That 000000 & ffffff || Matty Healy

She Can't Be What You Need If She's Seventeen

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"What?" He asks when he slips off his shirt, tossing it in the general direction of his suitcase. He grabs a hairband, and ties his hair up messily before hauling to the bed.

George sets down a glass of gin on the table, the ice melting and watering it down to a dull bitterness he wasn't quite fond of.

"Don't 'what' me, I should be asking you that, mate." He mumbles. When they stay at a place longer than two days, they're lucky enough to rent out a few hotel suites for the rest of the band and crew. Adam and Ross had retreated to a separate room, already feeling the shit storm about to come in the form of a spat between Matty and George that would typically end with someone sleeping on the floor.

"Sod off." Matty groans, undoing the button on his jeans and sliding them off.

George rolls his eyes, tugging the jeans off of Matty's legs when he sees his friend is struggling.

"What the hell was that just now? Back at the venue? I know you're all for inviting groupies and shit, but you were making out with her full on when I saw you – fuck, do you even know her name?"

"Who, Marcy?" Matty asks with a frown.

"The fuck do I know, Matty, I'm asking you!"

"Why are you yelling at me?"

George groans; Matty is acting like a child. "I'm going to shower, get your shit together, yeah?"

Matty pulls off his boxers and aims it George's retreating figure. He only misses when George slams the bathroom door, muttering something probably to piss Matty off.

Matty searches for his phone, finding it somewhere in his jeans before getting under the covers. He checks twitter for a bit, lurking around tweets that hardly make sense to him, clicking on links he probably shouldn't, and raising his eyebrows at a familiar picture of himself. He's seen it as a screen shot on Marcy's phone when he was going through her pictures.

She didn't have much of anything, screen shots, pretty selfies and a hand full of candid pictures she had taken. Nothing sufficiently telling or anything and when he's caught himself pondering, he realizes this isn't exactly healthy behavior.

He remembers the way her lips tasted on his, how she had a bit of a rough side, fueled by frustration and anger, he remembered how aroused he was at his fingers pressing into his bruises and he knows he's never been one for pain play but fuck if that wasn't the hottest thing. 

He had asked about the blonde boy she was with, he wasn't her boyfriend, as it turns out, but he knew what ever was going on because he definitely played Matty. Matty will blame his clouded judgment on the red wine he's been sipping on stage. Turns out the guy was just a close friend madly in love with George and older ladies.

He had wanted Marcy to stay, he wanted her to talk to him, he didn't mind if she sat far away from him or extremely close, he just wanted to hear her talk, wanted to hear her silly babble, wanted to know her fears, her favorite color, her middle name even. But she had been embarrassed, having George catch them mid make-out. She had wanted a quick get away, but he'd somehow held on to her, prolonging her departure.

He wondered if she had felt how much he wanted her then, how he was a move away from christening that damn sidewalk. He wanted his hands under her shirt, touching her bare body and he wanted her tongue licking his skin. He hadn't made a move or said any of this out loud, only held on to her hips as she sat straddling his thighs.

She might have mumbled that going to the concert was a bad idea; he argued that it was a wonderful idea. She had given him a stare before amending that it wasn't a bad idea, but it wasn't a good one either.