Hallucinarium │ Matt Healy AU

01 │ DELILAH

[ JUNE 1ST, 2018 │ DAY 1, 2:00 AM ]

DELILAH WAS SEATED on the passenger seat of Matty's old Ford, taking a drag from her fix rolled up in a scrap of paper some guy had given her-his phone number burning along with her lungs.

And she was all deep features and small stature, pigmentation alike a summer latte all beautiful and dangerous wrapped in Matty's furry coat, smelling of mint and colonge and cigarettes and sex.

He was freezing cold there in the driver's seat, like a child caught in the snow without his sweater. But when Delilah asks for your coat, you better damn well give it to her.

Under all those stars shining like it wasn't two a.m. on a Tuesday night, Matty knew of nothing, or at least back then. Just how to take his girl and lie her down and gift her flowers and show her love. He thought that was enough.

"Matty?" His name rolled off her tongue, red lips swollen from stolen kisses and he couldn't really help but think of all the things she could do with them. "You still mad at me?"

And he replied, "mmhm." Even though he knew he could never be, especially with that coy smirk of hers and himself around her finger. "Didn't like the way that prick was eyein' you. Didn't like how you we're eyein' him back."

Delilah could tell that he was only slightly irritated. "Babe," she purred, her voice arousing and just flat out wasted. "I was only gettin' a drink, you know, that pricey one you wouldn't buy me." Sometimes Delilah wondered if he did that on purpose, just to remind himself of precisely how unobtainable she was. Unobtainable to everyone, but of course, not to Matty. "I wasn't gonna do anything with em', he didn't mean much to me." She hummed.

"Much?" Matty retaliated, still bitter and still cold but Delilah knew she was right about him.

"Anything." She responded, her breath smelling of hard liquor. "He doesn't mean a thing."

And he smiled up there in the tattered driver's seat, satisfied that Delilah knew she didn't belong to him-oh God no-but rather that she wouldn't prefer anyone else.

Though even later as if to prove his point she sighed, "would much rather have that lanky boy in women's blouses, drinking girly drinks in the middle of a club," as she sunk further into his curly coat, embracing its warmth.

The cars outside were a blur, a scattered picture of moving blues and reds and whites and greys, all amidst the California-lit sky. Matty knew he shouldn't be driving but he'd done it before and who cares? He was still able to answer her statement, however, between accelerating at a yellow light just simply so he wouldn't be caught at a red.

"Men's shirts are just so uncomfortable. Not to mention they hardly ever fit my frame, and I never find one that actually looks somewhat decent." He merged into another lane, although it was so fuzzy he couldn't be certain. "And I don't even like beer, you know that. And what the hell is patron even? Takes like gasoline." He had gone over this too many times with her and every single time she giggled, all because it was just so ridiculous. "Besides, I really like those small umbrellas they put in your drink sometimes, and you don't ever get those with beer."

Matty had absolutely no shame in it at all. In fact, there was a little pink umbrella resting in his hair as he spoke. He thought it looked nice paired along with his dark curly hair and floral blouse.

Though it wasn't long before Delilah took it from him, her slender fingers skimming the edges of his sloppy fringe-humming a tune about love or death, she didn't know. And she placed it right behind her ear, wondering how someone so beautiful could be such a dork.

But his car ran faster, speeding to get her home before her parents ever noticed she was gone. Matty was having a hard time staying in the lanes, but they would make it. He was sure of it.

All the way from Los Angeles to Santa Ana, traveling in a car of lovers and cigarette smoke, all the while she couldn't really help but continue to tease him about his strange quirks and tendencies. He just laughed along, never really listening, but feeling her words because each one struck him right where it counted; so drunk, and so in love with this girl he couldn't really think of anything else.

Delilah said something then, something he couldn't ever forget, even if he tried. She said, "Matty," like all the music in the world couldn't equate to the sweetness of her voice, even when it was doused in pure liquor. "Promise me something."

"Of course." He could feel the sudden seriousness in her voice. The deeper tone of it all. The darkness in her eyes. The shift in demeanor.

Yet, there was this dreamy glaze in her stare and he wondered if he looked at her the same way. She took a deep breath, her stomach and chest rising and falling, again, and, again, and, again. He was captivated, ensnared by lust, and tangled in love and in that moment, he realized how truly fucked he was. He couldn't live without this girl and he knew he was only twenty-two but there was something about her that reminded him of forever.

"Promise me," she said, but before she could say anything else, she screamed.

"Matty!"

There was a bright light on the passenger window. Headlights.

He didn't know what was happening, but he felt it, like a metal hand crushing his body whole.

Broken glass.

His body felt shattered, but Delilah, where was she?

He heard screams, and not just his own, other people. Strangers. They were screaming too.

The air-bag to his car exploded, popping right in front of his face and he thought he'd get a concussion from that alone.

The car was tumbling, he could feel it. Shards of glass dug into his body and sliced his thin shirt but the only thing running through his mind was Delilah.

Pain coursed through his body, setting every nerve on fire, and his mind ablaze.

He could see it throughout the crash, the traces of her dark hair speckled with blood.

And she was silent.

And he didn't know what to do.

A pink, little, blood-stained umbrella.

The rolling had stopped.

He was hanging upside-down in his car at the edge of some street, screaming and injured and drunk.

But he was alive.

"Delilah?"

There was nothing.

He turned to face her.

"Delilah?!" He screamed, eyes tearing up and world crashing and burning right beside his car.

The world was spinning, even after the car had stopped. But he just murmered "no, no, no, no, no" on repeat, as if his acceptance of the world was going to change it.

"Babe?" He was looking straight at her, knowing all too well to expect a response.

And she was still so beautiful, golden skin and caramel eyes and lips Matty could kiss the color out of. Her face was cut and scarred with bits of broken glass riddled upon her body like freckles.

He loved her so much.

But Delilah was still seated on the passenger seat of Matty's broken Ford, loved and cherished more than anyone he'd ever know, but also dead, quicker than he'd ever forget.

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