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abiiors · 2 years ago

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red lines - pt. 1 ║// matty healy x reader

a/n: i want you to read this very very carefully: i am pro-choice and i will always be pro-choice. and this is a work of fiction. also feel the need to add that this is more a collection of small vignettes??? ugh idk, hope you enjoy regardless cw: *deep breath* angst, pregnancy, mentions of abortion, mentions of vomit, (and other pregnancy symptoms), crying (so much of it my god) and arguments, mentions of smoking, illness, hospitals, panic attacks, reader has a good relationship with her mother so i guess that's a cw too, (most definitely inaccurate) descriptions of birth. wc: 4.6k

two red lines is all it takes to ruin a perfect life.

two red lines repeated twice on two different tests that stare back at you from the counter—innocent and white and damning. the bathroom is utterly still, save for the tap dripping one drop every seven seconds. you would know, you counted it, used those seven seconds to ground you and stop you from spiraling into another panic attack for the three minutes it took to get those two red lines.

pregnant.

with two more weeks left on tour by matty’s side.

gingerly you wrap them in toilet paper, make sure they’re safe and secure and nothing’s peeking out. you throw it in the bin, looking at it with a deadness on your face that you feel deep inside. then you call the reception and ask them to take out the trash.

matty isn’t here. he’s on stage, serenading thousands of people who hang on to every single word he says, looking at him with all the love and adoration in the world. matty, your matty, who belongs as much to you as he does to the people, the fans. you should have been there too but there was the migraine and the nausea that wouldn’t go away. so you told him you would just sleep it off tonight.

have an amazing night, babe. break a leg. and then a sweet kiss and a promise to see him tomorrow.

and then the two red lines.

every time you blink you see them flash in front of you—like a promise or a warning. or maybe even a sentence.

pregnant.

a baby.

a cause for happiness and celebration.

and the conversation from a week ago that lingers in your mind, echoes inside your skull as if those words are the only ones you remember.

i’m just not ready love, he says, not now. maybe not for another year or two. i don’t know, babies are a lot of work. and i am a lot of work.

i love you, he says, kissing you deeply and tasting his own cum on your lips. i love you but a baby right now is a hard no.

nothing in particular spurred this conversation really—just the two of you, naked, and tangled up in the sheets, his hand caressing your lower stomach and you letting yourself daydream. who knew the daydream was indeed reality? and now here you are, head in your hands—partly from the migraine, partly from the anxiety—waiting for him to be back.

he will change his mind, you know it. matty loves you, and this baby is half you, half him. he will come around and you will be there to soothe his worries. you know he will hear the baby’s heartbeat and fall in love.

you know he will treat them like the most precious thing in the whole world.

the thought makes you smile and the door creaks open.

“pregnant,” he looks at you warily, “what do you mean pregnant?”

the small smile on your face fades away. “pregnant with a baby, matty. what other kind of pregnant is there?”

you wonder if you meant to joke, if he will break character and laugh and everything will be okay again. maybe you just caught him by surprise, this is just a blip. in two more minutes, he will smile and drop down to his knees and kiss your still-flat stomach. he’ll say hello to them. tell them he loves them and then tell you how much he loves you, kissing you gently and pulling you into him.

you can already feel his feather-light touch on your skin. his mouth lingering on your lower stomach on his way down.

matty stills in place.

“no…”

one word, it’s small and broken and so unlike him that you almost do a double-take.

“what do you mean no?”

“i can’t okay?” his voice rises, “i told you i can’t!”

you can sense the agitation he feels, his hammering heartbeat and the shallowness of his breaths. his hands runs through his hair, spilling the curls everywhere.

“you’re on the pill.”

“i think…” you hedge, tears gathering in your eyes, “i think i missed a day.”

he snaps his head up to look at you. when matty first came back to the room, he looked happy and giddy—cheeks pink and hair stuck to his forehead from the sweat. now he looks grey and listless. like all the colour’s been zapped out of him.

“you missed a day,” he repeats.

“matty, please…”

but matty is already turning around and storming off to the balcony. through the glass you watch him light a cigarette with shaky hands, taking a deep drag before he tips his head back and blows it out. another drag, another blow. eyes closed. breathing that slowly goes from rapid to normal once again.

five minutes later, only the stub remains and matty is back in the room.

“i can’t,” he says firmly. “i told you i wasn’t ready.”

it sounds final. like a death knell. instictively your hand covers your stomach.

“i won’t,” you shake your head and the tears fall rapidly, first down your cheeks then your chin and onto your chest. “i won’t get rid of it.”

matty stares at you quietly, you stare back. it seems you’re at an impasse.

twenty minutes later, you pack your bags.

london is greyer than it has ever been, especially from your new flat so far away from the hustle and bustle of the city. not that you’ve had much time to get acquainted with the new area after being bent over the toilet for days on end, retching and heaving until there’s nothing left inside you. a hollowness so deep that no amount of food or water will fill it.

so you eat strictly for the baby. pre-natal vitamins and supplements and a nutritious breakfast that you throw right back up. but you try. all for the sake of the tiny clump of cells dependent on you. the image of the two red lines has long been replaced with a grainy black and white rectangle. every time you close your eyes, you see the screen lit up with an image of your little bean, moving around. in some far back corner of your mind, you think they look happy.

at night you curl up on your cold bed, phone in hand, the baby’s heartbeat playing on repeat. it used to be his, your brain reminds you painfully. back when you slept all cuddled up with him. head on his chest, his soothing heartbeat lulling you to sleep.

you mother is worried about you. she calls at least thrice a day to make sure you ate every meal and took every pill. she comes every sunday to stock you fridge full of vegetables and fruits and make sure you have enough ginger and peppermint tea. sundays, begrudgingly, become your favourite. your mother, once again, becomes your best friend.

but you can’t let her move in. can’t let her be a constant presence and drive you crazy and unearth him every chance she gets. so like clockwork, at 6 pm, you usher her out the door, tell her you need privacy and quiet and solitude. like every single time, she promises she’ll be back next sunday.

and every single time she keeps her word.

one day you wake up to a change—a small one, really, but a change regardless. barely even noticeable at first. it’s your top that doesn’t reach all the way down. maybe it shrunk in the wash, you think. then the full length mirror reminds you of the reality. and the tiny little bump that’s seemingly grown overnight.

your little bean. suddenly so real. so tangible. so present.

“hello, little one,” you coo at your stomach, feeling a little silly at first. there’s no reply, of course, just the sounds of morning traffic coming in from the open window. but your eyes stay trained on the bump. “you weren’t so noticeable last night.”

nothing happens. no movement (of course, not. they’re too small for that.), no one appreciating the change with you. matty who should have been here to witness this…

matty who isn’t here to witness this.

emotions swirl in your head so fast that it’s dizzying. this time there’s no tears falling one by one. there’s the sobs that come all of a sudden and the floodgates that open in the blink of an eye but he is not here to hold you or pull you into his chest when you gasp and gasp for a breath that never comes.

in a panic you dial the first number you can find in your contacts, gasping and yelling out broken sentences and panicking at whoever’s picked up. it’s 8 am on a wednesday, whoever you called must be utterly bewildered. yet when you can focus enough, you realise it’s a man’s voice replying. a familiar voice. shocked and equally panicked and asking you if you’re okay again and again.

you pull the phone away from your ear and look at the screen. at adam’s name flashing on it.

the first contact on your list. one starting with an a.

“fuck,” you mumble. “sorry, i’m okay. i’m fine.” and then you hang up, and rock yourself back and forth on the ground until your breaths resemble something normal.

fifteen minutes later, there’s pounding at your front door and the bell rings incessantly. in your gut you know it’s adam. and it’s confirmed when his voice floats through the door.

“open the door,” he urges. “i need to know you’re okay.”

and so you pull yourself back up, harshly wipe away the tears and unlock the front door.

it’s only been a month since you last saw adam but he looks different. his hair’s grown out, his dark circles are gone and in spite of the worried look on his face, he looks happier somehow. healthier.

being back home with the love of your life and your baby will do that to you.

“you look well,” you croak out and then clear your throat. adam doesn’t take the bait.

“do you need me to take you to the hospital? call your gp?” straight to the point as always. you smile at him fondly.

“no, no i don’t. i’m okay, i promise.”

“you didn’t sound okay.”

“i meant to call my mum, adam. sorry i dialed the wrong number.”

“regardless,” he holds up a hand. “can you please talk to me. or talk to mat—”

“don’t.” the voice that comes out of you is stern. “he doesn’t want me or the baby. i will not let him talk me into an abortion.”

adam winces and rubs a hand over his face. perhaps that was harsh, you think, he’s not some evil villain. but none of it changes the outcome. in every single universe, you end up here—fresh off a panic attack in your living room, talking to your ex-boyfriend’s best friend.

“how did you know where i live?”

at that he looks a bit sheepish. “i asked you mum. not today!” he reassures hastily when your eyes widen. “don’t worry. i asked her a few days ago. i wanted to… i’ve been meaning to check up on you.”

“and you couldn’t call?” you smile at him wryly.

“no. i wanted to see you in person.”

“so you can report back to him?”

adam clicks his tongue and warmth fills your chest. he’s always been good to you, always been kind, and loved you like a little sister. you shouldn’t have cut him off like this.

“no,” he says. “so i could make sure you were okay.”

it’s a small mercy that the morning sickness eases a few days after that as your bump continues to grow. more often than not, you find yourself with a hand on your stomach, drawing small circles on it and humming to it. lately, you’ve also noticed the little flutters that linger long after you stop humming. your baby responding to you. showing you they’re there.

it’s not far before you approach the twenty week mark. the most important scan you’ll have throughout. you’ll find out the gender, you’ll find out if they’re healthy or not.

and each time you think about it, it’s like the weight of the entire world is on your shoulders.

the night before you contemplate calling your mum, nervous and panicked once again but it’s almost 11 pm. she would be deep asleep by now—she would be excited too. no need to put a damper on her mood.

then you wonder if calling adam is a good idea. but you quickly scrap it.

for the first time in months your finger hovers over the familiar name in your contacts. over the little heart that’s still next to his name that you never bothered to change.

what will he say if you called him now? will he even pick up?

are you ready enough to brave it?

the truth still remains. you want this baby, he doesn’t. the same impasse you were at months ago. if any of that had changed, he would have called you. he would have reached out… right?

so instead you do the second stupidest thing. you type up his name in google.

your stomach churns with nausea or anxiety or just impending doom while the webpage loads—slow, too slow for your liking. or maybe time has simply slowed down and you’re too much of a coward to really face the consequences of your own action.

the webpage loads. the frown on your face deepens.

nothing. rather, the last article written about him specifically is from two days after the tour ended. everything after that is either recycled news, or some silly quiz about the band. nothing about him. no pap photos, no social media activity. absolutely nothing to indicate he’s even left his house in the last few months.

you mind buzzes with all kinds of thoughts, swirls with wicked possibilities. you almost even text adam about it before the turning your phone off abruptly and chucking it to the other side of the bed.

no more temptation.

sleep is like a fickle friend—has been since the day you left the hotel room in tears. but you close your eyes and imagine your baby’s heart beating inside you in sync with yours. tomorrow, there will be a new recording to replace the older one. hopefully one that’s stronger. calmer.

when sleep drags you under around three in the morning, you dream of his hands—fingers gingerly touching your stomach, resting on all the spots that flutter with movement. gentle hands that massage your sore feet and work out the kinks in your back.

hands that you might never feel on your skin ever again.

the doctor smiles coyly and slides an envelope to your mother. it’s a little hush-hush secret, one she insisted on and begged till you relented. the gender reveal isn’t huge or flashy but you know there’s a cake waiting for you at home along with a few friends and family. and for the first time in months, you let the excitement of it wash over you.

the scan was perfect! and now you feel a bit bad for clutching your mum’s hand hard enough till she’d winced (even though she hid it quickly and smiled at you in encouragement). so now here you are, thanking the doctor and practically skipping out the room with your mum laughing in tow.

she looks lighter too, you realise, much more carefree as she gushes about her precious grandbaby and how excited she is to meet them.

“we have to buy onesies!” she squeals getting behind the wheel and you laugh.

“we will, mum, but they’re going to grow out of it in weeks so you can’t go crazy, okay?”

she dismisses this with a wave and a pfft and you can already imagine the mountain of clothes she’s going to buy over the next twenty weeks.

you nod off to the sound of your mum excitedly making plans for an elaborate baby shower, one that you’ll have to beg her to tone down, but her voice fades away soon. instead, you dream of him. your subconscious wonders what he would have been like today—maybe he’d cry out of excitement or being overwhelmed, maybe he would smile so wide his cheeks hurt. in some parallel universe the two of you would be in the baby aisle—hand in hand and cooing over tiny onesies.

in this universe, you jerk out of the daydream just as your mum parks in the driveway.

your friends and family don’t yell “surprise”, much to your relief. there are many hugs and congratulations. tears of happiness and jokes and then a delicious vanilla cake brought in front of you.

everyone waits eagerly. no one brings him up. not even you, as you sink the knife into it and cut a slice.

it’s pink. a gorgeous, pale pink. it’s a girl.

everyone cheers. your mum hugs you and you sniffle into her shoulder while laughing giddiy. a girl, your baby girl.

right then you know what you’re going to call her—you don’t need baby name lists on google or a hundred suggestions from your mother. you already know her name.

mia.

mine and mine alone.

blink and twenty weeks go down to fifteen and ten and then five. each day it seems like you only get bigger and bigger, impossibly so. your life is filled to the brim with baby stuff, inside and out. everywhere you look there’s either a pram or a crib or pregnancy books. every time you get one spare minute you’re reminded of the back aches and sore feet. the constant hunger that just does not seem to go away no matter how much you eat.

your mothers visits increase from only sundays to whole weekends to three days a week.

at first you protest—fuelled by hunger and hormones and mood swings. fuelled by the rage of a thousand burning stars as you stomp into the living room where she’s folding yet another batch of baby socks and blankets.

“you’re suffocating me!” you snap, already on the brink of tears while she looks at you like you’ve grown two heads.

“baby—”

“no! mum,” a deep breath and a few stray tears, “i’m not a baby. i’m having a baby for fucks sake.”

“language!” she scolds.

“stop it, just, please!” there’s not much you can do but stomp your foot like a petulant child. proving her point most likely. “stop acting like i need to be coddled and protected. just. stop!”

your mum looks speechless, too stunned to speak but the ball is rolling and now you cannot stop.

“i don’t need you here. i don’t need you acting like i would crumble and wither away without you. i don’t need you and i certainly don’t need him—fuck!” you gasp for a breath, choking mid-sentence.

the second those words spill out of you, you want to take them back but it’s too late. her eyes are already red-rimmed and glossy. one tear rolls down her cheek and that’s all it takes for you to break down completely.

“fuck!” you repeat. “i’m sorry, mum. i’m so sorry.” that’s the only thing you can chant until she chucks the clothes aside and wraps her arms around you, shushing you the best she can through her own tears.

for the first time in eight months you wonder about what if. and for the first time in eight months, you think about his words from that night.

maybe not for another year or two.

you’re closer now to the one year mark that you’re to that night. mia kicks your insides again—her own version of support or maybe it’s her doling out punishment for never introducing her to her dad. either way, it’s not helping. all it does is spread pain throughout your lower body as you hold onto your mum, rocking back and forth.

“it’s alright, sweetheart,” you mum whispers gently, kissing the crown of your head and cradling you like she used to when you were a kid. it makes your emotions worse. increases the ache tenfold.

“i miss him, mum,” you admit finally, in a voice so small that you might as well not have spoken. but she hears it anyway. she hears it but doesn’t interrupt. she lets you speak.

“every single day i wonder if he even gives a shit. or if he regrets leaving me, leaving us. i speak to adam and carly and i wonder if they ever tell him about me. i wonder if he even cares…”

you gulp down air, wiping your nose on the sleeve of your jumper and cuddling into her further.

“and after everything. i miss him more than anything in this world.”

there it is. the truth, finally out there, finally spilled after months of pretending to be cold and callous. you wait for her to speak, to say something that will dull the pain and release you from this torment but she never gets the chance.

because that is the moment your daughter decides to make her grand entrance.

it’s pain like you’ve never felt before.

pain and panic and unadulterated fear. she’s not supposed to be here yet. you’re only 35 weeks pregnant—nowhere near full term. what if this affects her negatively. you blame and blame—first yourself; you must have done something wrong, right? ate something wrong or not taken the right vitamins or slept the wrong fucking way. then you blame matty. if he was here, you would have never been this stressed and unhappy in the first place. everything would have been smooth-sailing.

and yet a small part of you yearns for him to be here. to brush your sweaty hair away from your forehead instead of your mother as the doctor yells at you to push.

it’s all too much, all too soon. this is not how it’s supposed to be. this is not how any of this is supposed to be.

the machines around you beep in a rhythm that’s all worng—it’s too loud and erratic and out of sync with the rest of the world. surely, that’s not how fast your heart’s beating. maybe the beeping is something else you’re unaware of. and yet your body feels hot and cold at the same time. too weak to move but pushing and contracting and tearing you apart from the inside. you’re vaguely aware of the screams that tear out of you, of gripping your mum’s hand so tightly that you worry, you’ve bruised it.

but she’s strong, stronger than you’ll ever be. she endures and passes along some of that strength to you.

“one more big push,” the doctor encourages. she’s a kind, middle-aged woman. probably someone who’s brought many babies into this world. she knows what she’s doing. but your body won’t cooperate.

all you feel is a bone deep exhaustion that tries to drag you under as your mother taps your cheek.

“a big push, baby,” she repeats. “one big push and her shoulders will be out.”

and that would almost be the end of it, right? so you nod with whatever’s left in you and breathe the way they taught you in birthing classes.

and that’s how it goes. inhale. hold. exhale. gather strength. push. all of it done to a constant stream of rather futile encouragements. until you feel like you’re bursting at the seams and coming undone. about to unravel any moment.

but then a tiny cry echoes around the room and the world comes to a standstill.

mia’s arrival changes everything in the blink of an eye.

you have no time left for self-pity; every waking moment is occupied with feedings and nappy changes and laundry. you sleep when she sleeps, you hold her close every chance you get. you sing her and cradle her and shower her with enough affection for two people. she has you and your mum. she doesn’t need anyone else.

slowly you let other friends and family visit—extremely selective and protective about who gets the priviledge but one afternoon when adam messages you know you can’t deny that to him. even when you’ve tried to keep him, and all of them by entension, at bay.

in another universe, she would have been his goddaughter. you’re sure of it.

so you let him and carly and their son visit, let them hold her and gush over her. carly instantly falls in love with her, cradling her close and trying to make her smile even though she’s just woken up. mia babbles at her and grabs her shiny necklace.

you watch them transfixed, giggling at carly’s squeals and coos until adam asks if he could speak to you alone.

“i don’t want to step over a boundary,” he starts and you know what’s coming but you let him continue. “have you thought about letting him know? that she’s already here…”

“i…” in all honesty, you had wondered if you should call him and let him know. but what if he still doesn’t care. “i didn’t. i couldn’t.”

adam’s face softens. “he’s back in london, you know? you could. you could try.”

that piques your interest. you hadn’t knows he’d left in the first place. “he’s back?”

adam takes a deep breath, eyes darting slightly and lingering on his wife as if he’s trying to steel himself. as if he has some news he’d rather not share. in the end however, maybe he chooses not to.

“yes, he’s back,” he says, trying and failing not to sound cagey. “he wasn’t until now. but if you would talk to him… just, i think you should talk to him.”

for the rest of their visit, his words linger in your mind. they stay even after the hanns leaving, promising another visit whenever you’re free next and you tell them they’re welcome any time. this time, you even mean it from the bottom of your heart.

but adam’s words come back to haunt you day after day as mia continues to grow. day after day you watch her learn about new things and figure out new stuff around her.

matty should be here. if not for him then for her. and once again you wonder about calling him.

one last chance. if he ignores this then he loses the right to his daughter forever.

so one tuesday morning, you gather the courage. you strap your baby to your chest and go downstairs to make some pancakes.

“after breakfast, darling,” you tell her, even though those words aren’t meant for her. “after breakfast we’ll call him again. maybe he will pick up. maybe he won’t.”

mia babbles when you kiss her head and flip a pancake, ignoring the worry that settles in the pit of your stomach. you’re so focused on the task at hand (rather, at ignoring the thoughts of impending doom) that you almost miss the doorbell that rings once and then again.

so focused that you have to scramble to wash your hands and rush to the door. maybe it’s your mum again, even though she wasn’t supposed to come today. it won’t be her first surprise visit, though. she misses her granddaughter far too much for that.

in a hurry you open the door, without even thinking about it twice. without even bothering to unstrap your daughter from your chest.

matty’s familiar face comes into view and for the second time in three months, the world comes to a standstill.

lemme know what you think <33

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#matty healy x reader #matty healy x you #angst #read the cws pls!!!#it's very unlikely i will ever write anything like this again #so oh well here we go #matty x you #matty x reader

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