Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

George wakes up on the last day before tour in a patch of sunlight and crumpled sheets and promptly reaches into the pocket of his joggers to pull out a cigarette and lighter. He inhales deep, and flicks the flame on and off a few times. The lighters not his, he doesn’t have a purple lighter, never has. Matty did though, back in grade school before he even started smoking, just in case he felt inclined to incinerate something between classes or give himself a proper reason to pull the fire alarm and skip a test.
Soon though, it wasn’t for fucking around and causing general mayhem, just to light the end of a slim cigarette before it was slipped smoothly back into the sagging pocket of his jeans that never once could have fit George. They were still barely teenagers then, when George took up smoking too because he thought somehow that maybe it would hurt Matty a little less if he took in half the smoke when they passed the cigarette back and forth walking home from school. He knew even then that Matty would never let George help him on his own but if Matty didn’t have to take in all the pain by himself, that was good enough for George, he didn't care what he got addicted to.
Even now, nearly a decade and a half later, he knows he can’t stop Matty completely but if he takes in fifty percent of the poison, that’s fifty percent less killing Matty and that’s takes enough guilt off him to sleep at night.
That and a ridiculous amount of whiskey, good God, he didn’t even have fun last night he should not have to pay for it with such an awful hangover now.
Sitting up makes his head absolutely swim. He needs water now or he’s going to fucking vomit all over his alarmingly white bedsheets.
Have they always been that white? They’re fucking blinding.
Stumbling to the bathroom still halfway drunk to be completely honest, George barely registers the obnoxiously constant doorbell ringing and pounding on his front door.
Who the fuck comes at this time? The post? He’s not signing for any fucking package right now, fuck no.
With the ringing from the doorbell, the ringing in his ears, the dizziness from moving and the lack of anything substantial in his system, he’s lucky to make it to the loo before everything starts to come back up.
At least it seems to be helping, the ringings stopped and he feels a bit better now that some of the alcohol is leaving his system, however unpleasantly.
"Morning George, you really should keep a key under your mat, you know?" Matty's voice chirps. "Since you're too busy throwing up to answer your damn door."
" Thought you were the post with all the ringing." George smiles at the white porcelain instead of him, feigning annoyance. "You have a key you twat, use it."
"See but the thing is Georgie," Matty says hoisting himself up on the sink as another part of George's distasteful night comes back up. "That's at the bottom of my bag meaning I just had to go through like every single one of my worldly possessions to find it and in such time it would have been a lot easier if you just opened your door or had a key for me under the mat."
"Fuck off Matty." George says laughing.
They're quiet for a minute while he listens to Matty fumble around in his bag, searching for something else at the bottom of his endless bag.
"Georgie, you got any cigarettes around here?"
"Bedroom."
He waits until he hears Matty flounce off the counter with a huff and make his way to the bedroom before George looks up from the toliet and starts to clean himself up.
"So Georgie..."
There's a click, click, click noise and George knows Matty's getting frustrated with his shitty lighter.
He rinses out his mouth and goes to the bedroom, and his insides immediately tighten again.
He hasn't seen Matty in maybe three weeks, they usually can never spend more than a month apart from each other, at most, but unless George's memory fails him, Matty's getting worse.
He's sitting cross legged on George's white bed, draped and nearly drowning in that ridiculous big fluffy black coat of his, like a little shadow in the sunshine and cream hues of the rest of the room.
"Matty…"
His skin matches the sheets, just looking at him hurts George. But he takes the lighter from Matty's cold bony fingers and swallows hard. (When did he get so cold?)
"I like this." he says holding onto Matty's hand and poking at his red painted nails while flashing him a grin, instead of voicing the concerns even he refuses to acknowledge.
Matty just pouts his lips and wiggles the unlit cigarette with his tongue, until George starts searching around for a better lighter.
"Georgie....are you sick?" he says moving it to the corner of his mouth.
"Nah...just hung over."
"You sure."
"Yeah. Wasn't even worth it." George laughs.
He pulls the purple lighter out from under his pillow and cups a hand around Matty's mouth as he lights up for him.
"Hey where'd you get this?" Matty says blowing smoke into George's face as he grabs the lighter from him.
"Dunno"
"It's mine. Look!"
And sure enough it is. There's a little MH in sharpie on the side that George didn't see before.
"Well, how about that huh?" George says and reaches his hand over for the cigarette. As if his childhood superstition would help whatever Matty was fighting now. But still half the smoke is better than nothing at all. Right?

Chapter Text

George and Matty were supposed to be at the airport half an hour ago so they could have time to check in with everyone but of course they were running late as usual, fucking wankers.
Ross had been expecting this, from both of them individually but usually when they were together they kept eachother on time a little bit better but not this morning apparently.
.....
"Matty! Breakfast!"
"Can't we're already late, I'll eat there!" Matty yells back at George from the bathroom.
"The airport?! You hate eating at the airport, you fucking twat!" George screams down the hall as he rolls the end of his joint under Matty's purple lighter. He's never flown sober and today was not the day to break that tradition.
"Matty!" He groans. "Food!"
"Can't!" Matty says running out of the bathroom water bottle in one hand and holding up a tiny white bottle in the other. "It weakens it. You know that!"
Xanax because Matty also holds the same tradition.
"That's bullshit, that's just for like amphetamines and uppers and ahit like that." George says breathing deep, he did his part, Matty doesn't want breakfast? That's on him, he's a grown adult he can make his own damn decisions.
....
Matty does not eat at the airport, but only because they got there minutes before they boarded, much to Ross' annoyance.
And by the time they're taking off Matty's fallen asleep on Adam's shoulder, and George is grateful when Ross drapes a blanket over his tiny frame so he doesnt have to be confronted with it the whole 13 hour flight.
But not before...
"Check his arms, Adam" Ross says holding the blanket and not making eye contact with either George or Adam.
Adam gently lifts Mattys arm and runs his fingers down the inside of his arms paying careful attention to the area inside his elbows.
"Clean."
"You didnt honestly think I'd let him shoot up in my flat, did you?" George says looking incredulously at Ross as he sits back down next to him.
"He's only been at your place, what, a night? But it doesnt matter, he hasn't been at least in a couple weeks, so thank God for that."
"No, I know, I'm sorry..."
"Something else is going on though." Ross says quietly after a moment.
"Well he swallowed enough xanax to knock out an army before we got here, so that might be it." George snaps back.
"George....you know what I mean"

George just really wishes he could fucking have a smoke right now, instead of having to sit here thinking about how frail Matty's body looked even hiding underneath a blanket. How childlike he'd seemed when adam checked his bony, pale arms for needle marks.
Junkies, he could deal with no problem. George had done his fair share of drugs in his life, they all had, Ross and Adam included. But Matty? Matty did everything with a passionate fervor, whether it was sex or drugs or alcohol or music it all had to be at 110% or it simply wasnt worth it for him. And he might have just gone so far on this one, that they couldnt look away and leave him to sort himself out alone this time.

Chapter Text

There are few things in this world that Matty loves. When he asks George what he loves he says his family, the boys, and Matty, which seems like bullshit to Matty so he presses for a different answer every time.
“Okay,” George will say every time, like he’s reading from a script. “You want to know what I can’t live without huh? Alright, weed, coffee and cigarettes. That’s it. There ya go, you happy with that answer?”
He usually is, but the concept of loving something and being able to live without it is foregin to Matty. When George spins the question on him he says, “You, Adam, Ross, and Louis.” for the first answer and then when George gives him a scathing look he says “Cigarettes, coffee, drugs.” and laughs too soon after the last one so George doesn’t worry too much.
But if he’s being honest it’s something more along the lines of cigarettes, only because he was a bloody wanker in primary school and now he’s addicted, drugs because he was a bloody wanker when he got famous and now he’s addicted, and George because no drug does more for him than George does. And if he had a fourth, it’d be his scale, but Matty doesn’t admit that, not to George not to himself, he’d sooner tell his best mate he’s been in love with him for years than admit that seeing that number go down was better than any upper he’d ever tried.
When he finally was let out of inpatient therapy for his heroin addiction, they recommended a scale for his outpatient recovery. Every day, three times a day, he weighed himself and reported the numbers back to his therapists. Even after he was fully discharged and no longer had to attend weekly sessions, the habit stuck. Once when he woke up, once at noon, once before he went to bed. The same number or lower or his whole day was ruined.
;George of course found it odd he insisted on dragging the heavy scale around on tour, and they always got stopped at baggage checks because of it but it was worth it.
It wasn’t that therapy gave him this problem, it just gave him an excuse for it, most of his habits gave him an excuse for it. No one gave him shit about being the exact same weight he had been at 18 as he was now at 28, and if they mentioned it it was easy to swat the questions away with an offhanded “drugs...you know” and that’d be it. No interrogation, no intervention, god forbid like the one the boys had to have for his heroin issue, no questions in the press about it. Nothing. So ignored, that Matty himself didn’t even find it too odd now, it was just part of his life. And anyways, he’d found that no one would really give him shit about any of his habits as long as he kept away from needles. Adam disliked his coke use, but it was infrequent enough to never get any reaction besides a chastising “Matty, really…?” if he walked out of the tiny tour bus bathroom with a white nose. But despite that he always managed to have a bit of K, or PCP, when someone needed it. Matty can’t even remember the last time he didn’t see George high off his ass, and he saw George all the damn time. No one cared that he drank on stage, they were all usually hammered anyway, and cigarettes had been like water to them since they were 11.
He’d felt all kinds of highs and lows in the 10 years he had unlimited access to any kind of drugs he wanted, but there was something different about the peculiar lightness of a stomach that’s been empty for a few days, something that felt so good about stepping on that scale and not being disappointed. And he wasn’t about to give that away any time soon.

Chapter Text

They'd been on the road two weeks when George realized he hadn't gotten laid since tour started. Not that he cared, it was just starting to get to him. Shows got him so amped up, he'd be buzzing with adrenaline for hours afterwards no matter what. Sometimes they'd hang out, drink like they weren't old enough to start worrying about their liver, maybe play a messy drunk football game before they had to pack up the bus again, but mostly everyone was tired and rushing to get to the next city the second the stage lights went out.
Everyone except Matty. He'd even mentioned in an interview it contributed to his heroin use, having all that "on top of the world" energy all at once and having to destroy it every night once they got back to the bus or hotel or wherever they were staying before the cycle repeated itself again and again and again.
So some nights now George and Matty would leave the second they made sure their insturments were taken care of, slipping on bulky black coats and pulling their hoodies up around their faces to sneak past their tour manager, security and a thousand people milling around outside the venue.
They were pretty good at it now. The first couple times they tried to sneak off without security, they were in Los Angeles and were spotted the second they lit up a cigarette. Fucking Americans, only smoking in private, what a weird backwards world. In London, people looked at you twice if you didnt have a half finished cigarette in your hand.
Matty loved when they were in Paris and no one shot them dirty looks for smoking inside restaurants. He often commented about how stingy London pubs were about smoking now which was always funny to George because they weren't. It was just one old bartender who'd yelled at them to go outside when he saw Matty trace George's lips before taking the cigarette from between his teeth, but George didnt have the heart to tell him that not everyone was used to two grown men sharing a single cigarette. So every time they were in Paris they burned though twice as many packs, which meant George smoked twice as much weed and all four of them drank twice as much. But he didnt mind that much, honestly. He loved Paris just as much as Matty.
But now they were in Brighton, sneaking off after a show like they started doing again.
Matty's favourite thing to do, unfortunately, was cause general havoc. If George's life had one constant in it, it was him running around after this stupid boy both metaphorically and quite literally and trying to save him from himself.
And that's what they did these nights, because Matty didnt let George into his life when he had a needle in his arm and George didnt want to loose him again.
So here they were on a bridge in Brigton, drinking out of a bottle of cheap strawberry liquor and stealing the cigarette from eachothers lips.
"I miss Paris." Matty says, as if he's heard George's rambling string of thoughts. "Dont you miss Paris, Georgie?"
"Yeah I do."
"We're there soon though, you know? Next week. Can't wait."
Matty's voice goes odd at the end and suddenly he's bent over the tiny metal railing vomiting pink vodka into the river. George grabs his hips the second he starts to gag and tries not to think about what would have happened if he hadnt. Its rained recently, the railing is slippery and too small for safety, and well fuck it, Mattys body is really fucking tiny. Under the heavy black coat and hoodie theres almost nothing. Like right before he got sent to rehab. But this time there were no hard drugs, he would have known, Ross and Adam had been watching him, they all had. And he's been clean. Its something else this time.
Matty vomits again, and it's more red than pink.
"Shut up about this."he says though, laughing a little and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You know more than anyone I can handle my liquor, just forgot to eat today. I'm not a lightweight, mate and don't you forget it."
There's blood on the corner of Mattys mouth, when he turns to speak to George and George let's go of Matty's bony hips in shock.
Luckily, Matty has regained his balance and seems to have made a full recovery from his abrupt sickness.
"And mate, I'm quite alright with you grabbing my hips like that but maybe take me out on a date first or something first." Matty grins at George before he picks up the bottle and throws it onto the rocky river bank.
It shatters in a burst of white and pink and Matty whoops and laughs.
"Matty.."
"Yeah?"
George grabs his chin with his hand and wipes the corner of Mattys mouth with the other.
"You had blood on your mouth." He says, letting go.
Matty stands there stunned for a second before regaining his normal composure and reaching into George's front jean pocket for their pack of cigarettes.
He walks off the bridge, waving a cigarette in the air.
"Date first, Georgie, then make your move. I pity all those poor girls you've always got swarming around you if this is your way of seducing someone."
And that does it, George has to get laid right now or hes going to loose it. Something's wrong with both him and Matty but for the first time in their lives together, he can't bring himself to ask his other half, the questions that linger long after their night at the bridge.
Why was there blood? Since when did Matty, a heavy drinker from the age of 14, turn into a bit of a lightweight? Why hadnt he just grabbed his arm to stop him from falling? Why didn't the thought of getting laid sound appealing anymore?
Was it normal to think about your best mate when you're snogging a girl the next day?
And why wasn't Matty eating?

Chapter Text

"Okay c'mon George get it together." George mutters to himself pacing around the grimy backstage venue bathroom.
But saying his own name outloud just reminds him of Matty, the only one who's ever called him Georgie and his occasionally annoying habit of saying people's names far too often when talking to them.
"Get it together. You have to get it together."
Theyd just gotten to Paris an hour ago and fuck it George was going to play a good show and get fucking laid tonight. And that would snap him out of this weird headspace. Yeah, that would do it. Then tomorrow he'd hang with Matty like they always did here, and they'd go sit and drink themselves silly in some place so filled up with smoke they wouldnt even have to light their own cigarette. And it would be just like normal, just like it always was.
Once hes decided this and gotten himself sorted out, he sets out to find the dressing room where he's actually supposed to be with the rest of the guys.
And that's when he runs into her.
Short blonde hair, tanned and curvy in a white dress and heels that clacked against the floor so angrily it made George want to stand up a little straighter when she approached him.
"Monsieur êtes-vous George Daniels ils vous cherchent?" She said hurriedly, shifting her clipboard to check her phone.
Goddamn his 15 year old self for not taking French class more seriously back at school. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
"Um...parlez vous anglais?" He says flashing her an apologetic grin.
She rolls her eyes so hard, he wonders if it hurt. But he appreciates the drama of it nonetheless.
"George Daniels? Yes?" She says turning and walking back the same direction she came.
Her dres is so tight, George barely hears her.
"Yeah yeah that's me." He says half jogging to catch up with her.
"You're late. Soundcheck. They sent me to find you."
"Fuckin wankers. I leave for one minute...."
The women's heels make a click click click sound that echoes in twists and turns of the backstage area. George didnt realize how far away he'd had to go just to clear his head.
"What's your name?"
"Camilla, Monsieur Daniels."
All of George's common sense deserts him at that point.
"Camilla"he says, stopping so she stops with him. "What are you doing right now?"
"Besides finding the stupid British boy who wandered too far away from the group? Nothing."she says shrugging her shoulders.
Shes rude, but he doesnt mind. He doesn't like dating nice girls, there's nothing in that. Matty says its because he's too much of a nice guy, and every attraction needs to have a balance. Matty's always the rude one.
But right now he doesnt want to think about Matty, so he leans into the girl he met less than five minutes ago, because she looks and sounds nothing like him. And she doesnt taste a thing like him either.
"Theres an empty dressing room." She says pulling away and gesturing to a closed door down the hall.
George follows gladly after her.

Chapter Text

Matty wanted to die.
When he saw that ridiculous french venue director attached at the mouth to his George, pulling him into a spare dressing room, Matty felt everything and absolutely nothing all at once. His body went numb but his brain screamed in pain. He wanted to die.
He stood there at the end of the concrete dimly lit backstage hall, until a cleaning cart honked at him to move out of the way. Maybe it had been hours, maybe seconds, however long it had been, Matty decided it was too long.
He shouldn’t care, he really shouldn’t. He had no right to and besides, he’d never cared before. And it wasn’t like it was anything new. All four of them had always done this, whether they were in a tour bus, or hotel, or dressing room, it was just one of the perks of being in a touring band. They didn’t have to explain anything, hell most of the time they didn’t even have to say anything in the first place. There were no morning afters, no exchange of numbers, no commitment, no stress. Just high-fiving your mates the second the door closed behind the girl on their way out. Back when they were first starting out when they were 20 and 21, Matty and George had a pretty good routine playing wingman for each other. Matty knew what George liked and well, Clarissa or whatever the fuck blondie’s name was, wasn’t it. George liked the dark-hair/daddy issues/sickly manic pixie dream girl type. And George knew what Matty liked, which oddly enough was pretty close to the girl he was currently hooking up with. Maybe that’s why Matty was so upset, because George knew it was the perfect kind of girl for him and wanted to get his dick wet anyways.
No, that wasn’t it. Although annoyed that his best mate hadn’t thought of him, Matty couldn’t blame him, they’d been so busy and stressed lately, none of them had gotten laid since tour started. Of course, Ross and Adam had to be in cOmMiTeD relationships or whatever so they weren’t fooling around too much anymore anyway.
Matty’s phone rings jarring him back to reality.
“Hello?”
“First George runs off then you disappear too?” Ross says, with a tone that reminds Matty far too much of his father.
“Yeah, y’all fucking or something?” Adam yells from the background.
Matty counts himself lucky no one’s around to see the bright shade of pink he feels himself turning.
“No, cause if we were, believe me, you’d know!” Matty mutters back good naturedly despite his profuse embarrassment.
“Alright that’s fair enough! You’ve never had any shame about that sort of thing.” Ross laughs back.
“But get your asses back here, whatever you’re doing or not doing with them!” Adam yells.
“Alright, alright, we’ll be there for the last soundcheck, let me grab Georgie.” Matty says, hanging up in a much better mood than he had been a minute ago. Thank God for Ross and Adam, no matter how prude and old they acted, at least they had some of the common sense the other half of the band seemed to lack.
He walks up to the door he saw George and Camilla disappear into and doesn’t even bother to listen to make sure he isn’t interrupting before loudly knocking.
“Fuck” he hears George say low and deep before something falls with a crash as they scramble around.
Matty knocks again, and counts to five to give them time to get at least somewhat decent, before he opens the door.

George is sitting in a chair tying his shoes. Matty wonders what kind of an idiot you have to be to think of tying your shoes before putting on a shirt if you’re getting dressed with someone at the door. He sincerely hopes George is never in a fire alone, because he’d probably die trying to put on his shoes before he left the house.
“You fucking wanker.” he says looking up at Matty. His lips are pink and his hair is tousled, when he turns to grab his shirt of the back of the chair, his back is marked with bright red lines.”Could’ve fucking called me.”
“Yeah well we sent someone to come get you but you ended up fucking that idea...literally.”
Camilla’s across the room from George, her blonde curls in a fucking mess and her makeup so smeared, Matty would’ve guessed she’d just been broken up with if he hadn’t known better. He hadn’t gotten a good look at her earlier, she has curves, but they’re fake, her waist is too tiny, her bones sticking out far too much to have grown her chest naturally. George wouldn’t have noticed, fuck, even Matty wouldn’t have noticed a year ago. What he would have noticed then and still does now is the red marks quickly turning purple covering her neck and trailing down to the top of her white dress, the work of George’s mouth no doubt.
“Or whatever the fuck you did to her, damn angry much, Georgie?” Matty grins, but it feels forced.
George shoots him a glare and grabs his coat.
“Let’s go, you fucking bastard, Ross will kill us both if we miss final sound check.” Matty says pulling George out of the room in the same way Camilla had pulled him into it earlier, which reminds him... “Nice to meet you, Clarissa, thanks for getting him for us! Or getting him off...whatever...”