e matty

m a t t y // s e x

Merely weeks later - the first time he felt you, all of you. Fucked you into oblivion. A fight with your boyfriend, Matty had wanted to kill him. Mattress - back of his van. Pleading for him to stay with you, fingers - reaching.  Eyes - glazed, but there were no tears, too proud. That night wasn’t the first night he had seen you cry. But the first night he had seen a crack, break in your mind. A hint of vulnerability. A need to be needed - to be good enough, and maybe he could relate. Validation.

His lips on yours - harsh, steady. Aimless - rolling around the mattress, heavy breaths, tongue kisses. Sat atop his stomach, leaning back against his knees - hair springing loose from your hair tie. Begging for a distraction, he offered to smoke some with you, or there was tequila in the front. Shaking your head - you had said you didn’t want to feel numb, you wanted - needed to feel something. Something real. At first - he hadn’t quite understood what you were asking.

Faces - mere inches away, fingers grasping his jaw, warm breaths on his lips, your eyes - lost. Flickering between both of his and it’s a whisper, hopeless tone, “You care about me Matty, right?”

He swallowed, nodding - of course.

Your teeth tugging - your lower lip, gaze not letting up, intensifying. A crack, “Then show me.” - and your hands - down his jeans. A gasp - against your lips, muffled murmurs on his, you’re begging - again. A tragic sound, “Matty - please.”

It wasn’t the first night he made love to you either.  That wasn’t what you were asking for - wasn’t what he was capable of. He had started with the intent of taking it slow, fervid kisses, heavy touches - reveling in the sounds he was causing you to make. But you were beseeching - harder, craving to feel something and his fingers left imprints, teeth left marks. Asking for him to fuck you, and maybe that’s when he lost it. Any ounce of control he had left. Brutal, desperate - carnal. Until the only sounds falling from your lips - breathless whines, pants - his name. His thoughts - incoherent. Your face, legs trembling around him - something more than lust surging - his veins. Everything blurred - only you.

Laying on his side - you sat alongside him, naked, legs entangled. Tequila, blunt between your lips - his tongue, a freckle where your thigh meets your hip. Nine Inch Nails. Gaze drifting over you - smoke swirling, glazing your eyes, and he recalls thinking you looked so alive. Infinite - that moment. Alive - contrast to the circumstances, reasoning. When the tequila was gone - you begged for more, wanting to feel him again.

Alcohol buzzing - his veins,  smoke clouding - his thoughts. It’s a vague memory - you on top this time. Fingers, blunt nails dragging - your hips. Your face - hazy, lips parting. Sounds of ecstasy, rapture - distant. Time lapses - lasting longer than the first, or maybe that was just the alcohol, drugs. Windows fogging.

An obscure memory - fuzzy around the edges, soft breaths dancing over his chest - asleep. Goosebumps - your thighs, his heart thrumming, contrasting to yours - rhythmic slow. Dark. Recalling - maybe this was the start. And he was okay with that.

But -  come morning, you were gone. It became a familiar scene.

But - it was the start of something, the start of tequila induced numbness, sex to counteract the numbness, eventually something stronger than  weed, conversations - life and death, and Matty falling apart over you - and hating every second of it. Hating you. A perfect storm - the beginning.

Now, if someone were to ask about the first time he made love to you - he’d give one of two options. Ask a younger Matty: he’d say July. Your garage.

In hindsight - he realises that night was amidst the final build up, the build up to your final triumph, how you broke him down completely. Maybe it was the calm before the storm, or maybe that night was the eye of it. He was nearing twenty, you nineteen, in truth - that whole year had been chaotic - heartbreaks, and on that night, maybe you just went crazy.

Garage - your space, art. Now it was paintings, drawings, before - you wrote, stories, poems, before - filming, photography. There was a constant new phase with you, and even he found it hard to keep up at times.

Fingers - ripping, tearing everything down, tears running hot, chest heaving. His old Bowie t-shirt, underwear, paint splattering - dried on your skin. Begging - yelling for you to stop. You wouldn’t - destruction. His fingers - curling around your wrists, turning you to face him, struggling against his hold. Hair wild - eyes wilder, broken sobs. He had been frightened.  Calling your name, demanding that you look at him, pleading. When you did - it scared him. Your eyes, his heart ached. Gaze drifting - you’re pulling against him and it’s sudden. Your name falling from his lips and - “ - look at me, I love you.”

Eyes snapping back to his, and it’s desperate, lost - burning. But - his fingers, cupping your jaw, spanning down the back of your neck, holding your gaze - burning, but he’s repeating. Voice cracking - “I love you.”

The first time he’s said it - said it to you. With a proper meaning behind it. Fingers - curling around his wrists, voice hoarse, quiet - asking him to say it again.

So he did, again - and again.

Lips - against his, salt - tears lacing through the kiss. He says it again. “I love you.”

Fingers - undoing his jeans, pulling the shirt over your head. Again - “I love you.”

Crashing to the ground, next to the couch, torn canvases, newspapers - his lips, trailing, tongue exploring, every inch of skin, every mark, freckle, scar. Again, muffled murmurs - “I love you.”

It’s passionate, fire trailing with every touch - slow, craving. But you’re asking for more, and he kept saying it, reassuring. Reassuring in the only way he knew how - the only way he knew how to make you feel needed, wanted - loved. In hindsight, he realises that wasn’t enough.

Because - even on that night, you were still loving each other lustfully, not selflessly.

If you asked an older Matty; he’d say January.  The rather shitty one bedroom flat - London. Almost three years later. Kitchen floor. Him nearing twenty-three, you twenty-one.

The roles had somewhat changed - for the majority of his teenage years, he reckoned he had been the anchor for you, but now - you were, for both sides, something he’d watched you perfect over the years. The art of holding everything together.

Kitchen floor - one in the morning, he had broken a promise. The one thing he had promised you, couldn’t do it. Ripping him apart from the inside out. Jack Daniels and cigarettes. Dark. You were asleep with George.

A light flickering on - you, his boxers, a tank top, rubbing your eyes - and there’s a gasp resembling his name. His heart dropping - in sync with you, dropping to your knees in front of him. Bloodshot eyes, blown out pupils - and he doesn’t realise he’s shaking until your hands are on him. A whisper, voice cracking - eyes flickering, a hint of pain. The sound still lingering around his ears - “Oh, Matty.”

Blood - trudging under his nose, you had wiped it away, your shirt, putting out the cigarette. Sniffles. Sat alongside him - hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder. Your hand - reaching for his, his trembling, fingers lacing. It took a few minutes - tears fell, voice quivering, wavering - calling your name, admittance. “I’m high.”

You just nodded, pressing kisses to his knuckles. Fingers - grasping his jaw, asking him to look at you - he couldn’t, wouldn’t. Fingers pressing - turning his face, meeting your eyes. There’s worry, fear - but your hand squeezed his, voice steady, gaze not faltering. “Matty - look at me. I love you.”

And maybe that hurt worse, that was the knife in his gut - because you shouldn’t. He wasn’t worth it. He shook his head, your grasp tightened, firm. “Matthew - I love you, and I.. I..”

Trailing off, defeated tone. A smile - not reaching his eyes, telling you that you shouldn’t have come with him, be better off without him. You refused. Another stab. Forehead to his, warm breaths, mumbled I love you’s. You promised, swore to him that it would be alright, and he believed you.

Hands, lips - starting to wander, silent reassurances. Skin to skin, soft sounds.

Maybe, it was that night. A new beginning. It wasn’t touches, kisses - sex, out of lust, carnal urges. It wasn’t about getting off. Not about getting off to prove the other was needed, wanted. Because that was already certain - decided on, he knew he was yours and you his.

It was slow, sensual - intimate. It was all the unspoken words, frustrations. Eye contact, heavy whispers. Coaxing - building each other up.

It was selfless. He may have been numb - but it was different from anything from before. Forever etched into his memory, because it should have been the night you walked away. Left him for good. But that would come later.