Fell In Love In Stages // a matty healy fanfic

Gush

In the kitchen, not a single bottle of wine is in sight—just endless cans of beer littering the counters. I throw caution to the wind and grab one. Tonight, we're getting stupid drunk!

It's been less than an hour, and I'm already 4 cans deep, the buzz hitting me like a freight train. Someone cracks a joke—something about their nan running off with the local pastor—and I laugh obnoxiously loud, nearly doubling over. It's only when I glance up and notice the stunned silence around me that I realize: he wasn't joking.

"Oops," I blurt out, trying to stifle the laughter bubbling up again. But it's hopeless—I burst into uncontrollable giggles, tears streaming down my face. For a beat, the group stares at me like I've lost it, and then one by one, they join in. Our corner of the kitchen erupts into chaotic laughter.

"I'm so sorryyyyyyyyy!" I manage between gasps, clinging onto the guy's arm for support.

He waves me off, grinning. "Nah, don't worry about it. S'pose when you think about it, it is a bit funny, innit?"

He starts laughing again, and before I know it, we're both howling, leaning against the counter for balance. Someone pops another bottle open nearby, and I grab it with a triumphant cheer, holding it up like a trophy.

"To runaway nans and stolen pastors!" I declare, and the room explodes into cheers and laughter once more. For a fleeting moment, the weight of the night disappears in the absurdity of it all.

You know what isn't funny though? The ungodly amount of beer I've just consumed, now clawing its way up my throat. Both hands slap over my mouth as I bolt for the bathroom, my legs barely cooperating. I lock the door behind me, fling myself toward the toilet, and just in time, release an unholy torrent of liquid.

Before I can catch my breath, I hear the unmistakable sound of a shower curtain sliding back. My stomach drops.

"We have to stop meeting like this," a familiar voice teases.

Oh no.

I'm too mortified to look up. My only response is another violent heave into the bowl.

There's a soft laugh, and then I hear him step out of the tub. I feel the warmth of his hands, gentle and rhythmic, rubbing slow circles on my back. His touch is steady and grounding.

We sat there for ages in silence— with me heaving sporadically while he crouches behind me, patient as ever.

When my stomach finally decides to stop punishing me, I rest my head against the cool porcelain, still too embarrassed to meet his gaze. My throat burns, my dignity is long gone, and I just want to disappear.

Sensing my discomfort, he starts humming softly.

"You're doing great," he says after a moment, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. "Really handling this like a champ."

"Shut up," I mumble, too weak to even sound annoyed.

But when I finally glance at him out of the corner of my eye, his expression isn't smug like I'd expected—it's kind. Warm. Almost endearing.