lostmyhead ( ✓ )

chapter seven

His hair was shockingly beautiful as the sun's light formed a halo around his head. He bit his lip, thinking long and hard as his pen tapped at the metal rings on his notebook. He was sitting on the windowsill, right knee bent upwards as he balanced himself; the other just dangling against the wall. He sighed, shifting his head, and the halo seemed to only grow brighter as George continued to stare at Matty.

They were back at their shared flat, and Sam had gone out to Tesco and to take Allen for a walk.

As Matty continued working on lyrics for a song that would, most likely, never be released, George was left to his thoughts. The halo, in George's mind, was some bloody twisted metaphor for how Matty would soon not be a part of life on earth anymore. The halo signified death, and George cursed the Angels for making such a beautiful thing so destructive.

Blimey, why did Matty have to be fucking dying? They were supposed to grow old together: perform in their band until Matty lost his inspiration. They were supposed to someday get married and adopt kids, or maybe another dog. George found it obvious that Matty much preferred animals over people, with George being the only exception. He wanted to cry, but he knew he had to be strong. It wasn't fucking fair.

The shorter lad was a lot paler these days, and his clothes hung off his body loosely, as though he'd lost a lot of weight. His skin was a sickly color, and deep down, they both knew that Matty was coming towards the end of his days.

George hated it. He absolutely, positively hated the thought of losing his Matty. Matty had been his best friend for over twelve years, over half of their life, and there was no way in hell was George ready to give him up yet. George loved Matty, and he'd been such an idiot for waiting so long to tell him, but he absolutely loved him.

Matty, the beautiful, curly-haired man that was currently so caught up in song lyrics. Matty, the man that had a horrific halo illuminating against his brown locks. Matty, the man that, on any day, at any time, could suddenly stop living. George's Matty.

"You can stop looking at me, you know. I'm not going anywhere." Matty smirked, looking up from his notebook and placing his pen between his teeth in amusement as he stared after his best friend, and love.

'Not yet,' George thought. Instead, he decided to stand up from his position on the couch. Slowly, he made his way over to Matty and proceeded to take the older lad's face between his hands and plant a tender kiss upon his lips.

"I love you, Georgie." Matty breathed once they pulled away, and George turned to bury his face in the curly-haired lad's neck.

"And I love you, Matthew."

Matty froze then, and proceeded to stare down at his mate. His mouth hung open, eyes wide, leaving George in a slight panic.

"What? What have I done?" He asked frantically, biting his lip. Matty only chuckled and leant forward, capturing George's lips in another kiss.

"You called me Matthew. You haven't done that since we first met. I, it's just weird to hear my birth name come from your mouth." Matty explained, giggling further and hopped down from the windowsill, leading George to the couch.

"Is it a good kind of weird?" George asked, allowing Matty to push him back onto the soft material as the smaller boy climbed into his lap, straddling him.

"The best kind of weird." Matty smirks before diving in for yet another kiss. This one grows heated rather quickly, and soon George finds himself growing excited in the kiss. With Matty's thighs resting on his waist, he feels as though he'll lose total control. Once Matty begins to play with the hem of George's shirt however, the taller lad stops his actions, interlacing his fingers with Matty's. As much as he'd love to do this, he just can't. Not with Matty in this state.