That 000000 & ffffff || Matty Healy

You Know He Likes To Get Blown

/ / Y O U K N O W H E L I K E S T O G E T B L O W N / /

He was buzzing with the excitement of the crowd, feeding off of George's rhythm, singing off of Adam's melody, playing off of Ross' bass, and when John shows up to play the sax, Matty absolutely could not be more exuberant. Although, he supposes, he had kind of wished Marcy would have showed up, standing backstage or maybe even fitting into the crowd – he'd have enjoyed having her mouth his lyrics back at him, screaming out her favorite parts; it's something he hasn't seen yet, and he hadn't really realized how much he wanted to catch her in the moment.

"You good?" George asks, patting his back when they're heading off stage.

Matty nods, "Yeah, good."

George raises an eyebrow, "You didn't even finish the bottle," he nods to the half filled bottle of wine in Matty's hand.

Matty grins, "Did you want some?"

George rolls his eyes as they all try to keep low key on their entrance to the hotel. "So I take it, I'm not rooming with you and girl wonder then?"

Matty snorts, "You can try to shift John, I'm sure he won't mind."

"Please, John has one bed in his room, the left side for him, the right side for his sax, I'm probably better off sleeping on the couch."

"No, absolutely not." Matty says, and the two boys eye each other for a beat before they sprint off, pushing past crew to get the suite. Matty reaches first, jamming the key card in repeatedly until the door opens. He knows George isn't really trying when Matty shuts the door and his bandmate only half heartedly pounds on the door.

"Alright, Healy, you win this time, but I swear to god if hear unholy noises tonight..."

"Fuck off, mate!" Matty yells through the door, looking down, only mildly surprised that his wine hadn't spilled. "Marceline?" he calls out in a sing-song kind of voice. He frowns when he doesn't get an answer, walking towards the room. She's on her phone, when he sees her, sitting on the bed, angrily texting with someone, muttering under her breath, before finally letting out a growl and throwing the phone against the wall, not hard enough to break it, but Matty is fairly certain there's a dent in the wall, and he refuses to pay for that.

Alright, he'll leave a healthy tip, but that's as far as he'll go.

He leans against the doorframe, watching Marcy. And, he thinks that this is probably the first time he's ever witnessed her having a proper tantrum, acting like a...proper teenager. She hadn't noticed him yet, her back is to him, and then she runs her hands over her face, fingers combing back hair as the heels of her palms press into her eyes and – and she's ­crying.

She falls back on the bed, removing her hands from her face, eyes meeting up with Matty's. She jumps, startled but doesn't move from her position. "Hello."

"Aright, love?"

"What's that?" she avoids his question glancing at the bottle in his hand. She turns around so she's on her stomach now, she doesn't seem sad, maybe a bit angry; frustrated tears he assumes. He wants to ask about the phone – and he glances to it for a moment before returning to her, brows furrowed. He pushes off the wall and slowly makes his way towards her.

"It's wine..."

She looks up at him, her eyes are wide and glossy, "Can I have some?" and shit, he would have let her commit murder with the look she was giving him — so wide eyed and pleading. He supposes giving her alcohol would be a problem, she isn't of legal age to drink yet, but Matty is already handing over the bottle. "Was the concert good?"