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heyidkyay · 7 months

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Havin' to be human |

As it's October and Halloween is by far one of my favourite holidays, I thought I'd write something a little different than usual! This is another Matty fic, not sure how long it'll be but if it's well liked I'll post a second part? Happy October, hope you enjoy it:)

Summary: There's a fine line between the living and the dead. I realised that at a very young age and still have yet to escape it- even after forcing myself to move miles away from home. It seems that you can't escape much though in Wilmslow either, not the dead, not overly-involved flatmates, and certainly not the curly haired lad that stands hanging about in cafe's. But when have things ever been easy for me?

“Would you like another biscuit, deary?”

I glance up from my slight daze and draw my eyes away from the staircase sat just outside the living room door to meet the older woman’s weary smile. I’m fine with the six she’s already handed me but I can’t find it in myself to deny her, so I just nod minutely and give her another quiet thank you.

“Sorry about all this, I’m sure he’ll be in any second now.” The woman, Mrs O’Donald, tells me, still fiddling with the biscuit tin. It's one of those metal ones you usually find in old people’s houses, full to the brim with either shortbread or sewing needles. Always one or the other.

“It’s no worry. I don’t mind waiting, I’ve nowhere else to be.” I assure her but she just nods quickly and then starts rearranging the table for the seventh time. I leave her to it, knowing it must bring her some sense of comfort. She seems the type, the many figurines littering the shelves are all in perfect position and the cushions on the sofa look practically untouched.

But while she does that, my gaze ultimately drags its way back over to the doorway, to the bottom step of the staircase where I can still see a tiny hand gripping the banister bar, the rest of the body hidden behind the living room door’s wooden frame. It's eery but I can't keep myself from looking.

I cough lightly after a moment and rest my teacup back on the coffee table, making sure to use one of the many coasters offered, “If you don’t mind me asking, Mrs O’Donald-”

“Rosie, please.”

With a polite smile, I nod. “Rosie.” I correct myself and don’t pay attention to the light tremors in her right hand as she refills my cup once more, I say nothing about it. “I was just going to ask if you had any more children, other than Andrew, of course.”

I’m a little startled then by the way her entire demeanour seems to shift then, as though my question has triggered something deep within her. Gone are the faint tremors and stuttering pleasantries, she’s now sat deathly still, the fidgeting and the strained smile she’s worn since the moment I’d arrived have vanished.

“Just one other.” Mrs O’Donald, or rather Rosie, answers me, her eyes caught on the fireplace mantle now, where a plethora of neatly arranged photo frames crowd together, all of them silver and very detailed.

“Oh,” I reply quietly in return, deciding now to tread with a little caution after having witnessed her previous response, “Are there many years between them?”

The older woman seems to swallow then, her throat bobs and her thin lips tighten, before her eyes dart back to me. I try not to outwardly react, not to still under their sudden scrutiny, their coldness.

“Why? Who told you to ask that?” She immediately quizzes me, hunching further in her armchair now that it takes a great strength in me to keep from cowering back in my own.

“No one.” I hurry to reassure her, and I can hear the tight pitch of my voice, how bewildered I sound. “No one, Mrs O’Donald. I just, I just wanted to know a little more about Andrew. That's all.”

Mrs O’Donald nods then at my lie, but my assurance seems to ebb her sudden worries, which gifts me no reprieve. At all. I’ve often gotten myself into some odd situations, some even more strange than this, but the woman’s reaction to such a simple question is so peculiar that it instantly sets me on edge, not to mention that the little hand on the staircase has vanished now.

Fucking Frankie and all her meddling, I could wring her neck right about now! I think to myself helplessly.

Frankie’s my roommate, you see, we’ve been friends since I’d first moved to town, since I’d left London and got on the first train that had been leaving the platform. I’d seen her ad in the newsagents outside the local train station, all bejewelled and with this ditzy font, and had headed into a nearby cafe to give her a call. She’d been two months behind on rent and had been desperate enough to tack up her spare room on the bulletin board there for a couple hundred quid a month. Then along came me and well, I’d had nowhere else to go.

We’ve been as thick as thieves from the get go though, she’d actually been one to arrange this rather impromptu excursion, having set me up with a lad she knew from secondary that was apparently ‘my exact type’. Not that she really knew what that was, in truth, Frankie knew nothing of actual importance about me, even though we were dead close. She had no idea why I’d even left home, or why I’d come to Wilmslow of all places, and had never once bothered me about it.

My sex life, on the other hand, was something she loved to bug me about to no apparent end. Enough that I’d finally relented and agreed for her to set me up with this mate of hers after having seen a picture of him on Facebook, if only for the reason she’d let this whole thing go. I was perfectly content being on my own, preferred it actually, even when it sometimes grew harder having to keep everything to myself all the time, scared to let people near. But that was just life, wasn’t it, and life was so much easier when everyone around me was none the wiser to my… situation.

Mrs O’Donald appears to have softened a bit now and I try to return the gesture when she gives me a shaky smile. “Sorry, it’s just. It’s hard, even now, to talk about, you know.”

Fuck. I struggle to keep my smile.

“I didn’t mean to pry.” I’m quick to tell her, my chest tightening as I draw in another slow breath. I can see that the small hand is back now, there, just out of the corner of my eye. “We can pretend that I didn’t even ask, hey?”

The woman just shakes her head at me though and for the millionth time today I wish I’d never stepped foot through that fucking door.

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” Mrs O’Donald says, although I’m pretty sure she’s only doing it to reassure herself. “It was a long, long time ago. Gary says it does me no good to linger on the memory. And our Andrew’s the same.”

I have zero fucking idea as to who Gary could possibly be, her husband maybe? But I don’t even ask, just willing myself to pop out of existence then and there. Or for her pink puffy chaise longue to eat me whole.

“Right.” Is all I can bring myself to say, and it’s then that my mind finally relents in its stubbornness and allows my eyes to wander back over towards the staircase again, only I’m not fully prepared for what I see. The hand is still there, only now it’s joined by another, the pair of them bracketing a wan head with unrelenting eyes.

I jump on instinct at the image and send the teacup I’d taken to cradling again soaring through the air. Mrs O’Donald jumps too, though her reaction is solely down to me, and I find myself so surprised that all I can really do is ramble, “I am so sorry. Honestly, I don’t know what came over me. I’m so, so sorry, Mrs O’Donald. Here let me-”

The woman, who appears to be in better shape now that she has something to occupy herself with, is waving my apologies away freely, a tea towel already in hand as she pivots around to wipe up the spilled tea. “Not to worry, dear. I’m the same somedays, just one of those things, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” I breathe out, though my stare is still stuck on the staircase and the tiny little boy staring back at me through its wooden railings. “Just one of those things.” I murmur.

To say I made a clean break for it after that, would’ve been an absolute lie, seeing as how the second I tried to say my goodbyes to Mrs O’Donald, claiming that I suddenly felt a bit under the weather and apologising once again for the spillage, did Andrew walk through the front door.

“Oh Andrew! You’re just in time.” Mrs O’Donald all but beams, a total contrast to the woman who’s been serving me tea and biscuits in her living room for the past twenty minutes. She hurries over to the front door to properly welcome him in whilst I linger in the hallway, only a foot away from the bottom of the staircase, trying incredibly hard not to concentrate on the soundless feet kicking at the skirting-board.

So before Andrew could even utter a word to me, or simply breathe in my direction, I was slipping between the pair of them and out the front door before you could say ‘goodbye’. I practically legged it down their street, even as Andrew called out after me in obvious confusion, and didn’t stop running until I was far too winded and amongst the noise of the high-street in town.

I wasn’t always like this. I swear.

It had started out with whispers, mostly soft and indistinct, but occasionally a single voice would stand out amongst the others. I’d be on the motorway in mum’s car and suddenly hear ‘Look out, oh God, look out!’ in a frenzied voice that would quickly cut off, or ‘Such a fucking slag, knew she’d move right on-’ on the walk home from school, and even ‘Are you sure I locked the front door before we left?’ whenever I bypassed the house at the end of this one street.

They’d drift in and out of oscillation like a poorly tuned radio. Sometimes the voices are fuzzy, almost silent and barely there, whilst other times they can be so real and immediate that they have me spinning around in a circle trying to work out who’s talking.

It quickly grew from there though, the voices went from being carried on a nonexistent wave to falling from faintly drawn lips caught in a blur of movement. I’d see them just out of the corner of my eye, whenever I’d turn a bend or glance over my shoulder. The visions also made me pause abruptly, stop to catch the breath that had left me, they were like trails of smoke caught on the wind, like wisps from a candle freshly blown out. But even after that, with the seeing and the hearing, things still changed. The blurry images adapted, became more evident, more vivid. They went from hazy chance glances to people crowding busy intersections or sitting by a bridge. Had little girls with snapped necks living in my childhood bedroom and the neighbours lost dog sniffing around my ankles.

Even then though they tended to loop, to say the same things, and follow the same path. The little girl back home would often climb the stairs at night and I’d hear her footfalls, never a step mistook, always the same pattern, the same beat. Always repeating, apologising, crying. Enough that it started to drain me, enough so that I could no longer sleep in that house at night. Enough to force me out and away.

Only recently have they started to interact more, see that I truly am there, that I can see them as much as they can see me. They don’t appear to forget as much either. Don’t repeat like they did for so many of the years before. When I ask them questions, they can choose to answer, they differentiate from their previous paths, follow me about with a questioning gaze instead of continuing the same cycle.

That little boy back at the O’Donald’s house, he was one of them. He knew I’d seen him too. From the second I’d sat down. But he’d been reluctant to come any closer than the staircase, why I don’t know, but I chose not to dwell too long on it.

I finally breathe a sigh of relief when I see the front door to our flat, all pretty with the wreath Frankie had adorned it with, not to mention the brightly coloured paint that set it vastly apart from the rest of the street’s. I don’t think I’d ever been more thankful to see it, in fact, not even after that first time when Frankie had invited me inside and let me call it home.

“Oi, and there you are! Honestly, what do you think you’re playing at? I’ve just had Andrew on the phone, ranting away! Said he just got in through the door when you all but bolted your way out of the house to run like a mad man on a mission down the street! I mean, what on Earth were you-” I’ve just slipped into the warmth of our little two bed and Frankie pauses the second she rounds the corner to the hallway, catching the gaunt face I’m sporting. “Oh, shit. You alright?”

I can only chuckle as I struggle to remove the coat I’d thrown on earlier. “Oh me? I’m fine!” I huff sarcastically, all but chucking the leather jacket up onto one of the hangers we have in the hall, “Fucking brill, me!" I add, but I’m still fighting for breath as I slump against the wall slightly to cast her a narrow-eyed glance, “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me Andrew had a dead little brother?”

“He what?” Frankie shoots straight back, eyes as wide as bowling balls and bleached eyebrows practically hitting her hairline.

“Andrew. Dead brother.” I repeat, forcing myself back onto steady feet so that I can slip past her and head into the kitchen, “What is there not to get about that?”

“No I definitely got it, just… processing?” She replies in that familiar twang of hers, voice carrying its way through the flat.

“How could you not think to tell me, of all people, that tiny little detail?” I complain in a whiney groan as I set to sticking the kettle on, I'm still struggling to wrap my head around the whole ordeal and sitting honestly feels like the worst thing I could possibly do.

I hear her footfalls follow shortly behind me and when they stop I glance up to find her stood in the doorway, eyes still wide as ever.

“I didn’t know.” Is what Frankie settles on, her arms hanging limply by her sides, “I didn’t know.”

I pause immediately. Her words well and truly hitting me like a truck.

“Oh, oh shit, Fran. God, I’m so sorry.” I hurry to apologise, a hand covering my mouth as she slowly makes her way across the kitchen tiles. “I didn’t even think. I had no idea. Fuck."

A startled laugh escapes her at that, but I know there’s no real humour in it. “Yeah, me either.”

We just stand there staring at each other for a long while, both in obvious shock. Me trying to get over the experience, her coming to terms with the newfound information I'd all but thrown in her face.

It’s the kettle whistling that sets the two of us back into motion. I look over to it and then back at her, we both seem to just move on instinct then, her heading to the fridge for the milk, semi-skimmed for her, almond for me, and I grab two mugs to fill with the usual brand of tea.

A quiet settles after that, until we’re both curled up on the sofa at least, tele on low and a brew in hand. Fran’s taken to sprawling herself across her end whilst I crowd myself up against the sofa’s back, knees touching my chest.

“So, dead little brother?”

I hum lowly at the cut in the silence, watching Fran's expression from over the rim of my cup, steam hazing the view.

“How dead we talking here?”

I roll my eyes but can’t help the breathy laugh that escapes me as I grip my mug a little tighter, mainly just wanting the warmth. There always came an unrelenting cold whenever dealing with the dead, and I was almost always cold these days.

“Pretty dead.” I tell her, pursing my lips when the image of his little face comes to the forefront of my mind, “He had these dark circles around his eyes, big and blue. He looked so,” I draw in a breath, “I don’t know, he just looked so small and bony. Wasting almost.”

“Cheers.” I snap myself out of it and look back over when I hear Frankie’s voice, I wince at the expression she now wears, all pale and pensive, though trying her best to cover it up.

“Sorry.” I mumble, but she merely waves me off, shaking herself out of it before she takes a sip of her milky brew.

“Don’t matter, just, can’t believe I never knew of it.” She exhales heavily, “He was young though, yeah? So like maybe he died back when Andy were a kid or summat.”

My eyes narrow in thought, “I don’t reckon so, when I asked whether she had any other children Mrs O’Donald got all weird about it, she just changed all of a sudden, and then when I wondered the same thing you just did, I questioned how many years were between them- the boys, I mean. She switched up, Fran. Like, gone was the wobbly old woman and there was this massive fuckin’ viper ready to strike me down.”

“Weird.” Frankie comments and she pulls the face she makes whenever something doesn't sit right with her. “Never seen her act like that, was always so skittish whenever we saw her out. Her husband never let her leave the house much though, my mum reckoned they had a bit of a domestic going on.”

I find myself glancing out the living room window, mulling her words over as well as the entire situation. “Maybe. The kid seemed withdrawn too, didn’t move from off the staircase the whole time I was there.”

“They usually move about then?” I hear Fran ask me and I hum as I blink, “These ghosts of yours...”

A small smile graces my lips and I roll my eyes once more before turning back to her, “They’re not my ghosts. And yeah, typically. Sometimes they’re stuck in a loop-”

“What, like reliving their death?” She grimaces at the very notion.

“Yeah,” I admit a little reluctantly, because it always seems to make me feel uneasy whenever I linger too long on it. “But then they sort of become more animate once they know I can see them too.”

“Oh, so you’re sort of like a battery then?”

“Pardon?” I snort, unable to help myself.

“A battery!” Frankie parrots a little livelier this time, smiling over at me as she pushes herself to sit up properly. “You like power them and crap, give them the energy to step off the path, you know?”

I wrinkle my nose, “Never thought of it like that.”

“‘Course not! But that’s why you have me, in’t it?” Fran snipes back, settling her tea down on the coffee table to give me her full focus. “Tell me more about Andrew’s brother then, did he say anything, do anything?”

I sigh whilst shaking my head, saddened by the fact that I now feel as though I have to set my cup down too. Frankie seems to get like this sometimes, where she gets overly excited by the things that intrigue her. When I’d first mentioned all this seeing spirits thing to her- it was only after I’d taken a trip with her to her nan’s house and seen her grandad mowing the grass- I’d still been getting used to the whole change in sight thing and had waved to the old man in the garden as we’d walked by, only realising just after that Frankie's grandad had been dead almost ten years. Fran had been eager to learn more once she’d pestered me enough into coming clean about the whole thing. Not once has she made me regret telling her though.

“He didn’t say anything, just kept looking. Watching.” I tell her truthfully, thinking back to the boy's empty eyes.

“Creepy.”

I chuck a cushion at her for that, which she only narrowly avoids by ducking, it skids across the living room floor and bumps against the tall cabinet we brought home a few weeks ago. “Not creepy, just, he’s dead, Fran. It’s all, well, it's all a little bit creepy but they're still people.”

She just shrugs and gestures for me to continue.

I sigh, “He wouldn’t leave the staircase, even when Andrew came home. Most times ghosts will just carry out their tasks, but sometimes when loved ones are near they’ll deviate and track them instead. This kid just sat there though, watching his mum and brother as he kicked his feet off the skirting-board at the bottom of the stairs."

Frankie hums as she listens, but then pipes up with “Did he die there then, on the staircase maybe?” when I’ve finished and it breaks me from my own train of thought.

“‘Spose so, bit grim to think about though. Could’ve just tripped and fell, hit his head, died instantly.” I reply, chewing on my bottom lip as I fight not to think of any other scenario that could’ve occurred. Fran, on the other hand, is not like that though- meaning, I wouldn’t be surprised if she came home one day and told me she was going to become Wilmslow’s next big detective.

“Could’ve been pushed too, by the dad maybe? He wasn’t much of man, bit too short, too hefty, and had the ugliest mug you'd ever seen- me and mum always wondered how he’d managed to score a pretty thing like Mrs O’Donald.”

I purse my lips and inhale, “Could’ve been any of them if we’re going down that route.”

I feel more than see Frankie still then. “What, you reckon Mrs O’Donald could have done it?”

“Maybe,” I shrug a single shoulder, picking up my mug again. “I mean, she changed so quickly when I was there and I’d only been with her twenty minutes. Never know what could’ve happened behind closed doors.”

“Shit.” Fran murmurs and I almost feel bad when I add, “Could’ve just as easily been Andrew too.” Because her head snaps up so quickly she actually winces.

“What? No. Not Andrew, he’s far too lovely! Even in school he was well liked, everyone wanted to be his mate.” Frankie argues, adamant as she shakes her head. “There’s no way.”

“Okay, didn’t mean to upset you, babe, but I was only mentioning it. Everyone has a story, Fran, have things that they hide, that they don’t want other people to see.”

Frankie shakes her head and releases a heavy breath, sat cross-legged now, “No, I’m not upset. Well I am, but only ‘cause I set you up with him- and what does that say about me if he’s a killer!”

I pause entirely at that, before I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up out of my throat, throwing another cushion that does actually hit her this time. “You’re such a fucking self-obsessed twat.”

“Oi!” She immediately retorts, chucking the pillow straight back at me. “I’m not, but just- could you imagine? I’d have to rethink my entire life!”

I roll my eyes, “You’re such a drama queen.”

“And you, my dear, are in dire need of a good shag. So I apologise that I’m the only one here with their head screwed on straight.” She stretches over the settee to grab at her cup, wrinkling her nose when she finds it to now be cold, though she still drinks it. “But at least we can rule Andy out now, even if he didn’t push his brother down the stairs I don’t think he’ll be wanting to see you again.”

“Oh ta, Fran. I’m a catch, thank you very much.” I snark, all bark and no bite. “But yeah, glad we can put all this shit behind us now.”

“Um, no. That is not what I said. Now it just means that we can move onto the next guy on the list!”

“List?!” I squawk indignantly, Frankie just grins all shark like.

“Huh, I figured you would have worked that out by now. You’ve been here seven months, babe, so that means I’ve had thirty something weeks to work out a catalogue of people who might have yet to catch your eye.”

“Frankie.” I warn.

But she just keeps on grinning, the cow. “You can thank me for it later.”

And she leaves it at that, pushing up off the sofa to stand and make her way back into the kitchen, “Fancy another?” She asks me with her raised mug in hand. I huff but ultimately nod, not looking forward to this charade she’s been apparently been planning in her head for months now.

It’s a couple days later and the dust has barely settled when Fran asks me to meet up with her in this local coffee shop just off the main street in town. It’s her absolute favourite, she used to frequent it all the time up until her ex from college got a job there, but according to the rumour mill he apparently just got the sack after having been caught selling on the side- “coffee and a baggie, please and thanks.” Anyway, Frankie had been over the moon to hear about it and had popped in first chance she got, came home grinning that same afternoon with a latte in hand and a lemon loaf to share in the other.

The loaf was to die for though, so I couldn’t blame her for the ruthlessness and understood why she was so keen to meet up there. I only wished she’d given me a bit more notice, I’d been halfway through researching a little more into the O’Donalds- because I could never seem to let anything go- that I’d barely even had the chance to run a brush through my hair. Still, I managed to make it in time and found myself smiling as I pushed through the door to the shop, a warmth wafting over me.

My eyes scan the crowd first, it’s not busy, only a handful of people litter the open space, but the cafe’s really welcoming, makes it feel like a place you can come to hideaway, what with all the dim lighting and wood furnishing. I step in further but can’t seem to catch sight of Fran just yet, so I pull out my phone to shoot her a text, figuring I can just order while I wait. Only, she’s apparently already beat me to it, texted I mean, telling me that she won’t be able to make it, that something came up, and then practically demanding me to stay and try the place out.

It’s a heavy sigh that I let go of as I send her off a quick reply and tuck my phone back into my pocket, feeling a little miffed about the fact that she’d forced me out of the flat only to bail at the very last second.

“You alright?”

I blink at the sudden voice and instinctively glance up to find its owner, a curly haired male leaning against the shop’s counter looks me over with the beginnings of a smile.

My brows shoot up on their own accord and I glance over my shoulder to make sure that he’s actually talking to me, which seemingly makes him laugh.

“Yeah, I meant you there, Dottie.” He says and when I look back over he’s sporting a proper grin.

I frown at the gifted name and tilt my head down in confusion to peer at the outfit I’d chosen, “What?”

“Your scarf.” He tells me with a jerk of his chin, gesturing towards the silk square I’d used to tie my hair back only half an hour earlier. Instantly I reach up to touch it whilst he merely smirks, sharp eyes still trained on me.

“Oh, um. Yeah I’m alright, why?”

He simply shrugs and it’s with that gesture that I catch sight of the guitar case behind him, it’s a similar colour to that of his eyes but covered in an array of stickers and pins. “Look like you’ve been stood up or something, face is all... sad.”

I can’t help the airy chuckle that escapes me, he’s hit the nail on the head there. “Not sad, more like pissed off.” I shoot back and step closer to the counter to get a better look at what they’ve got to offer. I’m already here, so who would it hurt if I grabbed myself a treat?

“Ah, so you were stood up then!”

I turn my head towards him now that we’re standing more in line with one another, his hip resting against the display case, me facing the chalked boards. “Could say that. Was meant to be meeting my flatmate here, but turns out she couldn’t make it.”

He hums, pursing his lips a tad as he watches me and I just let him, looking back up towards the menu- only, it’d be much easier to see if I was wearing my glasses. Hated the things though, made me look all square, like my head was too big for my shoulders or something. Stupid, I know. But I suppose I was just that vain.

Frankie would laugh about it if she were actually here, I think, already knowing about the blur I’d been met with.

“You work here then?” I quiz the guy, figuring I could either just get a simple breakfast tea or… “Know what’s best to get?”

At my question, he seems to shift so that he’s truly facing me and I note the wooden stirrer he’s holding between his teeth, as well as the way his eyes flitter across my face. “Don’t work here, no. Just waiting for my mate to finish up with his shift, though I am in here enough to know that the honey bee cortado is an actual, honest to God, blessing.”

“That so?”

That smile of his widens, his stare relentless even as a tall, curly haired boy clad in a green apron wanders in from the back.

“G, make this girl one of your specials, will you?” He says to the barista, or ‘G’ rather, who doesn’t even bat an eye at the ask, so I’m guessing that this is a usual thing. “That’s George, by the way,” The stranger beside me states, “And I’m Matty.” Weirdly he extends a hand out to me with that and I feel mostly amused as I reach out to take it, shaking his with a smile that can’t be helped.

“Y/n.” I return.

Matty hisses between clenched teeth, looking as though my name has actually injured him somehow, my hand still cradled in his. “Nah, sorry, can’t get behind that. Don’t suit you.” He flashes a quick glance over his shoulder at the barista or well, said mate George, “Doesn’t suit her does it, G?”

“Don’t suit her.” George answers with a minute shake of his head, fiddling away with the coffee machine. His tone’s gruff, matches his stoney exterior a bit, but I can see the small curve of his mouth as he flicks a lever.

“See?” Matty practically beams, extending the hand not holding mine outwards to further exaggerate his point. “Dottie though, I like that.”

“Makes me sound like an old woman.” I huff, wrinkling my nose enough that my brows crowd towards one another.

“And still, you set my heart racing, darling.” He swoons theatrically and I can’t not roll my eyes at him before glancing downwards once more.

“You gonna gimme my hand back anytime soon, or?” I ask and Matty seems to realise then that he’s still in fact got my hand held in his, but that revelation only has him grinning harder and he moves to swing the joint pair between us both. He’s far too sure of himself, I deem.

“Nah, been chilly all morning, ain’t it? So I reckon I’m doing you a favour by warming you up.”

I raise a single brow- yup, what a cocky little shit. “Could always order yourself a brew if you’re cold.”

He pulls a face at my suggestion, “Wouldn’t feel the same though, would it?”

“Well, it looks as though you’re times up anyway, seems George here has just finished with my drink.” I reply, smiling as I move to step away, but Matty holds strong, leaving his guitar case to lean against the counter alone while he follows after me. I chuckle, shaking my head at him, “You always this needy?”

Matty hums but he’s nothing if not persistent, “Might be. Why, would that put you off?”

I narrow my eyes at him but turn to grab at the mug George has pushed onto the counter. “Might do.” I say, unable to help myself, “But sweaty palms do, and I also need my hand free to pay for this.”

Matty’s chocolate coloured eyes drop down to my mug and then back up to George, who’s stood waiting patiently by the till. “I’ll get it.” He suddenly tells me and then immediately starts riffling through his coat pocket. I blink, look between both him and George, who still appears as though this is nothing to be surprised about, and it’s only when Matty withdraws a crumpled fiver from his back pocket do I find my voice.

“You’re fine! It’s alright, I can get it, honest. But thanks.”

Matty waves me off, awkwardly what with him still holding both my hand and the newly acclaimed five pound note, then rolls his eyes at my rambling, “Nah honestly, I’ve got it. Least I can do for forcing you to put up with G’s crappy coffee.”

George just snorts, snatching the fiver from his mate’s hand, while I purse my lips slightly, “I thought you claimed it to be an honest to a God blessing? If this is shit, I’m holding you accountable.”

“Ignore him, it’s instinctual for him to be a twat.” George sighs as he closes up the till, Matty’s brow furrows.

“Oi firstly, you’re the twat. And secondly, where’s my change?”

“In my tip jar.” George is quick to retort, forcing a pleased grin for his friend before he’s walking his way back through the door he came from, “I’ll be two minutes, yeah? And you’d better be ready to leave ‘cause I’m not dealing with Adam’s bitching again.”

Matty just tuts and I realise that now it’s just him and I in a shop full of people who’ve been watching this entire exchange. “Ignore him,” He tells me, “Well, don’t. Adam will definitely be pissed if we’re late, but a couple minutes for you won’t hurt anybody.”

I just shake my head, hoping to hide my smile as I pick up the recently brewed coffee to take a sip. It turns out that as well as being an arrogant prat, Matty is also a liar, because the drink is heaven sent and I prove it with the soft sigh that falls from my lips. “Fuck, that’s really good.”

When I glance back up I’m only a tad embarrassed by my reaction when I see Matty’s cheeky smirk, even more so when he wets his bottom lip and I have to force myself to look away.

“G’s known for his coffee around here, should see the Yelp reviews from the yummy mummy’s that stop in after dropping their kids off at playgroup- we actually spent an entire night reading through them once, taking shots every time G cringed.” Matty reveals with a conspiratorial grin and he seems to delight in hearing me laugh.

“I can almost imagine it.”

He hums, this low thing that resonates from deep within, “Should join us one time.”

“Us?”

When Matty nods his whole body moves with it, as though the rest of him disdains the thought of being left idle, the thought makes me smile. “Yeah, got this band. Four of us, me and a few mates. Should come see us rehearse, if you’re up for it.”

I squint back at him, not refusing the offer but wondering over it. “We’ve only just met, what if this is all a plan to lure me into your music obsessed cult?”

“Well, if it’s a cult, it’s a fucking small one. But I don’t think we’ll be Britain’s next Manson family so I reckon you’ll be alright.” Matty quips back and I just nod, taking another sip to hide my growing grin.

“You do this a lot, don’t you?” I can’t help but say, and at the tilt of Matty’s questioning head I carry on, “Flirt and hope you can rope some poor girl into bed by saying you’re in a band. Play ‘em a few chords and flash that smile, not that I’d blame them.”

Matty appears to take it in stride though and doesn’t even comment on the assumption, “And why wouldn’t you blame them? Is it the charming smile, or am I just that fit?”

I snort, then cover my mouth to keep myself from spitting out the sip I’d taken, only a little ashamed by the noise I’d just made. “No, think it’s more down to the fact that you’ve still to let go of my hand. Reckon even if I say no, you’ll still find a way to drag me along with you.”

“Ah, how you wound me, darling!” And our connected palms start swaying again, I realise in the next moment, after having looked down, that Matty’s closed the distance between us even further. I startle only slightly when my eyes lock right onto his. “So, how about it then? You coming or staying?”

And just as I’m about to reply, biting back the smile that wants to overwhelm my face, do I see him again. Just out of the corner of my eye. The flicker of a face pressed up against the shop’s window. I still instantly and the cup slips from my hand.

The boy, it’s the O’Donald boy and he's staring right back at me.

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