#bf matty

or the way he keeps adjusting the waistband of his jeans when you are not looking. the way his throat trembles when you lean in to whisper in his ear, breath hot against his skin. you do not see the panic in his eyes every time you slide just a bit closer on the couch, practically in his lap, your leg brushing his thigh. you are giggling at something george shouts from across the room, fingers curled loosely around matty’s wrist.

and he’s absolutely losing his mind.

you lean into him again, the weight of you pressed against his side, your hair tickling his jaw. your hand comes up to push his fringe away from his face, thumb grazing the shell of his ear without meaning to. his whole body stiffs but you don’t care.

he clears his throat, too loud for no reason, fingers drumming on his own knee because he has to put them somewhere that is not on you.

“matty,” you mumble into his shoulder, the words so slurred he can barely hear. “i like you.”

you feel him chuckle. you do not feel the way his stomach drops at the same time.

“yeah?” he responds. “lucky me, i guess.”

your arm is looped fully through his now, hugging it against your chest. from the outside it probably looks cute. friendly. you, leaning all over your best friend. you are drunk. you trust him. you always have.

and he is trying so hard to be good.

but you are pressed against him and you smell like his favourite perfume, something crisp yet sweet that is entirely you, and his brain is not getting enough blood because it is all in his lap, throbbing against the unforgiving denim of his jeans.

george wanders by and claps matty on the shoulder, makes some joke about “lovebirds” that you barely register. you laugh, head tipped back, your fingers still tangled lazily in matty’s hair.

matty laughs too, but it’s a stuttered, strangled sound.

he cannot keep doing this.

“shit,” he mutters suddenly, patting his pockets like he has just remembered something. “my lighter. think I, uh… left it somewhere.”

you blink. “you’re holding your cigarettes,” you point out, because you are so helpful, waving at the pack you stole from his jacket earlier.

“yeah, but, the lighter babe.” there is a flash of something in his eyes when he calls you that before he looks away. “can’t smoke the bloody things without it, can i?”

you pout up at him, the room spinning just a little. “i’ll help you look.”

the idea of you stumbling around this house on unsteady legs, still glued to his side, while he is this hard and this close to losing it, is enough to scare him straight.

“nah, stay,” he quickly mentions, smoothing his hand over your arm where it is hooked through his. “i’ll be two minutes, alright?”

you grumble but nod, eventually letting his arm go. he feels the absence of your weight and stands up too fast because he wants to get away before he changes his mind and does something stupid like drag you upstairs.

from your spot on the couch you watch him disappear down the hallway, pushing through a couple of people, head ducked, hair wild because of your doing. you assume he is just going for a smoke. you assume he is fine.

you have no idea.

—

you do not see the way his hand is shaking when he closes the bathroom door behind him.

he turns the lock with a sharp click, the sound swallowed quickly by the muted thud of the music outside. george’s parents’ bathroom is too clean, too bright, the overhead light buzzing faintly. there is a fake little plant on the windowsill and a neatly folded hand towel that says “guests” in some loopy script.

there is also a very clear “no smoking” rule in this house and he is about to ignore it completely.

matty leans back against the door, eyes closed, and exhales a long, ragged breath.

“fuck,” he whispers to no one.

his jeans are too tight. his skin feels too hot. everything seems to hurt.

he digs the lighter out of his pocket, fingers closing around the familiar shape. the cheap plastic is warm from being pressed against his thigh all night. there are silly little stickers all over it, ones you put on there months ago at your kitchen table. a wonky smiley face. a strawberry. a tiny crooked blue star. your name, scrawled along one side in black marker, a little smudged from use.

you had pushed it back into his palm back then, grinning. “now you can’t lose it,” you’d told him. “because it’s mine.”

he just rolled his eyes but he has not gone a single day without that lighter since.

he flicks it now, once, twice, watching the small flame flare up and vanish. your name flashes every time the metal wheel scrapes.

matty climbs into the bathtub because it is the only place that feels like it might contain him, shoes and all, and sits down with his back against the cold tiled wall. he draws his knees up, elbows braced on them, lighter balanced between his fingers.

for a second he just sits there, letting his head knock softly against the tiles behind him.

you drunk and smiling. your fingers in his hair. your body pressed all along his side. your voice in his ear, telling him you like him.

he can’t help but be uncomfortable in his jeans.

“get a grip,” he mutters, more annoyed at himself than anything. he drags the cigarette pack out of his pocket and taps one out, filter already a little squashed from being shoved against his leg.

he sticks it between his lips and lights it, the flame flaring close to his face, highlighting the tired lines under his eyes. the bathroom fills slowly with smoke that he tries to blow toward the small fan above his head. it will reek in here. george will kill him. he does not give a single fuck.

the first few drags calm him just enough that he can actually think which is almost worse. because when the white noise fades, all that is left is you and the way you felt against him.

the way your thighs spread slightly when you sat next to him. the way your dress rode up when you shifted. the way your bra strap slipped off your shoulder and he had to physically stop himself from fixing it for you.

“fucking hell,” he breathes, head tipping back again.

his free hand is already at his belt before he realises what he is doing.

he freezes, cigarette perched loosely between his fingers, eyes squeezed shut. there is this war in his chest that has been going on for months now. you and everything you are, and that terrifying thing he is desperately trying not to name. and then his stupid body, that reacts every single time you touch him like a twitchy little live wire he cannot unplug.

he has done this before.

thinks about you. those nights where you text him something stupid or you fall asleep on his shoulder during a film and it stays in his mind until he is alone in his room, unable to breathe properly until he gets his jeans open and wraps his fist around himself and pretends it is your hand instead.

he has done it so many times it makes him feel sick if he lets himself think about it for too long.

but he still does it.

his palm presses against him through the denim, just for a second. just enough to relieve the pressure, he tells himself. he grimaces, sucking in a breath between his teeth as he rubs the heel of his hand there.

images flash up behind his eyes.

you laughing, head thrown back. you asleep on his lap on george’s sofa, lips parted. you at the party tonight, wine stained mouth, saying you like his hair.

his thumb slides along the seam of his jeans, his hips jerking up a little against his own hand.

“fuck,” he says again, harsher this time.

he undoes the top button, zipper dragging down, the subtle pop of it releasing his waistband making his whole body sag with relief. his hand slips inside, warm against his skin, fingers wrapping around the base.

he is so hard it actually hurts. 

he strokes enough to feel some sort of reeling pooling in his stomach. his head tips forward, hair falling into his eyes, cigarette dangling forgotten between two fingers as ash drops into the tub near his shoe.

he thinks about your hand instead of his. your wrist small in his grip, your fingers twitchy and curious. you would probably giggle and he would have to bite his tongue so he did not say something pathetic like i love you as you touched him.

his grip tightens, breath coming faster.

and then your face flickers behind his eyes again, not drunk and giggly, but sober, your cheek pressed to his shoulder earlier that week when you told him some secret you had never told anyone else.

he stops.

his hand goes completely still. the shame hits him making his stomach twist.

“you are such a fucking idiot.”

he lets go of himself, the sudden cold making him curse again under his breath. he drags his hand out of his jeans, knuckles knocking against the metal zip, and scrubs it over his face instead, fingers pressing hard into his eyes trying his best to wipe the images away.

you are drunk in the next room, trusting him to look after you.

and he is sitting in george’s parents’ bathtub with your name written on his lighter and his dick in his hand.

he wants you so badly it makes him feel actually unwell and he hates himself for it almost as much as he needs it.

he drags on the cigarette again, smoke filling his lungs, trying to focus on the burn instead of the ache between his legs. he takes another long pull and another until he can breathe without panting.

his jeans are still open. he presses the heel of his hand against himself again, not to get off. to try and dull the ache. he forces himself to stop there, to just sit in that uncomfortable place rather than give in completely.

it feels like punishment and maybe he thinks he deserves it.

he taps ash into the drain, eyes on the tiny grey flecks. your name flashes again as he turns the lighter over in his hand, thumb catching on one of the stickers.

he is so angry with himself he could scream.

angry that he cannot switch it off, that he cannot just be your friend and not think about how your mouth would feel around him, how it might sound when you said his name in that voice for a completely different reason.

angry that every single time he thinks about stopping, about backing off, you smile at him like he hung the moon and the stars and it all starts again.

he finishes the cigarette down to the filter, stubs it carefully under his shoe and tucks the butt into his pocket so he will not leave evidence. at least some part of his brain is still working.

he does his jeans back up. he’s still hard, but it’s a heavy pulse rather than a sharp ache.

it will not go away completely. it never does.

he sits there for another minute, forehead resting against his knees, lighter held tight in one fist.

“stop it,” he whispers to himself. “just, stop. it is her. you cannot…”

but he knows he will not. he knows the second you touch him again, it will all come flooding back, worse than before.

he sighs, long and shaky, and finally pushes himself up out of the tub.

he cracks the little bathroom window open, waves the air around as if that will magically erase the smell, and checks his reflection briefly in the mirror. his cheeks are flushed, pupils blown,hair a mess. he looks like exactly what he is: a boy who just nearly wanked over his best friend in george’s mum’s bathtub.

he grimaces at himself, splashes a bit of cold water on his face, then pockets the lighter again, your name pressing into his thigh as a reminder.

when he unlocks the door and steps back into the hallway, the music rushes up to meet him again. laughter, bass, someone shouting.

somewhere in the living room you are still curled into the corner of the couch, probably waiting for him to come back, completely unaware that he has just spent ten minutes in the bathroom trying not to fall apart over you.

he walks toward you anyway.

of course, he’s sprawled out on his bed at this second, looking ridiculously comfortable while half heartedly messing with his guitar. it takes him about three notes for you to catch on... yeah, it’s that song. the one from last week’s practice that’s been stuck in your head ever since he asked what you thought of it. as if your zero knowledge about music writing could actually contribute anything meaningful to the track. but it’s one of matty’s sneaky little ways of showing he actually cares about you.

you’re on the floor, cross legged, back against the bed frame, fidgeting every two seconds because sitting still is impossible during this moment in time. your homework’s out in front of you, basically untouched except for your half written name scribbled at the top. you can’t focus. your mind’s stuck on the same stupid thing from lunch, and it’s driving you mad. it’s impossible to shake off that you let out a long, heavy sigh before you even realize it’s happening, and immediately the guitar strings stop mid chord, leaving the room way too quiet.

“alright, what’s going on with you?”

“nothing.” you glance over your shoulder, trying to play it off, but he’s already watching you. his fingers are still wrapped around the neck of the instrument, not moving, eyes squinting enough to make it clear he’s calling your bluff.

“doesn’t seem like nothing.” he tilts his head, hair falling into his face in that pretty way you enjoy so much. “you’ve been off since you got here. you’re not even studying, which is, like, your thing. so just tell me already. what’s going on?”

there’s this tight knot in your gut that won’t give. you glare down at your notebook. maybe if you focus hard enough, it’ll magically sort all this crap out for you. “it’s nothing, matty,” you mumble, trying not to sound as annoyed as you feel. “just... drop it, alright?”

there’s this awkward silence, and then the bed creaks as he scoots closer. you feel his hair brush against your shoulder, and it makes your chest tighten a bit, but you play it cool. he leans in to look at you, his face way too calm for what you’re feeling.

“not happening,” he cuts straight to the point. “spill. what’s up?”

“it’s dumb.”

“don’t care.”

you groan. “fine. it’s… something from lunch, okay?”

his eyebrows lift a little, and his expression goes softer, which only makes it harder to keep your thoughts straight. “what kind of thing?”

a loud exhale leaves your lips once again. “just… some girls were talking about making out. who they’ve kissed. all the stuff they’ve done.” you pause, your throat tight, already regretting saying anything. “then they asked me.” another pause. “and i had nothing to say. because, you know, i haven’t done much. properly.”

your voice gives up at the end. cheeks burning. brain short circuiting. full body humiliation mode activated. all you want is for the ground to do you a favour and eat you alive, but nope. you’re still here. still breathing. still sitting in front of your best friend, fully exposed, no take-backs.

matty blinks at you, and for a second, you’re fully convinced he’s about to burst out laughing, so you’re bracing yourself for it. but he doesn’t. he stares, brow creasing a little, as if you’ve dealt him some impossible equation from your old tutoring sessions instead of whatever disaster is currently spilling out of your mouth.

“okay…” he finally says, real slow.

“and then,” you blurt out as there’s no way you can stop now, “they started going on about how everyone’s kissed someone, right? and yeah, obviously i have. but not. not in the way they meant. nothing that made me, i don’t know, lose my mind or whatever. so now i’m overthinking it, because what if i’m just bad at it? what if it’s me?” your face is on fire, and honestly, it feels like the only way out of this is to ascend to another plane of existence.

he keeps looking at you, with his lips doing this twitchy thing, which only makes matters worse here. and after what feels like forever, he only shrugs. “who cares what they’ve done? they’re probably making half that shit up anyway.”

“that’s not the point, matty!” your voice comes out way higher than you meant it to. “it’s not even about them, okay? it’s just... i don’t know. i feel like i’m behind or something. that i missed the memo on how to be a normal teenager.”

“normal’s boring,” he says, completely unfazed. “you’re way better off.”

“oh, sure. easy for you to say.” you jab a finger at him. “you’ve done it. loads. apparently.”

his eyebrows shoot up so fast you can’t tell if he’s confused, offended, or pretending he didn’t hear you. “what are you on about?”

“louise and jessica. they both said you made out with them.” you reveal, “and that you were really into it.”

matty’s mouth opens, shuts, opens again, but no words come out. instead, his face goes bright red—actual, proper scarlett red—as he sits up on the edge of the bed, suddenly finding every other spot in the room way more interesting than you.

“that...” he stammers, raking a hand through his hair, which only makes a bigger mess out of it. “that’s… they said that?”

you nod, biting back a smirk because watching him squirm is pretty much the only highlight of your day. “so?” you tilt your head back against the bed, trying to seem casual even though your heart’s racing to find out more. “what was it like?”

his voice cracks. cracks. “wh—what was what?” and it’s so funny you almost lose it.

“making out with them, matty. c’mon.”

“oh my god.” he groans as if it’s apparently the most painful thing anyone’s ever asked him, dramatically throwing his hands over his face. “you’re not serious right now.”

“i so am.” you nudge his knee, curiosity totally winning out over any shred of shame. “please tell me. was it good? did you love it? what’s it even like?”

he groans louder this time, like you’re torturing him. but when he peeks at you through his fingers, there’s this tiny, almost-smile threatening to break through. “it’s… i don’t know. it’s fine, okay? depends.”

“depends?” your eyebrows raise up, and you’re full-on grinning. this is way too much fun to let up.

he gives you a look that’s so over it, but you can see the laugh he’s barely holding back. “on the person.”

you narrow your eyes at him. “well, that’s vague.”

“oh, my bad,” he shoots back, tone dripping with sarcasm. “didn’t realize i was supposed to be taking notes.”

the way he says it makes you roll your eyes, but you’re not letting this go. “but you’ve done it. many times.” you inch in closer, now watching his fingers drum against his legs, a nervous tick of his.

“yeah, i guess.”

“with who?”

he mutters something under his breath about you being insufferable, but he still answers, rattling off a couple of names.

you nod along, but let’s be real, you’re not even processing a word. your brain’s already gone rogue. it’s running this whole montage in your head. him leaning in, his hand brushing someone’s cheek, the way his mouth moves when he’s kissing them, how close they’d be. it’s stupid. straight-up torture. but it’s all you can see, and now there’s this awful, heavy feeling spreading through your chest.

“did you enjoy it?” your voice drops, barely above a whisper. 

he shrugs and keeps his eyes on the guitar next to him. “sometimes.” his answer comes out flat. “but not always.”

“how come?”

he eventually looks over, and there’s something in his face you can’t read. “just… it doesn’t always feel right. sometimes you’re doing it because you think you’re supposed to, not because you actually want to.”

and yeah. that hits. hard. because you get it. exactly. only checking off boxes, doing the thing, waiting to feel something that never comes.

you slump back against the bed, pressing your palms into the carpet to steady yourself. “i don’t know,” you mumble, “it’s just… everyone else has done it. and i’m sitting here,” you cut yourself off as you feel the heat’s crawling up your neck again, making it difficult to even finish the sentence. “it’s sad.” all you can do is stare at the ceiling.

matty doesn’t answer right away, but then you feel him shift even closer, his knee bumping your shoulder. it’s small, barely a thing, but it’s enough for now. “it’s not stupid,” he says. “and it’s not a big deal. you’ll get there when you get there.” he pauses, probably trying to figure out how to not make this weird. “and when it happens, it’ll be amazing. with the right person.”

you glance up at him, your palms and fingers starting to tingle. his face is serious, eyes locked on you, and it’s impossible to look away. he’s sitting there, saying stuff that shouldn’t matter too much but somehow does, and it’s messing with your head.

“what if it never feels right?” the words tumble out before you even realize you’re saying them, so quiet you’re half hoping he didn’t catch it.

but he does. “it will,” he assures as you drop your gaze and notice when he finally stops fidgeting with his fingers.

the room goes dead quiet again, and it’s the worst kind of silence. no guitar, no tapping of his foot, just this heavy nothingness hanging between you. you try to not let it get to you, picking at some random thread on your sleeve, pretending you didn’t make everything awkward between you two. matty shifts on the bed, and you can feel it, that little pause before he speaks. but you don’t dare look. no way. because you’re afraid of only making things worse.

“i could… you know, if you wanted to…”

you blink a couple of times. “what?”

matty immediately looks like he wants to crawl under the bed. “nothing,” he mutters, shaking his head way too fast. "forget it."

“no, seriously, what?” you sit up, narrowing your eyes at him. “say it.”

he hesitates, his face practically glowing crimson now, taking a deep breath before he stutters, “i just meant… if you wanted to practice. or, like, learn. i could… maybe help.”

your lip twitches. did he actually say that? you blink at him once more. “wait. with you?”

“yeah. i mean, only if you want to.” he shrugs one shoulder, trying and failing to look nonchalant.

your stomach flips, your mind racing, but all you can think is: this is matty. your best friend matty. the same boy who can’t match his socks but somehow always knows exactly how to make you laugh when you feel like crying. and now he’s sitting here, offering to make out to make you feel better, because that’s a totally normal thing to do.

the silence drags on, and it takes you a minute to realize he’s holding his breath, waiting for you to say something.

"okay," you whisper, the word feather-light as it escapes your lips. 

matty exhales, and for a second, he gazes at you, his eyes dark yet kind, trying to figure out if you really just said that. "now?" he asks, his voice gentle and a little shaky, too. but you agree, even if your heart is beating so rapidly you might pass out.

you intently watch as he pushes himself off the bed. then he’s kneeling right in front of you, close enough that his knees knock into yours, and yeah, okay, what the hell is going on? he drags his hands through his hair once, twice, then lets them fall into his lap, rubbing his palms against his jeans over and over. and for some reason, that makes your pulse race even faster.

“you really sure about this?”

“yeah...”

"alright," he murmurs, closing in just enough that you catch the faintest scent of him, and your whole body is suddenly on high alert as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “gonna start slow, alright?”

you nod, probably too eager, and he inches forward, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek first. barely there. over before you can process it. and you can’t help but giggle nervously as he pulls back, his cheeks still a little pink.

“that doesn’t count,” you tease, trying to mask the way your chest feels like it’s about to explode.

matty grins, then squares his shoulders. “alright. proper one, then.”

before you can overthink it, his hands are cupping your face, warm and still a little unsteady, and then he’s leaning back in. your breath catches as his lips brush against yours, calm, careful, and oh so gentle. it only lasts a fraction of a second but you already know you need more.

“you okay?” his voice is ever so quiet with a hint of nervousness behind it.

you only nod again because your throat won’t cooperate, and if you try to speak, you’re not entirely sure what will happen.

he edges in closer, lips pressing slow against yours, lingering just a little longer this time. warm and firm yet still ridiculously soft. your eyelids flutter shut, everything else fading until the only thing that exists is the way his mouth feels against yours.

when he finally pulls back, you blink to find him watching you intently.

“well?” he asks.

“i liked that.” you admit as you bite your bottom lip, and his gaze flicks down for a second before he snaps it back up.

“wanna keep going, then?” he asks after a beat, his voice careful, quiet.

“please.”

his lips curve into the smallest smile before mindlessly licking them. “alright. close your eyes again.”

you do as he says, and he tilts in closer once more, hands still delicately cradling your jaw. his mouth presses against yours, firmer, warmer, and then—oh. his lips part just enough, and before you can even think about it, his tongue barely skims your lips. your breath stumbles. you freeze for a second, unsure of what to do next. but he doesn’t rush, just pulls back the tiniest bit, his thumbs tracing little circles against your skin. “you’re okay,” he murmurs. “it’s normal to be nervous. let’s just go slow. and tell me if you want to stop, yeah?”

“yes, okay.”

then he kisses you for the fourth time, and when his tongue flicks against your lips, you don’t freak out. you just let it happen, letting him in as your head goes a little fuzzy. his tongue brushes against yours. the sensation is totally new but definitely not bad. the total opposite actually. you melt into it, letting the warmth of his mouth take over, and yeah, alright, now it makes sense why those girls lose their minds over this. maybe even over him.

the kiss deepens and you’re holding your breath like that’ll somehow make it last forever. stopping feels like the worst idea in the world because what if all the butterflies swarming inside you just disappear? it’s more wet and messier than you expected, but it’s still really, really good. maybe even perfect.

at least until your teeth knock together and you freeze, absolutely mortified.

matty pulls back just enough, as the softest laugh slips out, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes shining. “happens all the time,” he whispers, voice sweeter than honey. “you’re fine.”

you barely comprehend the words he’s saying, your ears ringing so loudly that it all feels like a dream.

“let’s try again.”

yeah, no, you’re definitely dreaming. no way this is happening.

and now it’s you who eagerly leans forward, making matty lose his balance before his hands find your waist, steadying himself before crashing back into you. it’s faster this time. it’s also then that you realize how good he tastes. definitely something you could get addicted to. your hands slide up to his neck and you swear you hear the faintest little whimper slip out of him. he probably doesn’t even realize he did it. which just makes it even better, making you grin against his lips.

“what’s that all about?” he mumbles between kisses, but you just keep smiling, shaking your head, not about to waste a single second not kissing him.

you don’t know how long it’s been. definitely not long enough. not even close. and honestly, you’d be happy staying right here forever, but then his hand accidentally drifts under your jumper, fingertips barely grazing the skin there, and you jolt, causing a tiny, embarrassing sound to slip out of you.

both of you go completely still. eyes wide, pulling back, and for one second, there’s a thin string of saliva still connecting you. then it’s gone, and so is whatever perfect little world you’d just slipped out of.

"i thi—we should probably stop.” he’s breathless, voice uneven, and yeah, there’s disappointment in it. barely there, but you catch it.

you let out a long sigh and nod, even though it’s the absolute last thing you want to do. “yeah, probably.”

the silence creeps back in, but it’s the good kind. warm, easy. you’re just sitting there, staring at each other for way too long, his eyes crinkling at the corners, your tight-lipped smile quivering because you’re not exactly sure how to feel.

then his hand suddenly moves, and before you can react, he’s swiping at your chin. “drooled a little,” he teases, already holding back a laugh.

“oh, shut up.”

you slap his hand away so fast he barely dodges it, his mouth dropping open in fake betrayal. “unbelievable and after what i just did for you.” he shakes his head like you’ve just shattered his trust. 

you can’t help but roll your eyes, way too dramatic about it, leaning back against the edge of the bed. matty drops down next to you, knees bumping yours as you pull your legs in and hug them. you turn to him, already grinning. “so… how did i do?”

he shakes his head, but that stupid smile is ruining any attempt at pretending he didn’t enjoy it. he tilts his head back against the mattress, pretending to think real hard about it, then finally turns to you, lifting a hand, palm flat, wiggling it in a so-so motion.

your jaw drops, full offense taken, and shove him hard enough that he almost tips over. serves him right. but he just laughs, way too pleased with himself, while you groan and cover your face with both hands. absolutely embarrassing.

but before you can wallow for too long, his arms wrap around you, pulling you close. “stop, i’m just kidding,” and then you feel his chin rest on top of your head. he’s never done that before, causing those thousands of tiny butterflies to come back to life again.

it is hard not to count down the days until you are back. you miss him. and perhaps the reason why you text him so much is that he’s not been as responsive lately. your phone usually pings within minutes of hitting “send,” but now there are occasions when he does not answer until the following day. and even then, some of the replies are short and not his usual monologues that barely make sense until you read them out loud for the tenth time. you tell yourself you are overreacting. after all, it is summer. he is probably just busy with the boys, holed up in the garage writing who-knows-how-many songs until either they pass out from exhaustion or from drinking too much.

yes, it is summer. you try to convince yourself it is only that.

—

then the day finally comes. you make it back home on a thursday evening, dashing and tripping up the stairs so you can immediately drop off your bags of dirty laundry, because dealing with that is a future-you problem. present-day you needs to see matty. like, right this second, so you dash out the door. you do not bother texting, do not even think about calling. you are just hoping, praying, he is home. after four or five minutes of sprinting as fast as your legs can move, lungs burning and heart pounding, you finally reach his doorstep and knock, trying to gulp in enough oxygen to replenish your bloodstream.

please be home, please be home, please be home…

you hear those familiar footsteps on the other side, and when the door swings open, you practically trample him, arms shooting out to wrap around his neck before he even gets a chance to say hello.

“easy there.” matty laughs, a little off balance as you cling to him. “missed you too, loser.”

you pull back just enough to shove him lightly in retaliation. “do not call me that. i ran all the way here just to see your stupid face.” but you cannot stop grinning, leaning forward to embrace him once again because he is finally here. right in front of you. he smells like shampoo and cigarettes and you would be lying if you said it is not the best thing you have smelled in weeks. then you remember why you are so excited to come see him.

you quickly let go once more, rummaging through the crumpled receipts and loose lipsticks in your bag until you find a small box wrapped with entirely too much tape. “here, got you something.” and you basically shove the present in his hands, stepping back again so you can watch him open it because you know he will love it.

but that is when you notice it. the orange-reddish color adorning his fingernails. the perfect contrast against the blue paper you used to decorate the tiny gift. the polish is on way too neatly for him to have done it himself. and you do not even own that shade, so it could’ve never been you. plus you were gone for most of the month. you gaze from his nails to his face and down to his hands again. perhaps it was his mum. even a cousin. or maybe—

“um… i have something to tell you.”

and it is then you know exactly why he has not been replying to your texts at 3 a.m. anymore.

turns out he met a girl while you were away. emily. he took her out on a date, and apparently now they are… something. a couple, maybe. he does not use official terms, but from the way he is talking and smiling when he brings her up, you sense it is serious enough.

all you can do is stare at his fingers because your heart is jackhammering in your chest and not from running this time. it is you who started painting his nails. that one day he met you at the park after he finished rehearsal. you were applying the second coat of your own when he arrived and you annoyed him enough to let you paint his for the first time. and you’ve done it ever since. it is your thing and you love it. until now.

his voice brings you back from inside your thoughts. “she’s here, actually. upstairs. we’re just hanging out, listening to some demos.” he nods toward the staircase. “want to come up? she’s super excited to meet you. i’ve told her all about you.” he rubs the back of his neck. “i mean, if you want.”

you realize you are already stepping back, your feet instinctively carrying you toward the doorway. “i, uh… it is okay. ’s late, and i have not even unpacked. i just wanted to drop… this off.” you gesture lamely at the rectangle in his hands. “i should probably, y’know, go shower. and clean my room. and stuff.”

matty’s face falls just slightly, but he tries to mask it with an awkward nod. “right. yeah, that makes sense. you literally just got back. we can, like… talk later. right?”

“later. yeah.” you force a smile that feels all sorts of wrong on your lips. “text me, okay?”

“i will.”

“alright, so…” you glance around half-hoping you will think of some brilliant excuse to stay. but your mind has gone blank. “i’ll talk to you later, matty.”

“later,” he echoes.

then you turn and practically jog down his driveway, gripping the strap of your bag so hard your fingers turn white and ache. your head buzzes with a million thoughts, most of them revolving around how stupid you feel. you missed him so much. but apparently he didn’t miss you as much as you’d hoped.

you eventually do make it home with not one single bone in your body having the intention to clean. instead, you slam your door shut and flop face down on the bed. you can still smell the ocean in your hair. it lingers on your shirt, in the faint saltiness of your skin. it reminds you of the necklace you bought him at the beach stand. nothing fancy really, just a circular white pendant on a strip of dark brown suede. something you picked up on a whim because it instantly reminded you of one he loved during a day trip to london. and it is probably now sitting unopened on his bedside table as he does god-knows-what with his girlfriend.

but to be fair, he texts like he said he would.

hey. thanks for the gift. it’s amazing. i’m wearing it rn. i missed you xx

and for a few hours, it is almost the same as it used to be. banter, memes, him complaining about the heat in george’s garage. but the days that follow? not so much. sometimes he replies. sometimes a day or two passes before you see a new message pop up. and it stings every single time, way more than you would like to admit. you are happy for him, right? he deserves to be happy. it is just that the “happy” you imagined was always the two of you, side by side, best friends and all. you’d hoped to spend most of the summer nights hanging out until the early hours of the morning, listening to him ramble on about music he’d just downloaded.

now often when you go to see the boys at rehearsal, he does not show up until later, with emily of course. she sits on the amp that used to be your spot. the one beside matty, covered with stickers you placed there yourself. she laughs at his dumb jokes, hugs him when he takes a break, and you cannot bring yourself to be mad at her because she is perfectly nice. that is the cruelest part: emily is wonderful. she is funny, caring, bright, and she likes you. or at least says she does. so there is really no reason for you to hate her, other than stealing your friend...

you are actually glad when school starts back up. it means you are able to keep your mind busy with homework and studying, and as lame as it sounds, you welcome it. matty is still in some of your classes, and if it is just the two of you, things feel mostly the same. all until she comes around again. not that he behaves differently. he is still matty. yes, you speak less and do not hang out as much, but he is still the sweet, shy, sassy boy who makes you laugh until you sob. but now it is not just you. there is someone else he also makes laugh until she cries, only she is able to run her fingers through his hair and hug him as she pleases. and well, you just cannot.

weeks go by and you begin to enjoy her company even if you weren’t seeking it. you guess in the end you’d rather have her around than not have matty at all. most of the time it is harmless. having lunch or hanging out at someone’s house. but it is always when they leave together that it hurts the most because it means you won’t hear from him for a while. you’ve kept it hidden, how sad it still makes you. don’t tell anyone. not until one evening when ross catches you wiping your eyes after their rehearsal.

“you okay?”

you just shrug your shoulders and slightly nod. but you don’t even realize more tears are falling down your cheeks until he pulls you in for a hug, letting you bury your face in his shirt as he keeps you close and rubs slow circles on your back.

that night he’s the one who stays over just as matty would, keeping you company until you doze off and hope you can stay asleep until it doesn’t hurt anymore.

—

the buzzing beside your head wakes you up.

hey can u meet at the park?

it’s 8:14 a.m. and last you checked, matty doesn’t do mornings. at least not on saturdays.

a little too early for you to be alive you okay?

he replies immediately. probably the fastest he’s texted you back in months.

please

and that’s all it takes. you drag yourself out of bed, throw on last night’s clothes, and leave the house with your keys in one hand, your phone in the other.

k. be there in 20.

somewhere between dodging morning joggers and yawning yourself awake, you realize you never even glanced at the mirror. you catch your reflection in a parked car’s window, mascara smudged in a dark crescent under each eye. great. you lick your thumb, scrub at the mess until it’s mostly gone. close enough. and you keep going, legs on autopilot as you head for the same picnic bench where you and matty have wasted countless afternoons, paint peeling from its surface and made only worse by his habit of chipping at it while you talk his ear off. something tells you that won’t be the case this morning, though.

you spot matty from a distance, perched on top of the table, feet planted on the bench seat. his hood is up and you know for a fact he’s staring down as his converse tap on the wooden slats. he only looks up the moment your shadow stretches across the lawn.

his face. he’s exhausted. a weight in his eyes you’ve never seen before. it makes your blood run cold because you cannot think of a single day in the past couple of years when you’ve actually seen him sad. you didn’t think it was possible. but guess you were wrong.

you step up onto the bench and settle beside him, close enough that your sides touch. he doesn’t move away. if anything, you swear he leans in just a little. he finally tugs out his headphones and turns around to glance at you. and all you can do is bite your lip because, what do you even say here? is something up with the band? did you do something?

neither of you says a word. the hush is almost claustrophobic, so many questions piling in your mind but refusing to come out.

“i broke up with her yesterday,” his voice is so quiet, “feel like a total dick, to be honest.”

oh.

“i… are you okay?” the swirl of emotions starts to make you lightheaded. sympathy, confusion, relief that’s so shameful you bury it quickly. your teeth are still sunk into your lip, only noticing because his eyes flick down to your mouth for a fraction of a second before dropping to his hands, where he begins tugging at the edges of his fingers.

“i dunno. it stopped feeling right. she’s great, you know? she’s cool, funny, very pretty—” he stops to glance at you with a nervous twitch on his mouth. “sorry. i know that’s weird to say.”

you shake your head. “no, it’s okay. i get it.”

he doesn’t speak for a few seconds, maybe searching for the right words until he seems to give up. he says he knows it sounds dumb, but he misses his friends, giving you a sad, apologetic look meaning he missed you. he confesses it was fun at first, he really liked her a lot, but one day, kissing her didn’t feel the same. and when she wanted to have sex again, he didn’t want to anymore. your eyebrows shoot up. he’s never outright said he wasn’t a virgin anymore. part of you suspected it (he’s matty, after all) but hearing it confirmed still surprises you. he notices your look and points, half-heartedly rolling his eyes as if to say, don’t even start, so you raise your hands in surrender. you can ask questions later. right now, he needs to talk, and for once, it’s him spilling all his tangled feelings while you just listen.

he exhales heavily. the words keep coming as though he’s been desperate for someone to just listen. he goes off about how guilty he feels, how he worries she’s going to hate him, how maybe he should’ve tried harder. this might be the longest he’s ever talked uninterrupted and it honestly warms you from the inside out. perhaps not the best circumstances, but you can’t ignore the way your heart beats a little faster, knowing you’re here for him in a way you haven’t been in a while. and by the time he’s done, you can’t figure out what to say. he gives you this tight-lipped, exhausted smile that you mirror on instinct, then drops his head down again, picking at his fingernails, slowly continuing to tear them to shreds.

your voice seems to be trapped somewhere in your throat, so all you can do is wrap your arm around his shoulders and hold his hand with the other so he doesn’t make himself bleed. he’s warm and smells faintly of the same shampoo and cigarettes. the kind of comfort you’ve been missing since last summer and something in your chest squeezes painfully at the familiarity of it. you lean in close enough to rest your chin on his shoulder, your forehead against his temple just as he intertwines his fingers with yours and holds them impossibly tight.

“it’s okay, matty.”

he closes his eyes, leaning into your touch. “promise?”

“of course.”

he lets out a shaky breath and slowly melts into you, the tension in his shoulders loosening as the minutes pass. another wave of guilt rushes through you at how good it feels to be this close to him again. you glance down at his hand in yours, noticing how his thumb rubs tiny circles against your skin, sending little jolts of warmth through your veins. a sign you might need to put some space between you before you do something you regret. so slowly you pull away to find your bag, searching through its contents until you find a tiny bottle which you shake in front of his face. you settle down on the bench and gesture for him to place his hand on the table in front of you.

he lifts an eyebrow but does as you ask. “it’s not black?”

“not this time,” you twist open the bottle, “figured we could try something new.”

he responds with a grunt but there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips. so you begin painting, gliding the tiny brush carefully across each nail. you concentrate on smoothing the colour in even stripes, wiping stray bits with your thumb, letting the mundane act of painting nails distract you from the swirl of emotions happening inside you.

“so,” you begin quietly, still focused on the polish, “what’s that new song you’re working on? ross said it’s coming along okay?”

“yeah, guess so.” out of the corner of your eye, you notice his other hand starting to tap on his knee, probably drumming along to the beat of that same track. “though george is being an idiot and won’t listen about this one fill… even though he knows ’m right. stupid prick.” this time you bite your lip to hold back your laugh.

“g being stubborn? shocker.”

you listen as he tells you not only about this demo, but several others they’ve been working on, diving into so much detail that honestly goes over your head. but you don’t mind if it gets him distracted. you just try to pretend you know what you’re talking about by responding with half-baked music terms you think you’ve heard him say before.

“there. that one’s good to go.” you pull back to admire your handiwork before looking at him. he brings his fingers close to his face to inspect them, and now you actually laugh as he starts to gently blow on them, just as you’d taught him a year or so ago: remember when you were little and had a super nintendo and the cartridges wouldn’t play so you would blow on them? do just that. but not too hard that you spit and ruin the polish.

before you even have to ask, matty places his other palm flat on his thigh, giving you permission to continue on with the second hand, careful not to get any paint on his jeans because you can practically feel the warmth of his body radiating through the denim.

once you finish up his pinky, you cap the bottle and tuck it away. you cradle the bag against your chest, crossing your arms atop to rest your chin there, gazing up at him. you notice as he stares up at the sky, wondering what’s going on in his mind right at this second because he seems a bit calmer. a bit more like himself. the boy who’s still your best friend, the one you’d do pretty much anything for. even if it means stumbling into the park at a ridiculous hour with makeup smudged halfway down your cheeks. a reminder of how exhausted you are. your eyes slip shut for what feels like half a second only to be startled by the sound of him rummaging through his hoodie.

“matthew, seriously?” you yank his hand from his pocket. “they’re probably still wet.”

he mumbles a low “my bad,” not sounding sorry at all, noticing the soft smirk that tugs at the corner of his lips. then your eyes land on the rectangular outline within the fabric, so you shuffle closer and reach in yourself.

“uh… what are you doing?”

ignoring him, you fish out a battered pack of cigarettes. you slip one between your lips, digging in your bag for the lighter you keep on hand. just in case. by the time you spark the flame and take a quick drag, matty’s eyebrows have shot up halfway up his forehead, staring as if you’ve been replaced by someone else.

“wait. so you smoke now?”

you hand over the cigarette, wrinkling your nose and shaking your head. “not really. not these, anyway.”

matty gives you an all too knowing glance, a hint of a crooked smile forming as he inhales. “ross got you into weed, didn't he?”

you shrug then nod because it’s true. you’ve been getting high with ross ever so often. and you’ve found out you really don’t mind it.

“i leave you alone for one summer and suddenly you’re out here getting stoned in my mate's basement. good to know.”

“shut up,” you say, rolling your eyes even as you can’t help but grin. “it was longer than a summer, by the way. and it’s not like i do it every day.”

he actually laughs. “yeah, well. this i can’t wait to see.”

“whatever,” you mutter back without any bite in your voice. he offers the cigarette but you wave it off, already certain you'd hack up a lung and a half at this hour.

you settle back against your bag, chin propped on top, picking absently at a bit of chipped paint on the table and watch in silence as he exhales smoke into the air. every now and then, you notice him extending his hand to look at his nails, cigarette tucked between his index and middle fingers.

“you like it?”

mr. davis turns to matty, who, by the way, hasn’t even looked at you once. not even a glance. “and you? will you actually show up?”

“yeah. sure.” matty shrugs, voice low, casual, not impolite exactly but not making any promises either.

when you leave the classroom, your brain is spinning. how is this your life now? you spend the rest of the day picturing every way this could go wrong. matty showing up late or not at all. matty being too quiet, distant, barely meeting your eyes. matty fidgeting in his seat, counting the minutes until he can leave, not paying attention whatsoever.

and after school, you unload all your frustration onto your friend, desperate for a shred of sympathy. but really, you should’ve known better.

“shut the fuck up.”

her voice slices through the air, sharp and disbelieving. she’s already sitting up, magazine abandoned, eyes wide like you’d just confessed you were moving to mars. “are you serious?”

“unfortunately,” you groan, covering yourself with your favourite pillow, your words coming out muffled. “apparently, someone thinks i’m a miracle worker who can make him care about school.”

“holy shit.” she leans forward, her grin stretching wider by the second. you can feel it without even looking. “you’re kidding. matty fucking healy?”

“yes.” you drag the pillow over your face wishing it could block out her inevitable reaction. “he doesn’t even try in class. now i’m supposed to magically make him care about algebra?”

“oh, who gives a flying fuck about algebra!” she waves a hand dismissively. “you’re gonna be sitting across from him. alone. for an hour. every week. that’s… basically the fucking dream.”

“oh my god,” you collapse further into the bed hoping the worn sheets beneath can provide some sort of comfort. “you’re delusional.”

“no, you’re delusional if you think this isn’t fate.” she’s practically vibrating with excitement now. “you have to find out everything about him.”

“he’s not some alien experiment,” you deadpan, lifting your head just enough to glare at her. “he’s just a guy who probably can’t add fractions.” still, the thought lingers. maybe you do want to know more. just a little. not because you care, obviously, but because it’s… curious. infuriatingly so.

“and yet, he’s also the hottest guy in school. don’t even try to deny it.”

you hesitate. she’s not wrong, exactly, but you can’t admit that out loud.

“there’s no—”

“don’t.” she cuts you off like a stern teacher catching a student mid-lie. “i know you. i remember. you had the biggest crush on him.”

you can’t help that your face burns instantly. “that was years ago.”

“doesn’t matter,” she sings songs, her grin practically glowing. “you were obsessed. you used to be like, ‘oh my god, matty’s curls looks so soft’ and ‘did you see how he dressed today?’ you were embarrassing.”

“i was twelve.” your voice cracks, too defensive, maybe too high-pitched. “it doesn’t count.”

“oh, it absolutely counts.” she leans closer, “plus, you’re really flustered right now.”

“i’m not!”

“you so are.” the smile plastered on her face is absolutely wicked now. “you still like him, don’t you?”

your stomach warps into knots. “jesus christ, no!” you practically shout, burying your face in your hands.

“sure,” she drags the word out. “but just so you know, louise totally made out with him at that party last month.”

your head snaps up so fast you’re pretty sure you strain something. “what?”

“uh-huh.” she looks far too pleased with herself. “she said he’s, like, weirdly good at it.”

“matty healy?” those two words don’t even make sense in your mouth and brain anymore.

“apparently, he’s super eager and… sweet. can you imagine? matty fucking healy being cute?”

you snort, because no. you can’t.

“right? same. but louise swears it’s true. she said he kept pulling her closer and saying, ‘is this okay?’ and ‘you’re really pretty.’”

your gut twists again, this awful, fluttery thing you refuse to acknowledge.

“you’re so full of shit.”

“she’s full of shit,” she corrects, laughing. “but honestly? if it’s true, it makes him even more confusing. how can someone be broody and sweet? pick a fucking lane.”

and there it is again. that thought you don’t want to have. matty healy. sweet. yup.

he barely talks to anyone, always hunched over a notebook or sketching weird little patterns on the edges of his papers. he’s quiet in this intense, self-contained way, like he doesn’t want anyone seeing too much. he doesn’t seem like the type to ask ‘is this alright?’ or let alone call someone pretty.

but what if he is? what if there’s something softer under all the sharp edges, something he keeps hidden on purpose? what if—

no. fucking. way. it’s ridiculous. you shove the thought down, locking it in the imaginary safe inside your brain. plus, he’s probably never even thought about you twice.

“he’s not like that,” you say finally, more to yourself than to her.

“oh, yeah?” she raises an eyebrow, daring you to argue. “guess you’ll find out, won’t you?”

“jesus christ, stop it.” you grab the nearest cushion and launch it at her, but she just laughs, catching it before it hits her face.

“hey, i’m just saying,” her grin is downright evil now. “if he’s a good kisser, you’re practically obligated to confirm it.”

“get out,” you groan, flopping back down.

but even as you bury your face back in the pillow, you can’t stop thinking about it.

what if she wasn’t wrong?

—

by the time the first session rolls around, your nerves are a complete wreck. your hands are clammy, you feel a bit lightheaded, and you’re already regretting every decision that’s led you here. the library is practically dead; just the low buzz of those ancient fluorescent lights and the occasional shuffle of someone flipping a page somewhere in the distance. it smells strange, this weird mix of dusty books and that lemony floor cleaner that somehow always feels sticky no matter how fresh it is.

your swear your bag is a million pounds, stuffed to the brim with textbooks and notes you’re not even sure will matter. every step toward the back of the room seems slower than the last, as if your feet are trying to talk you out of this whole thing. but you press on, your heart hammering, every instinct screaming to spin around and hide in the safety of the nearest aisle.

he’s already there when you stumble around the corner, looking exactly how you expected. his hair’s a reckless mess, all careless pieces falling into his face because gravity’s obviously playing favourites. his shoulders droop so far it’s a small miracle he hasn’t slid off the chair entirely. his tie’s hanging on by sheer willpower, slack and crooked, and his shirt—don’t even get started on the shirt—looks like it’s been wadded up at the bottom of a gym bag for weeks. yet by some ungodly miracle, he still looks stupidly good. you’re sure the universe must’ve bent the rules just for him.

you stop dead in your tracks, your stomach doing this annoying thing once again, but this time more from dread than nerves. he’s not quite intimidating but there’s something about the sheer disinterest radiating off him that makes you hesitate. you’re clutching your bag so hard your knuckles are white, and for one brief, tempting second, bolting feels like a legitimate option. but then he glances up, his eyes widening just enough to make it clear he didn’t think you’d actually show. the expression isn’t inviting, but it’s enough to stop you from finding the exit. barely.

“oh. hi.” his voice is soft, so quiet it takes you a second to register that he’s spoken.

you swallow hard, willing your nerves to calm, and walk over, lowering yourself into the seat across from him. “hi.” your voice comes out steadier than you feel, the single word hovering awkwardly in the air.

you pull your bag onto the table and set it down with exaggerated care, as if even the slightest sound might disrupt the fragile calm between you. he doesn’t say anything else, just shrugs, his movements loose and lazy, still half-melting into the chair. 

“are you ready?” you manage, keeping your tone neutral, polite, professional even.

another shrug. “yeah. sure.”

his voice is low and rough. perhaps it hasn’t gotten much use today. it’s still not exactly rude, but it’s not encouraging either. you nod, your hands fumbling slightly as you flip open your notebook. you start simple, writing out a basic equation: 3x + 4 = 10.

“try this one,” you say, sliding the notebook toward him.

he picks up his pen, taps it rhythmically against the table for a few beats, then scribbles something down. x = 2.

“good,” you say before you can stop yourself, a flicker of surprise coloring your voice. you didn’t expect him to nail it on the first try, and the unexpected ease of it catches you off guard. “okay, what about this one?” you write out another problem: 2(x - 3) = 8.

he stares at the equation for a long moment, his brow furrowing slightly as he traces the numbers with his eyes. his lips press together in concentration and for a brief second, you think he might actually be invested in figuring it out. then he bites his bottom lip, and it’s glossy and pink when he lets go, and you have to snap your attention back to your notebook, pretending you didn’t notice.

“uh… x is… 11?”

it’s wrong, obviously, and you should’ve seen it coming, but something about the way he says it makes you bite back a laugh. instead, you shake your head, the corners of your mouth tugging into an involuntary smile. “not quite. here, let me show you.”

you walk him through the steps, breaking it down as simply as you can, and to his credit, he listens. his eyes follow your pen as you write, nodding slowly while he tries to piece it all together. his hair falls into his face as he leans in, the faintest shadow of understanding flickering across his expression.

“oh. so x is 7.”

“exactly.”

he leans back with a soft sigh, dragging a hand through his hair. his fingers catch in the tangles, but it doesn’t seem to bother him; it’s more automatic than deliberate. “right. makes sense, i guess.”

you glance at his notebook, curiosity tugging at the edges of your focus. it’s open, but not to anything remotely useful. instead of math problems, the pages are crammed with chaotic scribbles. tiny guitars, abstract shapes, half-finished stick figures tangled with half-finished sentences. words scratched out and rewritten so many times they’re barely legible, spiraling across the margins in waves of ink that don’t seem to lead anywhere.

you try not to stare, but it’s impossible to ignore the sheer disarray of it. it feels oddly intimate, a window into his head he hasn’t really hidden but hasn’t offered up, either.

“this one’s hard,” he mutters, pulling you back. his voice is quiet again, but there’s a faint sense of frustration as he frowns at the problem you’ve written: 5x - 2 = 3x + 6.

“it’s not too bad,” you say, leaning forward slightly, your tone gentle. “just move all the x terms to one side and the numbers to the other.”

he scratches something down, his pen pausing mid-air as he hesitates, then scribbles a little more. finally, he looks up, the faintest smirk curling at the edges of his lips. “x is… 4?”

you nod, feeling a flicker of warmth at the small victory. “exactly. see? you’re getting it.”

his lips tug into a smile and it’s not much, but it’s something. you look away, turning the page in your notebook, refusing to acknowledge the way your chest flutters for half a second.

the hour drags and flies at the same time. he tries, which surprises you more than anything else given that he has the attention span of a newborn goldfish. his foot taps a steady rhythm against the floor, and his fingers keep tugging at the frayed edge of his sleeve, but when you gently redirect him, he comes back.

the more time you spend with him, the more details start to sink in. the way his voice softens when he’s unsure of something. the way his nails are bitten down to jagged nubs. the way his lips part slightly when he’s thinking, his gaze flicking back and forth between the notebook and the table as if the answer might reveal itself if he stares long enough.

when the hour’s finally up, you take your time packing up, every movement drawn out and careful, watching out of the corner of your eye as he shoves papers into his bag. half of them are crumpled, a few look like they’ve barely survived, and none of them seem to end up where they’re supposed to.

“thanks for this,” he mutters, barely loud enough to register, his focus stuck on cramming his notebook into the disaster zone. “i mean… yeah. thanks.” 

“no worries.” you aim for light, casual, as if your pulse isn’t doing that weird, too-fast thud in your chest. “that’s why i’m here. see you next week?”

he nods, barely, and there’s this tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth, a smile that doesn’t quite make it but lingers just enough to be noticeable. “yeah. see you.”

he walks off, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his bag hanging awkwardly from one shoulder, papers still sticking out at random angles. you’re just about to leave when your eyes catch something on the table. a crumpled piece of paper, left behind in his whirlwind of packing.

you pause, glancing around like you’re about to commit some kind of crime, but the library’s empty. no one’s watching. your fingers hover for half a second before curiosity gets the better of you, and you pick it up, smoothing the wrinkles carefully.

the handwriting is a mess. words scratched out and rewritten, lines twisted into tangles of uncertainty: and this is how it starts

take your shoes off in the back of my car van

you share my shirt, looks so good

when it’s just hangin’ off your back (???)