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Matty’s four, nearly five, and Harry’s just been born. Neither of their mums will let him hold him despite the fact that Matty is nearly ready for primary school, nearly a big kid. But Matty doesn't mind all that much because Harry looks a bit breakable, all pink skin and tiny hands. But Harry’s got a face Matty could watch forever, even with his eyes scrunched shut, better than telly even. Best of all, he's not alone anymore.
The summer that Matty’s ten and Harry’s five, is the best in both of their eyes. Matty’s friends think he’s a bit too old to be hanging out with the little kids, but Harry’s convinced he’s finally a big kid. He no longer needs to hold his mum’s hand everywhere he goes. Matty teaches him how to swim without floaties and ride his bike without training wheels. They share everything, popsicles, beds, secrets.
When Matty turns fifteen and Harry’s ten, it’s like a flip has been switched. Matty’s discovered girls and cigarettes and music. Harry’s finally old enough to go places on his own, but Matty’s outgrown the movie theater across town and the ice cream place down the street. Anne tells him it’s called hormones but Harry doesn't care, Harry wants to play video games and eat sweets and fall asleep talking to his best mate every night.
It’s a turning point, ten years of friendship nearly right down the drain.
At sixteen and eleven, their age gap has never seemed wider. Matty stops staying over and trades in football for guitars, Harry for girls. Harry feels a bit like he’s lost a limb, a big, important part of himself that he isn't sure how to function without. It was bound to happen, Anne tells him, but it hurts nonetheless. He isn't sure Matty even feels it, not over whatever high he’s chasing next.
By seventeen and twelve, Matty’s only coming over in the middle of the night, gone out of his mind. Harry doesn’t mind, sneaks him through his bedroom window and under his hand me down Cinderella comforter. Sometimes he’s crying, sometimes he can't say anything, sometimes he smells like vodka and cheap perfume. Harry holds him and pretends he isn't falling apart.
On Harry’s sixteenth birthday, Matty’s still twenty. He gets him drunk for the first time, down at the park Matty taught Harry how to play football at. Matty realizes that in the past sixteen years he’s taught Harry a lot of things, not all of them good, and it terrifies him. Harry terrifies him. Particularly when the moon is high above them and Matty’s rambling on about the last song he wrote and Harry leans over and presses his lips smack against Matty’s.
They don't speak about it for over a year, when Matty’s twenty two and Harry’s seventeen. And Matty’s leaving. Harry cries, he screams and yells and shoves, and Matty takes it because he deserves it. They’d made a promise years ago, that they'd never be alone again, best mates forever. But Matty can’t take it anymore, his parents or their hometown or the looks he gets when he buys blow in a back alley and picks Harry up from the bakery across the street after his shift in the same breath. Most of all, he can’t take Harry. He can’t take the way he’s growing into his skin, growing out his curls. He can’t take the way he’s still finding himself, finding his heart, and the way Matty’s holding him back. He can’t take the way he wants him or the way they were never meant to be, not in this lifetime.
He’ll never admit any of it out loud though, instead he’ll pack up in the middle of the night and drive until he hits London. He’ll find a shit flat and a new best mate and start a band. He’ll get a new job and a new guitar and maybe, hopefully, a new heart.
*
It’s a Wednesday and the vending machine in the hall outside the “studio” is broken again. It’s a sign, an omen, Harry’s sure, because he knows how to kick it the right way to dump out as many bags of crisps as his bag can hold and that means he’ll be able to eat until payday. Or until someone fixes it.
He starts his show every weeknight at nine o’clock sharp. This time with a bag full of crisps and nerves bubbling in his stomach. He can’t think about either of those though, not when he’s introducing the first song and Niall’s glaring at him for already nearly dropping an f-bomb on uni radio.
Niall’s his boss (or something, despite only being a year older than him). Niall keeps him on time and on track and also talks shit about sports for ten minutes every show. Niall also managed to book Harry’s favorite band for an interview. Harry’s absolutely shitting himself.
They’re weird, a bit 80’s, a bit R&B, a bit top 40 pop. And they’re elusive as hell. Their shows are small and intimate with shit lighting and shittier beer (or so Harry’s heard because Niall might be a worker of small miracles, but he’s never scored Harry a ticket to a gig). Their interviews are only in print, whether that’s because they’re basically nobodies or to keep up with their secretive aesthetic, Harry isn’t sure.
Niall disappears halfway through the show when Harry’s just introduced a song and he knows what’s about to happen. (Except he doesn’t.)
In walks absolute heartbreak. Dressed in a ratty white t-shirt, a worn leather jacket, scuffed Docs, and jeans ripped in the knee just like his. Three taller men trail in. They’re all oblivious. And then Matty’s eyes land on Harry.
Harry thinks the world has stopped spinning, it feels like slow motion. Two sets of eyes meet, both of their expressions fall. Harry thinks if he’d had anything to eat in the past eight hours, he would’ve been sick.
“H-Harry.”
It isn’t a question, it’s a realization. One that sends Harry’s stomach sinking down, down, down. Somewhere in the back of his head, he knows he doesn’t have time to lose it. He pressed play on a three minute song approximately forty five seconds ago. He doesn’t have time for his worst nightmare materializing right in front of him.
London is a big city, Harry knew that before Matty ever even left for it. He convinced himself when he left for uni that their paths would never cross again simply because they weren’t meant to. Matty had fucked off to do god knew what with a guitar and two suitcases. Harry had waited it out and graduated and gotten into uni and done everything right. They were two different people now, running in two different circles, moving in two different directions. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t fucking fair.
“Matthew,” his jaw locks, his teeth grit, “Sit down. Please.”
He should’ve known, he should’ve known, he should’ve know. How didn’t he know?
Niall appears in the doorway then, taking in the tension and both boys’ looks of sheer horror, “Shit, Harry-”
Harry can’t even identify what emotion he’s feeling or what’s bubbling under his skin but he manages a tense shake of his head. The song’s ending too soon.
*
It’s awful. The interview is absolute shit. No one is oblivious to the tension, Harry stumbles over his words and fumbles with the questions he’s spent a week working on, Matty can’t even look him in the eye.
When the show ends, Harry’s surprised his face hasn’t burned off with humiliation yet. He wants him to just get up and leave, he can’t take it anymore. He’s already invaded his space, his fucking sanctuary, and made him humiliate himself on live radio to all of his peers. There’s nothing more Matty can take from him that he hasn’t already in the past 21 years.
Harry manages a handshake and quiet pleasantries with the other three members as they file out, but he refuses to look Matty in the eye.
“Harry,” Matty’s stood right next to him, so close that Harry can’t breathe. He can feel his body heat, can smell his cologne (and fuck, he wears ,cologne now).
“Please go,” he manages smally and keeps his eyes trained on the computer screen in front of him.
“Harry, I-I had no idea-”
“I don’t really care,” he wills Matty to give up. To just fucking leave again. But Matty could never just leave, he could never let Harry have a clean break. He had to feel blameless first. A fucking martyr, is what he is.
“Do you really think if I had any idea, I would’ve come?!”
And there it is, just what Harry’s been waiting for, to prove to himself that Matty hasn’t changed at all. All he cares about is proving his innocence, his victimization, and if anything comes in the way of that, he snaps.
“Dunno,” Harry sneers, “Depends on how cruel you’re feeling on any given day, I suppose.”
“Don’t be like this,” he sounds older, exasperated, frustrated. Like he’s talking down to a child. Harry’s veins run hot.
“I think you should go.”
“I think we should go for drinks.”
Harry’s sure there’s steam coming out of his ears as he spins in his chair, staring him down, “I think you’re out of your goddamn mind.”
Matty grins, that same crooked smile with the same crooked teeth that still does something to Harry’s stomach that he isn't proud of.
“My treat.”
*
Harry tells himself he can't say no because he's being offered free alcohol (that no matter the quality, would break his bank) not because he’s weak. And god, he's going to need to be drunk after the day he’s just had.
Matty takes a booth for them in the back of a pub that smells like piss because some things never change. Harry orders a beer, bites back an order of chips, and prays to god Matty can’t hear his stomach growling angrily from where he’s sat across from him.
It’s awkward, Matty asks short questions and Harry gives him shorter answers. He tells him about his sister’s engagement, his dad’s retirement party, his mum’s new boyfriend in quick, clipped sentences while keeping his eyes on the table in front of him. He’s waiting for Matty to take charge of the conversation to steer Harry where he wants him to go so he can ramble about himself and his art and his wonderful new life without him. But he doesn’t.
It occurs to Harry on his fourth beer on an empty stomach, that this run in isn’t to Matty what it is to Harry. To Matty, it’s just coincidence, a chance to catch up with an old mate whose friendship ended on the wrong foot. To Harry, it’s still a living, breathing nightmare, something he’s woken up in a cold sweat about for years.
“Are you going to order chips?” Matty questions after Harry’s listed off a few of his courses, more focused on the condensation from his drink on the table than the older boy in front of him.
Harry’s head whips up, already feeling a bit spinny, “No.”
“Why not?” he questions, chin resting in his hands and eyes still looking completely sober, “You always used to. With vinegar.”
Harry shrugs, ears burning with shame and annoyance. He won’t give him a real reason, that there’s only a five pound note in his wallet and his card was declined trying to buy a sandwich the previous morning. Instead he’ll let him wonder and think that things have changed, that he doesn’t know Harry at all anymore.
“Well I’m going to,” he downs the rest of his fruity, more expensive drink and stands up, patting his pockets, “I’ll be back, yeah?”
Harry gives him a slight, tense nod and watches him walk away, all confidence and curls and leather.
It’s been just as awful as Harry had imagined it would be. Matty’s not as mean as Harry’s head had dreamt him up to be, but the awkward pauses and uncomfortable topics certainly make up for it. He tells himself he just needs to get pissed. Once he’s pissed, he’ll be able to pretend he doesn’t care and then he can go home and get a good night’s sleep. Then he can wake up and forget it all ever even happened.
*
Fifteen minutes later, Harry’s sure that Matty’s ducked out and left Harry with the tab. It’s a very struggling rockstar thing to do and in turn, a very Matty thing to do. Harry’s drunk enough to think he can do the same, instead of getting thrown out for being absolutely broke. But first he needs the toilet.
The men’s room is across the pub and Harry keeps his head down the whole way there, just in case. The gush of relief he feels when he pushes the door open leaves him just as quickly, replaced with panic, when he spots Matty at the sink.
He’s bent over, curls falling in his face and eyes shut, like he hasn’t even heard him. He’s off in his own little cocaine-induced world. There’s a half empty plastic baggy on the counter and just enough remnants of a line for the pieces to click in Harry’s half drunk mind.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Harry hisses. His head is spinning a little too fast all of a sudden and he can’t even tell what emotion he’s feeling.
“Harry,” Matty breathes, eyes still shut as he straightens up and lets his head tilt back, lets it hit him. It scares Harry a bit because Matty still recognizes his voice with his eyes shut, even after what Harry’s sure isn’t his first line.
“What the fuck are you doing?!” his voice raises a bit. He feels a little bit out of his own body. Now that he’s found a reason to be angry, everything he’s felt and bottled up all night is hitting him all at once.
“‘S alright,” his eyes open, only half lidded, but there’s a lazy grin on his face, “I’ll share.”
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Harry stalks closer, skin vibrating with something that’s not quite anger, not quite hurt.
Matty’s eyes widen and he looks just like he does in Harry’s nightmares. Messy hair, tired eyes, chapped lips. He looks like a rockstar, like sin and danger and heartbreak. Everything he was never meant to have.
Harry’s fucked. They’re both so fucked up and yet still, there’s that pull in his chest. The one moving his feet and wrapping his hand around the back of Matty’s neck and crashing his lips to his in a drunken, needy haze.
*
They’re a flurry of lips and tongue and wandering hands when Matty slaps down some money and lets Harry drag him back to his shitty flat. He leaves his dignity at the door of the bathroom in the pub across town. He doesn’t care how small his studio flat is or how the heat only works half the time or that his mattress in the middle of the room is never made with threadbare blankets.
Fuck fate, he thinks when Matty’s got him pinned to the mattress with his lips dragging down Harry’s chest. This is what he’s always wanted, before he even knew it was something he could or couldn’t have. He knows he isn’t meant to have it, their whole lives have been a story of how they were never meant to be, one of them always two steps ahead of the other. But for one night, just one night, Harry will get what he wants, fate be damned.
And what Harry wants feels so good, the taste of Matty’s mouth and the splotches left on his skin. The sounds Matty leaves in his ear and the ones he manages to pull from deep in Harry’s throat. The way they collapse together again, in the same bed, with sweaty, sticky, salty skin, a bit like kids again.
What feels even better though, is the way that Matty stays.