Overwhelmed is perhaps the only word he could use. The only word he could place, because despite this being his job - words, and the matter of placing them, the matter of turning experiences and thoughts, and marks of a page into something, Matty was always rather lost for words when it mattered the most.

Overwhelmed. He repeated it to himself, his voice floating tentatively around the border between noise and silence, because as much as it was a thought in his head, it was more than that. It was a profound kind of emotion, a whole body kind of feeling; the thing that had him motionless in the sheets as the sun rose up into the sky: horizon streaked with varying tones of golds, oranges, and pinks. There was beauty in the sunrise. There was certainty in it too. The sun would rise. Always.

He held onto that as he let his head move deeper back into his pillow. There was a tightness in his chest, like a knot: curling in on itself, and pulling everything a breathless kind of taut. He held his whole body still as he fixated on breathing: the steady rise and fall of his chest, the steadiness of everything, the certainty of it all.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

His mind was clearer with the addition of oxygen, and his eyes began to register light properly, colours forming as they should, instead of inky blobbed messes. He wasn't quite sure as to exactly how he'd come to find himself awake again; the lines between sleep and consciousness were blurred and hazy - there was never a certain point to it, never any reliability, nothing he could hold onto.

He needed that. Needed things like that. Reliability, control, knowledge of his own safety, needed to know, needed the calm, needed the sunrise, needed the sunset, and not the inbetween: days passed by in shades of grey, in nothingness, in a blur, in routine, and monotony, in nothingness that lay thick like smoke, choking him. Yet he needed it. He needed it to be so.

Because clarity and the open, and the feeling of something real against his skin had his whole body on edge: overwhelmed, laying awake come dawn, because his mind was loud, loud and screaming in the overwhelming silence of it all, because his thoughts never stopped: coming in hordes and tearing him down, because there was a desire and there was a need: an urgency, an obligation in this all; he had to worry, and he had to overthink, he had to lose himself in all of this, and he had to stand by and let it happen.

He was so very caught up in his own head, and now so very used to just leaving his own thoughts and worries strewn around messily, like junk in the house, like magazines on coffee table, like plates in the sink, because that's how he lived, and that's how he let himself be: messy and destructive, cutting himself off as he secluded himself within his own mind: consumed with thought and worry.

But it was different now. Off puttingly different: bitterly different - the kind of different that brought nervous tremors and a constant sense of falling in the pit of his stomach. And Matty hated it; he hated to make it about him, he hated to build things up like this, to assign such things so much worth and power inside his own head, but he did, and he was helpless in doing so, because the clear root of this all was, George.

George who tidied the magazines and cleaned the dishes, and put everything back in order, who made the house- Matty's house look like it did last year, who made it look presentable, who made it look they had their lives together and organised. And perhaps Matty should have been thankful for George cleaning his fucking house, but it wasn't like that, it meant more than that, it was George, coming back and sorting everything out, getting it clean, taking things back to how they were, how they 'should have been', and Matty didn't want to let him - didn't want to let him fix things and look at Matty like he could put his head back together and tie his worries down, because he couldn't, because Matty didn't want to be 'George's Matty' anymore... whatever that meant.

Whatever that fucking meant.

His head was spinning, and he found himself in that wonderful debate with himself as to whether he was physically ill or just fucked up, just fucked up and stressed out, and overwhelmed, and over thinking, and choking himself out on mere thought, because that was all too easy for him to do. He did it in his sleep, and pulled himself awake for sunrise: still, chest heavy, breathing forced, and mind fixated.

Because George wanted him to do things - to get out of the house, to make things 'work'. He was acting like Ross, and Matty felt like a spiteful friend, Matty felt like the worst friend, but he... just... they didn't understand, and in truth, Matty didn't understand himself, and of course, with that, he knew he couldn't expect them to, instead he expected them to just leave him alone, and let him sort this out by himself, but clearly that wasn't going to happen - clearly George was going to stick around for a while, and look at him like that.

And Matty didn't want to let him, but he would. Because George seemed to hold all the power in the world in his fucking eyes, and Matty hated that, Matty hated the silence, and how they'd become, and how he was the one who'd constructed this great gaping rift between the two of them, and how no one had stopped him, and yet how they had all tried.

It was his own fault, and he deserved the sickening feeling, deserved the headache, deserved how it all unfolded, and deserved the bitter end. He wondered when George would give up, because he had - he'd given up on him in January, and he'd give up on him again, because Matty could only figure that there wasn't really much appeal with living with him anymore, because George and Matty, they weren't really best friends anymore, they weren't really George And Matty anymore.

There was George in the spare room, and then Matty in his own. There was the cool morning air, and there was the sun ascending over the horizon.

And there was his desk, and his typewriter, and the two lines he'd written before - those two lines about George, those two lines under the pretense of closure, those two lines that served little purpose anymore.

He thought to get up, to steady his breathing, to sit and get a glass of water, and just think, just focus, and let his thoughts run through his fingertips and down onto the page. He needed to write something - he always needed to write something, he just wasn't sure if he could anymore.

He found himself awkwardly out of touch with it, like they were friends who'd seen distance and had grown awkwardly bitter in the space of it, like a friendship pulled out and tested to far, but not snapped, just decayed, faded away, almost pathetically, gradually, as things greyed out. The possibility of forgetting how to write had his head spinning, because he couldn't forget, because it just didn't work like that, it wasn't something you forgot how to do, and yet, it made him sick, and it made him weak, because with fingers hovering above keys upon his typewriter, the world simply failed to make sense.

There was a divide: one hell of a divide between his head and the page - symbolic, perhaps, of the divide between himself and the rest of the world, he was cut off, and he'd been the one to do it. He'd torn himself away and let himself live differently, think in ways that didn't transmute to something substantial, physical, and meaningful, he'd let everything fade around him, and it had left him with an awkward kind of bitter taste in his mouth, because as always, it was all his fault.

And he fell back upon writing, upon poetry, upon the expression of feeling, always in times like this, but what was he supposed to fall back upon when he couldn't write, he'd couldn't write a poem to express the feeling of nothingness and the inability to put words on the page. He'd thrown himself into a dead end situation, and he saw no way out of it; he found himself reluctant to even make an attempt, his head aching and spinning, and his mind filled with an overbearing desire just to go back to bed.

Just to push everything else away and let unconsciousness claim his mind, as dreams were always a better alternative to reality, no matter the subject or the heart wrenching reality felt within them, because dreams were things that you could always wake up from. There was always an exit, always a way out.

It didn't work quite like that with life. Not really.

Except it did. There was one way. But Matty didn't want to think about that, didn't even want to let his mind entertain the possibility, because he at least knew himself to the extent that he found certainty in the matter of his mind growing attached and perhaps even infatuated with the notion: blowing it out of control with urges and desires built up with no real explanation or reason.

He could let himself burn out, he could let himself fail, and let his life decay around him, but he couldn't go that far. That was too permanent: that came in heavy thuds and sudden realisations, and not gentle gradual slopes, and the sound of whispered voices, barely audible between rooms. He couldn't let himself go that far, for his mum, his dad, for Louis, for Ross, for Adam, for Allen.

For George. For George who lay likely asleep in the 'spare' bedroom, who lay blissful in all of this, yet unnerved slightly, because what Matty really hated in this all, was the way George caught on - the way George knew him, and the way that in such a short space of time, George was so close to figuring this all out.

Matty just didn't want him to know. He didn't want to have those kinds of conversations, for he didn't like the brutal reality of the solutions, the effort of fixing things, as he found it easier to simply grow accustomed to the way things were than to make the effort and take the pain of crawling back up to find something better.

He didn't think those were the kind of things that George might understand. In all honesty, he didn't know.

There were conversations they should have, but different conversations. Conversations where the subject was George and not Matty, conversations about what he'd been doing the past few months, how things had been, how everyone else had been, all their friends, who had been their things when they were George And Matty, but were just George's friends now. He wanted to know what they thought of him, because as much as he didn't care, he needed to know. He wanted to figure things out, he wanted to know if George missed Saffy, if George had missed him. If George regretted this, and what part - coming back, or leaving?

But those were the kind of conversations that required initiation and an odd kind of simple bravery in the form of facing him, and laying things out, and going outside, going to get some food in the house, going to look at fucking frozen vegetables in fucking Tesco and letting a blanket of 'fine' and 'calm' wrap around the both of them, and in all honestly, it scared Matty, because he couldn't, he couldn't just be himself.

There was a divide, a void between them, and it was the kind of void that was tearing away at him, it was the kind of void that created absence and separation, it was the kind of void that had him awake at this hour, and it was perhaps the kind of void he could consider to blame in the place of himself.

-

It was several hours later when George woke up, feeling just as foreign and distant in the place he should have known so well as Matty did. There was a mutuality between their emotions than lay unspoken yet as something they both were vaguely aware of it, just laying out of reach, where they couldn't quite get at it, and didn't quite dare to.

It had been a weird night. It had all been weird. Weird. Yet weird didn't quite encompass it at all, as George finally got out of bed, pulling himself up with reluctance, because this was a time in his life when there was no one getting him out of bed, and he wondered if it was likely that he'd have to be the one to go and check on Matty, go and wake him up, go and get him out of bed, and argue with him that it just wasn't a way he could spend an entire day.

George hated to admit that he didn't particularly want to. He didn't want to go through the process of jumping through those awkward hoops with Matty, but there was an inevitability within it all; he'd gone this far, he'd agreed to move in, and he couldn't just let it all fade away around them now.

He let out a sigh, facing his reflection in the mirror and cursing aloud, because in all honestly he looked so fucked and so exhausted, despite having slept for a good eight hours now. It was this, it was an emotional exhaustion - it was the silence, it was the distance, and it was George allowing him to do this to himself.

"Fuck." He groaned, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head at himself. He came to conclude that he'd go and make Matty a cup of coffee, and leave bringing that to him as his excuse to check on him; he hoped Matty would appreciate the gesture, as surely, what negative reaction could he get from making a cup of coffee? George had an awful feeling that Matty might leave him to find out.

George found himself in the kitchen just ten minutes later, leaning up against the countertop as he waited for the kettle to boil. He found himself again facing the dilemma of the fact that Matty had no more than three separate items of food in his entire kitchen, and found himself again reminded of the fact that they really had to go and get some food in, which lead him to only wonder just how Matty was going to react, just how this was going to play out, because George, of course, just didn't have the slightest idea.

Matty felt volatile. Like something George had to tiptoe around with caution. It wasn't a pleasant feeling - it was the low hum of worry in your chest as you dropped a spoon in the kitchen and it let out a bang against the floor. George didn't want it to bring Matty out of his room; he wasn't quite ready to face him yet.

He let out a groan, rubbing his temples - this was one fucking mess he'd thrown himself into. After a good four minutes spent staring at mostly empty cupboards, George came to conclude that he'd just skip breakfast and make something nice for lunch. He hoped Matty would appreciate that, no, he hoped at least that Matty would eat it, with him, not cooped up alone in his room.

It came to the point where George decided that he couldn't possibly waste anymore time stirring a fucking cup of coffee, and pulled himself together, picking the mug up, and carrying it out of the kitchen and into the hallway, a sigh escaping his lips as he stood outside Matty's room. He stood unsure as to whether he should knock, because that was the polite thing to do, but it wasn't a Matty And George thing to do at all, and yet... they kind of weren't Matty And George anymore. They were indecision in knocking, and a matter of faded lines, a lack of clarity, and the need for fcuking conversations that they just both found themselves terrified of initiating.

George didn't end up knocking, because fuck it. The worse case scenario would be that Matty was getting dressed, and it wasn't like they hadn't seen each other naked before. And honestly, just fuck it.

Matty wasn't naked. Matty was however somewhat startled: eyes wide, and sat at his desk, fingers hovering just above the keys on his typewriter - writing. That was a good thing. George knew that was a good thing.

They shared a moment of prolonged eye contact, Matty looking back and forth between George and the cup of coffee before he managed to slip out a gentle, tentative, "hey..."

George cleared his throat, unsure of whether to put the cup down on the desk beside Matty, because he was writing, and Matty tended to be very private about that, even when they had been... well... Matty And George, because best friends didn't cut it, nothing really did. "Uhh... I... made you some coffee..." George finally let the words out, "do you want... I..." he held it awkwardly in Matty's direction.

Matty took it from his grasp and placed it down beside him on the desk, he glanced back at the empty sheet of paper before him and muttered a quick, "thanks."

George let a smile grace his lips in return, and found himself slipping further into the room, leaning back against the wall, just watching Matty for a moment, prolonging the matter of bringing up going outside, the matter of them and any form of conversation that held any more meaning than small talk. He hated how they'd been reduced to this, of all things.

"You... writing something?" George found himself daring to ask, daring to fill the silence, daring to face conversation, daring to face questions and the answers they may bring.

Matty paused for a moment before moving his head to nod and letting out an awkward little noise in response. "I..." He exhaled deeply. "I... not really." He came to admit, formed somewhat as an afterthought.

"Not really?" George raised an eyebrow, risking it with a step forward, coming up behind Matty and glancing over his shoulder at an empty page. "Stuck?" He asked, and Matty gave another nod: a certain heaviness to his breath with George just centimetres away from him.

"I can't... I have so much to say, it's not that, I have... I need to write, like you... this is what I need to do, but I just can't... it's like I've fucking forgotten how to, and I just..." Matty stopped himself, shaking his head, and pushing his typewriter further back on his desk. "It's fucking pathetic, isn't it? Fucking pathetic. What the fuck am I supposed to do with myself? This is my fucking job."

"Hey..." George began, hand milimetres away from Matty's shoulder before he could stop himself, breath catching harshly in his throat. "Matty, mate, come on... it's just one bad day, this isn't the end of the world, come on, you'll get it again. Hasn't this happened at least four times before and all been fine?"

"Yeah... but..." Matty shook his head, attempting to shrug it off, "it wasn't like that then. Never was like this. It's different now. All fucked now." And perhaps Matty hadn't meant that to relate to his and George's relationship, but that was instantly how it came across for the both of them.

"Not all fucked." George was the one to break the silence. "No, it's not." His words came like a nervous promise: one he wasn't quite sure he could keep, yet one he was certainly going to make an effort with.

Matty let out a sigh, leaning forward in his chair, before taking a sip of the coffee. "Thank you..." he mumbled, head down.

"For the coffee?" George came to assume, despite the fact that Matty already had thanked him for that.

Matty gave a shrug. "For trying." He didn't quite dare to meet George's gaze as he spoke. "I'm not. That's fucked up. I'm sorry. I think I'm sorry. I don't know. I'm such a fucking mess, George, honestly, I fucking-"

"Hey..." George put his hand down on Matty's shoulder this time, because fuck it. "Hey, Matty, come on, it's going to be alright, you know? Let me help you. We can sort this out."

"That's what you fucking think though." Matty words came out half choked, and George hated how he could already tell that he was close to tears, and indeed hated the prospect of it. "That's what you fucking think, and you knew me before, but I'm not the same person anymore, and I just... you need to get that. I've changed and you can't just come back and fucking assume everything's fine, I just..."

"Sorry..." George stepped back, pulling away from Matty, "I don't know... I'm just trying to be... I don't know I'm trying to be your friend again."

"If you want to be friends then don't act how we were before because it was different. Don't go and deny that. It was different." Matty trailed off, biting his lip. "Or am I just fucked up in the head, come on, I just fucking- I'm fucked up, George, oh my god, I'm so fucking fucked."

"Matty..." George found himself trying again, "look at me, for fuck's sake, look at me a minute." And with that, Matty did. He let out a sigh. "It was different, and I'm sorry. I fucked up. Big time." He paused, glancing across at the window, at the morning sky, and wondered how long Matty had sat up watching it for. "I don't want to push things, I don't want to... I just want things to work this time, however they end up doing that. I want us to work again."

Matty gave a nod. "I'm making this difficult, though. I'm so fucking fucked up, George, and I can't help myself, I'm just so, I'm treating you like shit."

"Matty, mate," George let out a sigh, "shut the fuck up, alright?" Matty let out a small laugh at that. "You're talking shit. You're just finding it hard that I'm suddenly back in your life and that's understandable, and maybe I shouldn't have listened to Ross. Maybe I should, I don't know, but I'm here now, we're here now. Look, come to fucking Tesco with me, just get some food in. Fresh air would be good for you."

"Ah, yes the fresh fucking air of the Tesco car park. Mmm... exhaust fumes-"

"Fuck off." George rolled his eyes, "you know what I mean. Just come on, when was the last time you went outside?" George wasn't entirely convinced that he wasn't somewhat petrified of the answer.

"Other day, to meet Ross and Hann, you know that, you snuck into my fucking house while I was gone." Matty snapped, rolling his eyes, however there was a certain light heartedness to his tone that hadn't been present before.

"Yeah... uhh... apart from that?" George let out a sigh, "sorry about that, that was kind of... a dick move...?"

"Yeah." Matty leaned back in his chair, "yeah, fuck, it was."

"So?" George continued, "when was the last time you went out, like properly, to do something with people?"

Matty groaned, "fuck. I don't... I don't really know, okay?" He ran a hand back through his hair, "that's bad, isn't it? I mean, I can't... I can't take fucking care of myself, but I... fuck, it doesn't matter."

"You'll feel better if you go outside. Promise." George wasn't one hundred percent confident in that, but he knew for sure that he'd feel better texting Ross with proof that he'd gotten Matty to leave the house.

"How would you know that?" Matty made a point of looking unconvinced.

"Just trust me, alright? We need to get food in anyway, I'll pay for it-"

"How fucking courteous, what a gentleman, buying me Rice Krispies-"

"I'm sorry but it's Coco Pops or you can fuck right off."

Matty smiled, getting up from his desk. "Alright, you win. Alright."

-

'How are things going?'

Ross texted George just three minutes after the two had finally made it out of the house. There had been quite the mess of getting ready that was honestly not so unlike how it had been before, and amidst that chaos, George had found an odd kind of comfort, even if it had taken Matty almost forty minutes to decide what to wear to go down to fucking Tesco in, but the important part was that they'd made it out eventually.

'Alright actually. Not perfectly but I got him to go outside.'

George couldn't help let a smile fold over his lips as he send his response; Matty seemed to notice, and raise an eyebrow in response, but didn't make any kind of proper comment.

'See I told you he doesn't hate you.'

George's smile faltered slightly, because as much as he was certain that Ross was right in the fact that Matty didn't hate him, he just, he wasn't sure as to whether Matty liked him or not, or at all.

'I don't know. Things aren't the same.'

George eventually texted back, very aware of how Matty's gaze regarded him: as if he wanted to ask, as if he wanted to initiate some form of conversation, but was holding himself back, out of fear, or god knows what.

'You got him to leave the house with you that's some serious progress.'

George shook his head, and felt Matty's eyes on him with more intent than ever before, still, he texted Ross back once more, before putting his phone back into his jacket pocket.

'We're at fucking Tesco, it's nothing special.'

With the lack of his phone as a distraction, he found his gaze moving quickly to meet Matty's, and the two shared a look which neither could quite decipher. However, it was Matty who was first to break the silence, "who were you texting?"

"Ross." George told him, and found Matty continuing to regard him with an air of skepticality. "What? I was texting Ross."

"Smiling a bit much." Matty gave a shrug and quickened his pace, leaving George to make a slight effort to catch up, but George's legs were like four times as long as Matty's so it wasn't much of a big deal.

"And you're suggesting that the mere matter of talking to Ross Macdonald isn't something wonderful that should be cherished?" George gave a grin, but Matty only seemed to raise his eyebrows further.

"What were you talking about? Getting back together with Saffy? How much you regret making an effort with me-"

"Matty." George let out a sigh, running a hand back through his hair, "can you not, I... I just... I'm not getting back together with her. I don't regret making an effort with you. You know what I regret in this all, and that was fucking it up in the first place."

Matty paused for a moment, looking a little startled, "sorry, I guess, I just. I don't know. I'm a bit... well... fucked up, really. I'm just kind of... scared you're going to just fuck off again, even though it was my fault, and I- fuck, doesn't matter." He glanced up at George and offered him a smile, which looked genuine, at first glance, at least. "I'm overthinking things. Overthinking everything."

"Not going to fuck off again." George told him, but despite the sincerity in his tone, Matty could never quite bring himself to fully believe him. And then again, Matty was only half sure that he didn't want him to, and found himself drowning in indecisiveness and overthinking. "And for the record, we were talking about how things were going with me and you."

-

Matty was perhaps overly serious when it came to choosing between loaves of bread, and George found himself in total disbelief as to how he'd actually managed to do any shopping without someone there to tell him that he couldn't stare at one item for fifteen minutes.

"Matty, come on, it's a loaf of bread what's the difference?" George let out a sigh, having been left to push the trolley around, as Matty had declared him the 'big, strong' one out of the two of them, and George was just far too happy with that level of friendly banter to argue.

"It's white or brown, I mean, brown is healthier for you, and that's important, don't you think, but white tastes better, but then some white bread tastes like plastic so, I mean, I don't know, George-" Matty glanced between a white and a brown loaf of bread as he spoke.

"I don't know, do you want me to write out a pros and cons list?" George gave a chuckle, "come on, mate, it's fucking bread."

"Yeah, but if you have the wrong bread for toast in the morning then your whole day sucks- can you actually write up a pros and cons list, that'd be quite helpful-" As Matty began to ramble on again, he was cut off as George rolled his eyes and reached over him to grab a loaf of '50/50' from the top shelf.

"Problem solved." He told him, placing it in the trolley, and meeting a rather confused looking Matty with a smile. "If you're that fussed about it we can get both brown and white but they'd probably go off before we could eat them-"

"No," Matty shook his head, "you're right, it's fine, I mean, it's just bread, isn't it?" Matty forced his lips up into a smile, and followed George to the next aisle of the store.

Matty had a lot of indecision when it came to simple items, and as much as George assumed that such behaviour would irritate him, he simply found himself glad that Matty was acting normally around him, well mostly, and that he'd managed to get him to do something more than sit and stare at nothingness in his bedroom.

George found himself somewhat spaced out, following Matty around with the trolley as he decided that they need at least four different flavours of fruit juice, despite the fact that George had only ever seen Matty drink coffee and wine. And found that he didn't really notice what was happening until Matty was shoving two packets of biscuits in his face.

"I.. uhh?" He blinked and brought himself back to reality. "Matty?"

"Chocolate digestives or Jammie Dodgers?" Matty asked him, looked a little more stressed than he should do when it came to deciding between two different brands of biscuit.

"Uhh..." George thought for a moment, finding himself put on the spot, "digestives?" He wasn't entirely confident in his answer, but it was apparently all the reassurance Matty needed before placing the digestives into the trolley and standing around awkwardly with the Jammie Dodgers.

"I don't want to uh... put them back, I, let's just hide them here..." Matty stumbled to shove them behind a carton of apple juice.

"Hey, why not?" George asked, reaching out and grabbing Matty by the arm in order to stop him. He wondered if perhaps that had been a mistake, especially with the way Matty seemed to tense up all over at the touch, but it was too late to rectify it now. "Matty, what's wrong?"

"Uhh..." Matty let out a sigh, shoving the Jammie Dodgers behind the apple juice and turning to face George, "just... well I saw... Saffy like... over there, and that's... so fucking typical... I..."

George let out a sigh, "come on, she's not the antichrist, is she?" He took the Jammie Dodgers back, "I'll go put them back, you can stay here if you want-"

"You're going to come back though-"

"For fuck's sake, Matty, of course I'm going to come back, it's not like she's going to come and sweep me off my feet in the biscuit aisle of the local Tesco, is it?" He let out a sigh, shaking his head, "sorry, I... I'll literally be thirty seconds."

And that was what brought George Daniel to jog down into the biscuit aisle, and look frantically for the original place of the Jammie Dodgers, only glancing briefly down the aisle to confirm that, yes, she was there, and this was kind of awkward, but not the end of the world or anything - she was nice, after all.

As he put the Jammie Dodgers back, he looked up to see that Saffy had in fact noticed him, and was looking directly in his direction. They stood like that for a few moments, she flashed him a smile and a wave, and George gave her a nod, before turning and rushing off back to Matty.

"That was longer than thirty seconds." Matty informed him as he returned to their trolley. "That was a good minute, you know?"

George offered him a smile, "but it was fine, wasn't it? Nothing bad happened, did it?"

Matty shrugged and moved closer to George, seeming far too shaken up by the entire experience than he should have been. "I mean, yeah, but I..." He gave a shrug, "I don't know, it just makes me uncomfortable, I... don't know... I start overthinking and it freaks me out, and I start thinking all these ridiculous things that could have happened to you and they sound ridiculous but I can't stop them, it's just... I'm fucked up, honestly."

George wanted nothing more than to pull Matty into a hug, right into his chest, right there in the fruit juice aisle of Tesco, but he stopped himself, unsure if that was really a thing they could do anymore. "I'm sorry." He let out a sigh, curling his fingers around Matty's wrist instead, "that's not your fault, okay? Look, I promise, I'm not going to leave you, Matty, I can't. I was stupid and I didn't see how much you mattered to me."

"I feel like a fucking idiot, though, I mean what kind of dickhead can't go outside without feeling fucking nervous about everything, and overthinking everything to the point that it's fucked up, and just, I mean, I'm twenty six, I can't... fucking... just, I should be able to cope if you go and put some fucking biscuits back for a minute, and I don't know why but I just can't." Matty looked dangerously close to tears.

"Fuck, Matty, it's not your fault, okay, look, none of this is your fault. At all, I promise." George let go of his wrist and glanced around; they hadn't quite finished shopping, but he thought that it was better to get Matty home before things got any worse. "Look, let's go pay now, alright?"

"Yeah," Matty gave a nod and followed George to the checkout, standing there awkwardly, and biting his fingernails as George conversed casually with the cashier, making small talk, and smiling brightly, before paying and packing their items up into bags.

Once he'd finished, George met Matty with the same kind of smile, noticing how small he looked, stood there, almost seeming to curl in on himself with his arms up over his chest, and his legs pressed together.

"Alright?" George asked him, and Matty gave a nod, taking a bag from George. "You don't have to-" Matty shook his head in response.

"It's okay." He made a weak attempt at a smile as they left the shop.

They didn't speak much on the walk home, and George spent the time pondering over what had happened, and Matty, and how it must feel to live inside his own head like that, and how it must feel to have all of those thoughts, because George sure knew that it wasn't normal to think like that, and that was a cause for concern somehow, and that he desperately wanted to help Matty with it, but there was of course the matter of whether or not Matty would actually let him, and then of course the matter of how the fuck he could go about it.

He'd have to talk to Ross and Adam about this, despite the fact that he suspected that Matty would have qualms with George telling them this, because Matty was always a private person, and if he let things about his state of mind slip out they weren't to be shared at any cost, but he needed help with this, Matty needed help with this, regardless of whether he wanted it or not.

What was worst of all, was of course the suspicion at the back of George's mind that this was linked back to him, linked back to him leaving Matty earlier that year, and that this was all his fault.

However, of course, if it was his fault, it was certainly his duty to put it right again. Or at least try to, as of course, success was far from guaranteed, but that definitely wasn't going to stop him at all.

-

Matty had spent the afternoon in his room, and George imagined that he needed space, needed time to calm down and think with how things had been that morning, and as much as George had wanted to talk things through with him, he put that aside for the moment, finding himself comforted by the sounds of Matty's typewriter as he walked past his room.

George had spent the time in the living room, with the TV on low volume in the background, serving as some sort of excuse to lay out across the sofa with his eyes half closed. Allen had joined him at some point, curling up next to his feet, appearing just as close to sleeping as George was himself. In fact, George likely would have dozed off if his phone hadn't vibrated in his pocket and near enough gave him a heart attack.

He let out a groan, not really wanting to see what it was, not really want to talk to people and just doze off instead, but he remembered then that he hadn't texted Ross back since that morning, and it was likely him, worried about them.

It was Ross. Not just Ross, though, Ross and Adam, they'd added him to a group message, which hadn't been a thing they'd really had since New Year, and then of course, Matty had been included, and it felt very weird for him not to be there, but then again, leaving for four months had been a very weird thing for George to do himself.

'How did the shopping trip go?'

Ross had been the first to send a message, and it looked harmless all in all, but George was suspecting that there was definitely something else going on, especially with the whole group chat thing.

'Alright. What's with the chat?'

George replied, and his message remained as 'seen' for a few moments, until Adam changed the group chat name to 'Matty Support Unit Group Chat', and George couldn't help but roll his eyes.

'Why?'

Ross got there before him and changed the name to 'It's just a group message', which sounded fake, but okay.

Instead of replying, Adam changed the group name to 'you literally called it a support unit about three minutes ago i have screenshots'.

Ross then changed the name to 'go fuck yourself hann'.

'Guys?'

George sent a message, attempting to stop them, but failing for the most part.

Adam sent the aforementioned screenshots, which showed Ross messaging him about creating a 'Matty discussion chat', which he then referred to as a 'support unit chat'.

'Okay fine, whatever. We want to check up on Matty, see how he's doing, because you've probably seen more of him than we have since January just by living with him for two days.'

Ross finally came to admit in a message, and George found himself nodding in real life.

'So what's going on with him? I mean there's something isn't there? I feel like there's something that's like changed him?'

Adam added, before George could even begin to type out his response.

'I'm not entirely sure, he feels really guilty, like this is his fault, and he has changed, I don't know exactly, but I think something's up with him like mentally, I don't think he's in a good state, like maybe something's wrong, I don't know, he gets really nervous about everything and starts over thinking and when we were in tesco we had to leave because he looked like he was about to have a breakdown after I left him for a minute to put some biscuits back.'

It was a good minute or two before George got a response, and it was Adam who it first came from.

'Well fuck.'

It really wasn't the most helpful response, but it was the most honest.

'Yeah. He's not going to open up about it though, not really.' George replied.

'That doesn't sound good at all. You've got to try to talk to him about it, though. He listens to you the most.'

George regarded Ross' reply with raised eyebrows; he wasn't entirely sure that it was true that Matty listened to him the most, but Ross did tend to be right about things.

'New Year is still a bit confusing though. Why did Matty react that badly to you and Saffy? Does he really hate her or something?'

It was that second message from Ross that had George's heart dropping in his chest.

'Yeah, I mean, that never really made that much sense. She's nice enough. I mean you broke up, but she was.'

Adam added, leaving George coming to the very sudden realisation that neither Adam nor Ross had any idea what had been going on, and how things had been different in December, and how George had fucked up like that.

The idea of Matty keeping that inside himself for so long made George feel a little bit sick, but he came to realise that he'd also neglected to tell anyone that detail. It wasn't that he was ashamed, it was just such a private thing - it was a Matty And George thing, and as much as he wanted to be open about things, he didn't want to tell them that, he really didn't think that it was something Matty wanted to acknowledge for the time being, and he was more than certain that it wasn't something that they were going to drop with very little said.

'George?' Ross asked after George had failed to reply for a few minutes.

'Wait did something else happen?' Adam added.

George let out a sigh, not entirely sure what to say.

'You should tell us if something did.' Ross managed to convey a stubborn sense of sincerity even via text message, but still, George just couldn't.

'There was something else but I can't tell you. I really, really don't think Matty would want me to. I don't want to tell you myself either.' George held his breath as his phone told him that his message had been seen by the other two.

'It'd help us understand what the fuck actually went on, you know.' Adam was the first to respond.

'He's right, we can't help unless we know everything that's gone on.' Ross had a point, and George hated to admit it, but it wouldn't have him changing his mind.

'It's too personal, I'm sorry. It is really personal.' George bit his lip, wondering if he could perhaps give them the gist of the situation. 'But I really hurt Matty by kissing Saffy that night. But it's still kind of complicated, even with the personal thing. We haven't really properly talked about it yet.'

'Okay, but tell us everything else. We want to help.'

'Ross, I know you do. I will.' George glanced up at the time on his phone, and saw that it was getting late, he stretched out and sent a final message, something vague about having to make dinner, to the group that was still titled 'go fuck yourself hann', before putting his phone on silent and back into his pocket.

-

George wasn't entirely sure what to make for dinner, because he hadn't really been doing the cooking for the past few months, but he was certain that he had to make something nice, guessing that Matty hadn't really been eating properly for a while now.

As he stood in the kitchen, looking through the same cupboards over and over again, and realising that he really did have absolutely no idea what he was doing, he eventually came to find himself pulling his phone out and googling for some inspiration.

Everything suggested to him looked far too fancy, and he really wasn't that good at cooking, and he definitely found himself going through some questionable articles, such as '15 Easy Dinner Recipes For Two To Wow Your Man', which well, wasn't really written for him, but it did kind of apply.

He eventually gave up trying to pretend he knew what he was doing and decided to make chicken risotto instead. That was just chicken and rice and vegetables, and that - couldn't be that hard, could it?

George ended up putting his phone down on the counter and playing music from it, finding that unfortunately he didn't already have a 'Cooking Dinner For Matty To Try And Make Things Better Between Them Without Actually Talking About Things' playlist, so he decided that putting his music on shuffle would just have to do.

And as time went on, George found that there was a calming quality to all of this - to cooking, to being around Matty, to being in their house, and living inside the illusion that things were just like they had been before, smiling and half dancing around the kitchen like an idiot, like it was them again, like they'd eat this together in front of the TV and fall asleep curled up on the sofa because neither of them wanted to sleep without the other, yet neither of them were ever quite ready to face up to the reality of that.

Matty wandered into the kitchen as George was nearly finished cooking, just giving it a final stir before serving it onto plates, and finding himself insistent to stir it as much as possible as to avoid the matter of taking it to Matty to eat in his room, and then sitting alone, as he imagined that was how things would be.

"You're cooking?" George was too caught up in his own head to really notice Matty until he took his place beside him, eyes on the risotto, and began to speak.

He looked up, eyes widening slightly, "yeah.. I..." He leaned back and let out a sigh, reaching for his phone and turning the music off so he could take Matty in properly; he looked happier, like he was in a better state since that morning, and that, right there upon his face, definitely seemed to be a smile.

"Didn't expect that." Matty had to admit, running a hand back through his hair.

"What's that supposed to mean?" George raised an eyebrow, letting a smile fall over his lips. "And well, what else we were going to eat? I'm not letting you eat pre-packaged shit, alright, come on, I can guess that you haven't really been eating proper meals for a while."

Matty gave a shrug. "I don't know, I guess, I mean, I'm not good at cooking-"

"You've gotten skinnier." George commented, not intending for such a harsh tone to be present in his voice, but finding that he couldn't really prevent it.

"Yeah..." Matty looked down at himself and let out a sigh. "I have."

George regarded him with concern: his gaze warm and comforting, but he remained silent, as he served the risotto up onto two plates, taking more time than necessary, because he wanted Matty to stay there with him for as long as possible, but there was only a maximum amount of time you could spending serving a meal onto two plates.

"Smells nice that." Matty commented as George put the pan into the sink to wash up later. "Maybe you're not so bad at cooking."

"Hey, what are you saying? I'm an excellent cook." George insisted, taking his phone off the countertop and sliding it back into his pocket.

"Could taste like shit, don't know until we've ate it, do we?" Matty grinned up at him, seeming so very different from the Matty who George had spoke with that morning, so very different from the Matty who nearly had a breakdown in the fruit juice aisle of Tesco. "Are we eating this-... do you want to get something on TV?"

It was that which had George's heart pounding in his chest. "I thought you'd be having it in your room, I mean, didn't you have writing to do-?" He wasn't entirely sure why his first response was try and push Matty away from the thing he wanted most; it was perhaps just the fact that he felt like it was just far too good to be true.

"I can fuck off if you want-"

"No." George exclaimed, before sighing, and leaning back against the counter, "not that, please don't. I want to... get something on TV, and that."

Matty offered him a smile, "I did some writing earlier, you know? I think maybe you were right about the whole going outside thing."

"You did?"

"God, don't sound so surprised, it is my fucking job, you know?"

-

They ended up watching a late re-run of Masterchef because that was really the only half decent thing on, and George had been very vocal about how they couldn't watch Countryfile, whereas Matty had entertained the possibility with a grin, which had then turned into a fit of laughter as George had attempted to pull the TV remote away from and change the channel over.

Of course, the whole process of doing so had left them sitting awfully close to one another, with George pressed up against the armrest, and Matty only centimetres away from him, however, it became apparent over time that Matty wasn't really all that inclined to move away from him, even as they finished eating, and lay there with mostly empty plates on the coffee table, and the last fifteen or so minutes of Masterchef running on in the background.

"I think my cooking was better than his." George began, pointing vaguely at the screen, and accidentally elbowing Matty as he moved his arm. "Fuck, sorry."

Matty only smiled in response, pulling his knees up to his chest, before just moving so he was sat cross legged. "Debatable."

"You ate all of it. Would you have if it was shit?" George held a very valid point there, Matty had to admit, as much as he had to admit that he was all in all very flushed about George cooking for him, and about the two of them sat there together, and all in all, with what he'd written on his mind.

"Ate it to make you feel better, obviously." Matty pulled a face. George wasn't convinced.

"You liked it." He persisted, "come on, admit it, it was well good, I'm like a proper chef now."

"Alright, whatever, are you gonna be on next year's Masterchef then?" Matty gave him a gentle shove, before letting his head fall onto George's shoulder.

"Yeah, I only really try to cook nice food when you're eating it, though, so you're going to have to come on and taste everything I make." George only realised quite what he'd said once he had said it, because there was an awful lot hidden up away under the cover of a joke.

"Yeah..." Matty smiled, "I guess I will."

They then sat in silence, so oddly comfortable with one another as the program ended, and Matty reached to turn the TV off, and living the two of them, just sitting there for a good ten minutes.

"I'm tired," Matty eventually announced, more into George's shoulder than anything else.

George raised his eyebrows: certain that it wasn't that late at all, and picked up his phone to check, disregarding the six new messages from 'go fuck yourself hann' as he did so. "It's like half nine. Twenty past really."

Matty gave a shrug, "got up early."

And George wanted more than anything to ask just how early, but he suspected that it was perhaps better if he didn't threaten to ruin the moment. "Are you gonna go to bed then?" He came to ask instead.

Matty paused for a moment, as if uncertain of his response, but after a minute or so had passed, he came to shake his head. "No... I'm... don't wanna move, really." George took in a sharp gasp of breath: December returning to his head, all at once, running him down like it was a train and he wasn't quite what was going on or at all how he'd managed to stumble out onto the tracks.

"Might just stay here..." He continued, leaving another paused to followed, and Matty's tone told of uncertainty within himself, of a slight anxiety, masked the best he could, because this was still odd for them, as much as they might have desperately yearned for it to be anything but. "Is that okay?"

George leaned back, closing his eyes momentarily himself, wondering what kind of mess this could possibly lead them to this time, because if he knew anything, it was that it hasn't ended up well last time, and that didn't bode well for now, and of course, the answer was just in biting the fucking bullet and talking about things, but he couldn't quite do that, not now, not yet.

"Yeah, course." His response came mumbled, and with a small smile across his lips - a smile to deny and push back any kind of regret that might linger across his mind, because he was of course, human, and what we were if not so clumsy and stupid with rationality and decision making?

Then of course, there was nothing that ever said all stupid decisions had to be bad. Stupid and bad were two very different things, and could stay worlds away from each other. As of course, George was very happy to admit that the way he felt about Matty was kind of stupid, but he would die before he ever said that it was at all bad.

-

this chapter is long as fuck but I'm trash and i have no regrets i love this fic ok

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