#mostly fluffy but it's mainly matty introspectives

[arainesque]

in trust, i let you feel

authors note:

RAMBLES. this is the definition of a ramble. all in one, just out there, i've barely read it through, just posting for the person who may want it. ???? My new take on a writers-block. Tumblr allows rambles doesn't it. (Fluffy and mildly dramatic.)

word count: 895

Matty knew it was bad, he did. He didn’t need the constant nudges of reminder as if he’d slip up if didn’t remember. As if people thought he didn’t know. As much as he wished he wasn’t part of the collective conscious of the world, he was. He knew, and he was aware. And they weren’t even an entity in the first place, really, his addiction and his devotion. They were on two completely different planes, entirely separated. He couldn’t forget it no matter how hard he tried. He couldn’t stop, either. Because they weren’t the same and his brain wasn’t a simple mechanism. The human brain just isn’t.

Multiple things can be true at once, no matter how contradictory it seems. No matter how frustrating the notion is.

It’s sorted through so many algorithms that you get dizzy with it. Left to rely on the feeling instead of the thought. Because it becomes intrinsic at some point. The beauty of biology.

And he loves George.

And he loves the drugs.

It isn’t one or the other. Really.

How can you decide when there’s an infinite amount of opportunities. An infinite amount of right decisions. Because right isn’t objective, and everything is stupid.

But he loves George.

Oh, he loves George.

His heart wouldn’t forget how to beat around him if he didn’t.

It wouldn’t turn into this stupid, fragile, trembling thing inside of his chest. Stuttering and racing at the sound of his voice. Stopping completely at the mere sight of his dark eyes, just drinking them in as if in some sort of trance. Yet, he’d never been more thankful to be sober.

The more you know, the more you know that you know nothing.

But George’s chest is so smooth beneath the palm of his hand, and if nothing matters then how can that matter so much. It all matters just that bit too much.

“Here.” George says, pressing Matty’s hand firmer to his sternum. “It’s not beating right.”

It isn’t. It’s too quick, like the fluttering of a hummingbird's wings beneath Matty’s hand. But it’s George and it’s alive. A rabbit's heart. Rhythmical and forceful and fast.

“It’s perfect.” Matty found himself whispering against the skin of George’s chest, pushing his hand down even firmer just to feel the responding skip in the otherwise steady tempo. Causing chaos. Arrhythmia.

George let him. Unbelievably.

“It can’t behave around you.” George spoke, his voice lacing the air in a dreamlike texture that shouldn’t have been of this world, but it was, and it’s beautiful. George’s hand pressed his own even closer to his chest. The next inhale was deep and crisp beneath Matty’s ear. “It’s always been sensitive to you.”

Matty closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on each point where their bodies were connected, touching. His leg slung over George’s hip, his hipbone grazing George’s abdomen and the sheer weight of George’s hand on top of his own. Letting him feel things he couldn’t explain with words.

Words weren’t ever enough, were they?

“Mine too.” Matty whispered, sober, vulnerable.

“It doesn’t like being listened to.” George nearly-whispered. A quiet confession. The ghost of a breath making the curls on top of Matty’s head move just a little bit. Just enough for a crazy person to notice, and he noticed.

A heartbeat. Two. Speeding up. A staccato.

“I know.” Matty said, shifting a little so that the violent sloshing sounds of George’s blood rushing through the valves of his heart softened a little, so his ear landed a little closer to the bottom of his clavicle. “Why do you let me?”

It stuttered beneath Matty’s ear, beating even quicker. Sickly. If he didn’t know.

“It loves you.”

Thundering. Matty getting breathless along with the pace of it.

“Do you?” Matty questioned, slinging his leg just that bit further over George’s hip. Letting his lips graze over that one mole on his chest.

“Yes.” No room for objections in the conviction of his voice. “You know I do.”

“Yeah.” Matty said, against the ever-smooth skin of George’s chest. Against the heartbeat steadily pushing up against his sternum, threatening his line of sight. The proof of life he couldn’t stop himself from marveling at. The fundamental pace of the person he knew and loved and needed. The pace he had full control of no matter if he wanted to or not. But he did, want to. “I love you.”

George’s heart trembled beneath his palm, against the shell of his ear. Because he cared and the words did hit him where they needed to. Matty was aware of that. He never had to doubt George’s interpretations of his utterances. Never had to doubt George’s feelings for him, really. Not when his pulse had always stuttered nervously around him.

Mirroring his own.

“I love you.”

Not I love you more. I love you differently.

Loving drugs and loving George weren’t the same.

George loved him back.

George was so, so much better.

With his beating (pounding) heart. So obviously affected and there. Fluttery and fragile and vulnerable. A heart he trusted Matty with. Something to give him purpose.

Maybe it wasn’t so difficult at all. Anything. 

Maybe it was just George’s life beneath the palm of his hand.

His "I love you." Against the top of his head.

Maybe just his skin against his own.