oneshots and other shit

1: soft (george/matty)

i didnt intend to publish this so its like anything but coherent but i tried to edit it so theres some sort of more obvious implication of the story. but it's supposed to be vague. i think things don't feel the same when theyre clearly outlined in black and white. this has to feel this certain way.

When the room seemed fuzzy at the ends, with faded flickering lights somewhere off on a street that seems worlds away, and the night was mellow, the darkness painted in shades of pink instead of blue, and George's breath was warm against his skin. Those are the good nights. Soft, mellow, gentle, like tiny ripples of the tide.

They sit there for hours those nights. Together. Just to be together, with warm breaths and cold fingers, and each other on their lips. When Matty had first met George, he'd looked at those lips and swore they'd taste of vanilla. He'd laid eyes on those fingertips, and imagined them strong and calloused, as if they might burn holes into his skin. He'd imagined that George might burn holes into him too. But it seemed he'd managed to work out as well enough at that by himself.

They sat there together at twenty five, more than ten years down the line, knowing each and every piece of each other, close as if they were sew intricately with thread: a glossy bright white to shine under the moonlight. They sat there at twenty five and Matty still looked at George like he once had, even though his lips had never tasted of vanilla, and his fingertips felt nothing but gentle against his skin.

When Matty's head seemed fuzzy at the edges, with faded flickering lights somewhere behind his eyes, his breathing steady, heartbeat slower than ever before, the night seemed to be crafted from shades of gold. He liked to trust in the illusion, one day it won't just remind him of the drugs.

He'd told himself that at nineteen. He'd told himself of the world at nineteen, looked at the stars and truly believed that amidst his fingertips he held every one of them. That he had a friend in the silence and the inky blackness of the night sky lay like arms around his chest. He'd told himself that was warm and that was safe. That he didn't need to believe in anything besides the cold chill to the air and the falsified sense of calm.

They sat there together at twenty five and watched the stars. The night still lay hazy at the edges. There'd been far too many sleepless nights and he'd tired of chasing demons around his head. But George's fingers linked with his, not strong, not firm, but soft. The stars didn't shine as brightly as they used to, but these days he got up to see the sun.

The hum of the open fridge door. Bright blue light. Dark nights and darker days. A December where he'd clung so desperately to himself for warmth. He'd never meant to hide away from George. Just from himself. But it all those strings, all those lies, it was the feeling of something missing as he sat alone in the room. It was the bad days. They came less frequently than they had before, but still there was no avoiding them.

He'd let George take him back to bed. He'd let George do anything. He might have just worried about that if now George had ever been anything but gentle with him and if his fingers had been anything more than soft. It took him quite a while to figure that George wasn't nearly the person he'd thought he once was, but was in fact just the person he did need.

They'd waste away the morning in each other's arms. Matty would throw away years for George. And indeed he had. He'd lose himself in the cold breeze, in the open window, in the hum of the TV, in George's hand on his thigh, in cold mornings that seemed to last forever. When the sun did rise the world seemed to stop. The sadness only ever seemed to rear its head in the night time anymore, but god Matty did love to watch the moon.