"I was back there again." The preface seemed simple enough, but in reality, it had hardly scratched the surface of all that lay hidden away beneath it.

"Back where?" She dared to wonder through eyes blown wide.

He dismissed her words with a puff of smoke: a steady exhale, as if he rested his life upon the cigarette lain limp between his fingertips.

"H-..." He stopped himself. "With my family." The conclusion was far more abrupt and certainly less intimate; he thought such a slip up had gone on largely unnoticed, however from the concern in her eyes, it wasn't at all possible that she could have missed it.

"And it was bad?" She simply took the cigarette from his fingertips; it was unnecessary to ask.

"Yeah. It was." He supplied, desperate to try and twist his tongue around the words that had dared to crawl up his throat.

"Why?" She was stupid enough to dare to ask for more , even with the mess that had already befallen him. "Why was it bad? What exactly happened?"

He dug his teeth into his bottom lip - not just to tear the skin, but as if to dig a hole inside of himself in which he could hide. For curling up inside himself forever seemed like a much more favourable alternative when held against the situation at hand.

"She never looked me in the eye, you know? After it all happened." He drew out a sigh, gripping onto the brickwall behind them as if for dear life.

"At first she had just so much to say about everything, you know calling me every name under the sun, spewing out every falsified suspicion she could lay her hands on. Like a permanent lecture - going on for weeks. And then, yeah, she just didn't look at me anymore. Didn't acknowledge me. Likely didn't acknowledge me leaving either. Not really at least."

"That's fucked, I've told you." She halved the distance between them, pulling an arm around his waist in the hopes that it might better things somehow.

"I know. I know. I know." He finished his cigarette, stubbing it out against the paving slabs below, before proceeding to fold his arms firmly across his chest. "But in my dream, she was looking at me again. I was back there. I walked in through our living room, into our hallway, but into that kitchen. That fucked with my head. And then, she was there - staring me down, as if she'd never look away."

"Did she say anything?" She prompted further: eager to elicit some form of comprehension from the entire scenario.

"Yeah..." It was instantly evident, just from the tone of his response, that whatever she'd uttered - it hadn't been good.

He thought for a moment, dragging out the silence as much as he could. For in all earnest, perhaps the last thing he wanted to do was spell it all out to here, to even let her inside his head like this, but it had come to the point where he'd began to think that if he just didn't let it out soon enough, it just might drive him mad.

"After about a minute. She opened her mouth, looked me dead in the eyes and said, 'What are you doing here, George? You're a filthy fucking faggot and you're not welcome in this house anymore'."

He felt his chest beginning to rattle with the intake of breath: his whole body on edge - trembling as if it just might snap.

"So I turned to the door - I tried to get out, to get out of there, but then I open the door, and it leads me into that hallway, not into our hallway, not anywhere near where I went to sleep, and I run through the whole house - into each and every room, but she's still there, and she's still got so much to say. She kept getting louder as well, staring me down and yelling the same sort of shit, and then she started to repeat 'I know what you're like. I know what you're thinking. Don't you know it's wrong?'."

"She's fucked in the head, though, isn't she? Not you. She doesn't know what she's on about, and don't tell me you're even anything close to listening to her, because that's just outrageous bullshit. You can't help who you are."

"Yeah, Chelsea..." George muttered. "I know. Like I can't help have fucked up dreams about my mother even though I haven't seen her since I was sixteen. Doesn't matter whether I can help it or not, really?"

"Don't let it get to you, though." She met his eyes with the kind of concern that was so earnest it almost came on a little disconcertingly. "It wasn't real, and you're never going to see her again. It doesn't matter - it shouldn't upset you."

"Doesn't matter whether it should or it shouldn't..." George drew out a sigh. "Because it fucking does. I can't control whether things get to me or not, Chelsea. No one's fucking head works like that. And it doesn't matter whether it was just in my head, because she's said things like that before. She thinks of me like that. And then, she's never just going to be the only one."

"I don't. I don't think of you like that." Chelsea fought to stress her point. "I don't, and neither does Jesse, neither does Gemma, neither does John." She thought for a moment. "And I bet Matty doesn't either. You said he's smart, didn't you? Properly reads books and that - then he should know what he's on about, like she obviously doesn't."

George shook his head: entirely unconvinced. "I doubt he's reading books about gay rights, though? Is he?"

"Could be." Chelsea gave a shrug.

"Yeah, doesn't feel like it. He looked proper freaked out when Jesse said that I wasn't fussed whether he was a boy or not." George couldn't help but cringe at the recollection. "And you know he said some bullshit about being scared about what 'queer' means, and I-..."

"You what?" She watched him carefully: sensing the rather abrupt change in his manner.

"Oh fuck, I-..." He drew his eyes out wide: memories hitting him with the weight of bricks. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, I-... last night. Fucking hell. Last night. He woke up as well, and we talked a bit before I went back to sleep, and, I'd forgotten it with everything else, with the other dream and everything else, but I fucking... I was crying, I was fucked in the head, it was three in the morning, but I kissed him."

"You... what?" Chelsea felt the world freezing around her for a moment: unsure if she could have possibly heard correctly.

"I fucking kissed him." George chose even to revel in his own impulsive stupidity.

"What did he-"

"I stopped myself in the end, and apologised and... fucking cried a bit more, and fuck, he looked really fucked up about it, but told me it was fine, and I-... he's... too nice to me, I hate it."

"George, I think if he had any real problem with your sexuality, he would have reacted a little bit more violently if you kissed him." She shook her head in disbelief. "I can't believe you fucking kissed him. You have a dream about your mum screaming at you for liking guys, and then you wake up and snog the first one that talks to you."

George shook his head: the gesture was pathetic, half-hearted, but he was trying, easing up to the afternoon.

"For one, it really wasn't snogging. It was like a really brief plain kiss, alright? And then, I didn't kiss him because he was just the first boy that talked to me, it wasn't like- fuck, it wasn't like... getting back at her, or anything. I didn't kiss him to make a point. I think I kissed him, because I was sad, and high, and fucked in the head, and it was three in the morning, and still, he looked beautiful."

Chelsea was silent for the few moments that followed.

"You're in love with him, you are." She'd intended to speak with a much more comical tone, treating the situation with as much humour as she could muster, yet it was a feat she didn't quite manage.

George's cheeks burned red, staring up at her with disbelief.

"I'm not." He protested, eyes widening by the second.

"Okay, maybe not in love, but you-... it's not like with Cam, or with every other random girl, or every other random boy, or like with me." She drew out a sigh, not quite daring to meet George's eyes.

"Chels..." He swallowed hard. "I..."

"It's alright." She managed a smile. "I know. Things were always like that. I think I did love you for a bit, but not anymore, you know? Because here we go with Matty - perfect, beautiful, Matty, who's entirely stolen your heart.

"He's not stolen my heart, he's stolen my weed, if anything." George grumbled, yet all Chelsea could manage to do was snort in response.

"You've got feelings for him, though. Proper stupid, fucking feelings." Chelsea knew what she said was true.

"Yeah, but he's sixteen, and he's scared to say the word 'gay', and he's got a girlfriend, and I really shouldn't be getting mixed up with him. It's like exactly the sort of thing that's destined to end badly." George shook his head.

"How do you know if you're not going to try?" She stared him down in disbelief. "Come on, if you don't at least try, I'm seriously going to be disappointed in you if you don't. You'd be cute together - I think he'd really make you happy."

"I am happy." George protested, dragging his gaze to the floor.

"Okay." She added, entirely unconvinced. "If you were happy, why would you go around fucking every dickhead who'll smile at you. If you were happy you'd have better things to do with your time. Trust me, I have first hand experience."

"Chels..." George didn't quite know what to say.

"It's alright, I really don't need a pep talk, from you, alright?" She shook her head rather decisively. "I mean life gets alright as long as you've got some drugs and some dick." She gave way to a laugh.

"Yeah..." George drew his gaze up to the sky: setting his eyes on the horizon, unsure quite where the world ended and the sky began. "And this is going to sound... I don't know... I'm just... I worry that he's not going to take it seriously. Because me liking guys is one thing, but then me being bisexual is another. It's almost as if being gay is just easier for people to comprehend - maybe it's because when you're bisexual you're only fucking men about half the time, so they can't decide whether that's sufficient enough to condemn you to hell or not."

"I don't think Matty's like that." Chelsea offered him a smile. George seemed determined to ignore it regardless. "I think you've got a shot and you need to take it."

"And how do you imagine me doing that?" George asked, dubious as always.

"Well..." Chelsea thought for a moment. "There's a thing next weekend - invite him along, get him drunk, get him high, whatever. And just go for it. Kiss him again, but don't apologise for it this time. Tell him you think he's hot, and just kiss him - go for it."

"Yeah, that seems like it's going to go incredibly wrong." George shook his head, grimacing a little at the thought.

"No, trust me - it'll be fine. If he doesn't like it, if he's not on board, then alright, he's not interested, you need to move on. And next morning just fix it all by saying you were too high to know what you were doing, so it's fine, and it meant just as little to you as it did to him."

"That's... lying though." George made a rather astute observation.

"What like telling yourself you don't fancy him at all is also lying? Like saying that you don't want to kiss him, that you don't at least want to give it a shot is lying?" Chelsea narrowed her eyes at him.

And from there onwards it barely took a moment before George had broken.

"Oh fuck it. Alright."

Chelsea's eyes lit up with excitement. "You'll do it?"

"Yeah." George's cheeks flushed red, eyes to the ground. "I'll do it. He muttered; voice barely more than a whisper, as still, the prospect couldn't help but just terrify him; despite all of Chelsea's encouraging words, there was no avoiding that.

-

He was on the phone when George walked in: unannounced, unexpected, always.

He reckoned he liked it better that way, though: watching those cheeks flush red, watching those eyes grew wide, watching those pink lips curl out into a smile. It was things like that which got George through the week.

That time, however, was different. And not in a way that George could say he liked. For Matty barely gave him more than a fleeting glance as he walked into the bookshop, before reverting his attention fully back to the phone call, leaving George to mill around the room, feeling more discarded than reason suggested that he should.

He couldn't help but wonder just who was on the other end of the line, keeping Matty so transfixed, and so disregarding of George's mere presence.

"I told you." Matty had repeated those three words for something close to the tenth time within the five minutes in which George had taken the liberty of listening in. He paced back and forth throughout the shop, brushing half-amused fingertips over spines of largely forgotten about hardbacks.

"I told you I would." Matty continued: voice appearing to get more desperate by the second. "I did- no, I'm not fucking you around, I'm..." He drew out a breath, one that left George to question just how much he really wanted to continue this conversation.

"No. What the fuck do you think I'm saying it for then? I'm not that kind of guy." Matty grew increasingly more on edge, sneaking fleeting glances in George's direction, as if all he wanted was to continue the conversation free from the weight of George's gaze.

"What do you mean 'what kind of guy am I then'? You know me. You fucking well know what kind of guy I am." As much as Matty appeared to grow irritated with the person on the other end of the line, it seemed to appear that he was growing rather irritated with himself, perhaps the honest nature of the guy he truly or was, or for some other unspecified truth that George yearned to know.

"No, I'm not trying to start an argument with you, I'm-" Matty was cut off, looking much more inclined to hang up than anything else.

"I said I'm working. Well, I'm supposed to be, instead of talking to you. No. In fact..." Matty allowed his eyes to wander over to George. "In fact, there's a customer here in the shop right now-"

George couldn't help but snort in response, as after all, they both knew far too well, that George had never stepped inside the bookshop with the intent to buy something.

"No, I'm serious - I'm... I need to serve him-" Matty did a poor job of subduing the smirk that approached his lips. George struggled just as much with putting aside his laughter.

"Yeah, alright- Charlotte, look... I'll see you later." All of a sudden, Matty grew very, very still, and very, very pale. "Yeah... love you too." He managed, pulling his words from his lips with force.

"Bye." Was all he could muster in the end before slamming the phone down onto the hook.

George faced Matty, arms folded across his chest, more than half-way dubious, as he finally turned to face him.

"Yeah, alright, don't you give me shit as well." Matty groaned: tone far from the amused, confident one George had grown accustomed to.

"I..." George struggled to quite form an adequate response, daring to take a step closer to Matty, to the bridge the gap between them. "I wasn't going to."

Truthfully, George had never been at all sure of what he was going to say, but he doubted that would have sat as well with Matty.

"But I don't love her. And you know." Matty laughed - more at himself than George. "And you always go on about how I'm making myself unhappy like this - and you saw it then, didn't you? I mean, that was not a happy phone call - there's no way around that."

"Yeah, but..." George shook his head. "I figured something out - it's not my decision whether you break up with her or not."

"Yeah..." Matty bit his lip: immediately drawn back to that kiss and that kitchen, just a few nights before. And yet, it seemed worlds away, as if it had been a kiss between two boys entirely different to the ones that stood in the bookshop that Wednesday afternoon.

"But you're right." Matty's conclusion was a simple one, but certainly not an easy one.

"How can I possibly know what I'm talking about, though? I've never even met her." George shook his hair, desperate to admit to himself that he simply wasn't so desperately compensating for the kiss; for all that had fallen through.

"Maybe you don't need to." Matty approached George, fitting comfortably inside his shadow. "I think we both know that it's fucked, that we're both unhappy. I just think.... If i broke up with her - I'd need a reason. And I can't quite bring myself to figure out why I'm unhappy yet myself."

"Why not?" Despite everything screaming at him otherwise, George still dared to ask.

"Because it doesn't make sense in the way it should." Matty supplied the most feebly vague of statements, as if it might have been enough.

"And there's a set way in which anything should make sense?" George wondered, truly intrigued by the notion that had set itself up inside of Matty's mind.

"No, I mean-..." Matty was at a loss for words; truthfully, he didn't quite know what he really did mean at all.

"Are you just scared to say it to her face?" George couldn't help but smirk: struggling to imagine the kind of girl that had left him in such a state. "Kind of sweet, that, really."

"No." Matty replied: far too quickly, far too insistent, even seeming to feign the notion that he truly knew himself.

"Then just do it. Who ever said you had to have a reason. Just say it doesn't 'feel right'. Spew out some bullshit like that. Let it be done with. Because you've got better things to do with your afternoons than sit through bullshit phone calls with a girl you don't care about."

"What? Like work?" Matty raised his eyebrows: somehow uncertain that it had been exactly what George had been pointing to.

George gave a shrug. "If you say so. Or like, hanging out with me. Like tonight, or tomorrow, or maybe this weekend. Because there's this thing-" Before George could quite muster the confidence to properly go through with it, he was cut off yet again.

"Things would get quite fucked if we broke up." Matty dared to try to explain. "Things would get messy for me, I think. The kind of messy I really shouldn't have to deal with."

"What?" George raised his eyebrows. "People calling you queer?"

Matty hesitated for just a moment, before finally relenting, and dragging himself out into a nod.

"Scared?" George drew out a sigh, shaking his head. "No offence, Matty, but maybe when you get so terrified about the idea of some dickhead at school calling you queer because you broke up with a pretty girl, think about the people who get called queer and actually are. Think about the people whose lives turn to shit because they're queer. Think about them, because really, they have it harder than you."

Matty stopped for a moment, as if the notion was one he'd never truly considered before.

Taking his silence as an excuse, George continued. "You know what happens to boys who kiss boys, to girls who kiss girls? They get bullied and beaten up, and thrown out of their homes, and abandoned by their friends, disowned by their fathers, cursed by their mothers, stared at in the street like they're the scum of the earth, truly hated and loathed. There are people out there who dedicate their entire lives to trying to hurt them, to trying to destroy the so 'disgusting' concept of homosexuality. And it's fucked up. Because no one can help who they love. It hurts just as much to repress it, to pretend, to deny yourself..." George drew out a sigh.

"I'm-" Matty began. George didn't let him finish.

"Some dickhead calling you queer isn't shit in comparison to the fucking shit people get for being gay on the daily." George shook his head, pressing his back against the bookshelf. Part of him was desperate to apologise - for snapping like that, for creating such a scene, but in his heart, he had no desire to do so at all.

"But... I..." Matty drew his gaze to the floor, retreating back inside of himself. "I kissed you. What would happen if people found out, I-"

George shook his head. "I kissed you. That's different." He didn't quite dare to fully look Matty in the eye, but still, he didn't deny himself the right to continue. "And they won't. You've got nothing to worry about. You didn't want to kiss me."

There was a look in Matty's eyes; one George couldn't decode - one he didn't quite dare to. And a brave look upon his face, as if to dictate the turn their conversation was ought to take.

"So... you're... gay... then...?" Matty finally managed: to speak the words aloud, finally having it within him. As stupid as it sounded, it was a lot for the boy who'd been so very afraid of simply the word 'queer'.

"No." George drew out a sigh, fixating his gaze upon the shop window, to the world outside: to every unknowing passerby.

"I'm bisexual." George told him: firmly - he always needed to. "That's where you like both."

"Oh..." Matty trailed off, heart thudding inside his chest. "So you got shit for that?"

"Yeah..." George figured that perhaps the last thing he wanted to do was talk about it, but Matty stared up at him so openly, so, curious, more than anything. There didn't' seem to be an ounce of judgement in his eyes, and George couldn't help but take comfort in that.

"I'm sorry." Matty went quiet, staring up at George; at the boy who'd kissed him.

"It's better now, I mean, even Jesse's hardly a dickhead about it." George managed a laugh. "And I think Jesse's a dickhead about everything, but... things were... a bit fucked before, wherever I went, you know? Someone would find out, and there'd be a boy, and things would just fall apart, because things wouldn't work, I'd get too drunk, or too high, and stop thinking straight - quite literally, and then... things got like... I had to leave.

"Was it like that at home?" Matty dared to ask, eyes widening a little. "Was that why you left in the first place, did you like-"

"I don't want to talk about it." George drew out a sigh, throwing his head up to the ceiling. "At least not now." He added as an afterthought. "At least not here."

Matty watched him from behind those impossibly dark eyes of his: George envied that kind of beauty.

"I mean..." George drew out a sigh. "Anyone could come in. And that'd fuck things up for you as well as me. And I'm sober, and I... I'll start crying, and you know what happened last time I started crying. We don't need that shit all over again."

Matty managed a grin. "It wasn't that bad." He insisted. "The kiss."

George rolled his eyes. "Still." He turned his head away, desperate to subdue his blush. "'Not that bad' hardly glorifies it."

"I mean..." Matty trailed off, smirk painted across his lips. "I am quite handsome. Can't really blame you for wanting to kiss me."

"Oh fuck off!" George exclaimed, giving him a shove. "And modest too." He commented, so very desperate to deny that Matty Healy was, in fact, the most beautiful boy he'd ever seen.

-

Friday was somber. Empty. With cracks in the glass. With scuffs upon the wood, and mud upon his shoes. George looked at Matty like he didn't quite recognise him. Like a reflection obscured in a broken mirror.

Still neither boy had said a word. At least not one that mattered. Not one that referenced their conversations of days before. Not one that required any amount of daring to utter.

They remained. Silent. Scared. Shadows of what they'd lost to fate.

The night lay above them like a question mark, for uncertainty ran rampant through fields that feelings didn't dare to venture into. For the truth lay thick like smoke: choking, and still enticing somehow.

"I told her, I'd-" Matty began, words falling limp between his lips.

George eyed him dubiously, glancing through the streets around them - perhaps the busiest they'd ever been, with all of two dozen people winding their way down the road. The two boys hardly caused much of a disturbance as they came to a halt in the middle of the road, staring across at one another with wide, hopeless eyes.

In silence, in glances, they asked each other questions that the night couldn't answer for them. But their lips refused to cooperate; their limbs fell limp into a despondent nothingness that consumed their bodies.

"You told me you'd come." George reminded him. Matty didn't look like he needed reminding at all: guilt was brazen upon his face.

"I did." Matty pulled his lips between his teeth. "But I told her too."

George shook his head, letting the grey evening skies grow dark around them, losing Matty's gaze amidst the smoke; he'd lose him to her if he had to. He just wouldn't let Matty lose himself too; despite himself, that was simply something George wouldn't stand for.

"Go with your 'girlfriend' if you want to." George dismissed him with a sigh, taking a step back as if to walk away, as if he didn't care at all. It was quite the illusion; it took more than George could carry to maintain.

Matty gave a shrug: his eyes growing distant.

"But if you'd rather spend the night with me, then come on." George narrowed his eyes at the clueless boy - so very lost up in his own head.

Despite George's frantic gesturing, he remained still, stubborn. "It's your decision, Matty. I can't make it for you."

"But you want to." Matty bit back, knowingly.

George couldn't subdue the smile that followed. "Yeah. Course. I want you to come with me, because I'd miss you otherwise. I'd miss you if you with her." He drew his words out hesitantly: unsure as to whether they formed a plea or not: painting such a sorry picture of desperation that George feared sustaining.

"I'd miss you too." Matty failed to bite back his words. "I don't think she'd miss me."

George thought to argue otherwise: to propose the fact that no one could ever not miss him, but came to realise that it would hardly be beneficial under the given circumstances.

In the end, he said nothing at all. He remained silent, motionless, as Matty's eyes raked over his form: imploring, uttering words his lips dared not to speak.

The moment seemed to last forever. It was only until Matty pulled his lips out into a smile that time seemed to return to normal speed.

"Come on." He brushed his fingers against George's. "What about this party then?"

And suddenly, that was them.

That was them as the evening drew out: two boys lost somewhere in the space between their heads, making a way through evening streets to an uncertain destination.

George had began with the word 'party', but that told nothing about how the night might end. The both of them knew that well enough, in contrary to how George was constantly grounded with the somewhat overwhelming sensation that he didn't know himself at all, and Matty simply had to agree that he knew George even less.

George focused on what he knew in place of what he didn't. He focused on the artificial warmth of the streetlights: illuminating the evening, yet bringing hardly very much more than light to darkness. He focused on the shadows cast upon Matty's face: a dusty pale complexion drawn out in shades of gold and brown. He looked ready to burn, almost consumed by flames, with embers lit within his eyes. George wished for a world in which he could reach deep within those eyes, deep within the boy to his right, and find himself too.

He wished for a world in which he was not always the one staring. A world in which the beautiful boy looked back. A world in which he had more to his name than the heretic circles he'd chased; the streets were scorned with his footsteps. For parts of him had come to die amidst the grit and gravel below.

He thought not of boys he'd ran from down the very road they travelled that night. He thought not of girls he'd left behind in empty morning houses, to dash down that very road. He thought not. But fixate, he did.

It was a kind of subconscious thinking: his mind twisting and turning of its own accord, unaware of the weight of Matty's gaze upon his cheek as they fell back into silence - two shadows upon the same darkened road.

Matty had a million questions in his eyes: painted out in shades of golden brown. He caught his gaze and looked upon it like a mural, like a stained glass church window: centrepiece behind the altar, for he was every man in the pews, distant even as the priest's words might boom and echo against the old wood and stone.

Matty held a million questions but George did not hold a million answers. In fact, George hardly held anything at all. George held: himself stern, along with his cool, and a packet of cigarettes in his pocket. Still, even in George's wildest dreams, he was not the richest, most accomplished man in the world; for in those dreams, in his palm he held not the entire Earth, but simply Matty's hand.

"You're quiet now." Matty grew uncomfortable with the silence, or perhaps just with the way George's eyes drifted across his cheeks like headlights: staining them a fluorescent, burning amber.

George gave a nod, pulling his head away, losing dark eyes out amidst the inky blackness. But he feared not; they were barely a street away now, having taken the long way around. For George had lived and died to stare at Matty's lips under the streetlights.

"And you're not even going to say anything to that?" Matty mused: intrigued at best. He stared across at George like all he yearned to do was figure him out: to write his mind out within its entirety upon one sheet of paper. George stared back in warning: desperate to convey the notion that such a thing simply wasn't possible, still he wasn't sure whether that was true or not at all.

"So I'm doing the talking?" Matty inferred, smile settling comfortably upon his lips. He moved with the ease that George lacked, living the life that George regarded with wonder. They were incredibly distant people, bought unspeakably close, under conditions that never failed to confuse and wonder.

George, infatuated by the concept, gave him the honour of a quick nod, a fleeting gaze, eyes burning amber under street lights.

"You don't want me to talk about Charlotte." It wasn't a difficult inference to make. "So I'm going to talk about Charlotte." He continued with the kind of insistence that George had certainly not been counting on.

He raised an eyebrow at the boy: barely visible through the lowlight.

"Because if you want me to shut up, you're going to have to talk back." Matty curled a smirk up around his lips; he was clever, so much more than George - their playing field had never been even at all.

George shook his head, biting back a 'not if I punch you first', for if that remark slipped his lips, Matty had already won. And if George was certain about one thing, it was that he simply wouldn't allow that.

"I think she might break up with me for ditching her." Matty folded his arms across his chest. The air seemed to ring with silence.

Matty continued, unfazed. "It was supposed to be kind of important. I mean, to her, at least. Her best friend's party. I was supposed to go as her date, so she can get pissed and kiss me and look socially superior because everyone thinks we're going to shag in the spare rooms. But we'd never shag in the spare rooms. I don't want to ever have sex with her again. I think her tits are fake... that's not why I don't want to- I'm not that superficial, I'm just... I don't even know her friend's name. Imagine going to the birthday party of someone you don't even know the name of. Fucking mental. I swear her head's not screwed on right. I swear mine isn't either."

George liked Matty's rambling; the free flow of his mind, and in particular, the kind of genuine honesty that followed. He figured he could certainly tolerate this sort of chat about Charlotte, although it was wearing rather thin.

Matty shot a weak smile across at him; silent promises held with high regard, George gave little more than a nod in return. For, in truth, he was always more stubborn than Matty could have ever given him credit for.

"So I think she might break up with me for it. I wouldn't blame her." Matty took a moment: as if suddenly so aware of how nonchalant the whole affair sounded. "I'm kind of being a dickhead right now - ditching her."

George nodded: grin impossibly wide. Yet, Matty did little more than roll his eyes.

"That'd be alright though. Then I wouldn't have to break up with her, and maybe after all this shit, she'd finally hate me enough to stop kissing me, so we wouldn't have to get back together. And I wouldn't have to look at her and pretend to be attracted to her anymore."

George couldn't help raising his eyebrows at that.

"But then people would start again. And her friends would definitely give me shit. Maybe I'd become 'queer boy' again. That's what happened the first time we broke up - last year, yeah, I know, this shit's gone on too long, but... she retaliated... quite... harshly." Matty drew out a sigh, gaze hitting the floor.

'Queer boy?' George dared to ask, dared to scream, to curse Charlotte like she was the scum of the earth, but still he remained silent.

"I mean, I obviously must have been a fucking fag if I didn't want to sleep with her." Matty caught himself the moment he'd really realised what he'd said. "Sorry." He muttered, blinking far too fast, and far too much.

George hardly reacted; the truth was that he'd heard so much worse over the years, especially directed at him. And in earnest, he liked his silence, he liked the lack of obligation to respond.

"It kind of fucked with me." Matty admitted, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip. "I know it's not as bad for me because I'm not gay. I know. I've thought a lot about what you said and you're right, course you're right. I mean, you're definitely the authority when it comes to sexuality, being... what you are..." He gestured wildly, as if, still, the word half-scared him.

George watched with wide, impatient eyes: set intent to burn a response from Matty's tongue. Eventuality took hold, and Matty forced the word from his lips, cheeks flushed red. "Bisexual."

George gave a nod.

Matty was almost relieved to continue. "But it fucked with me. I guess after people yell 'gay' and 'fag' at you day in and day out, you kind of start to wonder if you are. So I took her back." He drew out a sigh.

George watched him from behind wide eyes; struggling to chase any sort of sense from Matty's explanations.

"I took her back because I didn't even want to... entertain the possibility." Matty drew out a sigh, eyes distant as they approached what was instantly made clear to be the liveliest house in the town. "I have to ensure that she won't get back together with me... or else... I'm not... going anywhere..."

George's breath caught in his throat as their destination drew near; simultaneously, he yearned for their feet to be right on the doorstep, and for thousands of miles to stretch out between them and the party. He wasn't quite sure what to think at all.

"I'm talking too much." Matty cursed himself, cheeks burning red as he shook his head. "Never be silent again. I think I need you... to speak. I think, I can't take staring into your eyes and trying to guess what you're making of me."

George curled his lips up into a smile: as comforting as comforting could get. "We're here now, anyway." His voice, softer than he'd remembered it, graced the evening air.

Matty flushed harder. "I've missed your voice."

George hide his face amidst the shadows, hesitating before they could approach the house. "Maybe I've missed it too. You know? Being able to tell you that..." George trailed off; he didn't know what he'd wanted to tell Matty.

The younger boy came to a halt with him: eyebrows poised high on his forehead. "Tell me what?" Curiosity was soon to get the better of both of them.

George shrugged out from under Matty's gaze. He made a stab at brave, at calm, at nonchalant, but all fell through. "Maybe you'll have to find out." His words held much more of a questioning tone in the end: flimsy and false - they saw it through it, the both of them, but neither said a word.

"Alright." Matty wore a smile, and god, he wore it well. "Let's see." It seemed like a challenge, shot from the blistering amber flames set alight in his eyes.

George watched this beautiful, beautiful boy for a long moment that evening, and wondered if there was always more. For if he was not a boy but a piece of paper folded over a million times, loaded with a series of secrets George could never quite manage to unravel.

"Come on." He snapped out of it: holding himself stern, and leading Matty up over the driveway and to an unfamiliar front door.

It came open with a push of George's palm, revealing a world bright, burning - the most ardent flame of life and love from the inside. People, and stories, and drugs, and drink, and pretty girls, and pretty boys, and kisses, and spare rooms - all there for the taking.

And yet, George could only ever look to his right.

George could only ever see the boy beside him: curls fanned out like a golden halo in the breeze. He shivered a little; George ushered him inside.

The party was loud. The kind of loud that was instantly overwhelming: leaving them as two simple skeletons, shaking as they stood consumed with the sounds of music that neither boy could recognise, entwined with the drifts of conversation as the world crept forward, settling down and making a home between them.

Still, through the noise, through the mess of the crowds, they could only find each other's eyes. George took the lead: guiding Matty through the crowds, catching eyes with strangers and shaking heads, until they reached a smaller room, a calmer room - one in which they could stay together.

For the lost look in Matty's eyes was unmissable; he wasn't good with parties, was he? George should have known. George simply wished he could look upon the boy and tell himself that he knew a thing at all. For the unfortunate truth was that he was rather lost. They were, at least, lost there together, but lost nonetheless.

Matty offered George a smile. George offered Matty a cigarette.

He took it, gladly.

As Matty fumbled with his lighter, cigarette held loosely between his lips, George lead him around the few people that had situated themselves in the kitchen. They were, for the most part, too enthralled with the matters of stealing liquor from the unspecified owners of the place, to pay Matty and George any notice; it was something the pair could find a certain sort of relief in.

"You feeling alright?" George made a nod to the wary look in Matty's eyes as he cranked the window open, allowing a cool evening breeze to penetrate the room, before sitting himself on the tiled floor beneath the window.

It was hardly the world's most luxurious of seats, but Matty joined him nonetheless: misjudging his descent and ending up with half of his knee spilling over into George's lap. Yet, funnily enough, neither boy particularly seemed to mind.

"Yeah." Matty's response was delayed, but George didn't seem at all fussed, throwing his head back against the wall, and letting the music - still loud from next door - reverberate through the plaster. The walls vibrated with sufficient force that George began to worry that the place might fall down, and he wasn't the one that lived there.

"Do you want to find Chelsea or Jesse or someone?" Matty asked, eyeing George carefully, as his eyes continued to dart around the room.

A smile caught George by surprise: forever unable to quite pin Matty down. He watched the boy smoke for just a minute more.

"Why?" George inquired, in a calm kind of passive voice that didn't sound a thing like him; Matty looked at him with wonder, and not just that, but good reason too.

"Why?" Matty returned, eyebrows curving back and forth as if they struggled in a plight to remove themselves from his forehead.

"I mean..." George toyed with his words, biting his lip, trying to draw out the evening in a way that made sense. For his head made anything but; back in the other room were his friends, were the drugs, were boys and girls who wouldn't say no to him, who wouldn't look up at him with wide, terrified eyes. And yet, here was Matty, and here he was. No more than a cigarette between them, yet content.

"Do you want to?" George continued, running shaking fingers back through his hair. "Find them, I mean." He added, as if it needed making much clearer.

"Not really, no." Matty drew out a sigh, watching as the group of older boys, now satisfied with the alcohol they'd acquired, stumbled back out into the front room, letting the world, the music, people, at full volume, catch them for just a brief second, before the door clicked shut again.

"Kind of just like to be here with you." Matty dared to let such a confession slip his lips. George's insides turned to mush: cheeks burning the kind of red he struggled to hide. His thoughts didn't fit a sober brain; he stared back across the kitchen and wondered for a brief, stupid moment, whether the boys had left any drink behind.

"Me too." George admitted, eyes to the ground.

He watched Matty's fingers reach down to the tiles, tracing their seams. He thought, for a stupid, brief moment, what it would be like to have those gentle, delicate fingertips trace his skin like that.

That was when George decided that he definitely couldn't stand this sober. He'd been high earlier, but the mere thought of Matty was entirely sobering; so much so, that George began to fear just what his presence was doing to him.

It was as if George's thoughts were strung out like tangibly like lines of thread, for within seconds, Matty had reached out and latched himself upon one. He followed George's eyes to the cabinets. "Would it be bad if we took something to drink?"

"Yeah." George told him: smile curling in over his lips. "Very bad. Atrocious. The most cardinal of sins."

Matty stared at him blankly for a minute before giving in, with a roll of his eyes and a twitch of his lips.

"I say though, fuck rules, fuck good and bad, fuck supposed to do. Let's have a fucking drink." George stumbled to his feet, as if drunk on the notion, or just upon that hungry look to Matty's eyes; George had almost convinced himself it was want, or something equally as disconcerting as that.

"Yeah." Matty agreed, albeit with significantly less vigour. "Let's have a fucking drink."

George didn't need telling twice: crossing the room in what seemed like seconds, and fumbling through the cupboards, until the one containing liquor finally presented itself to him. From the boys doing, it was rather sparse, but still, George reckoned they'd manage.

"Any preference?" George called back across to Matty. "There's some beer, there's some wine... there's some... gin..."

"White or red?" Matty asked, catching George a little by surprise. "The wine."

"Red." George supplied, removing the bottle from the cabinet and holding it out for Matty to examine. "Seriously?" He asked, turning back to face the slightly flushed boy, curled up, cigarette in hand, at the other side of the room.

"What?" Matty cocked an eyebrow, stretching skinny, almost delicate, little legs out across the tiled floor.

"Isn't wine supposed to be a woman's drink?" George's tone was playful, smile mocking, still Matty couldn't help but blush a little, rolling his eyes.

"Well, I'll have you know..." Matty trailed off, steadying himself against the wall as he got to his feet. "I'm a very classy lady."

George rolled his eyes with far too much force, setting the bottle down on the countertop. "Classy lady?"

"What? Am I not classy, do you not think?" Matty stubbed out his cigarette, approaching George with a certain kind of spark in his eyes.

"No, you're definitely not a lady, though." George turned his lips up into a grin, opening the bottle, before turning to the cupboards in search of glasses.

Matty rolled his eyes, and forever the classiest of ladies, took a swig, downing a good quarter of the bottle in one go. George turned back: eyes blown wide and fixated upon those lips, stained red.

In his mind, it was his tongue, not Matty's, licking the stain from them.

George grimaced, and reached back up to the cupboard, producing a bottle of vodka, and similarly taking a swig. That however, didn't go quite so well, leaving him to grimace and splutter as he tried to keep it down.

"Amateur." Matty commented, turning back to the wine.

George stared back at those lips: stretched out around the top of the bottle. Something inside him yearned and keened out towards this boy - this beautiful clueless boy that his heart in such a mess.

George knew it would be a bad idea to kiss him. Especially again. He doubted a second time was something he could make such an adequate excuse for. And still, he wasn't stupid enough to imagine that the bottle of vodka wouldn't compromise his emotions a little more, yet regardless of that, regardless of anything, George kept drinking.

They ended up nestled back under the windowsill in the end. With Matty's head against George's shoulder, and his heart thumping whenever their fingers brushed. It was perhaps then that George accepted that he was beyond well and truly fucked.

"You know... Charlotte."

Matty started again as the room truly grew dark, and fingertips slipped around bottles. Their words were slurred and their heads were heavy, and still the noise continued on, almost barricading them in there, together.

George thought to protest. George thought to scream and cry otherwise, George thought to kiss him, and never stop kissing him until he well and truly shut up. Yet George did no such thing.

George remained silent. George nodded. George let the air settle in around them: like grains of sound, counting out the time, like dust.

"I don't think I can love her." Matty's words had slurred and merged amidst the space between his head and his tongue - truthfully, it was quite the space to get lost in.

George regarded him oddly, even in his drunken state, even amidst the mess they'd made for themselves, up in their heads.

"Why not?" Curiosity got the better of him in the end.

Matty shrugged, slouching further, his whole body growing limp as curls spooled out into George's lap. Before George entirely knew what was happening, this beautiful, beautiful boy was staring up at him. With eyes wide: brown, unblinking. He forever yearned to figure him out.

Matty stretched his arms out across the floor adjacent, running gentle fingertips across the cool tiling. In George's ears, the music still echoed: the world outside lay waiting in the other room; he wondered if Jesse had noticed his absence, if Chelsea had missed him, if a single thought had been spared. For in that moment, with Matty's head in his lap, George felt entirely removed from reality.

"I don't really know." Matty mused, lips moving and twitching idly. "But it's like I can't. There's a physical... thing... it's like... there's walls. Between this, and loving her, and I don't think she put those walls up. I mean, I blamed her, but it's not her fault. I think they're my walls, I think they're mine. And I... can't tear them down if I don't- but I don't even know if I want to- like maybe they're the walls to my house or something, and I, I live in them, I am safe - I don't need her to come in. I don't want to fall in love with her. Not really. I know I can't. I know I won't. I think maybe I'm even okay with that."

George's thoughts ran on like trains: clearing a path through the night, passing the world by at impossible speeds. With all the courage in the world, he chose one carefully, and dared to hop right upon it.

"You can't love her?" He repeated aloud. "I mean... how do you know? What is the difference between not being able to love her and not wanting to love her?"

Matty looked a lot like he'd reached a dead end, but with time, with a few minutes, he parted the silence once more.

"Because there's a difference. It can't be helped. it's not I don't want to love her because she's a bitch, or she blackmailed me last year, or she's not actually got very nice tits, or any bullshit like that..." Matty slurred his words forever, wine getting the better of him.

"Oh..." George gave a nod, still not fully certain he understood, but unsure as to whether that was on his or Matty's part. He watched, instead, as Matty sat up, falling back awkwardly between George's legs, and reached for the bottle.

He took another swig, wiping his mouth before George could look. And for the minute that followed, drunk on more than just drink, George stared at Matty, and Matty stared back.

"It's a bit... I don't understand, but fucking hell, George." Matty punctuated his sentence with a swig of wine. He didn't wipe his lips that time. "I don't think I can love her because she's a girl."

George's heart thudded in his chest: suddenly yearning for a sober head, for all, in that minute, George could do, was stare back. Eyes wide. Terrified. He stared back at the beautiful boy who'd made such a mockery of him. Still, he'd let him.

"Fuck her." Matty repeated, what were essentially George's words. "I can't love her... why should I care... I..."

Drunken, heavy-lidded eyes flickered down to his lips. And then, before George could even quite recall his own name, Matty's lips pressed against his own.

And George felt the wine. Felt it stain his lips too: marked and pliant in Matty's arms. This was distinctly not how he'd ever once imagined it to be, and yet, yet here they were. Here it was. This was everything - whatever everything was yet to mean.

Drunk on something more than vodka and wine.

-

sorry if this isn't very coherent i had a very messy week in terms of mental health sorry about that

hope u enjoyed it though

votes and comments would be lovely sorry if i dont reply i really do mean to i just it is my fault but I'm not good with that sort of thing sorry

love you all hope ur 2017 is going good