly asked George if he wanted to help him; their discovered compromise was Matty would set the pace and limitations, only one person touching him(self) at a time; George never needing to fear he could demand more energy and exertion than Matty had left.

Matty clung to his desired normalcy, then, with his lips and shaky, hot breaths against George’s ear as he panted about how his arm was growing tired, frustration peaking—George, George, I can’t. Would you—please… I can’t— and inviting George to take over. George would always agree in a hurried, soothing hush—I'm right here, I've got you. Don't worry. I know, I know… shoulder again, right? Hey, you're okay. I've got you—and pulled Matty into him; George's flushed, bare chest hot enough to be felt through Matty’s shirt. Then, as George took him in his hand, Matty would always focus on trying to thank George enough: kissing him until he, himself, was breathless; clutching his face and pressing their foreheads together when Matty's mouth dropped open and he no longer found himself able to speak; tangling the fingers of one hand in George's hair while the fingers of the other dug into the slick, hot skin of George's shoulder; slack, open-mouth moaning into the crook of George’s neck (hoping it would do the trick of muffling the sound). Matty had to hope it was enough.

He hoped George understood that time together no longer was about sex, but rather the refuge of safety provided in those moments when no other thoughts could be formed. When George was the only thing on Matty’s mind, on his lips, in his hands, against his body. When full, intimate transparency was possible through just a word, a whine, a nod, a plea. When Matty could fully trust that when his mind slipped away and things went quiet, George would still know what he was thinking, what to do for him. Matty trusted George, and knew he was being trusted in return. He knew George still knew him inside and out, forward and back. It didn’t matter where he’d gone or how long he’d been away.

George was the normalcy Matty so desperately sought out—and it infuriated him that his own body and mind were preventing him from being able to sink into the wordless connection that came so naturally to them and had for about a decade.

“We don’t have to plan anything; I'm not even remotely thinking about anything like that. I'm trying to keep you from continuing this shit habit you've got of sleeping in your shoes.” George said, patting his legs.

“Fine. Here, let me help then—” Matty rolled over and pulled his leg up to reach his laces. He yanked the knot apart carelessly while George undid the other shoe's laces with precision. Matty threw the shoe toward the door, somewhere he couldn’t lose them or forget to look in the morning.

Realistically, George could’ve left Matty’s shoes on; they wouldn’t have enough time between then and when they had to be downstairs for their breakfast and call time for his shoes to even grow cold.

“Did you set an alarm or should I?” George asked, tugging his own shirt off by the collar.

“Already did. On the bus.” Matty mumbled. He took his phone out of his back pocket and held it out for George to place with his own phone on the side table. “Quarter-six.”

Matty would never understand why part of their album press junket was scheduled for a morning they had off between shows. Not only that, but a radio interview on a morning-commute talk show. Yammering, chummy hosts that were either born to be morning people, or so broken by the routine of being awake and coherent before sunrise that they forgot what it was like to desire a slow morning. A morning that demanded nothing of them but being alive for it.

Surely there was a better way to generate and maintain excitement around their new album and tour than having all four of them groggy—and maybe at least one of them still half asleep—sitting around and being awkward with two radio hosts they'd met fifteen minutes prior to air.

George made sure both their phones were charging before he tried to wrangle Matty to get into bed properly. As Matty tried to crawl up from the foot of the bed to the pillows, George pulled the comforter and blankets back. He ignored Matty’s dramatic, intentional stumbling from his hands and knees onto his face and laughed quietly as he got in bed beside Matty.

George didn’t complain when Matty curled up to him, sans shoes but still wearing his jeans and belt. He lifted his arm to give Matty access to the full stretch of his side, the full panel of warmth Matty found most comforting when trying to sleep. The silent reminder of humanity, just under his cheek. Pulsing, beating, and alive.

A slamming door down the hall jolted Matty awake. He turned out of George’s side instinctively, wanting to get away from the perceived danger. The quiet hum of the air conditioner and slow draw of George’s breathing answered Matty’s confused, startled gasp. He laid flat on his back and stared up at the ceiling. It was illuminated, just barely, by the moonlight—or was it just streetlights—sneaking through the crack in the curtains. Matty hated popcorn ceilings. It was just another ugly texture in a room of rough carpet, coarse sheets, and dry air.

Matty rolled onto his side, pushing George’s arm back over to his body so he could rest on his pillow properly without contorting George’s arm backward. Without waking, George pulled his arm back to his chest, inhaling deeply—peacefully—as he rolled over as well.

In his sleep, George dipped his chin down toward his chest, almost as if tucking into the fetal position but never bending legs up. Matty moved over on the pillows and pressed his nose against the stretch of George’s neck, pressing a delicate kiss over the rounded knot of bone at the base. When Matty slipped his hand over George’s side—ribs present but not protruding; body healthy and sturdy—George’s hand effortlessly found Matty’s. Even through the thickness of dreams, he found him.

Now that Matty’s body had backed away from the edge of exhaustion, he noticed the mattress was too firm. Now resting on his side, his shoulder and hip began to ache from the focused pressure. Once Matty felt the dull hurt of one joint, the rest were hard to ignore. Some of his frequent and constant aches were of his own doing: multiple shows a week and never learning his limitations for dancing and overextending his muscles that weren’t yet warmed up, or simply bumping into or tripping over things in the tour bus as a byproduct of being both overly excited and a bit out of practice.

Most of his pain, though, was the kind that echoed that of a growth spurt; when his joints felt stringy and gummy. Unprotected and weak. Like he could put his knees together and hear the clacking of his bones. He hadn’t caught onto the routine of his body yet. Matty still felt unsteady—sometimes downright feeble—but still frequently outpaced his body, wanting so badly to be healthy and able to keep up with the rest of the band.

By the time Matty’s lower back started to stiffen and socket of his one hip sticking due to an impending pop, he knew it would be a better and more productive use of his time to get out of bed and start his morning. At least he could be as slow as he wanted; he had enough time. He found being alone afforded him that much.

Before turning over and getting out of bed, Matty patted George’s ribs and waited for him to stir and quietly object to the disturbance and sudden cold air replacing Matty along his back. Matty needed George’s response to show enough signs of consciousness so when their alarm did go off (in about forty minutes), George would have a faint memory of Matty getting up and he wouldn’t scramble out of bed, overwhelmed by his half-awake but full-body panic.

Because George had to stop barging in on Matty taking a piss because he saw an empty pillow beside him and thought Matty had taken off in the middle of the night. Not only because it was a suboptimal way to start both of their mornings, but it was growing difficult to watch the same guilt crawl up George’s flushed face when he realized that, even in his sleep, he was still trying to trust Matty on some things.

Matty got ready slower than he already would have in efforts to stay quiet and not wake George by tripping over a stray shoe or loudly closing a luggage zipper. Even though Matty’s eyes burned every time he blinked, and it felt like his body was sliding off his bones when he tried to adjust his posture, it was nice, sometimes, to exist in the suspension of everything. When all Matty had to do was waste time.

The loneliness of being the only one awake wasn’t new. He’d gotten over that long ago.

Matty had enough time to take a shower, but not quite enough energy to stand for the duration. He sat on the tiled floor of the hotel shower and washed his body and hair. Bending his knees felt like he was stretching rubber just beyond its tension point and his shoulder continued to ache as he raised his arms to scrub his scalp.

Even with his aches and pains, even while sitting on the shower floor, Matty had to remember he was doing better. He had stopped losing weight in the past two weeks, maintaining within the same pound and a half while he tried to adjust his eating habits to better keep ahead of his hunger, rather than just trying to ward it off before it became ferocious; when he remembered he was hungry. After living so much of his life in a rush, doing and taking things to speed it along, Matty sometimes found it difficult to understand things that moved slow were still moving.

George shuffled into the bathroom while Matty was toweling off his hair. Matty had braced his hip against the sink counter in case he made himself lightheaded flipping his head over and back again. Even seeing him through the mirror and flashing white stars spotting Matty’s vision, George looked bright and alive—and pleased to see Matty. Not worried or panicked Matty hadn’t been beside him, pressing his face into his chest or complaining about the prospect of their morning.

“You sleep okay?” George waited for the chance to kiss the top of Matty’s head before digging through his toiletry bag for his toothbrush. Matty always found George’s insistence on having a fresh, clean mouth when they first kissed every morning endearing. For those seven weeks apart, the smell of mint was all it took to get Matty homesick; desperate to go home but all the more determined to stay.

“Yeah. Just wanted a shower. Felt fucking disgusting.”

Matty ran his towel over his face one last time and tossed it on the closed toilet lid. He focused on watching George apply toothpaste to his toothbrush through the mirror, being cautious as to when he’d drift over to look at his own body. Matty knew what it looked like—same as it did the day before—but it felt like it should’ve looked drastically different. Somehow both so much bigger and smaller than the night before, standing in front of the dressing room mirror and adjusting his mic pack and tugging his jeans up by his belt loops. Like his arms would hang low to the floor, his shoulders bowed so far forward they could touch, his eyes so sunken he’d have to tilt his head back to see. Somehow, it disappointed Matty when he looked the same. He had nothing in which to root this feeling. He just had to wait for it to pass.

As George put his toothpaste back in his bag, he took out Matty’s pill pack. The divided Monday section was full with Matty’s daily multivitamin and an over-the-counter anti-inflammatory medication (the crew medic's best answer to his chronic aching). The day’s previous section was still closed as well—the pain reliever rattling around inside.

Well, that explained a lot.

Waiting for George to rinse rogue toothpaste from his thumb, Matty ran his cupped hand under the tap and swallowed both pills at once. As he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he accidentally met his own body in the mirror. Along with George’s.

Matty was right. He looked exactly the same—his color was no longer dancing along the fine difference between gray, dull, and dead; his weight looked good on his bones, seeing a bit less of them just from standing, although not yet back to what he considered his own personal and preferred normal; his eyes were alert and attentive—so why couldn’t Matty seem to keep the indulgent, opulent joy of recovery in his day-to-day if he was proving able to keep the body that caused it?

“I really don’t want to do this today.” Matty groaned, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. Maybe he could recalibrate his eyes with the right push and pressure.

Matty felt as if the night before had never ended, and the new day was already in its hundredth hour. It would never end—or begin, it seemed. Pessimism was a sure sign he was exhausted—and probably hungry, actually. He’d have to focus to find out.

“It’s just a morning show. We’ve done those a thousand times—and then we’ll be back and can get some real, uninterrupted rest.” George said around his toothbrush. Matty needed an extra second to process the garbling. It was a wonder he didn’t choke. “No one really listens to the radio this early in the morning anyway. Quick and painless.”

"Painless for you maybe." Matty grumbled. He leaned his head against George’s shoulder and sighed. He truly didn’t want to concede to the demand that he exist on his day off. “If I didn’t think cancelling—or at least suggesting we cancel—would send Jamie into some kind of cardiac event, I would’ve done it already.” He continued flatly. “Would probably just be me falling back into my patterns of unreliability and lack of focus on anyone other than myself—”

“Matty.” George said sternly after spitting into the sink basin.

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Matty knew how to make himself an enemy with ease; he was almost too good at it. Did most of the work for other people, even those that loved him. "Sorry." Matty kissed George’s cheek, wiping some of the toothpaste foam from the corner of his mouth. Matty pat George's hip twice before ducking out to begin getting dressed. He made sure to step out of reach before George could wrap his arm around his bare torso to do the same.

Before even seeing what clothes were in his bag—what had just come back from laundry—Matty knew he wanted to wear his worn-to-the-point-of-being-cotton-soft denim flares. He knew better than to send them to the laundry, leaving them rolled up at the base of his bag. Running his hand past the other shirts to get to the bottom, Matty tried to find what material—and what he could recall about their shape and fit—felt the least torturous that morning.

The mere idea of tight clothes was physically revolting. The all-encompassing pressure felt too much like forced structure or performance; a character in his body trying to be the caricature of himself. It felt like Matty was expending effort and energy just by wearing the clothes to sit for the next few hours, either in a car or in front of a microphone. He started digging for a shirt that was as soft and forgiving against his skin and body as his flares, tossing the rejects onto the floor. He dismissed sleeves cut at an angle or cut too high and dug into Matty’s underarms; loud patterns or provocative designs that would immediately bring all eyes to the very body was own were having a hard consistently recognizing; shirts he’d had for a few years, bought when he looked a bit different than he did then. Or in some ways, being able to fit the same but feeling so much different. And different was good, but also, sometimes, Matty found different laborious.

“Looking for something in particular?” George laughed, stepping over the small mound of shirts forming outside the bathroom door.

“Not sure.” Matty pushed around the socks and pants still at the bottom of his suitcase and found no other shirt options. “Just something that fits alright.”

“Laundry shrink it?”

“No.” Matty sat back on his heels and looked up at George. He was still shirtless but stepping into his own pair of light wash jeans.

Matty knew he looked pathetic sitting in the eye of the small textile hurricane, almost all of his clothes strewn about. He knew he looked every bit disheveled, unkempt, and indecisive as he felt; there was no hiding it. Matty knew on his worst days he looked exactly like the implosive shell of a man that knew very little of what he was doing with his life, but knew it made some semblance of sense when it was something to do with music, with the band, with his boys, with George—when it was George.

But George never looked at Matty in a way that acknowledged any of those fears—any of those very possible ideas. Since coming home from Barbados, since the moment they found each other in the post-baggage rush to the next destination, George never looked at him in the way Matty very well thought he deserved. Even when they were having an accidental argument—Matty irritable and George too tired after a show to take the long way through a conversation—George never had a look of resentment or judgement.

Still sitting on the floor, Matty thought of previous nights lying in their tour bunks laughing so hard his sides hurt. Of shushing George as they hurried down corridors at venues, coming back from where they’d accidentally got lost for a quick kiss, pretending no one around them knew what they were to the other. Thought of the moments between songs when the stage lights would go off and Matty would lower his mic and wheeze out a deep breath, feeling lightheaded and his limbs hallowed out, and hear George in his in-ear: you can do it, we’re almost done. Maybe take a rest on the next one. Water’s at the front. Of his private moments of surprising despair, looming until sneaking up and pulling the covers over Matty’s eyes and into a blanket of darkness; only able to sit and cry, or feel so tense he’d start hitting his temples with the heels of his palms to try and rattle it out of his body—and then George, always right there, to grab his wrists and stop him. Matty thought of all the times he’d been so fucking furious at George for having a fucking opinion on his self-destruction. And all the immediate times after Matty was so grateful someone cared that much about him to almost ruin their relationship over it; George would rather have Matty hate him and alive, than have him die with feelings unfinished and unacknowledged between them for eternity.

“Can I borrow one of yours?” Matty asked.

The request stopped George for a moment, his head not yet through the collar of his tie-dye shirt and arms sliding through the short sleeves to pull it the rest of the way down as quickly as possible. He ran his fingers through his hair as if it was only for styling purposes. “One of mine?”

“Yeah. Something with sleeves, if you’ve got it.” Matty ran his hands over his bare arms before moving to hold onto his shoulders. The cross of his forearms covered his bare chest and folded stomach.

“I do, yeah. Sure. Just sleeves? That’s the only thing?” George was hesitant as he crouched to flip through his folded shirts. He was asking for clarification to an uncertainty Matty was also feeling, but choosing to ignore. He just kept thinking about George, about how much he loved and was loved, and tried to ward it off.

“Yeah, I don’t care. Your choice. I’m not picky.” Matty just needed it to be George’s. Needed it to feel familiar and comforting on his skin, around his body…

As George searched, Matty could smell the new detergent used by the laundry service; sharp and lingering and somehow just like the color orange. It wasn’t George’s typical detergent—rich and musky and definitely the color blue, per the bottle Matty kept buying for their flat. Matty would have to learn to adapt for that morning. Try to memorize a new sense of home. Like recognizing the same room with a different coat of paint.

Finally, George held up the new shirt he bought when they last had time in a city to wander around to a few shops. It had quickly become George’s new favorite. Matty couldn't remember where George had found it, but remembered he hadn’t gone out with everyone, knowing it was better to stay behind and sleep, or at least not be on his feet all afternoon. Matty also remembered that along with the shirt, George returned from their afternoon off with a wrapped sandwich—the same kind he'd eaten earlier—knowing Matty slept through his own alarms and reminders to wake up and eat.

Matty took the shirt and quickly gathered all the fabric around the collar, pulling it over his head before running his hands along the inside to find the sleeves. The shirt was obviously meant to be slightly oversized—slightly, that was, for someone like George. For Matty, it was very much just the wrong size. The collar was too wide for Matty’s neck, haloing his collarbone. The bottom hem was low, hanging past his hips. The vintage, striped Macintosh logo was printed into the fabric, rather than on a thin layer of plastic, but still the crease from how the shirt had been folded held firm. Matty smoothed it best he could, running his flat, clammy palms down his chest. The sleeves hung around his arms with enough space that, as Matty stood in front of the mirror with the cuffs wrapped around his thumbs, Matty sort of couldn’t tell where his arms were in there. It was a comforting sort of lost; he was present—that much was obvious to everyone—but he wasn’t being forward about it. He wasn’t asking to be observed. Hopefully, then, everyone wouldn’t feel the need to do so.

“I think I have another one with sleeves if that one’s too big.” George sounded apologetic, bracing for disappointment.

“This is good.”

“Are you sure?” George asked as he adjusted the shoulder hems to rest evenly over Matty. “You don't mind?”

“Mind what?”

“Being seen in this? I’ve been wearing it a bunch—that’s sort of a me shirt now. You don’t have to—”

“I don’t care. Do you? I sort of just sprung that on you, didn't I?”

“I don't—It's fine. Great—yeah. Sounds good.” George tried to clear his throat to crack the smile pulling at the corner of his lips. Matty couldn’t tell if it was the transparency and ease of the moment or the implied, deep comfort that was making George's eyes drop to the floor as his cheeks bloomed a sweet, endearing pink.

Matty hoped it was both: the giddiness of being open about a partner as well as the rattling vulnerability that came with, silently and for the first time, being told he—and even just the lingering presence of him—was a reliable and trusted source of comfort for Matty.

On the elevator ride down to the lobby, they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, facing the doors. Matty bumped his foot against George’s, flashing him a quick smile when he turned his attention away from the decreasing floor numbers. In the suspended moment between floors—a stolen minute between their world and everyone else’s—George muttered a quiet I love you before kissing Matty on a miscalculated mid-point between his temple and forehead. With the elevator’s momentum slowing, and their moment ending, Matty pretended to find a hole at the bottom of George's shirt, worn through by countless pulls down over his waist. Matty waited until the last second, when the doors were about to open and George was looking at his hands as they pulled on his shirt, to lift his head and peck George on the lips.

The elevator doors opened and the sound of George’s laughter spilled out before they had the chance. It was Matty’s favorite accompaniment when entering a room; George’s laugh was a sound Matty knew so well, so instinctively, it felt like introducing himself to a room with a variant of his own name.

Adam and Ross had already claimed a table in the hotel’s sitting and dining area. Adam sat facing the entrance, while Ross was across from him, his arm around one of the three available seats at the table: two across from each other and one at the head of the table. Upon finally seeing them—or hearing their continued, cacophonous laughter—Adam held up two disposable coffee cups, beckoning them over with a smile. Ross turned and offered a wave with both hands, as if to compensate.

“Hann, I could kiss you.” Matty softly gasped, leaning over the table to take the coffee with both hands. He placed a knee on the empty chair beside Ross while George walked around to take the seat beside Adam.

“Thank you works just fine too.” Adam said. He slid packets of sugar and a handful single-serving creamers to the center of the table.

George sat down before taking off his cup's lid and shaking two sugar packets between his thumb and forefinger. Matty was still partially standing as he popped the flimsy plastic lid and took a messy, hurried gulp. By that point in their touring careers, Matty knew all hotel coffee was lukewarm at best.

“Should we give you a minute alone with that?” Ross watched Matty lean forward to avoid dripping coffee on George’s new shirt. “Jesus! Take a breath, Matty.”

Matty hummed against the rolled paper rim before lowering the cup, now nearly half empty.

“Fuck, I needed that.” He wiped the corners of his mouth with his thumb and forefinger, careful not to use his sleeves.

“I can see that.” Ross said, eyebrows jokingly raised. He pulled the chair beside him back, urging Matty to sit. “You’re still this tired? All night, what were you doing—”

“Hey, come on.” George waved Ross’s question away as he raised his cup up to his lips already curving into a smile. “I’ve got a name.”

“Oh, full of jokes, are we?” Matty said, kicking him under the table. “He’s just pissed I fell asleep before him for once.”

“Don’t brag. You almost fell asleep with your shoes on.”

“Again?” Adam shook his head with amused disbelief.

“Again.” George nodded. “Nothing like getting all the backstage and tour bus grime on new, clean bedsheets.”

“I wasn’t fucking standing on the mattress, George. It would’ve just been at the bottom. Calm down.”

“Where your feet go and where my feet go are two very different places.” George laughed, lifting his hand to show the difference in height and how Matty curling his legs up in bed meant he was dragging his shoes up the length of George’s legs and hips—almost torso depending on how contorted Matty slept. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t try to wear them to bed—oh, and the belt too. I’m pretty sure that’s just generally horrible for you.”

“You fell asleep in a belt?” Ross repeated, pausing until George nodded. “I didn’t think that was possible.”

“Neither did I, but Matty continues to be one of a kind, huh?”

“No, I continue to be really fucking sore.”

“And George had nothing to do with that?” Adam quipped. He lifted his eyebrows before averting his eyes—and avoiding a scolding—to point out the buffet being set out on the other side of the room.

Before Matty could volunteer himself to get breakfast—rather than being told—George stood and began walking over to the tables. He stepped sideways, pointing at Matty and asking if he could pick for him; one less decision Matty would have to make, since already his clothes had taken more effort than anticipated. Matty hoped his body would find more agreement with what he put into it rather than over it that morning. Ross stood next, tapping the table in front of Adam in a quiet exchange.

Matty thought it was an unnecessarily sweet gesture until he realized he’d effectively been left alone with Adam—who was trying very hard to pretend he was typing out some small manifesto on his phone rather than stalling. When the heel of Ross's back foot disappeared past the corner wall, both he and George fully out of sight, Adam placed his phone facedown on the table.

“Feeling alright this morning?” Adam asked. He only looked up when he was finished his question, as if giving Matty the privacy to roll his eyes before answering—before knowing he had to answer. He owed everyone that much. He could very much tolerate his best friends checking in on him.

“Never better.”

“Did you get any sleep last night?”

“Yes, George was just trying—and keyword trying—to be funny.” Matty said more sincerely, nodding his head to ward off the concern furrowing Adam’s brow. “I went right to bed. To sleep.”

Adam looked back over at the buffet before leaning forward on his elbows. He flexed his fingers, splaying his hands flat against the table before curling them into relaxed fists. Matty watched him sort out his next sentence. He watched Adam preemptively calculate his reaction to it. Matty waited, pretending to consider the addition of creamer to his coffee.

“I know things are different—better—with George now, but if talking to him is ever… weird, you know you can always talk to me or Ross, right?” Adam said. Matty blinked at him slowly, realizing Adam had put both of his own hands on the table in preparation of taking both of Matty’s, if need be.

“What are you getting at?”

“You’d tell us if your appetite disappears again, yeah? Or if you’re sleepwalking—”

“I haven’t done that in weeks.” Matty said.

It wasn’t even anything worrying or dangerous. Matty had walked into the hotel bathroom and turned on the tap before sitting down with his back braced against the sink stand, the water heard splashing above him. He’d been having a very strange dream about waterfalls and billowing waves of steam and the thin mist of a humid, tropical climate—but also drowning. Of standing in the open sky and not having enough space. Of a constant dripdripdrip on his skin and feeling like a hammer coming down on a nail right between his eyes. He was woken up when George heard Matty mumbling to himself about how much he’d much prefer it if he’d have swimming lessons before being taken to the pool.

“Just promise you’ll come to one of us if you don’t want to tell George something might be going on.”

“Hann, really, I’m fine. George and I are good, I’m good, things are good. Like they used to be.”

Adam finally placed his hand over one of Matty’s. The last time Adam had done this—let their usual closeness and ease of touch lean into something so direct yet vulnerable—it had been Adam’s attempt at an intervention. He had hoped to reach Matty on their familiar, near-familial level before his defenses shot up and blocked out the concern in Adam’s eyes and warped it into judgement. This time though, his face was softer and he was still smiling. He wasn’t worried. He wasn't sick with concern. He was just being Matty’s friend.

Matty had barely considered the possibility of noticing when normalcy would return between the two of them as well.

“I just want to make sure you’re feeling alright. You’ve got enough doctors and crew medics and traveling nurses poking and prodding you, I don’t really feel like adding onto that,” Adam laughed as Matty quietly expressed playful disappointment in his refusal to prod him. “but I also know that you’re living through something we all haven’t, so if something’s not right or maybe a doctor isn’t listening or, fuck, I don’t know…”

“Don't be so diplomatic, Hann. For fuck’s sake, what is it? What are you worried about?” Matty said sternly but still with a laugh. “Do I look sickly to you?”

Adam curled his fingers around Matty’s hand so he couldn’t recoil, even before he spoke. “I mean, you are swimming in that shirt, Matty.”

“I—well, yeah.” Matty laughed, furrowing his eyebrows. He was sure Adam had been there when George bought it. “I’m not exactly the same dimensions as George—don’t read into that. I just mean, ya know,” Matty held a hand up to gesture their height difference. Adam's face relaxed and in a quiet, sudden gasp—the sound of things clicking into place.

“You’re borrowing that from George.” He sounded both shocked and relieved.

“And are we… surprised by this?”

“Oh, thank god.” Adam sighed, jokingly collapsing forward and resting his forehead on top of their hands. “I thought we’d all been not paying attention and you were under ten—oh fucking thank god.” He lifted his head as Ross returned, solo, and sat down next to Matty. “Ross, it’s George’s shirt.”

“That’s why—okay. Well, that’s a fucking relief.”

Matty wanted to pick a fight about why his were friends talking about him when he wasn’t there to speak for himself. Until he remembered, previously, he hadn’t exactly been the best person to defend his case or even present anything useful on his behalf. That had always been George—and Matty had made George into a bit of a fool and a liar for a while because of it...

Adam and Ross were still trying to learn how to navigate Matty’s new life and habits and limits and, even in their own distanced and indirect way, body: what it looked like safe and healthy; what it looked like exhausted on stage; what it looked like dangerously close to collapse just after curtains, only able to see Matty's gait in the backlit shadows of the stage wings; what it looked like fighting nausea and how that was far different from being carsick; what it looked like languid and content and pleased, propped up against George’s side but still fully able to support his own weight if he wanted (which he didn’t).

They meant no malice. Matty had to recognize this was sometimes what love looked like; how it was reshaped after being forced into the wrong mold to try and hide the breaks. Although, Matty wondered if Adam and Ross had wondered about Matty’s weight—mistaking George’s shirt, and the way it dwarfed his proportions, as confirmation of their concerns—had George done the same in his own, private way? When there was no one to share in the anxiety of observation. Once again, Matty had trapped George in an unspeakable cycle of worry—

“Where’s the coffee? I need a refill already.” Matty carefully—without recoiling—pulled his hand out from under Adam’s and grabbed his coffee cup.

“Along the back wall.” Ross began to lift himself from his chair. “I can just do it if you want—”

“No, sit down. I can do it. And I’ll get George’s, too, actually.” Matty shook his head while pushing his chair back. He grabbed George’s cup and was surprised to find it was already half-empty as well. Matty hurried from the table, trying not to look avoidant, panicked, or like he was about to spiral—something he so desperately wanted to do. But he knew that wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t reasonable and there was nothing that Adam said that needed such a thorough and frantic flickering through of possibilities and worse case scenarios.

George was leaning against the long serving table, scrolling through his phone while the toaster beside him ticked down. Matty nudged his foot again as he walked over to the various coffee pots. He looked up suddenly, startled, before his face relaxed to into a more recognizable surprise—before furrowing again.

“Do you really think two coffees on an empty stomach is a good idea?”

“Oi, back off. One of these is yours.” Matty said, popping the lid to show George the granules of sugar stuck to the inside of the cup; the coffee not hot enough to dissolve all of it. “I’m helping.” The correct word was apologizing.

“You didn’t have to do that. I was going to come back for them.” George said.

Them. Both cups. George had already accounted for the amount Matty would have downed in the time it took him to return with breakfast. He took his cup from Matty and began filling it. Matty stood to the side with his hip leaning against the edge of the table. He began biting the rolled edge of the cup between his front teeth in an even pattern. George gently tugged the paper cup out of Matty’s hand and mouth when he made no motion to begin filling it back up himself.

“You know I’ve kept weight, right?” Matty said quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re getting my breakfast and I—I don’t want you to think you have to. Maybe it seems like—” Matty shook his head and sighed. “I’ve kept weight.”

“I know you have. You’ve told me.” George nodded. He gave Matty a look that said he also knew from the nights Matty would invite George to move closer to him and tell him it was okay to touch him if he wanted. When he would guide George’s hands—over his shirt—to the parts of him that weren’t in pain but seemed to hurt the most. From the nights when they would try to keep Matty’s body from becoming a stranger to them both.

“I know, but George I want to tell you—”

“Why are you telling me something I already know?”

“You didn’t even hear what I was going to say.”

“I’m sure I’ve heard it already. You have this persistent habit of telling me everything.” George said with a soft, airy laugh. There had only ever been two things Matty had withheld from George: first, that he had slipped into a closed-loop cycle of addiction he’d seemed to find the exit out of many times before—or thought he had—but was now unable to consider such a thing. And second, that he loved George.

“Thank you.”

“Eh, heard that already too.” George smiled, holding out Matty’s coffee.

Matty took the cup with two hands, the end of his sleeves resting in the crease of his palms. Matty rested the cup on his bottom lip, as if there was a coil of steam to warm his face. As if something as flimsy as a paper cup could give him reprieve from the way George was looking at him—simply knowing him. George pulled Matty’s cup away to cover it with a new plastic lid. Matty steadied his hands and pushed back against George to help it snap into place. The collaborative effort felt like a conversation. An affirmation they were still in tune and intertwined. Matty had worried for nothing. About nothing.

At the coffee station, they were tucked out of sight of the dining room. Matty didn’t want to leave the rare kind of privacy that was removed from isolation: they were alone together, but also still able to hear the quiet bustle of life around them, rather than the low hum of their room’s air conditioner or the sound of traffic on the street below. He wanted to be able to be a person (perceived) and a man (loved) for a moment longer. He took a sip from his coffee before starting back for their table.

A snag on the back of Matty’s shirt brought him to an abrupt halt, his shoes squeaking on the floor. He thought his shirt had caught on something and he was about to drag an entire coffee pot to the ground, but instead saw the back slack of his shirt fisted in George’s hand.

“Realized there’s something I haven’t told you yet.” George said quietly; carefully soft-spoken but not daring to be a breathy whisper. Not there. He looked over Matty, the way his own shirt was hanging over Matty, before meeting his eyes again. “It looks good on you.”

“The shirt?”

“All of it.” George’s hand smoothed out the bunched-up fabric before resting flat against the small of his back.

His fingers pushed into the curve of his hip and despite the extra fabric hanging around him, Matty felt somehow more exposed. Never more known and acknowledged; this wasn’t George picking up on anything Matty had told him—or incoherently tried to articulate for the fifth time, hands waving around as he stuttered. This was a wordless observation, only the touch of their bodies. The connection that never needed question.

“You had me all alone upstairs and you’re choosing now to talk like this?”

“Would you have believed me this morning?” George asked. He tore the top off a sugar packet in three short tears. Matty waited and watched before answering.

“…Probably not.”

If George had come onto him that morning, while welcome and more thrilling than any other prospect of the day, Matty had enough insight to know the unsettled anxiety, usually found alone in the mirror, would’ve only shown itself in a far more vicious form if he caught a look at himself pressed against George—all but begging him to be inside—both rutting up against the other in the most unpolished, ungroomed versions of themselves. The version of George that Matty loved getting to see the most—but the version of himself Matty was still getting acclimated to seeing. Half awake, but still far more bright and alert; so able to recognize himself and his humanity. Immediately and with nowhere to hide.

“Promise to remind me again later?” Matty said, tapping under George’s chin.

“What did we say about promises?” George said.

George didn’t understand, yet, that Matty's flirtation was never meant to act as a promise. It wasn't some preemptive decision he wouldn't let himself back out of. It was just hope. It was a plea with himself to please be able to settle back into the comfort of George’s arms and not do so in a collapse. Not asking for help or support, for a favor, for just a little more, George, please—I can’t. George had already given him so much. And he’d done all of it without a single promise; no foreshadowing, nothing said to hold him accountable.

George sent Matty back to the table with a kiss and soft-spoken I love you. He said it as a reminder, not a promise. It was impossible to promise the obvious.

Matty began to feel the effects of the caffeine from his two cups of coffee as they drove to the radio station. His fingertips were cold against his palms, but he also knew he was beginning to sweat, even as he braced the chilled morning air walking from the parking lot to the station’s back entrance. Matty had faced worst ailments before radio interviews and live acoustic sets—nearly fainting a few weeks prior as a consequence of jetlag, poor appetite, and standing up from his seat to exit the car with far too much confidence. If Ross hadn’t been taking his sweet time getting out in front of him, Matty was sure he would have faceplanted onto the asphalt.

But, that morning, he got out of the car just fine. He got through the backdoor and to the hosts' studio without having to lift a finger—or, more importantly, put down his now-empty, strictly-for-comfort disposable coffee cup. Even the hasty, awkward introductions between hosts and band went considerably well. Matty just wished the studio had given them chairs.

The four of them spent the next hour and a half standing on the opposite side of the hosts’ desk, Matty trying his best to look comfortable. He was still sore, the ache from the firm mattress lingering in his hip and shoulder; standing upright sent steady, pulsing waves of pain around his lower back but he couldn’t lean on the table to shift his weight off his feet without his shoulder stiffening up. He kept checking the time in one of the hosts’ monitors to see when his pain reliever would start kicking in—or to count and see if it had, and he was just not getting any relief and would have to wait another few hours before he could take anything else. If he was told he could do so—he knew they weren’t exactly supposed to be taken with the same frequency as his multivitamin.

He tried shaking out his legs when the show turned from their interview and commentary back to music—their music. The hosts were playing each of the five singles from their new album in release order all morning. Matty was bouncing on the balls of his feet while TooTime played. He pushed off one headphone so he could keep the song in the background while everyone chatted on their break. It could’ve been considered dancing, rather than something a PT suggested to him, strictly because there was music playing.

The crack of his ankles, though, was definitely something not wished to be heard on any dancefloor.

It didn’t hurt—actually was a joint Matty hadn’t noticed was hurting until it no longer was—but the sound made George turn his head, tuning out the room’s conversation to stare at Matty. His eyes scanned him to find the source, but Matty was standing still and upright; it wasn’t obvious what he’d been flexing.

“Was that your bones?” George asked as quietly as his incredulity would allow.

Matty nodded and snorted out a laugh, pressing his lips together to keep from smiling too widely.

“Why are you laughing? Didn’t that hurt?” George asked, although Matty’s infectious laughter was already getting him.

“George,” Matty said, grabbing his arm as he leaned forward into his shoulder. He turned his face away to keep their conversation, hopefully, unnoticed. “those were my ankles.”

“I really am going to have to start carrying you places, huh?” George muttered, grinning back at him.

Matty rested his forehead against George’s shoulder like he had earlier that morning. This time though, he did it mostly to hide his scrunched up giggling from the hosts and microphones about to be turned back on, rather than closing his eyes to avoid the reflection waiting across from him. For a moment, with his nose pressed against George’s shirt, he found scarce traces of George’s soap and faded cologne under the unfamiliar detergent: natural and bright, but decidedly not floral. Something like open skies and tall grass, earthly in a way that was home. The smell of someone who had been outside in the sun, somehow, as if it rose and set inside of George.

George always had warmth Matty felt like he could tangle his fingers in, bring close and tug to his body. But, standing there in the studio, he had to settle for the slack of George’s shirt sleeves, wrapped around his thumbs and bunched in his palms.

It wasn’t yet noon before the interview had wrapped, station merchandise had been signed, Matty was prevented from being given his third cup of coffee by a station intern, and all four of them were back at the hotel and up in their rooms. Matty had managed to get to their room using his own two feet, much credit to his own restraint. He was tempted to amp up the twinge in his left knee, or bemoan how much walking they’d done when he was supposed to be resting, to get George to carry him. The only thing that consistently stopped him was the thought something playful to him and George could turn into actual concern for anyone else. The last thing Adam needed to see was Matty woefully complaining he needed to be carried. Although, the last thing anyone needed to see was how willing George was to do it…

Matty sat on the edge of their bed and untied his shoes. George had already kicked off his own and was emptying his pockets. He placed his cigarettes and lighter on the window ledge, a quiet invite for later. They could easily go downstairs to smoke outside—as they probably should—but George was giving the option for both of them to not leave the comfort of their room again, for as long as Matty wanted.

While George had his back turned, Matty toed off his shoes and flopped back onto the mattress. He let his arms stretch out over both of their sides, his fingers barely reaching the edge. His short, heavy exhale got George to turn around again.

“If you’re going to asleep, you should at least get out of your jeans this time.” George said, shaking his head. “I bet you’re going to feel a lot better if you aren’t in a belt either.”

Matty hoisted up the hem of his shirt. “Alright then, you do it.”

“Matty, I’m not taking your pants off for you.” George laughed, walking over to the bed to sit. “Nudge over, c’mon.”

“Then I’m going to sleep in them.” Matty said, turning over onto his stomach to give George more room to sit.

“I refuse to believe that’s comfortable. And I also refuse to believe you’re that stubborn.”

“Yeah?”

“Matty, you have the chance to sleep for the next,” George pulled his phone from his pocket. “eight hours before I bother you to eat something. Why would you make yourself do that in jeans?”

“Fine.” Matty sighed. It would be harder to hook his leg over George’s when they were constrained by stretch-less seams and structured denim. Matty grabbed the slat running along the footboard to help hoist himself upright, although he pretended to struggle to keep George’s hand on his lower back for just a moment longer.

Matty should have caught himself, his habit, when he tapped his thumb against each of his other fingers—twice—before reaching to unbuckle his belt.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten undressed in front of George this closely. Standing almost directly in front of George, a presentation without performance, while George looked at him. He wasn’t watching, wasn’t staring, wasn’t tracing over the bent curve of Matty’s back as he pushed his jeans down.

While reaching to pull on the frayed bottom hem of his one pant leg, Matty’s foot got caught and he nearly toppled over. He quickly dropped his foot and reached out for the bed to catch himself, but George braced him first. George grabbed Matty’s hip, keeping his center of balance rooted, and put his forearm out for Matty to push against. The save was instantaneous but still tender. George held onto Matty without haste or pressure. It was the way Matty always wanted to be held, the unworried comfort of intimacy he’d been missing—and so afraid to ask for, knowing he was still dealing with the consequences of trying to be the better person he wanted to be for George—to be with George.

“What’s wrong?” George asked softly. He moved his hand from Matty’s hip across his lower back, inviting him to step closer into his space. There wasn’t much room left before Matty bumped into George’s knees.

“Nothing. Just miss you touching me like that.”

Matty missed being able to be touched like that: tender and familiar, while still knowing he could answer George’s invitation and pull him closer, flush against his chest—bare chest—and not be worried of how he’d react to being gripped, held, or squeezed; feel sure that at no point would his body become a stranger to him—to George’s—and recoil from the vulnerability of being naked in all ways. Not worry it would give out when Matty needed it most, when he was about to let the rush of finally having George crash over him. Matty missed being in complete control of how he was able to receive intimacy. He could want it, could ask for it—and be given it—but sometimes taking it in was a battle he was somehow consistently unprepared to fight.

“Like what?” George wasn’t being obtuse or coy. His eyes dropped to his right hand, still smoothing over Matty’s back, as if studying his motions. “I’m not trying to—”

“I know—I know you’re not. But I am. I want to, but—” Matty shrugged as if held any clarity. “Can we just pretend? Not worry I can’t finish or I’m still not strong enough or that I’ll get lightheaded or—”

Wordlessly, nodding slowly with each addition to Matty’s request, George invited Matty to sit across his lap. It was intimate, sitting on George’s lap while he was in jeans and Matty was just in his pants, but it didn’t feel suggestive. It didn't have to be.

Matty placed one hand against George’s cheek and slowly pulled him down to meet his kiss. He was timid; unsure if he should close his lips all the way or keep them as they were, slightly parted from his short gasp when he realized George’s hand was resting on his thigh, and he wasn't pulling away. George met Matty where he was, moving slowly but with earnestness; kissing Matty hard but with more certainty than haste. They both paused to take long, relieved breaths before returning to the familiar. To each other.

“I’m sorry I’m still trying to sort this out—” Matty apologized, pulling away first. George didn’t chase his lips, but his hand stayed on his thigh.

“I told you; there’s no rush. What you’ve wanted recently is fine—”

“But I want you. Not just needing you. That’s not fair, that’s not the same. That’s not how I wanted this to go—”

“Matty, I love when you need me.” George spoke barely above a whisper, low and against his shoulder before kissing it gently. He kept his eyes on Matty, looking up at him with a certainty and directness Matty felt himself shrink under.

“George…”

“I missed you so much when you were away. It was good you took the time and your space and I’m so proud of you—” George always said that, and every time Matty instantly, internally, spoke over George’s voice to tell himself he had to say that; he was just being nice. But this time, after the initial kneejerk rejection, Matty listened also to the unspoken words said by George’s right hand, slipping under Matty’s shirt to run along his bare back. Slow, careful, soothing. He wanted to believe George, just a little bit. Just this once. “It’s so good to have you home. And I understand things need to be different for a little while, but why would I care about any of that if you’re here?” His fingers curled around his hip. “If I’m back with you.”

“I love you.” Matty wanted one of these times for the words to stop sounding like I’m sorry. “I love you.” Still the words came out wrong, somehow.

Matty tried again, this time hoping if he moved his lips mostly with a kiss, maybe the words would find their way out properly. He slid his arms around George’s neck. One of his hands found its way into George’s hair. His fingers threaded through the his short, soft curls, but didn’t pull.

In a fourth attempt, the words came out entirely wrong. With the lips of intimacy and a shared tongue Matty said, “I’m sorry, George.”

“Hey,” George said, pulling back. “I don’t need an apology—that’s not what I’m asking for. That’s not what I meant.”

“George…” Matty muttered, his eyes falling to the hand—his hand—fiddling with the collar of George’s short. His fingers grazed the base of George’s throat, but his eyes stayed on Matty, unfazed. “You don’t have to placate me. I know it’s not exactly exciting to fill in for my hand when I get tennis elbow—”

“Knowing you trust me enough to get you there when you need it? Needing me? Asking if you can need me?” George whispered. “How could I not love that? How could I not love you no matter what you want?”

So, George did get it after all.

He understood Matty’s persistence to finding their rhythm again wasn’t about needing to be fucked or falling back into their previous patterns of treating their long-time, deep-rooted connection as just an avenue and reason to hook up any and everywhere they could. George knew it was Matty’s outreach for something loving and familiar and safe. Something Matty could trust could take him when he was so unsure of where his body was telling him to go: a set of hands that were never rough or callous when handling him, never startled when there was a rounded, protruding bump of hipbone where previous there had been a pad of soft skin—or now the reverse. Patience that stretched on longer than Matty had for himself when his climb to the peak of his pleasure backslid into a grumbled exhale of plateaued nothingness. Lips that still treated him—either with words or touch—like the same man he’d always been, the one that fit in next to the man George was.

George moved his hand from Matty’s thighs to rest on his hip, while his other hand returned to soothing the ache in Matty's back from standing—one he hadn’t even articulated to George yet. His hands couldn’t cure the strain of discomfort, but the touch enough to keep Matty from feeling so singular in his pain and his healing. Matty gently tugged the bottom of his shirt out from under George’s hand, allowing it full, flush contact with his bare skin. George had touched Matty’s waist, back, and hips under his shirt when they curled up together in hotel beds—it wasn’t new territory much anymore, of course—but something fluttered in Matty’s chest when he kept the shirt lifted, not covering George’s hand back up, like the sheets on their bed.

“Can I see you?” George said. He kept eye contact with Matty as he slowly nodded. “Let me look at you.”

George took the bottom of Matty’s shirt and began to pull it up, helping Matty slide out his arms and head. He let it fall to the floor by their feet, his hands returning to hold Matty: one hand resting on his thighs again—higher up and nearly resting over his lower stomach—the other on his lower back. Matty’s hands reached for George’s shirt, fisting the slack found around his waist and pulling upward.

“Matty—”

“No, I know—I know. I just want to touch you.” Matty wanted to feel the dull weight of his own body touch and reunite with the warmth of George’s. It was the only chance they’d ever have at sharing the same, singular space: one body, one pace of breathing, one pattering heart.

George’s shirt was forgotten on the ground as Matty stood again, gently nudging George to move back on the bed. Matty tried to kneel at first, straddling George’s legs in order to face him, but before he could lean his weight on his bent leg a pinch of pain flashed through the joint. Matty grabbed George by the shoulders to hold himself up as he eased himself back onto both feet.

“Careful.” George said. His hands instinctively held Matty’s ribs, falling to his waist when Matty was upright again. “Here, you sit—we can switch.”

“I don’t know if I can hold you up, George.” Matty admitted, stepping back from the bed. “I—Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about that—why don’t you sit down. For me?” George stood to meet Matty, one hand reaching for him, the other motioning to his previous spot at the edge of the bed.

“Can’t you just hold me. Like this?” Matty asked, tucking his hands up under his chin and arms against his chest; compact and only slightly cowering. “Let me just feel—please.”

At first, George’s arms were heavy on his shoulders. He looped them loosely around Matty's neck before slipping down and finally pulling Matty flush to his chest. The heat of George’s skin, now no longer shrouded in fabric or fear, was immediate and all the more overwhelming.

Matty was remembering how it felt to fit against George. But also, in a way, remembering how he fit into his own body. At first, it came as a wave of self-consciousness: being touched by George’s hands—under or over clothing—was like offering only separate, unattached pieces of a puzzle. The full image and its proportions were unidentifiable. But being touched by all of George, being held one-to-one with his body, was a complete assembly. There was nothing to hide, nothing missed. It was terrifying as well as disorientating. All of a sudden, Matty had no choice but to be present and fill out to every border of his body—or else how else was he ever going to reach what waited inside George’s? Matty didn’t want George to feel like he had to search for him.

Matty wanted to be in his body, not just then or because he was with George, but because it was the body that was learning with him how to live a different life. It was the body that was telling him he hurt and where he ached because it wanted him to heal, not continue to wear himself ragged, raw, and into ruins. Any resistance it had seemed to come with a point; investment in himself and longevity of recovery—not just from any one thing, but from being alive and being in love and being stubborn enough to want to keep doing both.

“Matty? What’s wrong?” George pulled back but still kept one hand on Matty’s neck. George ducked down to better look into his eyes, as well as grab something from the floor. “Here, let’s cover you back up—what happened? Are you alright?”

Matty didn’t realize he was crying until George pulled the collar of a shirt over his head, and the front of his collar was damp.

“I’m fine. Just fine.” Matty said, taking a deep breath with surprising success. He was able to exhale with a smile. 

The smell of sheer brightness, of tangible warmth, of being sun-soaked and comforted and free covered Matty before he understood where it was all coming from. George had given him the shirt he’d previously had on, the smell of detergent overpowered—outlived and replaced with the safety of George.

Matty fell back into George’s chest and managed another deep, steady breath. Inside George’s shirt, and inside his arms, Matty felt contained but not held together. He was known but not discovered. Matty could let himself be—exhausted, loved, probably hungry, still crying—and know that in return, he’d get to know George—concerned, loving, just as exhausted, beginning to cry too.

Perhaps a new way Matty could try to say I love you, to negate the apology tied to it with his tongue, was to not speak at all. It was possible that to begin saying he loved George, Matty would need to acknowledge—with tears, or with silence, or with a quiet no, just another second as he kept George against him—that he, Matty, was loved. Accepting that George was still in love with him.

“George—”

“You don’t have to tell me,” George said with a quiet, wet laugh. “I know you do.”