infatuation // m.h

6

I woke up first the next day. I didn't move. I didn't want to wake him up. He doesn't get much sleep anyway. Matty laid asleep, his pale tattooed torso wrapped in the blankets. His arms were wrapped around me, and tightened when he woke up.
"Morning, babe." He said groggily, in his deep morning voice.
"Morning baby." I grinned, kissing him.
"How'd you sleep?" He asked me with a smirk.
"Perfect." I smiled. I gazed at Matty's neck. It was decorated with purple bruises and tender pink skin. I hid my smile.
"What?" Matty asked, touching his neck. He winced then smiled.
"You left your marks, I left mine." He said, pointing to my neck. I used his phone for the reflection, and checked my neck. Matty had left plenty more hickies on me than I had on him.
"You piece of shit." I laughed, blushing. I can only imagine what people will think when they see me with marks all over my neck, let alone seeing the two of us together. I think they're nice. Romantic. I'd always liked them, and I never knew why.
Matty smirked and pulled me on top of him. He stared at me, total awe in his eyes. I loved how he looked at me like that. The blanket slid down my shoulders, revealing bare goose bump-covered skin. I was only in my underwear and it was freezing. The morning air was cool and crisp and bright, it reminded me I was alive. Matty pulled the blanket up over us, and I turned around so we were laying on our sides, facing each other. Matty's bare chest was hot against my cheek. His arms were tight around me. His eyes were dark but soft, staring at me. They flicked from my eyes to my lips to my chest to my eyes again. His dark curls spilled over the pillow beneath his head. His hair smelled like the spliffs we'd smoked last night and his cologne.
"You're mine." He whispered, pulling my chin up to kiss my lips, softly.
"I'm yours." I nodded with a smile. Our lips met again, gently. We laid like that for a while, occasionally whispering 'I love you's and 'you're mine's.
Then I remembered it was Monday.

"Matty...I'm going to be late for work." I said, reluctant to move. It was cold and he was warm. I tried to break free from his grasp.
"No you're not. I rang up before, said you were sick." Matty grinned cheekily.
I laughed, shocked. "You're going to be the death of me, boy."

We packed up the blankets and packed up the car.
"I'm driving. You sleep. I can see you're tired." I said.
"No." Matty said.
"Matty," I started to argue.
"Fine," he rolled his eyes. "But I'm picking the music."

The sun had risen properly now, and it was as if the morning had stepped into its skin, shaking off the chill that the air had carried. Matty flicked through the radio stations before settling on a station that played nothing but 80s pop hits. Matty grinned to himself, closed his eyes and mouthed along to the words. I watched him occasionally, keeping one eye on the road. We sat in comfortable silence, with my hand out the window, feeling the wind through my fingers. After a little while, Matty's eyes shot open, and he pulled out his black book from the glove box.
"Befor-" he started to say.
"Before you forget." I said with a smile. He smiled back, before hunching over to scrawl down his ideas. His hair fell into his face and his hands shook a little, I noticed. I tried to lean over inconspicuously to see, His handwriting exploded onto the page, with blotches of black ink and smudged letters. I knew he wrote down what came to mind in the moment, and a lot of the time it didn't make sense when read out loud. But to him, it was a scrapbook of quotes, ideas, lyrics. Memories, too. I caught glimpses of his scribblings:

'She said "you'll be the death of me, boy".'
'I wish I could tell you I wasn't in love with you, sometimes. I don't want to hurt you.'
'She's watching now, pretending not to notice. I let her.'