Fell In Love In Stages // a matty healy fanfic

These Hands Weren't Made For Fighting

I'm pulled from sleep by the muffled sound of Alex Turner crooning about looking good on the dance floor. Squinting against the unforgiving afternoon sun pouring through the windows, I groan and burrow deeper beneath the sheets.

My throat feels like sandpaper, and thirst wins over the urge to remain asleep. With a monumental effort, I drag myself upright, the world spinning briefly before settling into focus. The room is quiet, and from what I can tell, I'm alone.

There's a water bottle on the table beside me, and I unscrew the cap with trembling hands. The first sip feels like salvation, and I don't stop until the bottle is halfway drained. I set it down—or at least, I try to. My weakened grip betrays me, and the bottle tumbles to the floor with a dull thud.

"What the fu—"

The sound comes from a pile of clothes in the corner.
No, not just a pile of clothes—there's movement beneath it.

I blink, my still-fuzzy brain struggling to comprehend, and then it hits me. That's not just any human under there.

It's him.

"What are you doing over there?" I call out, my voice hoarse from sleep, cutting through the stillness of the room.

"Well, I was sleeping," he mutters, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His hair sticks up at odd angles, and his shirt is wrinkled beyond saving.

It's only when he shifts that I notice the faint bruise forming on his left cheekbone, blooming purple and red like some twisted flower. His white shirt is speckled with dark stains—blood, but I'm almost certain it's not his.

"Why is it that you're always bleeding or bruised, Healy?" I ask with a tired sigh. "What happened this time?"

He doesn't answer right away, instead reaching for a cigarette. The flick of his lighter feels impossibly loud in the quiet room. He takes a drag—so deep and deliberate that I half-wonder if his lungs are entirely made of smoke and sadness.

Finally, he exhales, the tendrils of smoke curling in the air like a secret he won't share.
His voice, low and steady, breaks the silence.

"These hands weren't made for fighting," he murmurs, the words almost a melody.

"But that's what you'll make them do," I reply, softer than I intended, unsure if I'm scolding him or trying to understand.