𝐒𝐨𝐮𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐫. ⁽⁽⁽ᵐᵃᵗᵗʸ ʰᵉᵃˡʸ⁾⁾⁾

the name.

Matty. Islington.

He only goes because he has fuck all else to do, and as nice as it is to sit in the house and vegetate for a bit, letting his phone take his attention for hours on end and ordering dinner in, he'll regret it the next day when it's inordinately difficult to get up and stay busy. He needs to stay busy, more than he'd like to admit. So Matty goes to the stupid fucking party.

It's actually not bad once he gets there, and he feels bad for assuming every social engagement is going to be the absolute pits. It's just that the majority are these days, especially when he doesn't have the other three as a buffer, because they know how it feels when people eyeball you across the room and home in on you like a bullseye, or a winning lottery ticket. Even then, he gets it the most. Not that that's always a bad thing either - in public, it's fine, actually, because it's transparent and genuine. It's parties like this where people have an agenda, and it's exhausting trying to calculate who's for real and who isn't. It's parties like this that have the worst track record.

This one reminds Matty of the old flat in Clapton, except bigger and fancier - a compact Victorian villa somewhere in Islington, with a garden that's chillingly devoid of the stuff that's supposed to make a garden, a garden. When he ducks out for a smoke, he furtively inspects one of the too-perfect topiaries; plastic, of course.

'Got any more of that, mate?' a disembodied voice comes from the other side of the french doors, and a stocky guy with blonde, slicked back hair emerges into Matty's line of sight. Two finely-linked gold chains glint around his neck, partially hidden by the shirt he's wearing. He gestures eagerly towards the spliff between Matty's fingers.

'Um, sure. It's hash though, not weed. That alright?' He squints at the stranger. His mouth curls up into a shape that verges on contemptuous, chin jutting out as he outstretches long fingers. Matty spies the signet ring on his little finger. It's faintly ridiculous. Still, Matty watches as the stranger inhales, and feels the familiar tendrils of curiosity infiltrate the gentle high he's got going on. Probably best not to entertain them though, if past experience is anything to go by. It'll only end up with him against a wall, awkwardly submitting to an inexpert fumbling he's never been entirely sure he enjoys, and which he'll have to extricate himself from. His eyes find more pleasure there than his body does.

'Yeah, I can handle that,' the stranger shrugs, and Matty hands him the little bag of it. 'Here, you couldn't roll for me, could you?'

Christ, he thinks, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, but nodding nonetheless. It means he'll have to make small talk for the next half a minute. 'Who do you know here, then?'

'I'm a mate of Mark's - actually, I'm trying to get one of his clients to exhibit with me. I've just opened a gallery.'

'Oh yeah?' Matty wields his usual script when Gold Chain pauses hopefully, waiting to be asked about it.

'Just a small place in Bermondsey, but not far from White Cube,' he continues as Matty finishes packing the paper and tucks the end in before rolling. 'It'll pick up plenty of footfall from that alone, especially with the students and that new residency in November...' He trails off. Matty holds the neat joint out, almost finished, not yet sealed.

'Lick it.'

Gold Chain laughs uncertainly, his gaze flickering between the spliff and Matty's mocking expression. He looks as though he's about to say something, to brush it off as a joke, but apparently decides against it, instead pinching the other end and bending down to run his tongue along the paper's edge.

Matty swipes his thumb along the top, and leaves the spliff in the other man's hand. He turns to go as Gold Chain lights up.

'Nice one, thanks,' the man calls after him, but Matty is already at the door, waving backwards noncommittally. He smirks privately, feeling pleased with himself, though it only lasts a minute or two. He can feel eyes swivel in his direction as he wanders back inside, and immediately remembers why he ducked out. He pretends not to notice - he's become a pro at this - and tries to move with an unhurried air, fishing for his phone in his pocket so he doesn't accidentally clock anyone. Look busy and they won't bother you. He should go home; Matty thinks he has enough resolve to actually leave, if he can just envisage going back and not falling into a pit of numbness. It's not the house - he loves the house - it's just being alone, right now.