i think you think too much of me (Matty Healy/George Daniel)

2: matty is terrible but i love him so much

"Fuck."

When Matty awoke, the sunlight tore into the room with a blinding brightness. He lay there doing little more than squinting and groaning, in the bed in the spare room, for a good three minutes.

He was too cold, with the sheets curled tightly around only half of his body, and too hot at the same time, as he found himself sweating all over, having fallen asleep in last night's clothes. He hadn't spoken to anyone since he'd come back inside last night; he'd left Amber to explain it all at her leisure, finding that he didn't really mind what became of everything anymore.

Really, the only thing he could focus on that morning was his hangover. Somehow, it had managed to be worse than he'd expected. His mind felt empty like a cavern, but crumbling at the seams, as if the more awake he was, the more everything was caving in. The destruction of everything was inevitable, and Matty lay there, deep into the morning, just letting his head cave in on itself: bitter and regretful of the night before.

The only benefit he found to having passed out in last night's jacket was the easy access to his cigarettes; something he couldn't deny that he needed in that moment. He dug into his pocket and lit one up, gazing across at the open window curiously. From the bright light making its way into the room, he could tell that it had to be somewhere around noon. Despite that the bright sunlight gave him no form of motivation to actually get out of bed.

It didn't take Matty long to conclude that anything he'd discussed last night was off limits. Reality was harsh and bitter when he was sober - it was all far too unpleasant for his taste, and despite his hangover, Matty was just more than certain that he could keep everything at bay if he just tried hard enough.

It was all a fucking mess really. A mess he was quite frankly terrified of. He would let the others think what they wanted of it, but he was certain that the last thing he'd ever want to do was to spare one of his own thoughts away to his great wreck of emotions and half right feelings.

"Fuck." He repeated aloud, just to himself, just to the silence of the room: the quiet of Gemma's house looming all around him.

At the back of his mind, he was sort of vaguely aware of the fact that he really should be getting out of bed soon, but he just wasn't quite ready yet. There was also the fact that he really did reckon that the moment he got to his feet, his head might as well snap straight from his neck and roll off his shoulders, and topple right down to the floor. It was that kind of hangover: one of his worst.

But still, the worst part of it all, by far was the fact that he could remember every second of the previous night in vivid detail. As in the Saturday morning light, Matty felt that if he could have one wish in the whole world, it would be a wish to forget it all, for everything to truly go away.

-

A good half an hour later, Matty finally pulled himself out of bed and to his feet. He did his best not to literally collapse onto the floor as he stumbled downstairs in a desperate rush for a glass of water, or some paracetamol, or anything really.

The very moment he set foot in the kitchen, however, he came to accept that no matter how late he'd left getting out of bed, it was always going to be too early for him to deal with what lay ahead of him.

"Shit- fuck- I thought you'd gone home- I-" Gemma let out a shriek and frantically pulled away from a dark haired boy who'd pinned her up against the wall, their lips connected in a manner that was entirely too graphic for a Saturday morning. The guy was tall and handsome, but with a nose that was far too big for his face.

Matty raised his eyebrows, smirking a little as he stepped into the kitchen and began to root around in the cupboards for a glass. He found that he was just far too hungover to deal with this; not that he'd really care very much either way - they both still had their clothes on, after all.