wiinterrose:
things hang in uneasy balance for a moment, matty glaring up at him, the glass of water still suspended between them and feeling like more than just a glass of water. matty gives quicker than he expects with ducking eyes that makes it difficult to possibly glean what’s turning behind beautiful irises. usually it’s him that gives in first : always the first to cave, the first to forgive, the first to try to avoid an argument ( maybe in some ways, that’d been the problem — too eager to PLEASE ). matty takes the glass and mikey doesn’t know if this feels more like victory or defeat — perhaps neither, it just is. his eyes linger on the movement of the adam’s apple bobbing in matty’s throat before he forces himself to look away, only to look back again a moment later at his petulant question. this feels harder than anything he’s done, each emotional step tested out carefully in fear of taking the wrong one ( but he doesn’t even know where he’s going, where they’re going and that makes this near impossible ).
the still unopened package of oreos is dropped unceremoniously into matty’s lap and after a moment of hesitation, mikey settles down on the couch beside him, not too close but probably not as far away as he should either. truth is even the opposite end of the cushions probably wouldn’t be enough space to dampen the potency of matty’s presence, to quiet the urge to drag him into his lap and keep him there until they passed out in a mess of limbs at odd angles. he toys with his own hands in his lap to them something to do, tongue passing over his lips again. “ try not to get any crumbs on the couch, ” is what he mumbles out finally, so far off base from the half dozen other sentences colliding around in his head.
his gaze skims matty’s profile before falling to that stupid blue packaging that gives too much away, in his opinion. ( he’s thinking too hard, over complicating things that should be so simple — matty had felt so simple, so right once ; he still does, and mikey knows he has no right to feel like that anymore ). they’re just fucking oreos, but just their presence when mikey doesn’t even like them a quarter thpe way matty does feels just as damning as the way he hadn’t even hesitated when he saw matty passed out at the back of that bar ; he hopes matty is still too sloshed to really question the convient presence of his favorite craving. he leans forward again to retrieve the remote from the table and flick the tv on, volume levels turned down to a low buzz that fills in the aching silences that stretch between them ( and makes it harder for his head to slot in distracting thoughts — but not impossible ). “ matty — ” there he goes looking at him again, watching the light and shadow from the screen play across his face. he wants to trace the lines there, wonders if his hands remember as much as his heart.
the weight of the container falling onto his lap isn’t anywhere near enough to hurt matty --- not physically , at least . emotionally ? that’s a different story . somehow , it stings . the oreos being dropped rather carelessly feels familiar . it’s caught him off - guard . but not nearly as off - guard as he’d been when mikey had put a pin in their final argument with that question . do you want to break up ? it’s like he can still hear it reverberating off the walls even now . suddenly , he’s lost his appetite , cookies remaining completely untouched in his lap . eyes don’t follow mikey as he moves to sit down on the sofa , choosing to stare blankly at the wall instead . it’s all he can do . if he meets those chocolate brown eyes , matty knows he’ll succumb to his emotions , and they’re all moving so erratically in his head that he doesn’t even know what that’ll look like . he can’t pinpoint a feeling to focus on until mikey speaks up again with a passive comment , and then the jagged spikes of anger are pricking his skin . that’s always been the most vivid emotion to him . he can’t quite place what exactly he’s mad at , so he takes it out on the stupid blue package , finally making a move to grab it , but only so he could toss it onto the coffee table haphazardly . what he really wants is to just tuck himself between mikey’s arms , press all the way into his space , and just lay there . but that’s something that’s off - limits now , and it’s only frustrating him more . why is this all so difficult ? it’s confusing , and it’s tiring , and matt just wants his head to stop spinning . now he’s wishing he wouldn’t have indulged in so much booze . he leans forwards , making a move to unzip his boot ( maybe he misses the first try , but that’s nobody’s business ) . after intense focus , he’s finally kicking his shoes off , pulling his legs up onto the sofa , and leaning in the opposite direction of the curly - haired boy that sits beside him . arms are wrapped around his own torso , but they’re nowhere near as comforting as mikey’s own . thinking back to how it’d felt only a couple of minutes ago outside that cab to be fully engulfed in his embrace once again ... this pales in comparison . the sound of mikey’s voice floods his ears , but he doesn’t make any move to indicate that he’s heard him , just continues to lean up against the arm of the couch , staring forward without a word . the wobbly camerawork of whatever’s on the television screen is starting to make him nauseous though , gaze finally tearing away to meet mikey’s . his expression’s disgruntled at first --- brows furrowed , corners of his lips curved downwards . but the longer he looks at him , the more his features are softening . he’s desperately searching his eyes for something --- anything --- to ground him and let him know that he’s not crazy for feeling this way . without even realizing it , he’d stopped leaning away . there’s this urge to be close to him that matty can’t deny . his torso’s just starting to tilt towards mikey’s before he stops , remembering that he shouldn’t . you can see the sadness that flashes across his features --- he can’t mask it as quickly as he can when he’s sober . letting his back hit the couch once more , a hand combs up to push back his hair ( to no avail --- the curls tumble over his forehead again as soon as his hand’s brought down ) . “ what ? ” the word escapes him with a small sigh ; he’s not sure if he even wants to hear mikey’s response .














