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sundrownsthehouse · 1 year

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Take This Pain And Give It A Name, Part Two

Posted to AO3

Prologue

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Summary: George breaks his shoulder. Matty looks after him. It gets complicated.

Warnings: Explicit sexual content.

Words: 3.1k.

The tiny bathroom on the bus was not made to accommodate two people— that became glaringly obvious from the moment Matty shut the door behind them. George had to step into the single stall shower just to create a few inches of space between their bodies. How the fuck they were going to pull this off was beyond him. They rarely used the shower on the bus, preferring to wash up at hotels or venues, and standing there with his shoulders nearly touching the walls, he was reminded why.

Shrill giggles spilled from Matty’s lips, lush from red wine and weed. He was practically buzzing, brushing his dark curls back from his face as he took in the lack of space and George’s petulant expression.

“What?” George demanded, aiming for annoyance, but sounding fond.

Matty snorted. “I dunno how I’m even gonna reach your head, you giant.”

Despite himself, George cracked a smile: “Not my fault you’re vertically challenged.”

“Vertically challenged? Mate, you’re a fucking tree!” Matty cried indignantly.

George cackled. Matty’s resounding peel of laughter echoed off the tiled walls. The sound lifted a weight from George’s chest.

“Please recall that I was actually taller than you once,” Matty protested as he pulled off his shirt and dropped it haphazardly on the floor, swaying a little in the process.

George rolled his eyes; like he’d never heard that before.

“Sure, for like, a year when I was thirteen,” he replied dryly. Matty made quick work of his flannel, snickering. George shrugged the open shirt off and proceeded to pick at the velcro of his sling, craning his neck to have a look at how it all connected. His head snapped up in surprise when Matty slapped his hand away.

“You’re going to have to support your arm when it comes off,” he stated matter-of-factly. George blinked, not following. Matty tsked and guided George to turn around by his hips. “Some of us actually paid attention to the doctor,” he chided.

George felt Matty’s deft hands begin to undo the straps on his back, still nattering away. “You know, I actually hate that you lot can see the top of my head, like, all the time. What if I’ve got dandruff or something?” he complained.

Still facing the wall, George felt the sling go loose and finally fall away. In his eagerness to be rid of it, he let his right arm go slack, but only long enough for him to realize his mistake; the weight of gravity set his fractured shoulder on fire. Thankfully, he’d taken more pain medication as a precaution— otherwise, he was certain he would’ve been in agony. Biting the insides of his cheeks, he grasped his right arm with his left to take the weight off, grunting a little.

An unsettling realization dawned on him: with the sling off, both of his arms were effectively restricted. It left him completely vulnerable. A little of the creeping panic he’d felt when he first woke up that afternoon returned. He hated being so dependent, so weak, so—

Tentative fingertips grazed his back; goosebumps rose in their wake. With a feather-light touch, they traced the red marks and indents marring his skin. George’s mind went curiously blank. He shivered imperceptively.

“Does that hurt?” Matty breathed. “It looks like it hurts.”

Something in Matty’s hushed, timid voice gave George pause. He recalled what Adam told him earlier: that one's dead worried about you. He turned around awkwardly in the confined space to meet Matty’s guarded expression, still cradling his right arm carefully.

“I’m okay, you know,” he assured, holding Matty’s eye.

Matty dropped his gaze and gestured vaguely. “Just checking. Looks sore, is all.”

George could see it now; Hann was right (and really, when was he ever wrong?). He felt foolish for not recognizing it earlier, and for ever considering that Matty would resent him for getting injured. After a decade of friendship and years of living together, George had learned that Matty sometimes needed… careful handling. He didn’t respond well to change (unless it was his idea), and seemed to feel everything a little more intensely than other people did.

That was something he admired about Matty, actually. It made him an excellent songwriter; it was as if he could perfectly decode the emotion George put into a piece of music and articulate it through lyrics anyone could see themselves in. But George knew that the downside to having access to that deep well of emotion was that Matty was easily overwhelmed— and as a result, he was prone to mood swings, outbursts, and scarily low lows. George had witnessed it all because time and again, he was the one Matty turned to when it got to be too much. His heart swelled; he felt protective of that bond. There was an intimacy to his friendship with Matty that he’d never had with another person, and it meant everything to him.

If he really considered it, George himself was rarely the source of Matty's stress. Perhaps that’s why he’d never been the target of Matty’s volatility before, either. Put in context, Matty’s strange behaviour wasn’t so inexplicable.

“I’m sorry if I scared you,” he murmured, heartfelt.

Matty’s brows pinched together briefly, but he quickly covered it with an easy grin.

“You and your sorrys,” he teased. “The only thing that’s scaring me is the way you fucking smell. C'mon, get these off.”

Matty pulled George’s joggers down so he could step out of them, leaving him in his black Calvins. He hesitated, hands resting on the waistband: “Ehm… d'you want the rest off, too?”

“No,” George said quickly. He shuffled in place, embarrassed: “It’s fine. I’ll change after.”

It wasn’t being naked in front of Matty that bothered him. They’d grown up together and undressed in front of each other too many times to count. He just felt way too exposed already.

“Are you sure? I don’t mind.”

“Yeah, it’s okay.”

“Alright.”

George faced the showerhead and listened to the gentle sound of metal clinking as Matty undid his belt and shucked his jeans. The heat from his body radiated onto George’s back when he stepped inside the tiny shower, closing the glass door behind them. Reaching past his waist to turn on the water, Matty steadied himself with a hand on George’s hip, their bodies nearly flush.

“Is that good?” Matty asked over the hiss of the water as he adjusted the temperature. His breath ghosted between George’s shoulder blades.

"S'good.”

“Not too hot or anything?”

George fought the urge to roll his eyes and smiled wryly, not that Matty could see it: “It’s fine, Matthew.”

“Don’t you ‘Matthew’ me, I swear down.”

Balancing on the tips of his toes, Matty began to shampoo George’s hair whilst chatting amiably about some ideas he had for a new song they’d been working on. A familiar peppermint scent filled the enclosed space. It was oddly comforting. George couldn’t understand why, until he realized with a start that it was Matty’s shampoo. For some reason, his stomach did a little flip at the thought. He inhaled the relaxing aroma, letting his eyes close as the hot water rushed over his body, soothing his aching muscles. He’d sorely needed this.

Matty’s fingers combed through George's hair and lightly scratched his scalp, sending pleasant little shivers down his spine. George couldn’t help it— it felt amazing. Distantly, he realized that another person hadn’t washed his hair like this since he was a child. As uncomfortable as he was with his own helplessness, being cared for like this was… kind of nice.

He didn’t notice that he’d been tuning Matty out completely until he felt a soapy hand rest on his arm, squeezing gently.

“G? Everything alright?”

George blinked awake, a little embarrassed: “Sorry— I am listening. Just knackered. I’ve taken a lot of pills today,” he admitted, shaking his head. Matty hummed in acknowledgment, still hesitating, as if unsure how to proceed.

"N'feels nice,” George mumbled shyly.

Matty snorted. “Don’t get used to it,” he teased, smiling. Reassured, he continued where he left off, hands returning to George’s head: “So, the arpeggio in the pre-chorus is on a piano, right? But I was wondering what it might sound like if instead we…”

Matty kept up a one-sided conversation that George quickly gave up listening to as his hair was rinsed and lathered up again with a minty conditioner that he decided definitely belonged to Matty. If Matty noticed him mentally checking out, he didn’t comment on it. George floated in a state of bliss, lulled by the streaming water, the narcotics, and Matty’s capable hands. If this was anyone else, he might not have leaned into it so fully, but he trusted Matty implicitly.

And Matty seemed to be lingering now, fingertips scraping and massaging sensitive points at the crown of his head, his temples, and the space behind his ears. The press of his thumbs on the back of George’s neck at the base of his skull just about short-circuited his brain. George’s mouth fell open a little, and he felt his head droop forward. It just felt so good to feel good after being in near-constant pain.

Pliant and spaced out, George slowly became aware of a warm, tingling sensation in his groin. When he focused on it, it grew, swirling in his lower abdomen, making his stomach clench.

His eyes flew open in shock as he realized that his cock was starting to swell. As in, he was stood there in a shower with his best mate, sporting a semi.

What the fuck. What the ACTUAL FUCK.

All sense of relaxation fled George’s body as his brain kicked into high alert. He risked a quick glance down at his groin; to his horror, the clingy, wet material of his boxer briefs left nothing to the imagination. Jesus fucking Christ.

Clearly, some base part of him had mistaken this situation for one that would get him laid. George scrambled to rationalize this to himself: It’s just because you’re feeling good for the first time in a while; it’s warm, the water is nice, and there’s a half naked body pressed up against yours. It has nothing to do with—

“You okay? You went all tense there,” Matty inquired, concern evident in his voice.

A thrill of fear ran through George’s body.

Say something. Anything. George tried to speak, but his tongue felt too big for his mouth. His lips parted, but couldn’t manage to make a sound.

Alarmed by his sudden silence, Matty squeezed himself around George’s left arm to look at him directly.

“Hey! What’s wro— oh…”

George felt his ears burn hot. He averted his eyes, acutely aware that Matty’s were still on him. Despite the humiliation of being discovered, he was fully hard.

“I— I’m sorry. It’s been a weird day,” he blurted nervously. He cringed at the way his voice wavered.

Matty quickly regained his composure, sliding out from where he was pressed up against George’s side to face his back once more: “No, no, it’s… it’s alright,” he insisted neutrally. “Just natural, I suppose.”

Kill me now, George thought bleakly.

“If it doesn’t bother you, it doesn’t bother me,” Matty finished.

“What?” Did he hear that right?

“It’s fine,” Matty insisted, gently guiding George’s head under the water to rinse the conditioner from his hair.

George swallowed around the lump in his throat and prayed to a God he didn’t believe in for his body to cooperate.

Matty got ahold of the shower gel and spread his hands across George’s back, careful not to put too much pressure on his right side. George jumped a little when Matty washed under his arms, snaking his hands around his chest. He focused on breathing evenly through his nose, and tried not to think about the way Matty’s careful touch made him throb.

Matty’s hands came to rest on George’s hips, squeezing slightly; his own breath was a little ragged. An intense, palpable energy that George could almost taste filled the air. He had never been so aware of the sliver of space separating their bodies, charged like a live wire. He felt lightheaded and dizzy, and much to his dismay, unbelievably turned on. Every other sensation dropped away as he narrowed in on the spot where Matty’s hand crept forward ever so slightly, fingertips just centimeters from his aching cock.

Impossibly soft lips grazed the space just below his ear, sending shivers through his whole body.

“Could help you with that, if you want,” Matty murmured lowly, stroking George’s hip with his thumb. “I mean, it’s… we don’t have to talk about it…”

George’s eyes were open, but he couldn’t see. He was wholly enraptured by the way Matty’s fingers trailed along his waistband, stroking the taut skin just beneath. His mind was completely, blissfully blank.

He felt himself nod slightly. Matty sighed shakily with relief.

Emboldened, his fingers brushed George’s length through the thin fabric of his boxers, sending electric shocks through his groin that made his knees weak. George stifled a groan, his mouth hanging open in awe; he was so fucking sensitive.

"S'this alright?” Matty whispered, tracing the shape of the tip so lightly it was driving George to madness. Without waiting for a response, he cupped George fully through his boxers, lips coming to rest gingerly against his injured shoulder. George gasped aloud, unable to stop himself.

“Wanna make you feel good,” Matty breathed. “Can I?” George nodded again, but Matty wasn’t satisfied: “Need you to tell me,” he urged. He sounded the way George felt— absolutely fucking wrecked. There was no bravado, no arrogance in the way he begged: “Please let me, fuck George, please…”

All reason and rational thought fled George’s mind. He was trembling all over, and he desperately hoped that his legs wouldn’t fail him as Matty’s hand slipped beneath the thin fabric. He struggled to find the right words as his mind caught up with his body, overwhelmed by one resounding thought; yes, finally…

A piercing knock fell on the bathroom door.

They both jumped. Matty ripped his hands away from George as though he’d been burned. George’s shoulder twinged painfully.

“You two almost done in there?” Ross called, his voice muffled by the door. “I have to piss.”

They froze as cold reality came crashing down around them.

“Guys?”

“Give me a minute, Ross, for Christ’s sake,” Matty squeaked, turning off the water and all but leaping out of the shower. He hurried to wrap a towel around his waist.

George stood there numb, not daring to speak. Evidently, the fear of being discovered by Ross was sufficient to kill his libido.

"C'mere,” Matty pressed, pulling him out of the shower and retrieving the sling. Within seconds, his arm was immobilized again. He just barely caught his clothes with his other hand as Matty tossed them at him frantically.

“You’re good from here, yeah?” Matty asked, eyes darting towards the door.

“Matty, I…”

Matty’s face blanched. Without another word, he hastily slipped out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him. George could hear him telling Ross to hold on a minute.

With shaking hands, George stripped off his wet briefs and replaced them with a clean pair. He didn’t bother with a shirt or pants; he was going straight to bed to sleep off whatever the fuck had gotten into him tonight. He brushed past Ross on his way out of the bathroom, muttering a half-formed apology, and made a bee-line for his bunk. He couldn’t help but notice that above him, the curtain to Matty’s was pulled tight. Shit.

Once he was settled in bed, the weight of what happened actually started to hit him. He worried his lower lip with his teeth. God help him, but he didn’t know how to process something like this. Matty was his best friend; George had never wanted anything like that from him. Besides, George liked girls— loved them, actually— and had never really looked twice at a man that way. This was all just an unfortunate accident. He had an involuntary reaction, and Matty had taken pity on him. There was nothing more to it than that. They’d probably laugh about this in the morning, and then never talk about it again. And yet, even as George told himself this, he could feel the lies unraveling.

He’d wanted it. Matty had, too.

Christ, he was so fucked. Lying in dark, he could still feel the ghost of Matty’s hands all over his body… in his hair… touching his cock… when he closed his eyes, his ears rang with the desperation in Matty’s voice: please let me, fuck George, please…

George groaned as he felt himself getting hard again. What the actual fuck is wrong with me?

He couldn't stop himself. He pressed the heel of his hand into his groin, going dizzy with the pleasure of it. Fuck it. As he took himself in hand, he thought about the moment Matty’s had grasped him— how all he could think was yes and finally. George shuddered, and began to stroke his length properly, up and down, thumbing the slit where he felt drops of pre-cum gathering.

He threw his head back against the pillow, letting his imagination take over. What if they hadn’t been interrupted? What if he kept going? Would Matty have really brought him off, right then and there?

Jesus. He sped up, jerking his hips desperately; he needed to come so fucking bad. Pressure mounted in his groin, the muscles quivering. He was breathing too loudly for a shared space, but he didn’t care.

It felt amazing, but he couldn’t seem to get enough momentum. Something was off. His arm— his left arm— was getting tired. Doubt crept into his mind as he looked down at himself. Could he even come with his left hand? Had he ever tried? His touch felt good, great even, but after a few more minutes, the answer was apparent. Dejected, George gave up, staring at the darkness as his cock softened pathetically against his thigh. Rolling towards the shelf at his side, he knocked back another two pills, grimacing at the bitter taste as he swallowed them dry. He didn’t want to be awake anymore.

It didn’t take long for George to fall into a deep sleep. Above him, Matty lay awake most of the night, frozen in fear, tears falling silently into his pillow.