so she wrote a plan for it

You can't explain how, but you know something is wrong the second he walks into the apartment.

The first noise to catch your attention, other than the sound of the door clicking shut as Matty locks it behind him, is the sharp clatter of keys skidding across a stone countertop. You reach for the TV remote, pausing the show you've been watching, and turn your attention to the entryway of your living room.

"Matty?" 

Your call remains unanswered, which is strange, especially for someone who loves to talk as much as your boyfriend. Everything about this is strange — Matty is normally the first person to announce his arrival, to tell you hello, to ask you how your day was. He's never quiet, not like this. The complete silence from him is something new altogether, and it makes your stomach drop. 

You rise to your feet, turn a corner, and cross the short distance between the living room and the entryway. You find Matty leaning against the kitchen counter, propped up by his elbows. His palms cover his face, shielding himself. You can hear the faint sound of bass blasting through the speakers of his headphones, which are cranked up so loud that he's definitely risking permanent hearing loss. 

"Matty?" you repeat, more concerned this time.

This time, he hears you. Matty jumps back from the counter in surprise as his eyes land on you. A pair of unsteady hands reach up to pull his headphones down, leaving them resting around his neck. He blinks, reminiscent of a deer in the headlights. 

"I thought you were at work."

"I got off early," you explain gently. "Told you I was going to."

Matty's face falls at the realization of his forgetfulness. He runs a hand through his messy curls, shaking his head. He appears almost frantic. 

"Right, shit – m'sorry, love," he says. "Been a long day, s'all. Sorry"

"What's wrong?"

"Just… studio bullshit," Matty explains, waving a dismissive hand. "Nothing's coming together right. Everything sounds… wrong. It's just…" He lets out a disgruntled noise before shrugging, defeated. "It's nothing. You know how I get, s'all." 

"I'm sorry," you frown sympathetically. "Are you sure you're up for going out tonight?"

Matty's face falls. "What? Yeah. 'Course I am. We have reservations."

"I can cancel them," you say casually. 

It would hardly be the first time you've canceled plans at the last minute, and still, the world kept spinning. One of the benefits of dating a rockstar is that you can kind of get dinner reservations whenever you want, and this situation is no different. 

But for some reason, Matty doesn't seem to agree. His eyes suddenly widen, panicked.

"No, don't –" You watch as he brings his hands up to his face again, rubbing at his eyes. "Don't do that. Not f'me."

"Matty –" He cuts you off before you can finish.

"You should go get ready," he says, forcing a grin that looks more pained than anything else. It looks almost uncomfortable for him to show his teeth, to muster the performance of being a human right now. "I'll be fine."

"Matty."

"It's fine — I'll be fine." He's trying to be assertive — you can tell. Unfortunately for him, he's failing miserably. 

"Are you saying that because you will be fine, or because you think it's what I want to hear?"

Matty doesn't respond to your question – not that he needs to. You both already know the answer. Instead, he lets out a low sigh, shoulders falling.

"It's fine," he repeats, clumsily avoiding your question.

You decide you can't let this go on any longer. Matty's barely holding this conversation as is, so the prospect of him subjecting him to a loud, bustling social situation sounds like the last thing he needs at the moment. And if he's not going to advocate for himself because he's too afraid of letting you down, then it's time for you to take matters into your own hands.

You take a slow, deliberate step forward, closing the space between the two of you. When you cup Matty's face in your hands, his gaze immediately darts down to the floor, unable to look you in the eye. 

"Baby." Your words, just like your actions, are soft. When he's overstimulated like this, you take extra care to monitor yourself and your tone, not wanting to make things worse for him. "I'm not going to let you torture yourself for me." 

Your words cut through his carefully constructed facade. You watch as the last of Matty's will to argue drains from his body. His lips move, but no words come out, and his shoulders sink impossibly lower, almost bashful. He still doesn't meet your gaze, and it makes your chest feel tight. 

"'M sorry," he finally mumbles, voice constricted, throat tight with effort. 

"It's okay," you reassure him, knowing that's what he needs right now. "Do you wanna tell me what happened at work?"

"No," Matty replies, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. 

You'd figured as much. Matty usually preferred to seal himself away for a bit to decompress before actually opening up. Still, it was worth a try.

"Okay," you say calmly. "Have you eaten?"

"I think I had some coffee."

"Eaten," you emphasize. 

Your prying brings Matty's attention back to you. His eyes snap up to your face, expression unreadable as he contemplates your question. Then, he lazily shakes his head. 

"I don't think so."

"Okay. I'll order some food, then." 

"Don't wanna eat." 

"I know, baby. But if you change your mind, it'll be good to have around." 

Matty blinks at you, then. There's a vacancy in his eyes that you haven't seen for a while, an uncomfortable vulnerability that tells you he would rather be anywhere but here. The muscle in his jaw twitches, and you watch as his chapped lips part, only to close once more. He's quiet, again. And it's not because he doesn't have anything to say; it just seems that, at this instant, Matty doesn't know how to say it for whatever reason. And that's okay.

"Go get changed, sweet boy." Your thumb caresses his cheekbone, featherlight. You swear you feel his breath shudder in response. "I'll be here when you're done." 

You watch as he wordlessly retreats to the bedroom and shuts the door. Only a minute passes before you hear the twist of the shower head turning on, and the faint drumming of water hitting acrylic flooring. Only then do you sit back down on the couch and open your emails, scrolling back until you find the restaurant reservation confirmation for the evening. You cancel it without much guilt, knowing that someone will snatch up your spot within minutes, and that Matty will want to grab dinner there again soon, once he feels more like himself.

Then you open your favorite food delivery app. After searching through the options for a couple of minutes, you decide on a local, fast casual restaurant that you know is one of Matty's favorites. It's the classic definition of comfort food, and you hope it will be enough for him to rediscover his appetite.

You've only just placed the order when you hear the bedroom door creak open, and Matty steps out. He's changed into what you're pretty sure is the biggest hoodie he owns, along with a long, flowy skirt that's just one of many in his collection. His hair is damp but not soaked, which makes you think that he stepped into a shower for only a few moments to clear his head before that inevitably became too much. A couple of water-logged curls stick to his forehead, framing his face.

You're about to stand up to give him room to sprawl across the couch, but Matty beats you to the punch, carefully lying down and positioning himself so he's half on top of you. He rests his head on your lap, legs curled up to his chest in some form of the fetal position. It always surprises you how small Matty can make himself when he wants to. He has a big personality, and he's loud. Whenever he enters a room, he's impossible to miss – he demands attention. He takes up space. But right now, curled up in your lap, he seems small, fragile, almost like he'll crumble if you so much as look at him wrong.

"This alright?" he asks, voice also small.

"Course it is," you reply with a faint smile, not that he can see it. "Can I touch you?"

"Please."

So you do, lowering your arm to drape across the frame of his upper body, blanketing him the best you can. Your other hand drifts down to his head, brushing his curls out of his face before resting against his scalp. You keep your fingers still, unsure whether playing with his hair would be more comforting or annoying for him at this point. Matty lets out a pleased sigh, curling into you even more, feline-like.

"What are you watching?"

"Some shitty reality show," you reply. You'd only been half paying attention to it before he walked in. "You wouldn't like it. I'll turn it off."

"No," Matty replies, voice soft. "Keep it. Not gonna pay attention, anyway." 

And while you don't turn it off, thinking he might appreciate the distraction, you do turn down the volume of the TV by a couple of notches. If Matty notices, he doesn't say anything.  

In fact, he falls entirely silent after that, content to rest against you. Even though you can't see his face, his rhythmic, deep breathing tells you that he's finally allowing himself the luxury of rest. After a few minutes, you feel his body relax entirely. The tension that he's been holding in his shoulders fades away into nothingness, and you instantly know that he's fallen asleep in your lap.

Finally, you turn your attention back to the TV, permitting yourself to focus on something other than him for the time being. And as you lose yourself in the show, which really is comedically bad, you're careful to stay still, not wanting to stir Matty from his much-needed slumber.

By the time the food gets there, Matty's still fast asleep, so tired that even the sound of the delivery person knocking on the door to your apartment doesn't rouse him. And while you're tempted to get up and retrieve the food before it gets cold, you can't bring yourself to disrupt your boyfriend's sleep… not yet, at least. You make a mental note to wake him within the next twenty minutes if he doesn't stir on his own, but that deadline never comes. 

A phone call wakes him before you can. You feel a faint vibration against your thigh. Instinctively, you reach towards it, only to realize that it's not your phone – it's Matty's, carefully tucked away in the pocket of his hoodie. With an annoyed groan, Matty stirs awake, blindly fumbling around in his pocket before grabbing his phone and checking the screen.

"Shit," he grumbles. "It's George."

"You should talk to him."

"Don't wanna."

You frown, running your fingers through his hair in what you hope is a comforting gesture. "You'll regret it if you don't."

After a few more moments, Matty takes your advice, letting out another tired groan before rising to his feet. By then, he's missed George's call altogether, but you can tell by the way he's steeling himself that he's preparing to call him right back. Matty hastily grabs a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the little shelf where he always keeps them before stepping out onto the balcony. He doesn't fully close the sliding glass door, and you can hear him sigh when George picks up the phone, greeting his friend with a warm but sheepish "Hey mate."

Most of the conversation happens in hushed tones, with what sounds like a well-deserved apology from Matty. You haven't seen it firsthand, but you know that tensions can run high in the studio on a good day, and it clearly wasn't a good day for your boyfriend. Matty was notoriously poor at handling conflict, especially when it came to the people he loved, and you can only imagine what sort of terms he and George left things on. You also know that it must have been eating him up inside. You have a feeling that if George hadn't called, Matty would have reached out to him by the end of the night, no matter how much he acted like he didn't want to talk to him when he first called.

Their conversation doesn't last for more than five minutes, but by the sounds of it, it ends on good terms. You watch as Matty pockets his phone once more, leaning against the balcony railing as he takes a long, shuddering breath, followed by a self-soothing drag of his cigarette.

You give him about a minute of solitude before you get up from the couch, padding across the floor before sliding open the door and joining Matty on the balcony. You might be imagining it, but he looks more at peace than he was when you last saw his face. He still looks bone-tired, worn down by the day he's had, but it doesn't seem to pain him anymore. Whatever he and George talked about on that call, it seems to have helped, just like you knew it would. 

Matty doesn't speak when he sees you, but he does wordlessly step to the side, allowing you space to lean up against the railing beside him. The cigarette is still hanging from between his lips, nearly burned out. 

"Feeling better?" you ask, hopeful. 

"Mhm." 

Matty takes one last, long drag of his cigarette before he removes it from his mouth, stubbing it out on the balcony railing with an unsteady hand. He holds the smoke in his lungs for a few more seconds before blowing it into the night air. It's ritualistic, meditative. 

Surprisingly, he's the first to break the silence. 

"You're too sweet to me." 

You laugh a little — albeit uncomfortably. His words catch you off guard. 

"I didn't know that was a bad thing."

"'S’not —" Matty's quick to interject. "But you shouldn't have to. I was a dick to George. I bailed on our plans. I'm… I dunno why you put up with me when I… when I get like this." He raises his hand, anxiously twisting a rogue curl between two of his fingers. "I dunno. All fucked in the head."

"You're allowed to have a bad day, you know."

"I know that. But loads of people have bad days, and they can still act like people. But I can't. I used to, but I can't anymore, not since I stopped —" He cuts himself off before he finishes his sentence, but you both know what he was about to say. Those seven weeks he'd spent getting sober were impossible for either of you to forget. "Fuck."

Matty's words make you frown. Your fingers twitch at your sides, wanting nothing more than to reach out and hold him, but you refrain.

"I know you, Matty," you say frankly. "So does George. So does everyone who cares about you. It's just part of who you are, and it's okay. We don't care." 

"Maybe you should." 

"But we don't," you counter, more forcefully this time, hoping that your change in tone finally gets through to him. "I can't speak for George, but I don't care that you get like this sometimes. I don't care that we canceled our plans tonight. It doesn't matter to me. I love you, and I love your brain, even when you don't." 

Matty turns to look at you, then. You realize with a sinking feeling that his eyes have become watery, shining with unshed tears. Your face falls.

"Oh… baby."

That's what finally does it. 

The words have barely left your lips before Matty's closing the distance between the two of you, wrapping his arms around you tightly, as though he's afraid of you slipping away if he lets go. His face is warm as he buries it in the crook of your neck, hiding from your view. He draws a shuddering breath in before mumbling a long string of apologies against your skin.

"I'm sorry, m'so fuckin' lucky, I don't know why I'm like this, m'sorry, I love you…"

Each word tugs painfully at your chest, but you don't try to stop him. You know that he's been building up to this ever since he stepped through the door, and now, all you can do is let it run its course, no matter how much it makes your heart ache to see the person you love in so much distress.

Surprisingly, Matty never really starts crying, not properly at least. Every now and then, you can feel his body shake as he struggles to remember to breathe, but he still doesn't permit himself to lose control in that way. You're unsure if it's more for your benefit or his – this would hardly be the first time you've seen your boyfriend cry in front of you, and he must know that you don't care about something as trivial as that. You wonder if, in some small way, it's his last attempt at maintaining some sort of control over the situation, and the runaway train that is his mental state at the moment.

After a while, he falls quiet, but doesn't let go, still clinging onto you with a quiet desperation. You bring a hand up to rest on the nape of his neck, fingertips just barely touching his hair.

"You're going to be okay, Matty," you murmur, the warmth of your tone melting away at the bitter cold of the night air. "Tomorrow will be better. I promise."

And even though you can't necessarily guarantee that, it doesn't stop you from saying it. You have a feeling Matty will wake up feeling much more like himself in the morning – he just needs some food in his stomach and a long night of rest, ideally curled up against you. 

Like all things, you know that this, too, shall pass. 

"M'kay." Matty's voice is faint, muffled against the fabric of your shirt, but it doesn't matter because he's agreeing with you, and that's a step in the right direction.

"Okay," you repeat. "Do you think you could eat something, baby?"

Matty sighs softly before replying. "Yeah. Think so." 

"Okay," you reply, relieved. "We should eat before someone steals the food off our doorstep, then."

But even then, you make no attempt to move away or detach yourself from Matty, allowing him to make the first move. He does after a few more seconds, slowly loosening his grip on you and stepping back. But he doesn't fully let go of you – one of his hands remains loosely gripping your wrist. The gesture feels almost shy, like he's a scared little kid on his first day of school. It's clear that he's not trying to keep you in place; rather, he can't bring himself to sever all physical contact with you.

Ever so gently, you reach down, carefully prying his hand off your wrist before interlocking his fingers with your own. You give his hand an experimental squeeze, and Matty responds instantly with one of his own. He doesn't smile, but you swear that his eyes do light up a little at the sight of your combined hands.

"I love you," Matty says suddenly.

His voice is quiet, barely above a whisper, like it's a secret that's meant for the two of you and the two of you only. Still, the sound of those words from his lips makes you smile, just like they always do.

He's going to be okay. You can feel it.

You’re at a house party, but you’re way too stoned to remember who the host is. You think it might be the brother of whatever girl Ross is shagging at the moment or something along those lines, but it hardly matters — you and Matty would have shown up regardless of who was hosting. Your boyfriend’s never needed an excuse to attend a good party, and you’ve never needed an excuse to spend a Friday night getting fucked up with him.

Besides, the steady thrum of house music had faded into the background long ago, replaced by the gentle splashing sounds of a backyard pool. It was really only a matter of time before you and Matty found yourselves out here, far away from the noise and the relentless mess of bodies and heat trapped inside. Whoever’s house this is, they’re rich enough to have a deck and a pool, which is something that you two are taking full advantage of. The space provides much-needed privacy and, as it turns out, doubles as a perfect smoking spot.

At least, you two had come out here with the intention of smoking. But that only lasted about ten minutes — just long enough for you both to get a little spacey — before you decided that making out was a far better way to pass the time.

The spliff sits off to the side, having burned out long ago. Matty’s sprawled across one of the poolside loungers, hands gripping your waist as you straddle him. Your own hands have found their way to his jaw, holding his face in your hands as you kiss him deeply. Everything’s gone hazy, thanks to the weed, and sensations blend together as you lose yourself in his lips and tongue.

Matty’s warm and pliant under your fingertips, all soft skin and eager touches. The two of you are in no rush, basking in the laziness of the moment. Matty kisses like he’s trying to melt into you, as though tasting your lips is infinitely more important to him than getting air into his lungs. Your boyfriend’s always been needy, but something about tonight has him extra hungry for you. 

You can’t help but giggle as Matty’s large hands suddenly tug you forward, pulling your hips flush with his own. He grinds against you lazily, just enough for you to feel his growing hard-on through his jeans and the way his fingers tighten against your skin as he grinds against your clothed core.

“Matty.” You pull away from the kiss, though you don’t go very far — his breath is still warm on your cheek. “We’re at a party.”

He laughs at your words, looking at you with a lopsided smirk that tells you all you need to know. 

“Never stopped us before,” he counters, as though he’s confused about why you’re choosing now to be worried about public decency. “S’just us, love. Might as well feel good, yeah?” 

He’s not wrong. And you would have told him as much, if it wasn’t for the fact that Matty’s lips immediately press into the spot on the side of your neck that drives you crazy, and you swear you feel his teeth drag along your earlobe as he rolls his hips against yours once more. The sensation makes your eyes flutter shut, and your head tilt back, which Matty takes as an invitation to start sucking a mark into the newly exposed skin. You whine softly, hands dropping down to hold onto his shoulders. It’s partially to keep him in place, but it’s mostly so that you have an anchor — you feel as though you could float away at any second if you’re not careful.

The next time Matty grinds against you, you respond, rolling your hips experimentally. You gasp into the cool night air as the seam of your boyfriend’s jeans catches against your clit deliciously, making your toes curl in your shoes.

“Oh fuck.” Matty’s voice comes in the form of a broken whine against your neck. “Do that again.” 

So, you do, beginning to rock your hips against his in a slow, steady rhythm. Each time you move in his lap, you can feel the bulge in his jeans steadily pressing against your pussy, making your brain swim with pleasure. You don’t think this really counts as making out anymore, not with the two of you basically dry humping, but it feels so good you can’t bring yourself to care, and any concerns of public decency fade away into the back vault of your brain, long forgotten. 

The weed heightens everything, making you even more sensitive. Every drag of clothing against your skin and every press of Matty’s lips against your own makes you feel like you’re on fire in the best way. Judging by the soft little groans slipping past Matty’s lips and the way he’s grabbing you like he’s afraid of you slipping away, he’s on a similar plane of existence and enjoying every second of it. 

“Just like that, baby, fuckin’ hell,” Matty pants against your lips, breathless. “Feels s’good. Wish we weren’t stuck here so I could fuck you properly.” 

His words make you clench around nothing and quicken your movements. You’re essentially dry-fucking him now, mimicking exactly how you’d ride him if you weren’t stuck at this party.

“Later,” you promise, and Matty’s lips curl into a tiger-like grin against your own, before whatever comeback he was going to say gets cut off by a deep throaty noise.

You feel it before you see it. Matty twitches beneath you, thigh muscles becoming taut and rigid. His fingers tighten around your ass with a bruising desperation, keeping you pressed against him and providing him with the friction he’s chasing. 

A second later, you watch your boyfriend’s lips part, and his head falls back, hitting the hard plastic of the lounge chair with far too much force to be comfortable. It’s a sight you know well… and a sight that tells you exactly what just happened.

You stare at him for a few beats, watching as his chest rises and falls almost hypnotically. Matty’s eyes are glazed and unfocused as he basks in the high of his release. He’s gone.

“Did you just..?”

Matty doesn’t need to reply — you already know the answer. Even with the faint glow of a deck lantern serving as your only source of light, you can see that your boyfriend’s face is bright red. Curiously, you reach down between your two bodies and watch as Matty jumps when your hand brushes against his crotch. He whines again, suddenly overstimulated, and you slowly remove your hand, not wanting to make things worse for him.

You’re flattered, honestly, though you’re not sure if you’re just that hot or if the weed is just that good… probably a combination of both. Either way, the result is the same — your boyfriend just came in his pants like he was back in secondary school. 

“Oh God…” Matty finally groans, embarrassed. He’s doing everything but meeting your gaze, all that brazen teenage sexuality long gone, crushed by the weight of his own mortification. “‘M sorry, I don’t know what happened, must’ve been… fuck.” 

He tries to cover his face with his hands, but is quickly intercepted by you leaning forward and pressing a kiss to his nose, which, of course, only causes Matty to grow even redder.

“It’s cute.”

“S’not,” he protests. “It’s embarrassing. Haven’t done that shit in ages.” 

“You mean… I’m not your first?” you ask, scandalized. “Matthew. I thought we had something special.”

“Oh… shut up.” 

No matter how disgruntled he sounds, your boyfriend can’t entirely hide the small smile that he’s trying so hard to fight off. You laugh again, reaching up to cup his cheek. His skin feels electrified beneath your touch.

“It’s okay, baby,” you say softly. “Let’s get you cleaned up, and then we can head home.”

Never mind the fact that neither of you is in any state to drive – you’re sure there’s someone at this party who would be willing to give the two of you a ride. (Ideally, Ross, if you can pull him off of that brunette for long enough.)

But to your surprise, Matty shakes his head and timidly gestures down to the wet patch on the front of his dark jeans. It’s small, barely noticeable unless you’re really looking for it, but it’s clearly enough for him to be worried.

“You’re fine, baby,” you reassure him. “Everyone’s too pissed to notice. Unless they’re already looking down there, which they’d better not be.” You furrow your brows in a mock display of anger, hoping it will make him grin. He does, albeit ever so slightly. “‘Cause otherwise they’ll have me to answer to.” 

“Ugh, fine.” Matty rolls his eyes, throwing his head back dramatically. “At least let me make it up to you when we get home.” 

“And what exactly does that entail?”

“Mm…” He pauses, as though he doesn’t already know exactly what he’s going to say. “Let me tongue-fuck you ‘til you’re begging f’me to stop?” 

“Jesus Christ, Matty.” Your boyfriend has a way with words that you don’t think you’ll ever fully get used to, no matter how long the two of you are together. You clear your throat, now painfully aware of the warm flush spreading across your own face. “Okay, yeah. Sure. You can do that.”