takes a bit more • matthew healy

xxxvi.) gabby

nobody would want to talk to me the moment the show ended.

i don't blame them really.

adam is on his phone, the powdered makeup—or whatever you call it—smudged across his face, and i don't know where the rest of the boys are at this point. george is probably smoking somewhere out in the back and i think ross had gone to the loo, but with the amount of alcohol i had taken onstage, my drunk arse isn't too sure of anything really.

fucking hell, i'm just on the couch and the room is so fucking silent you most definitely can hear a pin drop.

it's driving me a bit mental; the polarity of performing for a thousand people and ending it alone with no one to talk to.

i make my way towards the tiny refrigerator to get myself another bottle of wine in case they have it.

i know i'm drunk but i have not had a proper meal the entire day, which is not much of a big deal, only i've been getting quite an intense constant headache for the past five hours or so, and the sound of people cheering and the drums and adam's guitar riff awhile back was not helping one bit.

intense constant headache. i know it's the drugs.

the lack thereof, rather.

but like all things in my life and my egoistic self, i constantly ignore the throbbing in my brain and proceed to resort to alcohol to alleviate the pain, no matter how superficial the healing process seems to be.

adam tries to stops me in the fridge.

"what's that you're getting, mate?" he sounds tensed. his voice comes out shaky and i can't help but roll my eyes.

"as if i'm about to pull out a pack of coke in here, mate, chill the fuck out."

"you do realise you're a drug addict." i hear george in the room. he must have entered. fucking george.

fucking george who has his nose up my fucking brain, completely criticizing every move i ever make.

fucking george who spends time with my girlfriend like nobody's fucking business.

fucking george who is almost always right and it's mad.

it's mad how he's always right.

i sit beside him on the couch, drinking more alcohol because i just would love to pass out and skip everything at this point.

george chuckles darkly. "you're an arse, aren't you?"

i shrug, taking another swig. "i'm not quite sure, really, would you like to elaborate on that?"

"you're drunk." he spits out. "we just found out you've been abusing coke and now you're fucking drunk, healy, is this some kind of joke to you? is addiction a fucking joke?"

i sigh. i do look and sound like an arse at this very moment, but for fuck's sake, the look on george's face pleasures me in a way.

so i just start laughing.

"the fuck are you laughing at?" he's red now, and i'm drunk, and it's funny.