/ / B L O O D I S O N Y O U R T O N G U E A S W E L L A S Y O U R H A N D S / /
He listened to the interview with Bastille, Matty's not mentioned, though, of course, there's no reason for Dan to mention him really, but still, he wonders what the scenario is, where Marcy is seated, if she's even in the room, queuing her boss on time or maybe she's in the other studio with Jamie, or maybe she's running errands with Anna. Maybe she's on a lunch break with the blue haired girl Matty wishes he could remember her name - but he had always referred to her as the pink headed girl (to which Marcy corrected, "Lilac."), but that's not really plausible, because it was about eight in the morning.
He wonders if Dan remembers Marcy, but that's something she'd have told him, right? Something like: "Matty you won't believe it, but Dan remembered me! He said 'hey, you're Matty's girl, right?'" but none of that had been said to him. He knows she managed to get her dads some sort of exclusive at the studio but that wasn't recorded and all she had reported about it was "It was great, I'm their favorite daughter again."
To which he rolled his eyes, "I don't think they can pick a favorite."
To which she said, "Yes, well. Shut up." And it wasn't joking, it was slightly clipped and he thought he hit a nerve somehow, and he didn't mean to, but it seems as everything he's saying is causing her to bite back.
She said goodbye to him at her door, half sleepy and getting ready for Uni the next day; he's not even sure if she remembered him kissing her lips, softer than anything he's felt before, pulling her shirt as if to drag her closer. He's not sure she remembers the hushed whisper of, "I'm sorry," that he had managed before he left to meet with George (who wasn't as happy as he was at the start: "I didn't fly down here with you only to be trapped in a hotel for a week while you got your dick wet, you asshole."). And it's not like he even knew what he was sorry for.
Sorry for lying and taking drugs when I told you I've stopped. Sorry for getting a supermodel pregnant, granted it was before I met you. Sorry for laughing at you when you told me you loved me when all I wanted to do was say it back and kiss you until my lips ached. Sorry for leaving you again. Sorry for not calling when I landed because I couldn't bear to hear your voice.
Their phone calls are so short now; he can feel the drift transcontinental. She talks about her day some, but it's something a child would tell their parents after school.
"How was your day, sweetheart?"
"Good."
"What did you do?"
"Nothing much."
He meets the Arctic Monkeys briefly during a festival in Australia, but its nothing more than a pass. He takes a picture with Alexa Chung and posts it on instagram, and dances with Arielle Vandenberg, not sure if he's trying to get a reaction from his girlfriend or trying to spite Alex Turner.
"Okay," Adam says taking a seat beside him on some couch in a studio because they're about to start an interview, "What the fuck is going on."
"Don't know what you mean, but I could go for some coffee." Adam doesn't get a chance to respond because they're greeted by an overly cheery cameraman and pretentious interviewer who doesn't seem to like Matty's band.
He knows he's talking a lot of shit, being more of an asshole than usual, throwing out big names and quoting Kafka and Capote, as if trying to prove a point. Adam intervenes more so than he usually would, only to try to steer the conversation to the band or the music or the fucking festival for god's sake, "Why are we talking about Breakfast at Tiffany's; we just performed in front of thousands of fans."
It's later when Matty is out on the balcony, chain smoking a pack of expensive cigarettes that are pink and probably marketed to women, but what the fuck does he care, that George finds him.
"Thought you'd be at the after party."
"After party to what?" he offers George a smoke but he shakes his head in a no, surprisingly.
George shrugs, "Dunno, there's an after party to anything right now. What's wrong? Trouble in paradise?"
Matty considers lying, another one to add to his ever-growing list of lies these days, as it seems, but he spills it, "Marcy told me she loved me."
"Great, about time." George slaps his back and peers down the balcony.
"I laughed at her."
George's eyes snap back to Marty's. "Oh... you massive cûnt," George says softly with a raise in his eyebrows. "That does explain all the emo music you've been listening to lately, though," he mumbles thoughtfully.
"I still snort a lot of drugs. Not just coke."
George's face sobers up from what ever the fuck he was buzzed on and all traces of jokes are gone from him.
It takes Matty a moment to process the cigarette slipping from between his finger and the searing pain literally being punched into him. He flies back, stumbling against the railing, but steadying himself, holding his face in pain and cursing like nothing he's done before, "Okay, fuck, I deserved that," he admits in a mumble.
"You fucker, I knew it - I fucking - Matthew fucking Healy you - "
Matty cuts him off with a scoff, "Yes George, you were right, you fucking told me so, I fucking get it I - "
"No, you piece of shit, this isn't about me being right," George goes for another deck in face, but Matty blocks it this time, having anticipated it. They tumble to the ground, both of them throwing kicks and punches and Matty fucking knows, he knows, that he should stop and take it all with stride, but he can't help but to fight back. "This is...about you...being... a fucking -"
"Hey, what the fuck's going on here?" Matty and George are being tugged away from each other. Matty doesn't feel any of the bruises he's got, adrenaline still pumping into his veins, "Calm the fuck down," Ross tells him, holding him back. He has enough energy to overpower him, and he struggles just a bit, but gains his breath, his vision, and his fucking hearing.
He sees George letting himself be pulled back by Adam, and in the dimness of the night, Matty can only make out a faint trickle of blood dripping down George's nose. Matty can only imagine how fucked he looks and only idly lets a thought pass about how he'd perform next week looking like this.
"What's going on?" Adam repeats Ross's earlier inquiry.
George lets out a breath, "You all fucked me over when I warned you - when I warned Marcy - now look at this fuck - go ahead, tell them."
Ross stiffens against his hold on Matty and Matty really wished someone would light a spliff in his mouth.
"You didn't stop?" Ross asks lowly, but apparently not low enough for George to dismiss.
"You fucking - " He nearly pushes past Adam, "You knew? You knew he hasn't stopped?"
"I thought he'd..." Ross trails off, looking at Matty.
"It's not the worse thing he's done, right? At least he's not shooting up — right?" Adam tries to reason, but then, "Does your girl know? Is she...supplying you or something?"
Matty shakes his head, finally reacting. He shrugs off Ross, "It's not...Marcy doesn't know...She has nothing to do with this."
"When the fuck were you going to tell us?" And Matty hates that Adam isn't yelling at him. He feels the tenseness of Ross and the stings from George's blows, but all he's getting from Adam is confusion and concern and it's fucking killing him.
Matty tries to smile, its forced and it hurts and it's all full of sarcasm, "Was kind of hoping I'd never have to," He admits. Ross holds on to Matty's shirt tightly, George's hand roll into fists. Adam frowns.
Ross shove's Matty into a bathroom, Adam is probably trying to cajole George into one as well. When Matty swallows, he can taste the metallic of blood on his tongue and he tries not too look in the mirror too long, bending down to wash the red from his face, and his hands.
He takes a seat on the toilet, the urge to call Marcy weighing on his conscious. He doesn't know what time it is by him, he sure as fuck doesn't know what time it is by her.
He doesn't think when he rings her, he hopes when he speaks, there's nothing in his voice that give away his current predicament.
"Matty?" Marcy says, and he's glad she doesn't sound too tired.
"Missed your voice," He gets out and it sounds slurred, like he's drank a bottle of vodka with no chaser.
She laughs on the other end, "Matty, are you drunk?"
"No," He says, and he hears paper shuffling about, "Are you busy?"
She groans, she's stretching, "No," She says on an exhale, "Just studying." It's quiet on the line for a bit and Matty doesn't know how to fill it. He's trying to distance himself from all that's happened in the past hour - in the past few weeks if he's honest - before leaving to Australia. "I miss you," She says and it seems reluctant, almost.
"I miss you too, baby," He murmurs. "I'm sorry."
"Its all good," She giggles into the line, and no, she's not getting it.
"No, I'm really sorry, Marcy - for being a fucking idiot, for one," He lets out something that could pass as a laugh but he's not fairly sure because he can't find the humor in anything.
"I don't..." she trails off, "Matty, if it's about what I said, it's not a problem Matty - I mean, I wasn't expecting you to say it back or anything, honestly."
He wants to tell her that he would have. That he would have said it back, that he wanted to - but... he can't say it when all he's ever told her was a lie. Instead he asks, "but you seemed so distant - Marcy, this is the longest conversation we've had since I left - it's not even been a minute yet."
"Oh," she breathes, "Oh, Matty, I'm so sorry," And no, he doesn't want her to apologize; she shouldn't have to. "I didn't mean to, I swear, I was just... I guess I was a bit sad, and I dunno, there was this - "
The bathroom door slams open, startling Matty, "Put your fucking jacket on, we have to do something."
"George?" Matty speaks almost astounded. "You fucking broke the bathroom door - you know we're gonna have to pay extra for that."
"You're in the bathroom?" Marcy asks on the other line, "Eww, were you taking a shit while talking to me?"
"What - no, I -"
George grabs the phone, "He'll speak to you in a bit, Marcy, we have something real important to do, okay?" he looks to Matty asking him if he has anything else to say to his girl. And Matty knows it's a taunting leeway, asking him if he wanted to confess on crappy service.
Matty shakes his head, eyes wide while staring up at his best friend, and for once, Matty feels utterly out of his limit.
George's gaze doesn't waver when he says, "Goodnight Marcy," ending the conversation.
"You gonna punch me again?"
George grabs Matty's shoulder, leading him out, "You'd like that, wouldn't you, you masochist."
"You're still mad at me." He tugs on a jacket and slips on boots.
"Fucking furious."
"Are you taking me out to murder me?" Matty knows it's a stupid question but Adam and Ross aren't here and Matty's only thinking the worse, that George tied them up to a bedpost and stole their manager's car keys and is now driving him to some secluded location so nobody would find out, and later he'd send out an AMBER alert or some shit and the headlines are gonna read that he's dead and god, he needs to call his parents and brother, needs to have a proper conversation before his best friend murders him, needs to call Marcy and tell her he loves her because he can't really leave like this.
George's fists tighten on the steering wheel of the car, "Shut the fuck up, Healy."
"Okay," Matty raises his hands, but doesn't really coincide when he says - because its way too dark and quiet in this damn car and he misses the business of London or New York or LA, not the ass crack middle of no where - "The last time I did it was before the interview." He does t say which interview but maybe it's obvious. He doesn't say which drug either.
George clenches his jaw and grits out, "That's a start."
"Why are you so mad at me, you've done it too - We've all done it."
"We," he side eye's Matty, "Most of us, at least, stopped years ago - why the fuck did you start back?"
Matty shrugs, his eyes casting down, "Was at some stupid party. Nothing but rich men and pretty women, gorgeous models and ...me: some pompous asshole musician who had no idea what the fuck he was doing there. I dunno. It was the only thing I knew how to do." Matty snorts, "Twenty five years old and peer pressure still gets to me, innit." He sighs, "Then I fucked a girl and got her pregnant because such is life."
George keeps one hand on the wheel while he reaches out and decks Matty on the arm. "You fucker," He says, but its not as angry as before, though still seething. "Do you have any on you?"
Matty rubs at his arm before patting himself down, reaching into every pocket of his jacket before pulling out a small baggy, maybe a hundred dollars worth of coke. George grabs it and throws it out of the window, muttering about what a great trip a hobo would have with it. "Where are we going, anyway?" but George doesn't really have to answer when they're pulled up at an airport. Matty's eyes widen, "Oh fuck, where are you taking me." He pats his jeans for the box of cigarettes he's bought and lights up another pink stick.
"I meant to ask, are those fucking vanilla flavored?" George takes it from Matty, taking a hit.
Matty shrugs, "Taste equally as shitty, regardless." He runs his hands over his face, frowning at the stubble he feels. "Got em in Amsterdam," he mumbles, like George gives a shit.
George stubs it out before it's even halfway done, "Let's go."
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Wow this took me forever to write - mostly becuase my kitty was trying to sleep on my laptop all day lol