Somewhere Between Things

The whole thing is starting to confuse George. He and Matty haven’t been properly together for long, he’ll admit, but Matty is behaving in a very un-Matty kind of way that he finds baffling. He knows Matty likes sex. Matty’s never been shy about that; he’s always been full of jokes and sly comments, always been eager to get his hands or his mouth on George, but when it comes to George’s hands or mouth on him, he falters. George doesn’t know what it is—he’s seen Matty is various stages of undress before and Matty will let him get a hand down his impossibly tight jeans or the sweatpants he wears when they’re just lounging around at home, so it can’t be some kind of self consciousness or shyness. Shy isn’t really a word George would use for Matty, at any rate. Still, he wants to see Matty, all of him, stretched out in bed or pressed against a wall or simply in a bath or shower, together. George wants. 

Despite all the want, George lets it come up naturally, waiting until they have a quiet day together, one that will, no doubt, be spent lounging around in each other’s orbit. 

Matty starts it. He usually starts it these days, mostly because George is so baffled by his unwillingness to be seen, so he starts it today, too. Suddenly, as Matty is getting closer, resting his full weight in George's lap and pressing kisses along his jaw, he wonders if Matty is doing this for George’s benefit, because he thinks George wants it, not because he wants it. Maybe Matty doesn’t actually like sex all that much and he’s just deflecting. The thought makes George a little bit sick to his stomach. 

“Hey, stop a second, ok?” George asks, squeezing Matty’s hip. 

Matty looks up and pouts, all big eyes and want painted convincingly across his features. “Please?” he asks. “Wanna blow you. It’ll be good, promise. Please?” 

“What if I wanna blow you?”

"Do you?" Matty counters. "Lemme make you feel good, G."

George shakes his head. "That's not my point." He pauses, then, carefully, "Do you actually want to have sex? Am I," another pause, "are you starting things because you think I want something? Am I forcing you into something?"

Matty looks hurt. "No. 'course not. I, am I making you-"

"No," George cuts in quickly. "Absolutely not. I just, you won't let me touch you and you won't let me see you. I, are you self conscious or something? 'cause I think you're gorgeous."

Matty scrambles out of George's lap and to the other end of the sofa, making himself small. "'s not that," he mumbles.

"Did I do something?" George asks.

Matty shakes his head. "No. You, no."

"Then what? 'cause I feel like there's a wall between us. I don't, I mean, I get it if there are things you wanna keep to yourself, but I, if something is bothering you, let me help. I'm starting to worry about you."

"Everything's fine," Matty tries, a little bit desperate. "I'm fine! Just, don't worry about it."

George offers Matty a soft look. "I'm always gonna worry about you." He's quiet for a moment, then offers, "You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to, but I wish you would."

Matty is quiet for several moments, then he sniffles and without looking back up at George, says, "There are scars, ok? On my hip and thigh and I don't want you to see them and think I'm disgusting or fucked up or something."

George frowns, confused. "Scars?" Then it dawns on him. Scars. Scars Matty doesn't want him to see. "Oh, sweetheart."

"Don't use that voice," Matty says.

"What voice?"

"The pity voice. The 'you're mental and fucked up' voice,'" Matty snaps.

"That's not what I think," George insists. "I don't pity you. That's not," he pauses, "I'm sorry you were hurting and I wish you'd have told me, but I don't pity you and I don't think you're mental or fucked up or disgusting or whatever else people might have told you."

Matty scoffs. "You say that know, but then you'll see and you won't wanna touch me or look at me or anything."

George shakes his head. "I wouldn't. I, I wouldn't."

Matty makes a disbelieving noise and refuses to meet George's gaze.

"Lemme see," George tries.

"What?"

"Can you let me see? I," a pause, "please? And I will swear to you that it doesn't change anything."

Matty shakes his head. "You'll think I'm disgusting."

"I could never."

"You have the pity voice. You'll use the pity voice."

"I don't pity you. I won't pity you."

"You will."

"You don't have to," George says, gentle, "but I promise you I won't. I won't think you're mental or disgusting, either."

Matty sniffles and gives George a teary look. "You promise?" he asks.

"Promise."

Reluctantly, Matty shifts onto his side a bit so he can push down the waistband of his sweatpants and pull up the leg of his boxers to reveal a collection of straight, raised scars. He doesn't look down or meet George's gaze, instead he looks towards the ceiling, like he can hide from being seen.

George takes a sharp breath. Something feels tight in his chest. "Can I ask, um, when?"

"A long time ago," Matty mumbles, pulls his sweatpants back up.

"Why?" George asks, automatic. "Sorry. That's a bad question. You don't have to answer that."

Matty shrugs, still not looking at George. "You remember how I was. How things were. And I was curious, wondered it I could do it and then it helped, I guess. Dunno."

"I do remember," George agrees. "You wanna come back over here?"

"Really?"

George nods. "'course."

Matty doesn't bother saying more, instead moves to get himself back into George's lap, accepting George's arms around him and resting his head against George's chest.

"Love you," George murmurs.

"Really?" Matty asks again.

Matty doesn’t know what set him off this time. He’ll never know what set him off this time. He hardly ever knows exactly what sets him off; it’s one of the things he hates most about this new version of himself, about this mess of post-traumatic stress he is now. All he knows is that he’s reaching for George. The bedroom is dark, save for the little nightlight by the door, but Matty knows George is there and George is safe and George will keep him safe from everything in his head so he reaches and clings. 

The clinging wakes George up, predictably. Matty knows George still isn’t quite sure how to treat him when he wakes up like this, but he holds Matty close this time, rubbing his back and talking quietly. Matty feels better for a moment, then about a thousand times worse, and then, before he really realizes it, he's crying, sobbing, clinging, begging. George doesn't change what he's doing, but Matty doesn't know if that's better or worse. It just is and Matty wishes desperately that he could stop crying because he's having a harder and harder time getting a full breath and the longer it goes on the less in control of anything he feels, and he's not necessarily a control freak about everything and he's certainly happy to let George take control of plenty, but this is different and he needs it to stop but he can't make it stop.

Matty compensates by clinging even more tightly to George, knee over his hip, arms around his shoulders, fingers digging into the bare skin of his back. George is safe, Matty reminds himself. George is safe and kind and gentle and he wouldn't hurt anyone, let alone Matty, and he would never say awful things, not even if they fought,  and he is always so soft and careful with Matty, like he matters. George is safe and he helps Matty be safe, but Matty can't get the panic stop and he can't get ahold of himself, even with George here.

Maybe this will finally be the thing that makes George realize just how fucked up Matty is. Maybe this will be the thing that finally makes him leave. Matty would deserve it. George would be better off for it. That thought makes Matty feel all that much worse.

That makes George move, too, and Matty is desperately trying to cling a little bit tighter before he realizes it, but George just runs a hand down Matty's back and murmurs, "Want you to sit up, love. You're hyperventilating. You're gonna pass out if you don't breathe."

Matty wants to have a snappy response to that, something about how he knows that, how he's not an idiot, how he's trying, but he can't make the words come and all that he can force out is a sob.

"'s ok," George promises, guiding Matty to sit up. "Everything's just fine, I just need you to sit up, ok?"

Matty goes where George guides him. He always has, really, and that's so much easier than trying to function himself. He still doesn't know why he's panicking like he is, what set him off in the first place, but when George reaches a hand out to comb wayward curls behind Matty's ear, he reaches up and grabs George's wrist before he can think about it. Matty doesn't know why he does it this time--George has made the exact same motion time and time again and Matty has never once felt this way about it--but for some reason, he can't handle the idea of George touching him like that right now. George doesn't try to argue, just keeps rubbing Matty's back with his other hand and stays quiet.

Eventually, George tries to carefully pull his wrist out of Matty's grip, gone mostly lax as it has, but Matty instinctively tightens his grip. He doesn't think George is going to hurt him. He doesn't. He's spent the last who-knows-how-long clinging to George and panicking. He wouldn't have done that if he thought George would hurt him, but somehow, letting go makes something in Matty's chest feel tight and strangled.

"Matty," George murmurs.

Matty recognizes the quiet question in George's voice, but he doesn't have an answer. He tightens his grip on George's wrist.

"Sweetheart," George tries again. "Can you tell me what happened? What's got you upset?"

Matty tries to open his mouth and explain that he has no idea what it was that got him, that he just woke up weird and bad and he made the mistake of thinking about the wrong things and then he couldn't calm down, but the explanation doesn't come. Instead, he tries to get himself a little bit closer and cling a little bit tighter, gripping George's wrist a little bit tighter in his efforts, and chokes back a sob.

"Ow," George hisses when Matty tightens his grip. "Ow, ok, you're hurting me, loosen your grip-"

Immediately, Matty lets go and scrambles away, getting himself as far away from George as he can without slipping off the edge of the bed. He's the worst thing that’s every happened to him. He's going to hurt George, just like William hurt him. He should have stayed, should have let William do whatever he wanted to Matty forever because clearly he's no better. He shouldn't be here, in George's bed, hurting George. He's just as bad. He's hurt someone he loves.

George is talking--Matty can hear his voice--but Matty isn't listening. All he can do is chant, "I'm sorry," over and over. It's not enough, he knows, and it doesn't make up for anything, but he can't say anything else. He can't do anything else.

Eventually, a hand lands on Matty's shoulder, gentle and warm, and he flinches away, hard.

"Matty," George tries. "'s all ok, everything's ok. I'm fine. You're fine. We're fine. Everything's ok. You've not done anything wrong. 's all ok."

"I hurt you," Matty forces out. "I hurt you and I, I can't, you, I can't."

George moves so he can sit on the edge of the bed and face Matty, then very gently wipes away some of Matty's tears. "Everything's ok, sweetheart. You didn't hurt me. I'm fine."

"You said," Matty insists.

George holds out his wrists. "I'm ok," he repeats. "You had a weird grip, that's all. I'm fine."

Matty shakes his head. "I hurt you," he says again. "I'm awful and just like him and you should leave, or I should leave and-"

"I do not want you to leave," George cuts in. "I don't want to leave. I wanna lay back down with you and go back to sleep and wake up next to you in the morning. I want you here. I promise."

"You said I was hurting you," Matty mumbles. "I'm just like he was."

"You're not. Sweetheart, you're not. You're kind and wonderful and you wouldn't do that. I know you wouldn't." George makes an aborted motion like he's going to tuck hair behind Matty's ear then thinks better of it, then adds, "C'mon, lets lay back down."

Matty sniffles and shakes his head again. He wants to lay back down with George. He wants to cuddle into George's side and forget that this night happened, but he hurt George and he doesn't get to do that when he hurt George.

"Lay back down with me, Matthew," George murmurs. "Please? I know you're upset and I know you've scared yourself, but I know you. You're not that. If you don't trust yourself, trust me, ok?"

"But-"

"But what?" George interrupts. "You're not a bad person. You're not a violent person. I know you. I trust you. Trust me and lets go back to sleep. Please?"

Maddy is sprawled out on a towel in the sun when Georgie gets back to the hotel pool with more drinks. She'd been wearing a little bit more when Georgie left, but now all she has on is a little red bikini that's closer to the idea of wearing something than it is actually wearing something and big dark sunglasses, her little swimsuit coverup discarded next to her. She looks like something out of a magazine or a wet dream and Georgie's breath catches for a moment before she forces herself to move rather than stare. As she gets closer, she realizes that Maddy has tucked things into the string of her bikini bottoms--a pack of Marlboros, the same color as her bikini, a lighter, and her lip gloss--and she stretches when she notices Georgie, just to be a little bit provocative. Her jewelry glitters as she moves, engagement ring, the new wedding ring, the little ring she bought from an artisan in Barbados, just before she came home from rehab, the stack of bracelets she usually wears, and Georgie realizes that she can see the outline of the jewelry in her nipple piercings through the thin material of her bikini top.

"Before you say anything," Maddy starts as Georgie sits on the towel next to her, "I'm wearing so much sunscreen and I drank water."

Before she can think better of it, Georgie responds with, "Good girl."

Maddy grins. "Only for you, babe."

"I know," Georgie says. "You're awful."

Maddy raises her brown behind her sunglasses and turns her head to look at Georgie. "That's not what you said last night. Actually, if I recall, you said I'm a miracle and that you adore me."

Georgie huffs a laugh. "You're over here lookin' like this for everybody to look at. That's awful."

"And here I thought you liked showing me off."

"I do like showing you off," Georgie agrees. "You're over here showing yourself off."

Maddy props herself up on an elbow to take her drink, saying "For you. I'm showing off for you," before taking a sip. Her drink is pink and fruity and sweet and it'll probably give her a raging hangover, but she looks so herself that Georgie feels a little like she's falling in love all over again.

"I love you," Georgie says.

Matty smiles, self-satisfied, and pulls the pack of Marlboros from under her bikini string, then her lighter, offering them to Georgie first.

Georgie, though, feels a little bit like she's like to be as close to Maddy as physically possible, so she counters with, "Share one?"

Maddy's smile turns softer and more genuine, fond, and she nods, saying, "Yeah, we can share," and sits up, crossing her legs and facing Georgie, so it's a little bit easier to light a cigarette.

Georgie watches while Maddy deftly pulls a cigarette from the box and lights it, taking a long drag before passing it over. She sets the box on the ground next to her towel rather than tuck it back into the string of her bikini bottoms. Georgie can't help but be a little bit disappointed about that, but she tries not to think about it as she takes a drag from the cigarette. The filter is sticky with Maddy's lip gloss.

"Doin' ok?" Maddy asks after a moment.

Georgie nods. "I'm happy," she says. "Like, really happy, and you're gorgeous and I adore you and I wish you were a little bit closer."

"Closer I can do," Maddy agrees, moving so she's sitting a few inches closer, just on the edge of her towel, the bare skin of her crossed legs against the hot concrete of the pool deck. She takes the cigarette back and takes a drag and Georgie wants to stare forever, wants to trace the line of her jaw, wants to catalog every lock of dark hair spilling over her shoulders and down her back, wants to dig fingers into the softness of her hips.

"You're staring," Maddy says quietly.

"You're stunning."

Maddy reaches out to cradle Georgie's jaw, running a thumb just below her lower lip where her lip liner is just a bit smudged, then combs fingers through her hair to have grip the hair at the back of her head and urges her to lean forward for a kiss that's all cigarette smoke and lip gloss and too-sweet cocktails.

"Closer," Georgie murmurs when they separate.

Maddy grins. "Any more and we're getting thrown out. Back to the room?"

"How ya doin', sweetheart?" George asks, coming up behind Matty and squeezing his shoulder.

The touch pulls Matty out of his haze and he jumps a bit when George's hand first lands on his shoulder, then he looks up and mumbles, "'m fine."

“Are you just sayin’ that?” 

Matty shakes his head. 

“I thought we agreed you were going to be honest about how you felt.” 

“I’m fine for me,” Matty amends. “Fine is relative.” 

“I don’t think that was our agreement.” 

Matty shrugs and accepts the cup of tea George offers. 

“Matty,” George starts, gentle and careful. “We had a deal. If you can’t tell me, then we-“ 

“I’m fine!” Matty interrupts. “I’m fine! I’m not going to go take all my pills or cut my wrists or jump off a bridge or, or something. I’m fine for me.” 

George frowns. “That’s not my point, love.” 

“Then what is?”

“You promised that when it got like this, when it got bad, you’d honestly tell me how you’re doin’ without brushing things off or just saying fine or whatever else.”

Matty huffs and takes a drink of his tea before asking, “You really wanna know?” 

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.” 

Matty sets his mug on the coffee table and sits up a little bit straighter to say, “Ok, then. I feel awful. I’m exhausted but I’m wide awake and nothing stops and everything feels heavy and blurry and I can’t focus on anything, not that I want to, and I’m sick and fucking tired of feeling this way and I’d like to make it all stop, but with my fucking luck, I wouldn’t do it properly, so I’m not going to do anything, even if I want to. I’m just going to sit here and be a burden and hate myself for that, too.” 

George sits and lets Matty stretch his legs out over his lap before starting, "Matty, sweetheart-"

Matty pulls his legs back and pulls his knees to his chest saying, "Stop it. Stop being so nice and understanding. You don't understand. It's not like it is for me for you. Stop pretending like it is. You don't get it. Stop trying."

"Then help me understand," George says, still just as kind and understanding as he has been. "Help me get it."

"I just told you! You won't get it!"

"Matty."

"I want you to know," Matty offers, a little desperate and lost. "I mean, I do and I don't and I know how it is for you, it's heavy and slow and, and tired, but it's not like that for me, not when it's like this and I can't make you understand. So just, get that you won't get it or the door is there."

George looks hurt, struck.

Matty slumps. "I'm sorry. That's not fair. You don't deserve that."

"It's not," George agrees. "And I don't. I know this is hard and miserable and shit and I'm not pretending that I know how you feel, but you can't take it out on me."

Matty gets himself a little bit smaller, pulls his knees a little bit closer, his arms a little bit tighter around his shins, and nods. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm just miserable."

"I know and I'm sorry you're miserable. If I could fix it, I would. I'd do it a heartbeat."

"I know," Matty repeats. He pauses, considering getting closer and leaning into George's side for some comfort, then thinks better of it. It's easier if he keeps himself like this. Contained. A single unit. Confined to himself. "I don't want you to be miserable," he continues, "but I want you to know what it feels like. But that feels cruel, because I don't want anyone else to ever, ever feel like this, but I want you to know. Does that make me an asshole? Does that even make sense? I, this would be easier, I think. I wouldn't make you quite so miserable when I get this if you knew."

"You're not making me miserable," George tries. "And that's not cruel. That's," a pause, "human, I think, to want someone to understand." When Matty doesn't say anything, George adds, "And you are human, try as you might to seem like something else."

Matty gives a shrug, mostly because it's all he can think to do. If he opens his mouth, he's going to start crying for the third time today.

"C'mere," George says, moving so Matty can sit in his lap and opening his arms.

Matty hesitates for a moment, then goes. As soon as he's settled into George's lap with George's arms around him, he wonders why he hesitated. He still feels a lot like crying, but George is warm and solid and he makes Matty feel a little bit less like he's falling apart. He's not less miserable--that will take time and maybe a change to his medication--but he does feel a little bit more grounded.

"You're not an asshole," George continues. "You're not cruel. You're not well, that's all. And you're gonna get better, it's just gonna take a minute, but I'm right here, as long as it takes, ok?"

"I'm tired of being miserable," Matty mumbles, cuddling a little bit closer. "I just want it to stop."

George presses a kiss to Matty's temple and murmurs, "I know, sweetheart. It'll get better, we've just gotta ride it out."

"We?"

"Yeah, we," George promises. "It's about you, I know, but you're not in it alone."

"I like we," Matty admits.