☽〝 if you’re too shy ( 𝑙et me 𝓴now .ᐟ ) — matty healy!reader.
what begins in silence becomes something neither of you meant to touch.
a slow, sharp unraveling between distance and desire.
warnings: NSFW / 18+ only · explicit sexual content · slow burn · emotional repression · hearing loss (partial) · grief and frustration related to disability · jealousy · rough communication · one emotionally intense sex scene · creampie · crying · angst · mutual longing · unresolved tension.
𝓱e didn’t speak to you for the first four days.
not hello, not thanks, not even a nod when you signed his name at the airport curb.
he just stared at you, then walked right past.
his right ear ruptured mid-set in atlanta.
a bad monitor mix—too loud, too close, wrong frequency.
he felt the pop. a short, sharp sting. like a firework behind his eye.
and then a rush of silence, sudden and blinding.
pretended he hadn’t flinched.
but after that night, everything shifted.
ringing that didn’t stop.
dullness like pressure underwater.
his voice started sounding foreign—slurred, delayed. sometimes he couldn’t tell if he was shouting.
doctors called it acoustic trauma.
partial hearing loss, possibly permanent.
then blew off the ENT follow-up, drank through the vertigo, and tried to rewrite the setlist in ways that avoided anything with pitch reliance.
but even then, he missed things.
tempos. cues. words he used to sing without thinking.
he hated asking for help.
he hated people watching him stumble.
and he hated—loathed—the moment management said they were flying someone in.
you showed up in salt lake city.
black hoodie. quiet voice.
he didn’t care what your name was.
as far as he was concerned, you were just a walking reminder that something inside him had broken—and everyone else had noticed before he did.
the first time you tried to speak to him, it was on the bus.
he was sitting at the back table with his head in his hands, the sleeves of his jumper rolled up and a cigarette burning in the ashtray even though he wasn’t allowed to smoke indoors anymore.
you stood a few feet away.
so you tried again—this time with your hands. “are you okay?”
“yeah, i’m fucking great,” he muttered.
then stood and walked right past you without another word.
you didn’t take it personally.
he was proud. self-destructive.
used to control and allergic to asking for help.
they told you not to push, and you didn’t.
but god—it still stung a little.
every time you raised your hand to sign something and he turned away.
every time he mumbled something at soundcheck and missed his own cue, then glared at you like it was your fault.
you weren’t here to fix him, you knew that.
you were just here to help him survive the thing he wouldn’t admit was happening.
the first time he looked at you—really looked at you—it was because he thought you weren’t watching.
you were sitting near the window waiting for the van, reading something on your phone, your hand resting absently on your knee.
he walked in with george, dropped his bag with a grunt, and looked up—and for a second, his eyes settled on your face.
his expression didn’t soften.
but it stopped being hard, just for a blink.
then the van pulled up, and he was gone again.
you could tell he hated missing pieces of the mix, the way the monitors warped his own voice, the delay he kept overcorrecting for.
and the crowd… they screamed so loud he could feel the vibration in his teeth but couldn’t hear the words.
you started noticing the clenched jaw.
the way he gripped the mic stand tighter when he was off beat.
the way he’d look to you—just once, mid-song—and wait for your hands.
you signed the name of the next track.
you shaped the word “break” for the bridge he always rushed.
he never acknowledged it.
two weeks in, he still hadn’t thanked you.
but he stopped turning away.
watch your hands all the way through before ignoring whatever you said.
and once—just once—he corrected himself before you even moved, like maybe he’d actually read your lips.
but you caught the corner of his mouth twitch when you didn’t.
the turning point wasn’t big.
the crew had gone out, the venue was dark, and you were sitting on the floor of the side stage sorting through notes, trying to prep for the next show without bothering anyone.
you didn’t know he was there.
he’d come back for something—cigarettes maybe. a cable. an excuse.
he stopped in the doorway.
you felt it before you saw him.
when you looked up, he was already looking down.
they were moving without you realizing.
your fingers tracing signs unconsciously. rehearsing words.
his eyes flicked up to yours.
and this time—this time—he didn’t look away.
he just stared at you for a beat too long, then walked off without saying anything.
but something in you shifted after that.
you didn’t know what yet.
you just knew it wasn’t hatred anymore.
he started watching your hands more.
not with kindness. not curiosity.
like if he stared long enough, he could find a way to hate you again.
you didn’t talk unless you had to.
you relayed the essentials—timings, transitions, questions directed at him when his back was turned or when someone forgot to face him.
you never raised your voice, never exaggerated your signs, never treated him like a project.
you were a presence, not a problem.
and that might’ve been the problem.
he wasn’t sure when it started—the sense that your silence was more familiar than anyone else’s noise.
the way your fingers flexed before you began signing.
how your jaw tensed when he ignored you.
how you never flinched when he was sharp.
you didn’t take things personally.
he caught himself thinking about you during soundcheck.
you always stood offstage right, just out of view from the crowd but close enough for him to glance over.
he told himself it was for cues.
but when he missed one and you corrected him with a raised brow and a clean sign, he felt something twist in his gut.
not embarrassment. not quite.
more like shame wrapped around something warmer.
something he refused to name.
one night, he followed you outside without meaning to.
vegas. crew bar. neon headache in every direction.
you slipped away early—too loud, too crowded.
he saw you slide out the side door and waited five minutes before doing the same.
you were sitting on the curb behind the venue, knees pulled up, eyes on the sky like it had answers.
he watched the way your fingers curled over your knees.
how you didn’t move even when you knew he was there.
he didn’t say anything and neither did you.
but something shifted that night.
you didn’t feel like the enemy anymore.
not to him. just someone who hadn’t asked for this either.
he started answering you.
only with half-mumbled words.
he’d grunt or nod or toss a single syllable over his shoulder, eyes somewhere else.
and sometimes—when no one else was around—he looked at you like he’d forgotten how to be angry.
you were the only person he didn’t lie to.
not because he trusted you, but because you never gave him a reason to pretend.
he didn’t have to perform.
didn’t have to talk at all.
and weirdly, that made you feel like the most honest thing in his orbit.
berlin was the first time he noticed your mouth.
not at him—just something the lighting guy had said.
you were perched on a stack of cases, legs swinging gently, sipping something from a paper cup.
your lips parted, your head tilted back just slightly, and for a second— he forgot how fucking pissed he was at the world.
he watched the line of your neck.
the way your hands hovered like they were used to speaking but didn’t need to just yet.
he looked away before you noticed.
and that night, when he lay in bed and couldn’t sleep because the silence pressed too loud against his skull, he thought about the way you didn’t force it.
you just let things be quiet.
you helped him with in-ears the next morning.
not because he asked—but because he was clearly fumbling, and no one else knew how to step in without getting barked at.
you just stepped up beside him, took the cable gently, signed “may i?” without waiting for permission, and fixed the tangle at the back of his collar.
your fingers brushed his neck.
when you were done, you stepped back.
he stared at you for a full beat before walking off.
you didn’t know what it meant and neither did he, but it was the first time your skin touched his, and he didn’t flinch.
paris looked good on him.
slick black blazer. shirt half-unbuttoned. chain peeking at his throat.
he looked expensive. dangerous. bored.
you hadn’t seen him in three days, aside from glances during load-in and one wordless wave when he passed you in the lobby.
things had shifted again—after berlin, after that touch at his neck, after the second he didn’t pull away.
you’d thought maybe it meant something.
but then he closed up again. tighter than before.
now, he barely looked at you.
and when he did, it was with something you couldn’t read.
industry types, local press, friends of friends.
you kept to the edge, glass of wine in hand, ankles crossed, back against the railing.
you were trying not to watch him.
but it was impossible not to notice when he laughed a little too loud at something a red-lipped girl whispered in his ear.
or the way his hand rested on her lower back when they slipped past you for another drink.
but your chest felt like it was splintering open anyway.
you weren’t dramatic about it.
just slid your jacket on, nodded to george, and made your way to the stairwell.
he caught you two flights down.
“where are you going?” voice rough, out of breath.
sweat at his temples, jaw clenched.
you signed carefully: “tired.”
“treat me like i’m some… broken fucking dog,” he snapped.
your hands moved faster than usual:
“no. i don’t. you just make it hard to—”
“to what?” he cut in. “to care about me? to be around me? to fucking like me?”
you stepped back. just a little.
he watched it. saw it. hated it.
“what, is it easier to care when i’m quiet?” he hissed. “when i’m just staring at your hands like a pathetic fuck with a dead ear and a god complex?”
you didn’t sign anything.
then said it, quieter this time.
you answered the only way you could.
you grabbed the lapel of his blazer and kissed him.
you didn’t mean for it to happen.
but the second your mouth touched his, he folded.
his hands came up—gripped your waist like he’d been waiting weeks.
his mouth opened under yours, hot and breathless.
he kissed like he was starving. like he didn’t know how to stop.
you backed him against the wall.
his fingers slid under your jacket, palms dragging up your back.
you broke the kiss first—gasped, forehead pressed to his.
he whispered: “come with me.”
you barely made it through the door before he was on you again.
mouth at your neck, hands yanking your shirt over your head.
your hands shook as you undid his buttons.
he shoved the blazer off. kissed you like he wanted to crawl inside you.
you pulled him toward the bed.
you signed it slow: “i want this.”
his shoulders dropped. just slightly.
and then—he laid you down like you were something sacred.
he didn’t fuck you like a rockstar.
he didn’t fuck you like a man angry at the world.
he fucked you like someone who thought this might be the only time.
he went down on you first—face buried, tongue deep, hands locking your thighs open when you tried to close them.
you came shaking. breathless. his name half-spoken, half-signed into the pillow.
when he finally slid inside you, you gasped—tight, full, deep.
he groaned against your shoulder.
but he kept watching your face, and you kept touching his.
you pulled his hand to your chest.
placed his palm over your heart.
he kissed your mouth and thrust slow.
kissed your cheek and thrust hard.
he came inside you with a strangled sound and stayed there.
you didn’t need words, not right then.
not from pain—just… used.
your chest felt bruised from the way he’d held you, pressed his forehead there like he could hear your heartbeat if he stayed still enough.
his arms were still around you.
bare skin, tangled sheets, heat between you like a secret.
you didn’t want to be the first one to.
but you could feel him waking up too—his breathing shifting, hands tightening, then easing again like he wasn’t sure if this was real.
he was already looking at you.
something passed in that glance.
just like that, the moment was over.
he didn’t speak. didn’t sign.
just sat on the edge of the bed, cigarette between two fingers, jaw tight like he was grinding it into dust.
not begging. just… letting the air thicken.
finally, you said—quiet, careful: “do you want me to stay?”
smoke curled from his mouth.
“you shouldn’t have come up last night.”
you signed—sharp: “you asked me to.”
“yeah. i know. doesn’t mean it was right.”
you stepped back like he’d hit you.
“you’re not supposed to be part of this. you’re just—” he cut himself off. shook his head.
“just someone who makes it easier to pretend i’m still whole.”
it landed like glass in your throat.
his voice came low, almost cracked: “don’t take it personally.”
you made it as far as the stairwell before your knees gave out.
you sat, right there on the concrete.
face buried in your arms, shoulders shaking, sobs ripping out silent.
it was the way he’d looked at you when it ended.
like he’d already forgotten how your hands had trembled when you signed that you wanted him.
like your mouth hadn’t said his name like it meant something.
he stood in that room for a long time after you left.
cigarette long out. clothes still undone. your warmth still on his skin.
walked to it, put his hand on the knob.
he could still catch you.
he leaned his forehead against the door and broke.
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