That 000000 & ffffff || Matty Healy

For You Babe It's An Anobrain

/ / F O R Y O U , B A B E I T ' S A N A N O B R A I N / /

"It makes sense, doesn't it?" I ask softly. There's a window by the bed and the shudder shades are pulled up enough for me to see the skyline. I wonder how far up we are.

"Marcy, go to sleep," Matty mumbles, but it's not at all groggy, just tired. He's been up too. His left arm is draped over my shoulder, his fingers interlocking with my hand carefully so that the wires won't get caught.

"I can't," I tell him truthfully. I had woken, maybe twenty minutes ago, only to find that Matty had yet to close his eyes.

He presses his lips to my temple, and his free hand is placed softly on my tummy, warm but not pressured. "What makes sense?" he asks, figuring it was no use in trying to argue with me.

I shrug against him and turn to face him. I look up at him and my heart stutters against my ribs. It hurts, but I don't mind. He looks tired; his dark eyes are sunken in, his lips chapped, and there's stubble growing along his jaw. I let go of his hand to touch the side of his face, "Well," I start, my eyes glossing over his face and noting how the bruising from George's punch isn't there but there's a redness to his cheeks, as if he's been slapped. I let my thumb brush over it lightly. "It explains why I was moody - why I was so upset over you not telling that interviewer about your relationship with me, when I hardly even told my boss," I admit, "It explains all the vomiting I've been doing, all the sleeping I've been doing - my period - or lack of... it just...it explains a lot."

His fingers reach my face and brush my hair back, "I'm so sorry, Marceline." I feel like it's all he's been saying for a while now.

"Are you leaving me?" Again. I ask quietly, glancing down at his chest.

To my surprise, he grabs under my chin, tilting my head up, "I'm not going anywhere."

"You have concerts to do," I remind him.

He grimaces, "I don't care about that, right now, Marcy. I care about you - you're more important to me than a few sold out shows."

"It's not fair to your fans," and it sounds like I'm complaining, but I don't want to build my hopes up just to have them knocked down again.

"Marcy," he tells me softly but very firmly, "shows would be shit if all I'm doing is crying over you through every song. It's fine, they'll understand."

I open my mouth to say more, to protest or something, but he cuts me off with a kiss - and god. My eyes flutter shut within the second and I'm sure he can hear the stuttering of my heart with out any help from the heart monitor. My breath hitches and my hands grasp at his shirt, trying to pull him closer. His lips are rough against mine, but it's familiar and when his tongue glides just lightly along my bottom lip, I can't stop the gasp. My legs tread lightly against his. The jeans he has on rubs harshly against my skin, but it drives me further against him.

I pull away to breathe, but it doesn't stop the speckle of kisses he leaves against my mouth, my chin, and my cheeks. "Matty," I gasp out, "Oh, Matty," I breathe. We're both gasping for air and I want to cry again. He rests his forehead against mine and his nose grazes mine. He shuts his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply.

"I missed you," he tells me. My grip on his shirt doesn't loosen and I want him closer to me, closer than physically possible. I grin lightly at him, hoping he understands that I missed him too.

"Will you be here when my parents come?" I ask a bit shyly when there's a steady rhythm to my heart. I feel his body stiffen.

"Your parents are going to kill me."