From The Start (George Daniel/Matty Healy)

5: shit gets pretty gay

 It had been a quiet day: calm, peaceful perhaps, but the silence lay not in reflection of that, but because neither of the two had quite gotten down to talking about it yet, and they both shared the notion that if they started talking then they would soon have to come across it, because that was what was really on their minds, not menial bullshit about the weather and what kind of cereal they had in.

Matty wasn't sure that the basis of getting things sort out to tell everyone else was really the best basis to make a stupid, likely life changing decision, because he knew now from experience that things all went wrong when he was open and honest about his feelings.

And perhaps he could insist that they kept it secret for a while longer, because in all honesty, Matty was scared, scared in ways he could barely even begin to comprehend for himself, but the thing was that there was indeed a melancholic kind of beauty in fear, and in putting things off, in avoidance and silence, and the silence was interrupted solely by the tapping of Matty's fingers against the keys on his typewriter.

He'd found himself so very desperate to wrap himself up and hide away inside his own writing, regardless of the very obvious flaws he found within it, because there was such a comfort in writing, there was control, you had the power, you put the words down as you wished, and spun them to portray what you wished; you held the powers of perspective and impression, and Matty felt somewhat stumped without that.

He wanted to write this out, wanted to plan their fucking conversation, wanted to idealise the outcome in unnecessary eloquence and comparisons that held no real meaning, he wanted to paint it out like a clear blue sky: easily depicted but much rarer when it came to reality. However, as he thought about it, Matty came to realise that all he had done for the past few days was write about George, and even as he looked over his old works from months prior, he found such obvious little pieces of George in them that had somehow managed to pass him by before.

As the day dragged by and the skies grew darker, and he leaned further back in his chair, and the half finished cup of coffee on the edge of his desk grew cold, he came to conclude that in reality, George already knew the most of it, and what he feared most within it all was speaking it all aloud, because there was something just about saying it that made it feel so real, and he wasn't at all sure that he was ready for that kind of commitment yet, and he wasn't ready to face Ross and Adam, and wonder what they could think of him, twenty six, and fucking himself up over a crush.

Of course, they wouldn't dare say anything, because Ross, especially, was far too concerned with Matty's mental health for anyone's good, but perhaps, Matty was just far too disinterested in his own mental health, perhaps he'd crossed the line where brushing things off just didn't cut it anymore, but the thing was that Matty would forever be hesitant to ever admit anything of the such aloud unless someone got up and physically drew the line out for him.

Because words meant so much and yet so little in the reality of things. Words and conversation served their worth and purpose in matters of fantasy and art, in typewriters and sunrise, but not in uncomfortable glances shared by the oldest and most familiar of friends, and the heavy bearing weight of a sunset that came all too quickly.

Matty had figured by now that he simply couldn't work in spontaneous confessions and gathering himself all together, but as he looked over his work from the past few months, from before this had all happened even, he found that George and his feelings regarding him lay so very prominent throughout it all, and it would be perhaps easier just to share it with him, share the kind of feelings that he had on those days: real and expressed quickly, and not stored away and recalled from the back of his mind as he sat across with shaking hands.

But that was the thing, Matty just didn't let people read his poetry. He didn't let people in, because when it came to his work, it was honest beyond belief; it was phrased artistically, and it was caricaturistic in places, and in others fixated more so on romanticised descriptions of menial tasks than anything substantial, but it was honest, and it was a part of his honest self that he kept locked away.