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George has a cry first. Wrapped up in a throw on the sofa, not entirely sure why this is his first reaction.
It's not a big deal. It shouldn't be. It's a snog.
But this kid's hand is on Matty's throat, his thumb resting just below that spot below his ear, and Matty's arm is wrapped tight around his neck and Twitter has gone absolutely mad with the photo. And George doesn't like it. Not one bit. George decides he never liked him anyway.
George doesn't know much about who he's with or where he's gone off to a gig or what’s going on in general. But he's got a bad feeling in his stomach that he knows shouldn't be there.
The thing is, Matty and George aren't together, not really. Not like they joke about every chance they get. And god knows George is very aware that he isn't the only one Matty's been with. But this is different. All those other people were always birds, birds he slept with or birds he was on and off again with or whatever. And George realizes he's tricked himself into thinking that because of that he's special or different or something.
And this picture is a slap in the face showing him he isn't. It shows Matty can go around snogging anyone he pleases. It sets something alight in his stomach. Something he doesn't like to admit to feeling as often as he does.
So he waits up.
He brews a cup of tea and puts on a film and waits, wrapped up on the sofa because he can't live with this feeling anymore. This feeling waiting to spring up and set him on fire from the inside out. And he knows he’s probably being dramatic because it’s now nearly three am but he doesn’t care.
He's not sure when he dozes off, when the burning feeling eating him up subsides just enough to let his eyes shut, but he knows sunlight is peeking through the blinds when he hears a key in the front door. He jolts awake, forgetting just for a few seconds why his back is aching and his eyes are sore.
“George?” his name isn’t as slurred as he’s expecting it and that makes everything hit him harder.
“What?” he keeps his voice flat as he rubs at his puffy eyes with one hand, the other still keeping the throw blanket clutched around him.
“What’re you doing on the sofa?” he hears him kick off his boots. He wonders what time it is and why he doesn’t sound as drunk as he’d expected.
“What do you care?” he mutters under his breath, sitting up and attempting to straighten out his back.
“Well you’re always complaining about what it does to your back,” he rambles on obliviously and George hates that he’s right. Mostly hates how he’s weaseled his way so far into George’s heart that he knows every bit of him.
So George ignores him. He was stupid to think he could do this, confront Matty and tell him how he really feels, risk everything they’ve built over the course of their lives together.
“Wha’s wrong with you?” Matty appears in the doorway just as George has tucked himself into the corner of the sofa again, knees pulled to his chest and all.
George shrugs, stares at the title screen of the film he’d put on just a few hours ago. It doesn’t matter. That’s what he tells himself.
“You coming to bed?” Matty’s voice has finally softened and George can feel him staring at him.
He tries to keep a straight face, a stone demeanor, because he’s afraid that the second he speaks, every thought he’s had in the past few hours will pour out. His heart and soul will land on the floor at Matty’s feet and George doesn’t know if he’ll be able to resist the temptation to stomp all over it.
So he shrugs.
Matty’s quiet for a second and George almost wonders if he hasn’t heard him leave until there’s a shifting of weight on the sofa next to him and a warm presence seeping into his skin. He realizes he’s been studying him, like George has learned to do for him before he reacts all these years. It’s a complete role reversal.
He smells like cheap beer and someone else. George wonders what else they did besides have a drunken snog after a gig.
And really, that’s the tipping point, that’s what makes his blood run hot and make him forget why he doesn’t have a right to feel this way anyway.
“Go away,” he snaps, wishing he could push himself even further into the arm of the sofa, wishes he could manage something more hurtful. His skin is burning up.
“Wha’s wrong?” his voice is hardly above a whisper and in any other situation, George would feel guilty for snapping.
“I said go away, Matthew,” he can feel that feeling bubbling up in him, just waiting to spill over.
Matty doesn’t though, of course, “W-what have I done?”
It only pisses George off more that he has no idea why he would be upset.
“Fuck off!” George can’t remember the last time he properly shouted at Matty but it’s too much. Him sitting so close and smelling like someone else’s sweat and cologne and yet having no idea how much George hurts.
“‘S this about me staying out so late?” he sounds genuinely fucking confused, “I-I didn’t mean to, passed out on the sofa and-”
“After you fucked him?” George spits out and he swears the words even taste bitter.
“W-what?” Matty sputters and George turns his head just enough to see him squirm and his cheeks turn red.
“You heard me,” he rolls his eyes, “Saw that photo all over the fucking internet.”
“W-what?” his sputters turn into nervous laughter, “What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I‘m talking about,” George tucks himself into an even tighter ball as if he can physically hold himself from falling apart in front of him.
“I-I didn’t shag him,” Matty chokes out, “Christ, he’s a mate. You know that.”
“We’re mates,” George turns his nose up at him because it’s true. Despite it always feeling like something so much bigger and more important than just mates.
Matty goes completely silent at that and George wonders if he can hear his heart pounding and the way he’s trying to control his breathing.
“Think we both know ‘s a bit more than that,” he lets out a half laugh without an ounce of humor in it, “But I didn’t shag him. If tha’s what you’re upset about.”
“‘S not a bit more than that!” George can’t even stop himself, “Because if it was, if it meant something to you, you wouldn’t still be out shagging anything that breathes!”
Matty lets out a noise of complete disbelief, “W-what else ‘m I supposed to do?! Y-you don’t want…”
As he trails off, George can hear the realization in his voice and he wants to cry. He feels like a selfish brat. Matty never wants what George wants with anyone.
“Y-you want me?” George can feel Matty crowding his space and he realizes he’s shut his eyes at some point, “Just me?”
George lets out a shaky breath, realizing what he’s done, “Go away, please.”
“George, look at me,” Matty’s pleading, tugging at his shoulder, “Answer me.”
George just wants, for once, it to be reciprocated. For Matty to just get what he means without speaking, like George does for him.
So he nods.
Matty lets out another noise George can’t read before shoving his legs down so he can practically crawl into his lap, hands cradling his jaw. George is terrified to look at him. He doesn’t want to think about any of it. He just wants that burning jealousy to fade. For Matty to want George back. For Matty to smell like George’s cologne and not kiss anyone else.
“You stupid boy. You absolute idiot,” he’s pulling George’s face up to look at him, a lightness in his voice that George hasn’t heard all night, “All you had to do was ask.”
And then Matty’s lips are fit just perfectly against George’s, his hands still tight on his jaw, and it feels so right that George wonders why he’d ever been doing anything else but this his whole life.