It’s nearing 2:30AM on a Tuesday night when Matty gets home, the shared flat. George ambling along behind him. Gone past the point of conversation - simply too tired to bother. A break from tour - albeit not a long one. A day.
But the start of a string of UK tours, closer to home. Closer to Penelope.
He’s the first to reach the door - taking a few seconds to register that he needs keys. A mumbled ‘fuck’ - knowing his were long lost, about to turn to George, when an arm reaches over him, jingling of keys.
Muttering out a, ‘thanks, G’ - earning a grunt in response, ushering him into the flat, grumbles about wanting his bed and ‘no shagging tonight, please - I’m begging.’
Penelope didn’t know they were coming home - well she did, but Matty had told her they’d fly in in the morning. And, well, he wasn’t exactly lying - it was technically morning. Just very early morning.
The flat - quiet, a dull buzz of the telly, a clock ticking somewhere deeper, and soft snores. Strawberry and cigarette smoke - scents that perforated through the air. Familiar.
Penelope - sprawled on the couch, asleep. Matty - a tired smile. Bags dropping - George heading for the kitchen while Matty drifted towards Penelope, naturally. Crouching in front of her - sleep infused sounds, breaths - louder. Blonde, outgrowing, darker at the roots - strands of hair, obscuring her eyes, mouth. Fingers - pushing back, pouted lips coming into view, lashes casting shadows. And he notes she’s wearing of his old t-shirts, one he had thought he had lost between hotels and tour buses.
He’s just started tracing his favourite features - the dip of her nose, curve of her lips. Taking in a missed scent when she shifts, the incoherent mumbles, welcoming the familiarity of it, of her.
He liked it when she slept. His countless sleepless nights held that, watching her submerged in a peacefulness he couldn’t have himself. It was a sort of therapy to him, sometimes confessional.
“You alright getting her to bed?”
And he jumps a bit - drowned out in his thoughts. George.
Nodding, a nearly muted affirmative sound.
George pausing at the foot of his bedroom door, glancing over the pair of them - watching Matty’s fingers tracing, sleep heavy eyes never leaving her, hearing the mumbles resembling ‘I love you’s’ among other hushed endearments.
“Mate - Matty, don’t wake her, get yourselves to bed, yeah? Don’t stay up talking shit all night, you both need the sleep.”
There’s a mid response of -”yeah,” - a few seconds later, not really letting George know if anything he’s said has actually registered. But, still - knowing it’s a lost cause, and beyond too tired to argue, he leaves them be, with a yawn of “goodnight, love you,” over his shoulder.
It’s a few minutes after George’s bedroom door shuts - that she stirs, holding his breath, a moment. Intents - not on waking her.
Indigo - blinking, sighs and sniffles, sleep heavy eyes. Focusing - it takes a few minutes, indigo blinking more once seeing him. He chuckles, under his breath - at the look of disbelievement, confusion, the semi-coherent sleep infused sounds, his name.
“Hi, darling.” - through a smile, one that reaches his eyes, every feature - despite tiredness. Penelope - only looking for a minute, brow creasing, a yawn. Fingers - her jaw, cheek, tracing.
“Are you, are you really here?” - fingers, catching his.
Another quiet laugh, nodding, bringing fingers to lips, lingering kisses. “In the flesh - soz baby, didn’t mean to wake you.”
He’s only a bit sorry - if he’s honest. He missed her voice, her touch, her eyes, the way she looks at him. Like now - observing, indigo flickering.
“You look shit,” lips curving around the remark. Fingertips - tracing heavy set marks under his eyes, near deflated curls that had fallen loose of a hair tie, skin between his eyebrows, the usual scattred few hairs growing out. “Unibrows growing back in and all.”
Hand - smacking hers away at that, a scowl - “Oi, s’not a fucking unibrow - shut up.”
Giggles - another thing he had missed, futile trying to hold back a smile. “Fix it for me tomorrow, yeah?”
A nod - fingers, curls, a grimace. “Let me wash your hair too, ew - what the fuck have you been doing, Matthew.”
Rolling his eyes, standing up not realising how numb, uncomfortable the position had been, his knees. Momentary contemplation - how that works for blowjobs, positions. Fingers lacing in silent protests, a pout, him - a deep sigh. “Well, you have a few hours in the morning to bloody groom me until your heart’s content. But - now, bed.”
Tilting - his head, back down, lips meeting halfway. Quick pecks - “Fucking knackered, just want you.”
It comes out as a whine. Followed by more - sounds equally as brash, rasped, when she stands up, face - her neck. Taking in missed scents, tastes of skin. Familiar.
A soft sound - somewhere between a giggle and hum. Fingers - his jeans, and he’s tempted. But - knowing the glares, grief George would subject him to tomorrow.
A chuckle - fingers catching hers, shaking his head. “George will kill us.”
An affirmative sound, pulling away a pout, indigo glinting. Playful - rolling his eyes, turning her around - towards the bedroom, limbs still half entangled. “You’ll be the death of me - get into bed, and maybe I’ll give you the pleasure of undressing me, or letting you watch me undress, or maybe -”
“Undress you from the same fucking clothes you left me in and have been wearing for two bloody months, very sexy.” - snide referring to his black shirt ripped skinny jeans, but a giggle when he tells her to shut up, he quite likes the look he has.
Telling her - that he liked it a lot better when she was asleep, she asks why he hadn’t just woken her up, how long had he just been watching her sleep, that it was well creepy. Not that she’d expect any less of him.
Matty - a smirk, closing the bedroom door. Orange - streetlamps filtering through unshut blinds, earlier weed lingering in the air. Familiar.
Fingers - the buttons of his shirt, Penelope - an expectant look. Waiting - explanations. His smirk - growing, contemplation. Gaze - drifting over messy hair, oversized t-shirt - hanging off one shoulder, bare skin.
Listen, if you are struggling with feeling bad about your weight or loving your body or feeling good about how you look, here’s what’s up: you are worthy of all the love in the world. You are not the sum of your physical parts. Your body doesn’t define you. Anyone who would make you believe different is lying to you. And that voice in your head that tells you that you’re only deserving of love or that you’ll only be happy if you lose that weight or if your skin clears up or if you fix your hair is lying most of all. You deserve happiness and love and the excitement of life NOW. If you can’t hear over all those voices, I’ll remind you. You are so worth everything. I love you.