matty healy imagines

honeycomb // matty ((part two))

- via xothemonsteryoumade on a03!

His eyes fell upon one of his many sweatshirts lying on the ground. An idea came into his head; maybe he could wrap the sweatshirt around George's shoulders. It didn't involve any words, and it wasn't as awkward as a hug, yet it would show that he did care. Then again, George's vague figure seemed huge, towering, and Matty's tiny sweatshirt would probably not fit at all.

Matty didn't really want to take off his blanket; it was a frigid winter that year, and the air conditioner was incredibly weak and faulty. The only place the conditioning really seemed to work was in the living room, but he couldn't fall asleep on the loveseat no matter how hard he tried. It's not that it wasn't uncomfortable; it was because it smelled strongly of cologne, to a suffocating point. He hated the stench; it brought him closer to a truth that he, at the time, was too young to comprehend. His breaking point with trying to sleep on there was when he saw a weird sticky substance on one of the cushions, and it smelled even more gross than the cologne.

With that, he never tried sleeping there again; and he can't even sit on there normally anymore. He just sits on the floor, which his mom thinks is weird, but he wasn't ready to confront his mom about whatever the hell was going on on that loveseat.

His thin body was shivering, and his fear and confusion over this 'George' increased that shakiness ten fold. But he didn't know what else to really do.
So with pale quivering hands and a held in breath that couldn't be let go until the deed was done, he took off the soft blanket, and cautiously scooted over towards George. He slowly laid the soft cloth on George's broad shoulders, the crying stopping with the gentle touch of fabric.

George smiled warily, wiping a tear from his cheek,

"Thanks. But I think you need this more than me."

Matty shook his head 'no', and picked up a sweatshirt off the floor (the same one that gave him this brilliant idea in the first place). He covered himself in the sweatshirt, using it as his new blanket.

"Dude, you can't possibly sleep like that. Here."

Matty shook his head again, silently insisting that George keeps the blanket.

George sighed, and Matty heard the creak of the bed as George got up.

Maybe George was leaving, or maybe this was the moment that he revealed that he was really a crazy serial killer. Is this how it'll end, with Matty freezing in a corner, the only thing keeping him warm later being the blood pooling out of his body from shots or stab wounds?

Matty felt something warm being put on top of him. It wasn't quite big enough to be the blanket. It was fabric though, and Matty's head was scrambling to figure out just what it could be.
Then another small thing of fabric was draped over him, and another. The small little pieces were coming together to create something just as warm, maybe even warmer, then his blanket that he gave to George. It felt nice, and it soothed his nerves.

Something in his brain was yelling that maybe George will take one of these fabrics and suffocate Matty with it. But yet another part of his brain was telling him that George would've killed him forever ago if he intended to hurt Matty.

So he just let himself finally fall asleep with the ever increasing amount of fabrics, his body slowly becoming warmer and warmer, until he finally felt like he was the sun, burning with sweet heat.

x x x x x x

The next morning, when Matty woke up, he found what it was that George was using to cover him up. It was all of Matty's various dirty sweatshirts that were laying on the floor, they were piled on top of his body, various colors blending and coming together to create, simply, a large mess. It was weirdly artistic, and Matty found himself liking how these sweatshirts were arranged, even though there was probably no real particular design to the chaos.
His floor actually seemed somewhat clean with his clothes picked up. He liked that quite a bit too. Maybe he should actually try putting in effort in organizing his room.

The blanket Matty gave to George was folded up neatly at the end of the bed. Speaking of George, he was nowhere in sight. What did he say yesterday, that he hid underneath the bed during the day?

Matty looked underneath his bed, and didn't see George. He found himself frowning, almost disappointed. Where did he go?

His mom then opened the door, interrupting his thoughts,

"Hey, breakfas-- Matthew Healy, what on Earth?! Why are there dirty clothes on your bed? I told you to do your laundry like a week ago!"

Matty shrugged, the best non verbal apology he could really give.

His mother bit her lip, and muttered,

"You're lucky that I'm just about to put a load of my clothes in. I'll put in some of yours too, just go and eat your eggs before they get cold. Please remember to do it next time though, okay? This the second... no third, time this month."

Matty nodded, and walked out of his room as his mom walked in. Before he could go any further, she called to him again,

"Hey, Matty?"

Matty glanced back at his mother, and she asked him,

"Are you doing okay? You seem... glum."

He simply gave her a thumbs up, thankful that he didn't have to speak and explain his answer at all.
Matty is a terrible liar, and was never really good with words in the first place. This is a simple, less stressful way of answering complex questions such as that, questions that if he spoke to answer, he would stumble over his words clumsily.

"Alright. Just making sure sweetie."

He continued on his way to the eggs. His mom made the best eggs, and he could smell them as he walked into the kitchen.
There they were. Sitting on the gray countertop, a beautifully scrambled masterpiece with eggs, milk, and cheese. This usually was the best part of his day, a serene quiet moment where he could just sit and not be stressed out, where he could focus his little amount of energy enjoying his food and doing nothing else.

But even as he shoveled the first delightful bite into his mouth, his mood didn't improve. He was still worried about George. He knew that he would probably think about the weird man all day, wondering what exactly was going on with him. The worst part of it was that he couldn't tell a soul, not even Adam, because no one would really believe him. They'd think he made it all up for attention or something like that. So he would, like he did with everything up, keep it bottled up inside.