Somewhere Between Things

Matty cuddles closer, resting his head against George's bare shoulder, and, as cliché as he knows it is, murmurs, "Tell me something you've never told anyone."

George laughs and wraps his arm a little tighter around Matty. "You know all my secrets," he counters.

"There must be something you haven't told me," Matty pushes.

“You think I’m keeping secrets from you?” 

Matty shakes his head as best he can resting against George’s shoulder as he is. “No. I just,” a pause, “I wanna know everything about you, even the little things that aren’t important.” 

“You know everything about me, sweetheart. We’ve known each other since I was 12.” 

“George,” Matty whines, dragging out the ‘o.’ “Please?” 

“Fine,” George relents. He’s quiet for a few moments, thinking, then, "I don't think there's anything about me that you don't know. If there is, I think you'd know it before I did."

Matty shifts and presses a kiss to George's bare shoulder. "I love you."

"Your turn," George says. "What haven't you told me?"

"What makes you think there's something I haven't told you?"

Matty is quiet for several long moments, then, very quietly, admits, "I'm terrified."

"Of what?"

Matty shrugs. "Anything? Everything?"

"Sweetheart-"

Matty cuts George off with a yawn and mumbles, "'m tired, G. Tell me in the morning."

And George can't argue. He's never been able to argue much with Matty.

They don't talk about it in the morning. Actually, they don't talk about it for ages. Matty seems like himself and it doesn't seem like George needs to worry about him and George doesn't want to worry about Matty. He doesn't like worrying about Matty and it's conveniently easy not to. So they don't talk about it until they have to and in hindsight, George will realize that they should have talked about it much earlier.

They're at a party of some sort. It's mostly schmoozing and pretending to be interested in things that aren't actually all that interesting, but there's an element of visibility in it that's beneficial this early in their career. The problem is that at some point in the evening, George looks up an Matty is gone. That's not surprising in and of itself--Matty is pretty good at finding quiet spots to disappear for a smoke or when he gets overwhelmed--and George is sure he'll come back eventually, but he doesn't. Instead, George is left to wander around and pretend he cares without Matty at his side, half of a whole.

Eventually, George gets a moment to sneak away and look for Matty. He tries the smoking area first, then slips around to the alley on the side of the building to see if Matty went looking for a more private spot, but there's no Matty to be found and George is starting to get worried. He goes back inside and does a lap of the space, looking to see if he missed Matty hiding in a quiet corner like he does sometimes. He doesn't find Matty, but he does find a stairwell with a sign reading 'roof access,' and, well, that's exactly the kind of place Matty would escape to.

Worry coils into a tight ball in George's stomach as he goes, growing with every flight of stairs he climbs until he gets to a door at the top. It's propped open, like someone was making sure they could get back in, and George is careful to leave it that way, but he doesn't see anyone right away. Still he goes to do a lap and finds Matty, hidden from view behind the structure of the access door, sitting on the edge of the roof, shoulders slumped and a lit cigarette between his fingers. George can see it glowing in the low light.

George is careful to scuff his feet in the gravel on the roof as he makes his way over to where Matty is sitting, making enough noise that Matty will know someone else is there. Matty glances over his shoulder before George is within ten feet, but he doesn't say anything, just looks away and takes another drag of his cigarette, so George sits next to him, very carefully, and makes a point not to look down.

"Hey," George says quietly.

"Hi," Matty mumbles. He offers the cigarette without another word.

George takes it and takes a drag, in part because he thinks that sharing a cigarette is probably better than whatever Matty was doing on his own before. "Doin' ok?"

Matty shrugs.

"Sweetheart-" George starts.

"Not now?" Matty interrupts. "Just, not now? We can talk later, tomorrow, whatever, just, not now. Please?"

"I know you're scared," George tries, "and that's fine, but there's more than one way out. You don't have to walk off the roof. Please don't walk off the room. I'm right here. If you need something, anything, you can ask me. Whatever you want, I'll give. Just, don't walk off the roof, or, or-"

"I'm not gonna walk off the roof, G," Matty interrupts, voice soft and worried gaze fixed on George. "I just needed a minute. Downstairs is a lot."

"Are you sure?" George pushes, worried. "I, you disappeared and you're right here and you told me you're scared and, Matty, I'm fucking scared, and I don't know what I'm supposed to do without you."

"I'm not goin' anywhere," Matty insists. "I was gonna come right back down."

"You're sitting on the edge of a roof!"

Matty is quiet for a moment, looking down, then, quietly says, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

George is quiet for several long moments as he finishes Matty's cigarette, then, like he's worried about being overheard, asks, "What are you scared of?"

Matty shrugs.

"You said you were scared."

"Can we not?" Matty asks again. "Just, not right now?"

"What can't you tell me?"

Matty isn't quite equipped for being alone, but he's also not all that good at letting people be close to him. He's good at surface level friendships--those are easy for him, he just has to be fun and funny and Matty is good at being fun and funny--and he's good at flings and one night stands, but real friendships, those beyond George, Ross and Adam, and proper relationships that last more than a couple weeks, those he's not all that good at. George knows these this about Matty. He knows Matty is flighty and stubborn and his own worst enemy and scared of good things. None of that makes it hurt less when they hit the one month mark of a proper relationship and Matty retreats.

Matty's texts get shorter and less frequent first. Then, he starts going home instead of spending the night at George's and stops being quite so willing to have George at his. And then he just stops answering. Matty doesn't answer when George texts, sends him to voicemail when he calls, and is short and unengaged when they end up in the same room. George gives it two weeks before he lets himself into Matty's house one afternoon, intent on sorting things out or good.

The house is a mess when George opens the door, and dim from the way all the shades have been drawn. Matty is nowhere to be seen, but George knows he's home. He has a sense for Matty, knows Matty, knows when Matty is around or not.  So George knows. Still George doesn't find Matty until he gets up to Matty's bedroom. The curtains are drawn there, too, and there's an overflowing ashtray on the nightstand. The room smells a little bit unwashed and sweaty and Matty is sprawled in bed, wearing nothing but his boxers and sporting several days of stubble. He blinks his eyes open when he realizes he's not alone and gives George a kind of sly grin before he speaks.

"Hey baby," he says. He shifts and pulls the sheet back, adding, "Wanna join me?"

George shakes his head before he can think about it and Matty looks hurt for a moment. "I wanna talk," he adds, like that will make it better. "I want you to take a shower and change the sheets."

"Mm, no fun."

"Have you gotten out of bed today?" George counters. "When was the last time you ate properly or took a shower?"

"What's it to you?"

"Fuck, I don't know," George snaps, a little irritated, "did I miss us breaking up?"

Matty pales a bit and looks hurt. "George," he starts, half confused.

"Go take a shower," George says, softer. "You shower; I'm gonna clean up and order takeaway and we're gonna talk, ok?"

"We don't need to talk," Matty tries. "We're fine. I thought we were fine."

George sighs. "Just work with me here," he tries. "Please?"

Matty doesn't argue any further, just forces himself out of bed and stumbles into the ensuite bathroom, pulling the door shut behind him. George watches him go, then orders takeaway from the Chinese restaurant that Matty likes before he goes about cleaning up the bedroom. He opens the curtains and the windows, empties the ashtray, changes the sheets, picks up the clutter that's accumulated on the floor, sets out clean clothes for when Matty gets out of the shower, then goes to start a load of laundry. By the time he gets back to the bedroom, Matty is coming out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his skinny hips and his dark curls dripping onto his bare shoulders. He's quiet, but he pulls on the clothes George left for him without prompting and gets his towel to the hamper in the bathroom.

Matty doesn't need prompting to head downstairs, either, and plants himself on the sofa in the dim living room. George doesn't open the curtains, just answers the door when the delivery driver knocks and spreads the containers out on the coffee table, then sits on the floor on the other side, careful to give Matty a little bit of space. Quietly and without protest, Matty takes a few bites, but it looks more like muscle memory than anything else. 

“You ready to talk?” George asks after a few minutes. 

“If you’re going to break up with me, just say that. You don’t have to do all this to let me down easy. I get it. I’ll be fine.”

“Is that what you want?” George asks, a little surprised. In retrospect, he’s not sure what he expected, but he didn’t expect this reaction. 

Matty shakes his head, but keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the coffee table. “If you want, though, I get it,” he mumbles. 

George shakes his head. “I don’t. I’m here because I don’t want that.” 

Matty looks up, a little hesitant and half-confused, to ask, “Really?” in a very small voice. “Even with the way I’ve been?” 

George offers a very soft look, one he hopes conveys just how much he loves Matty, and tries, “You’re scared. You’re scared of this, of us, of good things. I know that about you. I’ve known that about you for ages. You’re not gonna run me off by being predictable.” 

“I’m not scared of good things,” Matty protests. 

“Ok, well, you’re scared of this,” George says, gesturing between them. “I know you too well to not know that.” 

"I'm not scared of you."

George offers a fond smile. "I know that, love. I also know you have a hard time accepting that things can be good and stay good."

Matty doesn't answer, just drops his gaze back to the coffee table.

"'s ok," George tries. "'s ok to be scared. I know you're scared, and that's fine, I promise, but there's more than one way out of that. There's more than one way to stop being scared. You don't have to do this. You don't have to punish yourself for wanting things or being comfortable."

"I'm not punishing myself," Matty mumbles, not looking up. He looks small and timid, a far cry from the person he usually makes himself out to be.

George sighs and shifts. He wants to go pull Matty into a tight hug and keep him there until he feels better, but Geroge isn't so sure that would be welcome. Instead he asks, "What are you doing then?"

Matty is quiet for several long moment, long enough to take another bite and swallow before he quietly admits, "I'm protecting you."

"From what?"

"Me."

George is stunned into silence for a moment, then all he can say is, "You?"

Matty nods.

"Matty, sweetheart, I do not need to be protected from you."

"You think that now, but that'll change and it's better if-"

"This isn't better," George interrupts. "You're not better off, I'm not better off, we're not better off."

"You will be."

"Don't you think I oughta be able to make that decision for myself?"

"That's not what I'm doing."

"Then what are you doing?"

Matty is quiet for another moment, then looks up to meet George's gaze, saying, "I can't take it if this goes wrong. I can't take it if I lose you. It's stupid and selfish and codependent, but I can't take it if this ends bad."

"Who says it's going to end bad?"

Matty shrugs. "Me? I'm shit at this. You know that. Every other relationship I've had has crashed and burned. What right do I have to think this will be different? What's different here?"

George shrugs and, like it's obvious, says, "You've got me this time. That's what's different. You've got me and, love, I am all in. I think you're it for me. I know you're it for me."

"Do you really mean that? Don't say it if you don't mean it. I can't take that."

If one more phone gets shoved into Matty's face, he's going to vomit on it. Actually, he might vomit anyway because everyone is so close and he can't really breathe and he gets it, he gets why everyone is so close and loud and wants something from him, but for the same reason, they ought to back the fuck off. He is lost in a crush of people and there are supposed to be other people around, people who are watching out for him, but all he’s aware of is the people who want something from him, who want a part of him, who want all of him to further their own lives and their own stories. He’s going to vomit on someone. He’s going to have a panic attack. 

Matty can feel his breathing starting to get shallow and harder, can feel the sweat on his back and his forehead, can feel the animal part of him skipping fight or flight and going straight to laying down and dying, all while he tries to keep being pleasant and tries to keep signing the things that get shoved in his face. The thing that really gets Matty about it all is that he wants to do this. He wants to be able to keep his head in a crowd of people who love him, wants to be able to sign everything people put in front of him, wants to pose for pictures and give hugs and whatever else. He just can't. Something is wrong with him and he's ungrateful and undeserving and, oh, god, he can't quite breathe.

It gets blurry from there. There's still the crush of people and Matty knows he's scribbled his name on a few more things, but he's too stressed, too panicked to do more than try to white-knuckle his way through. Where is everyone? Where are the people who are supposed to stop this from happening? Why can’t everyone tell that he’s overwhelmed and needs a minute? Aren’t these people supposed to love him or something? Why are they like this? 

Maybe he’s the problem, Matty thinks, stumbling a bit as he tries desperately to push his way out of the crowd of people. Maybe he’s just an ungrateful asshole. If he can’t handle signing some autographs and taking some pictures, maybe he doesn’t deserve what he has, what he’s been given, what this crowd of people that’s freaking him the fuck out has given him. Maybe he’s the problem and he’s better suited to a life of isolation, perhaps that of a lighthouse keeper or a shepherd or just some sad hermit people tell rumors about.

Matty stumbles again when someone bumps into him but this time, he can't quite right himself and he suddenly finds himself acquainted with the sidewalk and, god, he can't breathe. Maybe this is how he dies, he thinks, right here on the sidewalk in some random fucking city while signing autographs and taking photos and someone's going to have recorded it. He gasps for a breath that doesn't quite come and tries to figure out how he's supposed to get himself out of this, but before he can quite get there, there are strong arms wrapping around him and pulling him to his feet, then warm, solid hands are guiding him away from the crush of bodies. Matty focuses on the sidewalk, on keeping himself as small as he can as he's walked away. He can smell George's cologne.

When they stop moving, Matty feels himself pulled against a warm, solid chest and a hand against his lower back. This is a good kind of contact, he thinks, a safe kind of surrounding. George gives him a minute to breathe, safe and sheltered, then walks him into the hotel lobby and to the elevator. Matty lets it all happen, still overwhelming and encased by his panic. He doesn’t truly come back to himself until they’re back in their room and George is urging him to sit on the foot of their bed. 

When he finally looks up at George, mostly cognizant and no longer certain he’s dying, George offers a smile and fingers combing through his hair, murmuring, “There you are. Feelin’ better?” 

Matty shakes his head. He wishes George would just sit next to him for a just a bit.

“’s ok,” George tries. “You’re ok. We should’ve been better about crowd control. This won’t happen again. I, it won’t.” 

“Can you not?” Matty asks, quiet. “I just want a minute.” 

"Yeah," George agrees, voice soft. "You want space or just quiet?"

Matty is pretty sure he's going to start crying if he says anything so instead of answering properly, Matty grabs for the hem of George's t-shirt and uses it to pull him close. George complies, holding Matty close. Whatever panic had been flooding Matty's body ebbs away as he sits there, held and holding, and he's left with the inevitable comedown, with the dull, throbbing headache and heaviness in his body and the slight dizziness that comes with the headache and the coming back to himself. He's tired. He wants to cry. He needs to cry. George won't mind, he knows, but crying will make it all worse. The headache will get worse and he'll feel a little bit like he's coming up for air from the deep end of a swimming pool, all disoriented and desperate for air.

Still, Matty can't help the way sobs bubble up and force their way out. George does move or speak, just rubs Matty's back and lets him cry. There's nothing to say, really. They both know what they'd both say--Matty would say something about how he hates being like this, that it's ridiculous to be upset about something good, that he's clearly an ungrateful dick, and George would say something about how Matty deserves some space and respect, that it isn't Matty's fault the way his brain reacted to being crowed by so many people like that, that he's not lesser or broken. So Matty cries and they don't talk. This is easier. They both know better.

When Matty is done, when he's caught his breath and he feels more stupid than anything else, he shuffles back on the bed, putting a little bit of space between them, which is maybe a little bit silly because they're MattyandGeorge, GeorgeandMatty, a unit, neither of them want or like space, but Matty needs just a little bit. George doesn't push, just sits on the foot of the bed next to Matty, leaving that little bit of space that Matty carved out.

"Talk to me," George says after a moment, still quiet and gentle.

Matty shakes his head. What is there to say? It's supposed to be easier and he's mental and broken and George should leave.

"You're not mental," George offers. "And you're not broken and I'm not leaving."

Matty looks up, half confused.

"That's what you're thinking, isn't it?" George continues. "It's not true."

Matty shrugs. "'m thinking that it's supposed to be easier."

"It's not supposed to be anything. It is whatever it is. There's no 'supposed to be.'"

"You think that makes it better?"

George looks away. "All I'm trying to say is that you're not doing something wrong or just, like, wrong because-"

"And all I'm trying to say is that everyone talks about me like it should be easier and everyone acts like it's all so fucking easy, but it's not. That-" he points at the hotel room door as if to encompass everything "-is going to be all over the fucking internet and everyone's going to be saying shit and if they're not mean, it's all fucking pity and I, I can't-"

"They don't know you," George cuts in. "They are not you, they're not standing by you in everything, they aren't living it, and they don't know. Sweetheart, you just got mobbed by loads of people. Sure, they're our fans, but they didn't even give you room to breath. Anyone would panic. That's not a failing. That's human."

"People will act like it is."

"Then they're wrong and that's not on you. You didn't do anything wrong."

Matty just shrugs.

"You didn't do anything wrong, Matthew."