Chapter Text
They did it all the time when they were younger. Kissing in darkened corners at crowded house parties. Touching themselves side by side in Matty’s oversized bed, shitty porn on the laptop between them. Matty -- already exhibiting a writer’s flair -- telling George dirty stories in the dark, his hard dick pressed into George’s warm back as he whispered about the salty taste of warm skin and the feel of another’s heartbeat, not quite your own but not quite foreign either while George, silently, eyes closed, rubbed himself off. After graduation it stopped. Like a dream they both shared but couldn’t make lucid, it lived in a foggy and surreal past. They never discussed those curious evenings, that tentative longing, but neither forgot the furtive touches and the way they lived inside each other’s heads, learning about desire.
//
I’m always working on the album -- it was a Matty-ism, a phrase he coughed up on command whenever he was asked about his creative process or where the band was headed next or even what he did during those countless hours trapped on a tourbus. But tonight he and George really were working on the album, their first night in a studio in ages.
Matty kept George’s demos on his phone for months, jotting down lines at dinner tables, the backseat of cabs, and once after a bit of one of George’s melodies came to him while he hurled up the last of the previous night’s liquor. His pocket notebook was half filled with scattered memories and painful wish fulfillment, all the revelations of the past year burnt into the pages. It was time to fit their visions together and Matty felt nervous energy darting around his stomach and pushing into his chest. He was anxious about cracking his life open, revealing the little bits and pieces that clung to him, fixing his runny insides to George’s colorful musical blur. Once done, there was no way to separate the two and some part of himself was forever given over to George and vice versa. Through each swat of the shuttlecock the two built an escape that was so intertwined it belonged to neither; songs they turned over to the public, confessionally referring to them as “the soundtrack to our lives,” though they were more precisely a sonic recreation of a memory they made up together. Nerve wracking.
Matty picked up the same wild tension in George. His eyes were fiery, burrowing into Matty, excited to fling the doors open. The studio was a friend of a friend’s, a glorified soundproofed closet where they could spend the night working up demos. The control room was long and narrow with low lamp lighting that glowed orange against the hardwood floors and creamy walls. There was one rolling chair, which George took, proceeding to set up his laptop. Matty flopped down on the beat up leather couch behind him, still close enough to push the chair around with his feet. Struck with that familiar impulse and unable to set it aside, he shoved George left and shot him a devious smile when George spun around with a sharp “Matthew!” Matty popped up to continue the game as George quickly slid right with a giggling, “Don’t, though,” putting his hands up in defense as Matty moved to pounce.
Instead he turned to the laptop and mumbled, “This one, I think?” as he selected a track. The control room flooded with sound, and George rolled himself toward Matty, laughing riotously as he collided with his shins, causing Matty to fall backwards into his lap. “George,” Matty groaned, drawing it out in playful exasperation, resting his head on George’s shoulder and smiling up at him, unable to smooth all the hesitation out of his face. He moved to stand back up but George held him close.
“Sit here,” he said. Matty stayed seated, legs splayed by George’s knees, not because this was how they usually began piecing songs together but because their working relationship, their entire friendship, was built around an unquestioned acceptance of all suggestions. Matty reached a hand behind himself and pulled his notebook from the pocket of his designer jeans, brand new for the special occasion. Leaning back against George’s chest, he opened to a middle page and outlined his idea. He described hearing the low intensity of pale, mid-morning sunlight and how he was reminded of the ache he felt at rest stops during long drives through Nowhere, America. In his oversized hoodie and with George’s arms wrapped around his waist, Matty was encircled in a comforting warmth. He sang, “A hand on your shoulder/ come over” tracing his fingers under the words on the page, then skipping down a few lines “The sun sets purple here/ but we’ve already left.” Between the two lines he’d written “dreaming of the past again” and “homesick.” Matty dated each page in uncharacteristic organization and he recognized the one at the top as the week they’d spent in London that April. London was home, maybe he’d been thinking of Manchester.
He turned his head up to face George, eyes round and pleading for approval. “What do you think?” he asked. George didn’t have to answer, Matty could read the look on his face, wolfish and roving. And he never did formally reply, instead reaching over Matty to rearrange part of the track and announce,
“There, go again.” Matty repeated the bit, layering “is there anything left?” over the last line.
“Yeah?” George asked and Matty nodded. “Better, right?” Matty nodded again, moving his pen across the page to note the two vocals. They continued in this rhythm, cobbling the song together like a thousand piece puzzle, each took turns adjusting the levels and pulling the track tighter, George offering esoteric musings on Matty’s lyrics. The process was slow but hours piled up without either taking notice until finally the chorus snapped into place. Matty tossed his notebook to the floor and looked up to George, nodding his head. George’s reaction was equally instant, pulling back from the laptop and locking his eyes on Matty. They’d maintained their intimate seating arrangement the whole time and this observation seemed to dawn on them at the same moment, how tactile and inseparable they were. Matty grabbed George’s thighs and squeezing them asked, “Wine? And a joint?” George offered his silent agreement, but Matty stayed seated a few seconds longer, hands still gripping George’s legs. Finally he mumbled, mostly to himself, “Ok. Ok,” and stood up to rummage through his backpack, producing the rewards.
Matty curled up on the couch, twisting the cap off the bottle, and motioned for George to join him. He sat close to Matty, their knees knocking together as each shifted to face the other. “I think we’ve got that one. It’s sounding really, really good like we’ve realized it or actualized it and I can lay down a proper vocal when we’re done, but, yeah?” Matty rambled as George lit the joint and took a long drag. George nodded as he held the smoke in his lungs, added only a raspy yeah and a small cough to the conversation, passed the joint to Matty and motioned for the wine bottle. They swapped, their hands brushing together in the exchange, George’s long fingers wrapping gently around Matty’s small hand. He outlined some of his other ideas, how a big, sweeping instrumental might work as a rumination on humanity and how a particularly glowing and pulsing track felt synced to his heartbeat during sex. George offered little more than his facial expressions in response, but they were enthusiastic, like these thoughts were lighting him from within. George leaned slightly forward, dug an elbow into his thigh, rested his chin in his palm and listened intently as Matty talked.
By virtue of his frequent silence, George drank more of the wine -- not enough for his head to loll or a slur creep into his voice, but enough for his eyes to glitter and his shoulders to relax towards Matty, freed from the weight of the outside world, existing only in this perpetual instant. George raised the wine bottle from between his legs to take another sip but it was too light to be anything other than empty and he set it on the floor. He paused there, looking down contemplatively, Matty only able to see the outline of his face from that angle. When he sat back up he kept his eyes downcast and ran a hand along Matty’s thin leg. “These are nice,” he said, his voice hitting a note that sounded almost like confusion to Matty, as though George wasn’t sure what he was saying or why. But George didn’t pull his hand away either, he continued to stroke slowly up and down Matty’s thigh.
Matty left his eyes on George but observed him in a distant way, feeling almost outside his own body, or as if he was about to float away but George’s hand on his leg tethered him to the room and to the night. Any closer, Matty realized, and he’d want to lock eyes with George, to peer inside him and uncover his memories like brushing off a dusty piano bench and playing a scale, something once rigorously learned and tested only to be locked in an untouched chest. He wanted to hold George under his spell long enough to taste him. Matty was aware, that night and every other, of his constant need to assert his will, to overtake situations and let his desire dictate his actions no matter the consequences. But he never carelessly seduced George, he never wanted him just for the thrill of having him. Then, as now, it was always George who pulled Matty in, eyes flickering with tangled lust and fear. Instead of entrancing George with the wild swirl of his craving, Matty realized he’d entranced himself and was lost in the maze of his thoughts. The studio snapped back into focus, George’s hand still heavy on his thigh, the smell of smoke still heavy in the air.
“Thanks, they’re new,” Matty finally replied with a smile that crinkled the bridge of his nose, summoning all his energy to push the words outside his head. His eyes briefly lowered to George’s hand but moved back up as the haze wore off. They hit George’s face and he raised his hand to Matty’s neck and leaned in close, taking Matty’s lower lip with his teeth and sucking on it, forcing a small gasp from Matty’s throat. George ran his tongue over Matty’s lip and then pulled away, admiring how his mouth gleamed in the halflight as he fumbled for an apology. “I’m not sure what that--” he managed to mumble before Matty pulled him in again, sliding his back down the couch so George hovered over him, his weight in his wrists.
“I’ve missed you,” Matty said, eyes softly closed, desiring nothing more than to wrap his arms around George’s waist and hold him close. “So much,” his soft eyes then open and shimmering as Matty tipped his head forward. George let his arms bend at the elbow and lowered himself on top of Matty, kissing his neck and jawline lightly.
“You didn’t,” George grinned, pressed his lips to Matty’s, soft and warm and wet, felt their tongues meet and breathed in deeply, the smell of red wine, dark and slightly fruity spilling from their open mouths.
“I did, George,” Matty said, brows knitted, gravely serious, searching George’s face for any sign of recognition as his head sunk back into the armrest. Matty thought George must have known all those years. He could have had him any time he wanted, but George never did have him. The split second of shock that passed over his face told Matty he never knew he could.
“I felt you disappear, slowly at first, until every last bit of you vanished, and when you came back you were different, you were gone,” George said, the long thought pouring from him so effortlessly that it indicated years of practice and reflection to build to this recital. A thought that had roots in George. In the silence that followed he looked at Matty almost cautiously, almost like he was holding a piece of antique porcelain over a high balcony, before taking Matty’s face in both his hands and pulling his head up from the back of the couch. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered, lips brushing against Matty’s as he formed the words, and then he kissed him deeply, holding him still as their faces pressed together and he sucked at Matty’s tongue. “I’m not going anywhere,” he rasped again and this time it was Matty, pushing his hips up hard and wrapping a leg around him, who kissed George, a memory that ached. Matty held him so close the moment felt never ending.
Only then, finally able to undo each button on George’s soft cotton shirt, did Matty realize he carried the dull pain of longing for George with him everywhere he went. It all came back to him so quickly -- the way George liked to be kissed, slow and lingering, the way he trembled when Matty sucked at his neck and pressed his tongue against the tender mark left by his teeth. In this moment, tongue firm in the crook of George’s neck, Matty remembered the last time. His bedroom was hot, late June, and the sheets stuck to their bodies, bare skin sticky and sweaty. He wanted more but he gave less, pulling away and burying his face in George’s chest, a feeling like sadness but more distant welling up inside him. He pushed it away but couldn’t bring himself closer, couldn’t pick his head up, couldn’t look at George. That night George kissed the top of his head, his hair cut sporty and short and boyish and so unlike him, and murmured goodnight. That was how it ended.
Matty moved back to George’s mouth, giving him a sweet and delicate kiss, tenderly lacing his tongue through George’s lips and running his hand down George’s broad back, already humid under his open shirt. He slid a hand under George’s waistband, feeling his muscles tense as he reached around and rested his hand on his belt buckle. Matty’s heart raced, drawing such a lurid and immediate and undeniable response from George. His tongue in George’s mouth, he moaned softly, pressing his hips into George’s and pulling at his belt for leverage. George groaned back, one hand tangled in Matty’s hair, fingers tightened around the black curls to tip his head back, exposing the whole of his neck. George ran his tongue from Matty’s collarbone to his jaw, sending tremors through his body, and he felt Matty reflexively buck his hips again.
George pushed Matty’s face to the side, kissed the sensitive spot where his jawline met his neck, sultry, open mouth kisses, George’s tongue pressed into Matty’s nerve endings. Matty remembered this, too, in a surge of almost overwhelming desire. Eyes shut tight, fingers wound through George’s belt loops, Matty angled into George’s tongue, urgent and desperate. The sound of George’s hot, ragged breath was loud in Matty’s ears. He focused on George’s exhalations just beneath his ear, heard the way George held the air inside him like a guarded secret and the way he let it out like a whispered truth. Matty loosened his hands and draped them over George’s back, underneath his shirt.
“Come closer,” Matty mumbled, turning his head back to George and finding his lips, his tongue, his teeth gently tugging, every careful motion producing a heightened sensation. Matty kissed back eagerly. He pulled George flush against him and wrapped his arms tight, promising himself he’d never give this up again. He hitched his leg up, rubbing the inside of his thigh along George’s hip, his calf nudging George’s ass. George’s body tensed and arched in response and he pushed a low moan into Matty’s mouth. Matty lapped it up, pleased to have pulled the sound from his throat. Using his leg to hold him down, he ran his hands along George’s sides, sliding his fingers over his ribs and up his chest. He rounded George’s shoulders under the thin fabric of his shirt and pushed the material away, exposing the gentle slope of his bones and the colorful tattoo inked into his upper arm. He tilted his head to the side, admiring the way George’s damp skin glowed in the diffuse light. George smirked down at him and sucked at his lower lip.
He pulled away with Matty’s lip still between his teeth, letting it loose with a soft snap and Matty felt George’s eyes gorge on his pouty face before kneeling back on his heels, tugging his shirt from his arms and tossing it in Matty’s face. Matty inhaled the scent of the top, a mix of arousal and George’s perfume, and was almost startled it didn’t have the same grassy, sunshine smell he remembered. His stomach turned and his thoughts raced. What he wanted was to be seventeen again, to pull his head from George’s chest and tell him he’d never leave him, to promise him everything. This wasn’t the day after, this wasn’t the promise he meant to keep. He felt the loss of all those years but he also felt a tiny flicker of hope, the shift of that weight inside him, a new smell, a new memory. He pulled the shirt off his face and tossed it on the floor.
George leaned back into Matty and slid a hand under his hoodie, pressing against his soft stomach, fingertips just beneath the waistband of his tight black jeans, sending a shiver through the trail of fine hair leading down Matty’s torso. Then George ran his hand up Matty’s side, digging his fingers into Matty’s ribs and thumbing his nipple, a pressure that hurt a little and tickled a little and forced Matty to writhe into George, casting small whimpers into his mouth as they kissed. He wanted to stop time, to exist like this, fused to George and no longer himself, forever. Matty’s breath stopped, trapped inside him, a protest against waking up, against the worry of an uncertain future.
Matty pulled his face from George’s, a desperate gasp escaping his throat, only to throw his face into George’s neck, feverishly nibbling his way to George’s jaw and working a hand against the front of George’s pants, tugging at his belt clumsily. Fingers on the other hand tangled in George’s coarse curls, Matty pushed George upright and leaned into his chest, kissing from shoulder to shoulder, sucking and biting at the salty skin. Something inside him felt snapped in half, recklessly burning anything he could touch for fuel. Insatiable.
George pushed his hands under Matty’s hoodie again, this time grabbing the plush fabric in his fists and lifting it over Matty’s head, midnight tendrils falling in a mess over his pretty face. Matty brushed the hair out of his eyes and arranged his legs around George’s waist, holding George’s hips between his thighs. He lowered his face to suck along George’s collarbone and smiled to himself when George let out a pleading moan.
The thrill was short-lived, supplanted by panic when George interrupted the little wet noises Matty made along his shoulder by quietly saying, “It can’t be like it was.” Matty felt the blood rush to his stomach, like a colony of ants crawling under a crack in the baseboards. His hand moved from caressing George’s arm to covering George’s mouth; he shook his head in protest.
“It’s not like it was, George, it’s different,” he said, feeling George’s lips part around his fingers. “I’m not ‘fooling around,’ this isn’t my old bedroom,” he said, feeling George wrap his tongue around the first two fingers. “I want this, you,” he said, feeling George suck his fingers deep into his mouth and then let them slide back out, a trail of slick spit running down his chin. Matty stared at his wet fingers, so stunned he lost his thought and could only turn back to George and shove his tongue between his softly parted lips, groaning hotly into George’s mouth and grinding his hips into him, lamenting all the fabric between them.
“I didn’t say I wanted to stop,” George said, running a thumb along Matty’s swollen lower lip. His tongue slipped out to flick against the tip of George’s finger, his lips encircling it in a soft kiss. He tipped his eyes up to George, dark and wild -- he sensed the unstated challenge in George’s words and responded with his own wordless action. Holding George’s gaze, he undid his belt and zipper, roughly tugging George’s pants to his knees, sliding back and standing up as he worked the fabric down. George was hard, the head of his dick already glistening.
Matty felt his mouth water, he wanted to look George in the face, he wanted to shoot him a self assured smile, but he couldn’t look away when he’d waited so long. He knelt between George’s knees -- spread as wide as he could manage -- and worked his hand around the base of his dick, stroking halfway up and down, savoring the image of George hard in his fist. When he’d looked his fill he lowered his face and softly kissed George, mumbling “Fuck, you’re so beautiful” like he’d never seen the leaves turn in autumn, like he’d never seen light dance along a riverbank. He’d never seen anything so beautiful. George moaned, overwhelmed by Matty’s wet lips pressed against his sensitive skin. Matty flicked his tongue out and licked George up, salty and earthy, then sucked him into his mouth, hollowing out his cheeks. Matty breathed in deeply through his nose; George was slightly pungent, like he hadn’t showered that day, like he wasn’t expecting this, and Matty felt himself stiff against his zipper with the rush of how quickly things had unfolded.
“Fuck,” George cried, lowering a hand from behind his head to behind Matty’s head, petting his curls reassuringly. “You’re so soft,” he whispered more absentmindedly, lost in the reverie of Matty’s mouth. Matty swirled his tongue in tight circles and George instinctively tightened the fist in Matty’s hair, neither pushing his head down nor pulling it back, simply holding onto him with everything he had. Matty appreciated the fervent urgency, the way George needed him, the way he couldn’t let him go. It made him sloppy. Matty pushed down on George, taking him whole and letting him press into the back of his throat until he gagged, cheeks flushed and eyes wet with tears. For a split second Matty wanted to pull back, to tease more, but George groaned and panted and scratched at Matty’s head and he felt like when a particularly good line came to him. He moved his warm, wet hand to George’s balls and gently handled them.
“Suck on them,” came George’s voice, throaty and hoarse. Matty pulled his dick out with a wet slurp, switching his mouth for his hand, thumbing over the tip of George’s dick while he sucked his balls. First one, then the other, then both, running his tongue over the groove between them. George’s breathing was heavy and rapid, his body tense against Matty’s free hand. “Make me cum,” he begged and Matty popped his balls out of his mouth and looked up with a sly expression, equal parts greed and impishness.
“Say it again,” Matty teased, running the tip of his slender index finger along the underside of George’s dick.
“Make me cum, Matty” George whimpered, practically breathless with desperation. Matty took him in halfway, using his damp hand for the rest. He left George gasping, barely able to pant out a loud “Fuck!” while cumming. With his lips wrapped tight around George’s dick he sucked the cum down his throat.
Matty rocked back on his knees, face wet with saliva and George, and looked up with glazed eyes and a curling smirk. He put a hand to the side of his face to wipe his mouth clean, but before the back of his hand touched his lips George yanked him up by his shoulders and pulled him in, pushing his tongue into Matty’s softly opened mouth. Matty heard him inhale sharply, smelling himself all over Matty’s face. He ran his tongue up Matty’s chin and along his lower lip, kissing him again but slower, holding Matty’s lips in his. Matty felt George’s total concentration shoot through him; the moment felt like standing behind George and observing him take in a particular piece of art, the way he’d slip into a trance, limbs loose as the force of his body spun between his eyes and the opposite wall. Matty knew he was that portrait, that George was memorizing the feel of his sticky, tender face. Matty drew closer, climbing into George’s wet lap, wincing slightly at the way his jeans pressed against him.
George pulled Matty tight to his chest, running his hand down Matty’s knotted spine. He arched his back more with each touch, anticipating George’s hand sliding down the back of his pants. It rested there, warm and steady, while George planted kisses on him, lining his imperial cheekbone and down his neck. Matty groaned receptively and pressed his hips into George’s, trying futilely to spread his legs even a centimeter wider, but the sensation was overwhelming and Matty gasped, rolling his eyes slightly and throwing his head back. He wanted to tear his own pants off but he wanted George to tear his pants off even more.
George straightened him upright, tipping his chin down so Matty watched him lick his tongue up his chest. He ran his free hand from Matty’s shoulder, tracing down the outside of his slim arm, and dragging his fingertips along Matty’s palm, intertwining their hands, and pulling Matty’s wrist to his lips and kissing it delicately. It struck Matty as courtly or Shakespearian and he blushed. George turned his face to meet Matty’s and placed an almost absentminded kiss on his pouty lips. His movements were all languid and sustained and dreamy and Matty, passionate and frustrated, bit George’s lip in return. He sucked at the coppery taste and admired the sweet way George’s lower lip now protruded from his face. Matty kissed him roughly, groaned and thrusted, needy for attention. His eyes spun to the shadows along the ceiling, sharp angles pouring from the muted lighting. George gripped Matty’s hand tighter, pressing his fingers down until their palms were flush. Matty’s whole torso felt hot with desperation; he was desperate to feel George, desperate to know George wanted him, too. Unable to wait any longer, he pulled George’s hand around his waist and pushed it down the front of this pants.
The moment felt electric. George held Matty tight in his fist, staring at him with a startling intensity and Matty broke the gaze, closing his eyes and letting the relief of George’s firm touch wash over him. When he opened his eyes George was relaxed against the couch, settling back and working his hand over his dick in slow strokes, keeping Matty hard but craving more. He tried to arch into George’s rhythm, but as soon as he lifted his ass off George’s thighs George pulled his hand out of Matty’s pants and licked the wetness from his fingers.
Matty collapsed on George’s chest, a sad, silent heap. George’s hands were in Matty’s hair, ruffling his curls, as he quietly demanded, “Beg for it.”
Without lifting his head, Matty rolled his eyes at George’s turnabout and mumbled into his chest, “Please suck me off, George.”
“Look at me and say it, Matty,” came George’s words as he wrapped a tendril of hair around his index finger.
Matty petulantly pushed his balled fists into George’s chest and lifted himself up. He blinked slowly, sucked his teeth impetuously and finally looked at George and said, “Please suck me off, please.” The two immediately crashed into each other, tongues curving, teeth gnashing. George pulled at his buckle and button and fly, getting Matty’s dick out and then just as suddenly as he’d frantically pawed at Matty he reverted to calmly stroking him up and down. Too gentle, another tease. Matty felt wild with urgency, pressing into every movement, pleading to be handled.
Matty made a needy face and a small whimper and George relented, grabbing him by his hips and pushing him to the side, tugging his pants halfway down his thighs. He stopped to run his hand over the side of Matty’s ass admiringly but the whimpers began again, Matty seemingly on the verge of a tantrum over George’s infinite tease. George pushed him back against the couch cushions and knelt on the floor, prompting a sigh of relief from Matty.
The feel of his soft, slick tongue was more intoxicating than Matty had even imagined and his hips jumped from the couch as an excited moan escaped his lips. He was already close to orgasm, having withstood all of George’s teasing, but determined to last, to soak up every twist of George’s tongue. George curled his tongue under and sucked Matty’s dick into the back of his mouth, letting Matty fuck against his throat until he tasted his cum, hot and slightly bitter. Matty felt George pull away carefully, his thighs still shaking slightly, and watched George’s eyes move from his flushed chest to his ruddy cheeks. He sprawled there, dazed and immobile, unable to think or speak.
George stood up, pulling his pants over his ass but leaving them lazily undone, and dropped down to the couch, scooping Matty on top of him. Matty struggled with his pants, sliding them most of the way on before giving up and burying his head against George’s side. He wanted to say that he loved him, but not in that trite way, not in those three words, not with his cum still on George’s breath. He wanted it to mean something, to mean not just I love you right now, I love that you sucked my dick, but to mean I’ve always loved you, I always will love you. While Matty’s thoughts spun, George kissed the top of his head and murmured goodnight, his chest rising and falling with the weightlessness of sleep.