matty healy imagines

don't you mind? // gatty (george and matty)

Eyes fixated on the words.

The words.

George wants to hear them.

Usually Matty is bright about what he’s got to share.

Usually, he shares it with the whole band.

However, this is different. Everything is different.

Matty’s kind of curled in on himself, like he’s trying to make himself small; knees now tucked into his chest and wild hair skewing George’s view of his face. Matty raises a hand to his hair to let a finger tug on one of his locks, curling round and round. “..Um. Before I sing it though, can you, like,” Matty pauses to lick over his lips. Sighing through his nostrils, “promise not to tell Ross and Hann ‘bout this?”

Matty is never this way. He’s never secretive with what he writes.

Matty is always an open book.

At least to the band, he is.

They’re Matty’s closest friends, after all.

George just shrugs and fishes around in his pocket for his pack of Marlboro’s, “‘Course. Whatever you feel comfortable with, love.” Matty looks up at the term of endearment and can’t help but offer a small smile, to which George grins. “Right. Okay. Thanks.” Matty speaks softly just as George procures his pack of smokes. Matty’s eyes travel the movement of George placing a cigarette between his lips, closing his eyes for only a moment as he lights up and takes a drag. George doesn’t catch Matty watching, though-- by the time he’s got his eyes open and gaze landed on the other man, he’s back to looking down at his notebook.

“Go onnn~” George teases lightheartedly, shoving gently at Matty’s shoulder with his hand and grinning from ear to ear when Matty mumbles for him to ‘piss off’ because he can almost hear the playfulness laced in his words, can almost hear his usual Matty; confident and boisterous.

His Matty.

Matty clears his throat as George takes another drag, blowing the smoke carefully out the side of his mouth, back slouched slightly from his comfortable position-- and if George’s mum were here she’d be tutting and telling him to work on having better posture. But she’s not here, it’s just George and Matty in their dimly lit room, it’s just their perpetually unmade bed and the last splotches of sunlight painting the cracked walls.

George is practically dying to hear what Matty has written.

As the smoke from George’s cigarette begins to fill the room, so does Matty’s voice.

Subdued. Mournful.

Not what George expects.

I got a plane in the middle of the night. Don’t you mind?

I nearly killed somebody. Don’t you mind, don’t you mind?

Matty’s singing but at the same time, he’s not. It’s like he’s just speaking very quietly-- it’s his voice cracking and breaking away and drawing off at points George can’t seem to reach.

Like Matty is really far away and George just can’t reach.

He’s right there, and all George would have to do is lean his arm over and reel Matty in.

But sometimes, Matty is untouchable. Sometimes he just needs to get something out without George in the way. Without anyone in the way.

This is one of those times.

So George continues to listen.

...I’m sorry but I’d rather be getting high than watching my family die.