alright kids, here's your preview. for context, we're in the A&E waiting room 🥲
There’s a real possibility that this might be a nightmare after all, because he keeps finding himself in different places with different people but missing the parts that took him where he is. A flash of white or a fade to black and he’s elsewhere.
Now: a vending machine. A blonde head by his side. And probably a question he isn’t answering. But his lips are glued together, his heart beating through his collarbones, his ribs, his knees. Like when he stands too close to the stage at a gig.
“Alright, I’ll just get you something, don’t worry.”
He watches the Coke can tumble down as if in slow motion, but the thud as it hits the bottom of the machine still startles him. He doesn’t move; Jack does. Bends over and pushes the flap and pulls the can out, handing it to him with a guilty smile. He nods in thanks, or maybe he doesn’t. The can cracks open loudly, satisfyingly. He’s always loved that sound. They should put it in a song.
Another blink and there’s Jean and Rob, still leaning over the reception desk, still arguing, still refusing to sit down and just wait.
“That’s my son in there! I’m not just going to hang around here, you’ve got to let me through!”
“Ma’am, I assure you. He’s in very good hands. You just have to—”
“We have a right to know if he’s alive!” Rob shouts, his voice deeper than Matty remembered it. If he’s alive.
Another wave of nausea hits him, his eyes darting to the door to the loo. But he swallows it, somehow. Somehow, he’s sitting down. And somehow, he’s calm. There’s blood on his jeans but there’s also something else. A hand cupping his knee. He grazes those knuckles with the tips of his fingers and feels like he’s getting electrocuted. He embraces it, pressing his entire palm onto them and turning his head slightly.
George and his sad eyes. George and his split lip. George and his kind smile.
