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adore-healy · 1 year

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The Birthday Party.

Matty and y/n have a heart to heart.

Warnings: Mentions of drug use, addiction and rehab (nothing graphic) and occasional bad language.

The Birthday Party.

You’re not drunk.

At least not drunk enough to do this. Even with your judgement partially clouded in your hazy mind thanks to the shots of tequila and vodka combined (you know there will be violence in your stomach later) and the feeling of carelessness that washes over you after a few too many, there’s no way that enough alcohol has passed your lips to even consider taking part in your friends’ party ritual.

So instead, you excuse yourself; conjure up a lie; not that anybody cares; they’re far too gone to notice your absence anyway; and you’re not complaining.

Using the bannister to support your swaying body as you lean against it, you manage to singlehandedly climb the stairs where the words to the music become incoherent and all that’s heard is the thumping beat reverberating throughout the house.

Reaching your bedroom, you make a beeline for the ensuite, the white wooden door the last obstacle to combat before your destination. Fiddling with the doorknob, it takes a couple of attempts before you’re able to twist it enough to be able to open the door and stumble into the bathroom.

“‘Hey, poppet,” a soft voice sounds behind the shower curtain.

There’s a hint of huskiness and a slight edge to the tone and you’d recognise that northern accent anywhere. Your hand reaches for the material that hangs above the bath and you pull it back, revealing your best friend, Matty, laying in the bathtub.

He peers up to you through the curly hair that flops over his forehead — you’re surprised he can see anything through the mop — although perhaps more impressed that he’s in his thirties and is yet to start the balding process.

“What …” you breathe softly, stunned to see that the usual life and soul of the party is the most withdrawn tonight.

“Good job I’m not naked, innit?” he smirks up at you before taking a swig from the bottle of red wine he clutches in his hand. “Could’ve been ‘aving a bath and all sorts, love.”

You stare down at him, speechless, drinking in his demeanour. You hadn’t seen him arrive at the party, none the wiser that he’d even attended as of yet, so it confirms your suspicions that he was running late as usual, since timing had never been his strong point, and you’re left wondering how long he’d been hiding; adorned in his stripy jumper (albeit slightly moth bitten) paired with his black skinny jeans; looking every inch the soft boyfriend.

Running your tongue over your bottom lip, the lingering taste of tequila haunts you and you’re berating yourself for being in this situation because you’re not drunk — at least not drunk enough to do this.

“You’re blushing.”

It’s not a question but rather a statement; and one that leaves you feeling a little rattled at his observation.

“Thinking about me naked in the bath, are ya?” he asks with a smirk, taking another mouthful of the crimson liquid.

“Oh fuck off,” you roll your eyes and dismiss his banter, before taking the bottle effortlessly from his hand and helping yourself to his drink. One mouthful is enough for you to cringe at the taste, the burning sensation hitting your throat instantly. “Fucking hate Merlot,” you grimace, defeatedly handing him back the bottle.

“I know,” he sighs in understanding, accepting the bottle back into his hand and taking another sip as he intently watches you lower your body to the floor and shuffle back to lean against the radiator to support your drunken state.

A comfortable silence washes over you both and for a moment it feels as though you’re living in a coming-of-age movie where the protagonist and the, usually somewhat unaware love interest, transition from friends to lovers — although you know it’s your mind playing tricks on you since you’d accepted very early on in your friendship that you and Matty would be nothing more than friends.

You’d often be in the background of his lifestyle choices; forced to watch on each time a ridiculously hot girl would leave his apartment the morning after the night before; or stood in the VIP section during tours and seeing Matty kissing some of his most devoted fans at the barrier. It was painful then; and agonising now. Whilst you know Matty holds you in high regard (and you would never doubt that), selfishly, it wasn’t enough for you.

“Hiding from your own birthday party?” he asks knowingly, raising an eyebrow.

His question snaps you out of your daydream and you’re only too grateful to be distracted from your idealistic notion. You nod and let out a breathless laugh, simultaneously hoping that the chemicals in your brain would diffuse the fantasy that was playing out inside your mind.

“Yeah, too much attention,” you shrug nonchalantly. “Can’t all be like you, you know.”

Normally your joke — admittedly at his expense — about his egotistical self-indulgence would result in some back and forth banter but he’s been your best friend for years, and despite your disbelief, he knows you (probably better than you know yourself at times) and he’s not willing to accept your excuse.

“You’re forgettin’ who you’re talking to, darlin’,” he murmurs, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth as he observes your features. “Can tell me, you know? ’s just me, innit?” he reassures you, in an attempt to put your obvious nervousness at ease.

Your eyes avert to a spot on the floor as you try to focus your brain into working in tandem with your mouth; something that proves to be more challenging having been the one to down the most shots during a game of Drunk Jenga in your kitchen less than an hour ago.

“Drugs,” you blurt out.

Matty’s attention span is heightened at just one word alone — fear being the forefront emotion.

“What ‘ave you taken, love?” he quickly asks, panic evident in his voice as he sits up suddenly at your revelation.

You shake your head and hold up your hand, hoping to diminish the uncomfortable thoughts that plague his mind.

“It’s not me,” you quickly clarify. “Sorry.”

You can’t mistake his sigh of relief but his eyes still scan your features despite the physical distance between the two of you. He relaxes back into the bath, resuming his previous position, once he’s satisfied that you’re safe and not under the influence of any illegal substance.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, it’s not fair.”

“’s fine, love. ’s not your fault. Seems we’re both in here for the same reason though,” he tells you, a small smile dancing on his lips at the irony of the situation. “I heard Greg saying everyone was fucked up. Some of the girls were asking me to join them, too.”

You subconsciously roll your eyes.

“Mel,” you exhale, shaking your head, knowing the culprit. “I’m so sorry, Matty, I didn’t know …”

“She offered me heroin,” he interrupts you.

Your eyes find the ceiling, disbelief consuming you as you lean your head back against the radiator, processing the delivery of the information; shocked at the audacity of a so-called friend and how she could be so inconsiderate.

“Oh, Matty,” you sigh sadly, pulling your knees towards your chest and hugging them tightly, resting your chin atop of them.

“‘m glad you’re here,” his voice is laced with sincerity. “Didn’t want you to think I was hiding from you. You mean the world to me, love, but all your friends in one place is … it’s a lot,” he breathes, running a hand through his hair. “They take that shit recreationally and can stop whenever they like …”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me … or to anyone,” you reassure him, softly.

“I want to,” he gulps, a slight nervousness at the direction this conversation has taken. Pointing his forefinger to his head, he continues; “’s jus’ always there, y’know. Can’t be around it and not want it, ’s why I needed to get away from it all. I … I don’t think I could control it if I went back there and when I haven’t got full control of it, it takes over me … and it’s hell. Can’t be stuck there again. I don’t want to go back there. I don’t ever want to be that person again, doll. I can’t be that person again.”

He closes his eyes, running a free hand over his face and you know that both shame and guilt are consuming him this very second. Matty’s heroin addiction was highlighted upon his admission to rehab and whilst he and his family never hid from the truths of his illness, the devastating effect it had on him and the people around him was the constant living reminder that a relapse could affect his recovery and jeopardise everything he worked so hard to achieve.

You nod in understanding and shuffle forwards towards the bathtub. You reach for his hand, removing it from his face, and you grasp his ring clad fingers within your own, subconsciously fiddling with the jewellery.

“Matty, look at me,” you encourage, and he does so, almost instantaneously. “You’ve come so far and we’re all so proud of you. You’ll never go back to being that person,” you assure him. “You recognise when things are … a lot … and you remove yourself from that situation. You know how to stop that desire from escalating and you know that you have friends, real friends, that you can talk to about this. You’re never on your own, Matty. I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you,” he whispers, emotion overwhelming him as he raises your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your skin. “Needed to hear that,” he mumbles. “’s just sometimes I feel like a shitty friend to you; I rely on you so much to stay clean; ’s like I take advantage of knowing you’ll always be there to pick up the pieces. You’re a safe space for me, y’know.”

“You’re not a shit friend, Matthew,” you give him a small smile, knowing that the use of his full name will tease him and diffuse any tension throughout this circumstance. “I’m glad you trust me enough to share that with me. And just for the record, you’re a safe space for me, too.”

He presses another kiss to the back of your hand, a soft whisper of, “Made you cry, love, ‘m so sorry,” bringing you back to reality — although you hadn’t even noticed the tears that pooled in your eyes during the conversation.

“Honestly, look at the fuckin’ state of us,” he snorts, shaking his head disbelief. “We look a right scene, ‘specially you, crying at your own birthday party.”

Your fingers remain interlocked as you wittily remark, “Me?! Sorry rockstar, but you used to do coke in the bathroom at parties, and now you’re hiding in them!”

“Touché,” he smirks, winking back at you. “We should probably get back, love. People will start talkin’.”

Let them you want to tell him, but you don’t. Instead, reality hits you like a ton of bricks as a quick glance around the bathroom ensures the porcelain toilet in your peripheral has you begging to release the vast amount of alcohol you’d consumed throughout the night.

“Need a wee,” you state simply.

“Go ahead,” Matty nods towards the toilet in encouragement.

“Not with you in here!” you gasp in disgust.

“Promise I won’t look,” he tells you, holding his free hand up in defence.

“Too bloody right you won’t look!” you shriek as you stand from your spot and pull the shower curtain closed, separating the two of you once again. Now out of sight, you feel a little more at ease; although one more thing would make you totally comfortable with urinating in his presence.

“Have you seriously turned the tap on?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you tell him as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world, lowering yourself onto the toilet to ease the ache from your bladder that had been building up.

“Why?” he confusedly asks.

“Because I don’t want you to hear me pissing.”

You hear Matty laugh and you just know it’s the sort of giggle that has him throwing his head back, dimples etched deep within his skin, as his wide smile shows off his ridiculously perfectly teeth. How you wish you could kiss those dimples he’d been blessed with; your lips brushing over his rough stubble. You shake your head at the intrusive thoughts — thoughts you shouldn’t be having about your best friend.

“Been bringin’ you on tour wi’ me for the last four years, doll. Think ‘m over hearing ya piss by now.”

You roll at your eyes at his comment before being satisfied that you’ve emptied your bladder. You flush the contents of the toilet bowl, sort yourself out, and wash your hands, before pulling the shower curtain back to reveal Matty once more. Holding out your hand, you encourage him out of the bath.

He gratefully accepts the gesture and climbs out of the porcelain tub. His other hand steadily holds the red wine and once both of his feet are firmly on the cold tiles, despite your hatred of the alcoholic liquid housed within the bottle, you can’t help but crave the taste of something other than the lingering tequila and you reach forwards. As you do so, you lose your balance and Matty’s timely reaction has you stumbling into his embrace.

“Whoa, steady love,” he giggles.

You don’t even process what you’re about to do. Perhaps its the liquid confidence; spirits running through your veins; or maybe it’s the vulnerable emotions and overwhelming conversations that have taken place tonight that make you think fuck it as you reach up onto your tiptoes and press your lips against Matty’s.

It’s soft and tender; admittedly, not a kiss that holds much conviction.

“Whoa,” Matty repeats, pulling his mouth away from yours. His hands remain around your body, his hold on you exhibiting the reality of oxymorons; delicate (as though you’re a piece of glass ready to break with the slightest touch) but also firm (preventing your body from swaying in your drunken state).

You gaze up at him breathlessly, before murmuring a quick apology.

“S…sorry,” you stutter, shaking your head, pathetically attempting to remove yourself from his hold.

“You’re wasted, darlin’,” he states the obvious as he places his hands either side of your face, his eyes intently scanning your features. “So fuckin’ wasted,” he whispers under his breath as he leans towards you, lips hovering just above yours, close enough for you to inhale the lingering smell of his cigarette smoke.

You’re disappointed, however, when he instead opts for resting his forehead against yours, closing his eyes.

“I can’t,” he mutters sympathetically, breathless as he licks his lips, before continuing, “Can’t stop myself if I go there darlin’ and you’re drunk. Can’t take advantage of you, love, not like this.” He pulls away the slightest amount before his eyes scan over your features once more in an attempt to read you.

“’s not taking advantage if I want it,” you tell him, surprised at how easily you’re both playing into this.

He presses his lips against your forehead, the twitch against your skin indicating that he’s smirking. He allows for the tender moment to linger — perhaps for longer than he should.

“You’re drunk,” he repeats, a reminder to himself more than anything.

“‘m not that drunk,” you tell him, almost as though you’re a petulant child.

“You’ll regret it in the morning,” he responds.

“What if I won’t?” you press.

He ponders for a moment because fuck he wants this so bad, too. You’re his best friend and he doesn’t want to ruin your existing relationship but he’s aching for you; desperate to have you in every aspect of his life as something more; but despite his longing for you, he wants the sober version of yourself to make a conscious decision. He sighs heavily, his thumbs skimming your cheeks. You whimper at his affectionate gesture and wrap your hands around his wrists, holding them in place.

“Then if you still want me, you can have me,” he speaks with conviction. “Can ‘ave me, darlin’. Can ‘ave all of me.”

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