𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐁𝐞 𝐌𝐲 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦. ⁽⁽⁽ᵗʰᵉ ¹⁹⁷⁵ ᵒⁿᵉˢʰᵒᵗˢ⁾⁾⁾

soft sound.

In which Matty is an old friend/flame, and has some making up to do for being a bit of an idiot. But he makes up for it VERY well. Situated in the glamorous environs of the Royal Albert Hall, at an unspecified awards ceremony.

mature content. 3916 words.

It had been at least a year, maybe more, and the last time I had seen Matty he had not been in such good shape as this. It had been backstage at a festival somewhere in Europe, and although we had begun to talk and catch up, his attention was quickly diverted by another girl, and then one of his bandmates, and then another girl. In short, it was apparent that he was not easy to 'catch up' with; on the contrary, he seemed to live and operate at a hundred miles per hour.

So at the time, I hadn't been bothered about chasing an interaction with Matty, despite fondly remembering our antics when sharing the studio back in 2015. Well, the studio building - he was recording next door to us, whilst we were slaving away on our debut album, although I caught breaks whenever I could. This was when Matty and I would walk around the block, dropping by the same coffee shop and having a smoke in the same park practically every day for four weeks.

Ever since, whilst his band soared into the upper echelons of the industry, I became increasingly bored with my band's output, and the direction it was all going in. The relationships between us had become embittered, and where we had once had each other's backs, we now kept to ourselves, on tour and at home, cloistered in our own little worlds. It wasn't anybody's fault, really - we just led very different lives. I privately anticipated that our next release, which was currently being mastered, would be our last.

And yet that still hadn't stopped us from being nominated for a couple of awards this year, at a ceremony that was held at the Royal Albert Hall, of all places. It was my turn to show up in case we won anything, which wasn't too much of a chore; I loved the Albert Hall, its lavish red velvet furnishing and burnished gold touches, not to mention the room itself - an enormous, arching dome that screamed of history, and lent any music played within its walls a certain grandiosity.

And tonight, Matty was in very good shape indeed. I had glimpsed him on the steps, getting his photo taken, in an impeccable black tuxedo and sunglasses that were probably only half ironic. Due to the prestige of the evening, I had tried to dress accordingly, in a green crepe dress I had fished out of the thirties section of Pennies in Clerkenwell, finished with a wide black velvet ribbon around my waist. The sumptuous material was delicate and fragile from age, but I figured I would be fine if I manoeuvred around carefully that evening. I could tell that it used to be floor-length, but had been altered at some point in its life, and now skimmed a couple of inches above my knees.

It was a blissfully mild summer evening. You couldn't have asked for a better night for any of it, really, and although I harboured some mild social anxiety about who on earth I might sit at a table with once inside, I was too contented at the sight of the food and alcohol laid out, and the warm glow inside the hall, to allow this to cloud my mood. I scanned the faces nearest to me, and spotted a few recognisable, possibly friendly ones - but before they clocked me too, a disarming voice spoke quietly into my ear from behind.

'Been a while, hasn't it?'

I spun around to face him, unable to hide the broad smile that spread across my face. 'Matty, you sneak!'

He gave me a hug, a genuine, earnest one; the sunglasses were off, his dark eyes twinkling with high spirits as he appraised me, and my body in the green dress. I secretly rather liked feeling his gaze flicker up and down. 'Fuck, this is different to the skater kid thing. Can't wear the Black Flag shirt, I suppose?'