That 000000 & ffffff || Matty Healy

You're Cold And I Burn

/ / Y O U ' R E  C O L D A N D I B U R N / /

I stick out like a sore thumb. I know I do. My hair is a blonde mess atop my head, matching my boyfriend's own bun, if I'm honest with myself. I'm wearing gray sweats with the drawstrings mismatched in length and perhaps my t-shirt is a bit too fitted, and – for god's sake – I'm wearing dirty old high tops and no socks on.

At least Matty blends in seamlessly with the crowd, in a Jay Z esque 'all black everything' outfit – his usual, I'd have to say. We're not in a club, so there are a few ladies that aren't wearing dresses, and that'd make me feel a bit better, if I was even paying enough attention.

The pub is something a few blocks from my campus and only in the back of my mind do I ponder the thought of having to run into one of my classmates or worse — a professor. It's easy enough to get in without flashing an I.D. But with the person I'm with, I doubt they'd have even bothered to ask in the first place.

My phone keeps ringing but every time I check, it's Natalie and there's only so much I can handle in one night. I press ignore and try to find Anna, Jamie or George, but it's a lot dimmer in here than I'd originally thought, and a bit more crowded. It's Friday and I suppose it's a given.

My hand in Matty's is tight to the point of numbness, but I don't think either of us mined anymore. I want to know what he has to say, but I don't at the same time. My thoughts contradict itself and my head pounds to the bass of the music, to the thrum of my heart, to the pulse in Matty's wrist.

"Marcy," he calls my name, but I don't pay attention, I need to find my friends – I promised them we'd be there, where are they, I – "Marceline," he's louder this time, but I keep dragging him deeper into the pub, pushing at the bodies bumping into me.

He tugs my hand, pulling me back, having me trip over my own feet before he grips at my shoulder, catching me before I fall, then pinning me to the wall, forcing me to look at him. "Marcy," he says, again. His tone is only slightly harsh and his face looks near irritated – but something must have happened because he relaxes to the brink of deflation, his lips tilting downward and his grip going soft on my body. "Marcy," he says again, so soft I hardly hear him, "Don't cry." He touches my face, just under my eyes and I think my breath catches.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, though I can hardly hear myself.

"Don't apologize." I almost say sorry again, but I shut my mouth last minute. He cracks a smile, tainted with sorrow, and he says, "There you go resembling a fish again. I'm going to miss that."

And I want to tell him not to say things like that – it isn't fair, he said he'd hold off on his confession for me – just for a moment – but his words are indicating something heavier to come and I think I'm going to vomit.

"I found Jamie," is what I say instead, all daze-like, but Matty doesn't turn to look and Jamie only catches my eyes for a second before winking and putting his thumbs up. He turns back to the guy he's chatting with, a curly blonde haired boy wearing a bandana or something of the sort. He's vaguely familiar and I think he might be Drew. Maybe Steve. I wonder how he'd ended up there.

Just to the right of them, a few spaces away, Anna looks to be leading George towards the back of the pub, for air or a smoke, I take a guess. When I try to tell Matty this, I stop myself, because he doesn't care – he's hardly paying attention, because when I return my gaze to him, he's glancing down at me, his stare unwavering.

I swallow thickly, "Don't do that," I plead.

"Do what?"

"Don't look at me like it's the last time you'll ever see me – at least pretend it's not going to happen – give me until tomorrow night, please? I miss you, I haven't seen you in a while and it feels like ages and I don't want the first thing happening to us upon your arrival to be a list of reasons for a break up."