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vale-nicole · 1 month

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pink in the night - matty healy. part eight.

you join the 1975 on tour as an actress starring in the narrative portion of at their very best alongside the lead singer, matty healy. he’s got big ideas and wants to redefine what a concert is, blurring the lines between fiction and reality. on stage together each night, it starts to feel less and less like acting. but is it the same for him?

masterlist.

cw: anxiety, panic attacks

wc: 4.2k

Wanna work on the song tomorrow night, can’t get your verse out of my head

Love?

Hello?

Is everything okay?

–

I’m sorry, the contract’s pretty ironclad, you’re locked in for the rest of the run. Is everything okay over there?

The message from your friend in law causes you to let out an instinctual noise of anguish. You throw your phone angrily onto the sheets in front of you, and roll over into a near-fetal position. You’ve never felt so stuck in your entire life. The idea of having to continue performing onstage with Matty is a horrifying one. Having to spend time with him off the stage is almost even worse. Your guard is never more down than when it’s a quiet room filled by only the two of you, those endlessly deep brown eyes of his staring down at yours.

The buzz of your phone interrupts your train of thought, and you pick it up to see another message coming in from Matty, along with the ones he’s sent sporadically over the past few hours.

Jamie said you left ny early, what’s going on?

Hello??

Answer me, please

Please just talk to me love what’s going on

The new one is simply your name, followed by a lone please.

You contacted Jamie’s assistant the morning after your breakdown and basically begged her to move your flight to Buenos Aires to as soon as possible, citing an imaginary family member who had moved down and needed to be visited. After pleading for far longer than you would’ve liked, you had a boarding pass for an eleven o’clock flight out of JFK sitting in your inbox.

You hastily threw your stuff into bags and snuck out of the hallway quietly while you knew the rest of the band was sleeping off their hangovers. The rest of your day was spent in an airport cafe, scribbling songs into your notebook and periodically going to the washroom to salvage your tear-stained makeup, the touch ups never lasting long. You had sent a text to Polly about your updated plans when she inquired about your location, and you fell asleep soon after the plane took off to the lull of the engine in your ear.

With your face still smushed against the sheets, you toss your phone once more away from you on the bed. The rest of the band arrives tomorrow morning in preparation for the show the next night. You won’t be in it, as it’s the shortened festival set, but you are still obligated to come along for this leg. Originally you were excited, being paid to travel and watch music festivals sounding like a job one could only dream of. But now you’d rather be anywhere but here. Buenos Aires is beautiful, but you’ve truly never longed for London as you do now. Even more than that, you long for the beaches of your childhood, sandy dunes and white caps crashing into cliff faces. You long to lie in grassy meadows, safe from heartbreak and tension and longing glances and buzzing phones of pleas and begs. In the face of all of your emotions, your love seemingly imploding in front of you, the only thing you want to do is run home to the comfort of your youth.

You curl up under the covers, mentally preparing to escape the band until after the show, and doing the best you can to avoid those brown eyes that haunt you when you close your own. You still dream of him, your subconscious not able to catch up with the truth.

–

Come to the show early tonight

I miss you

Please love

–

The crowd is absolutely massive. You knew festivals draw larger audiences, but you didn’t expect this. And every single one of them is enraptured by the man on stage. You can see it on their faces, the adoration, the gasps of joy when his gaze drifts over them. It would be a remarkable sight if the sight of him wasn’t so agonizing. Every movement, every nod of his head and grin that spreads across his face feels like millions of pinpricks agonizingly tearing you to pieces. You’re falling apart at the seams as he holds the crowd in the palm of his hand.

It’s over halfway through the set when Matty spots you. You arrived shortly after it began, not wanting to spend any more time with him than was required of you in that godforsaken contract you can’t seem to find any way out of. He turns his head with ease to the side, smiling wide at the crowd still before he suddenly meets your eyes.

His smile drops, hard and fast. It’s replaced by an expression you can’t quite make out, a muddled combination of anguish, resentment, and longing. The pain is spread across his evident, his eyes tight and lips curling inwards. But as you squint towards him, you can’t tell if it’s you projecting your own hurt onto him. The writer’s hand never stills, no matter how agonizing the story. Maybe you’re reading into it, and he’s just staring at you. You don’t really know how to trust yourself anymore, your months of misinterpretation leading you to nothing but a broken heart and longing stares.

The longer Matty holds your gaze, the larger the pit in your stomach grows. He stares and stares until you feel like you might be frozen, unable to look away from his eyes glaring so deeply into yours. And suddenly, like a flash, the moment is over. He shakes his head, wild curls ruffling in the amber light, and he’s back into the moment as if nothing had ever happened. He’s grinning into the lyrics, dancing in that natural way he does that makes your cheeks flame up like a schoolgirl with a crush. If it had been even a millisecond shorter, you might’ve doubted whether or not you made it up. You rub at your eye and hastily wipe a tear from your lash line, and your hand trails lower as you bite your thumbnail anxiously.

You watch Matty for the rest of the show, feeling safe behind the distance to let your eyes unabashedly linger. This way you can at least catch him if he stares, and that poisonous emotional voice in your mind tells you that if he does it enough, you can convince yourself it’s because he truly missed you. But he doesn’t look your way for several songs, and you watch him perform as flurries of emotions course through your veins. You hate how much you love him still. You hate the fact that you’re not even together and he broke your heart. You hate that you’re going to have to stay up on that stage with him, those lights glaring down on you, and you’ll have to learn how to act. It’s never been acting before, and now it’s going to be the hardest performance of your life.

You only make it through 4 songs before you return to the green room, unable to bear the sight of him a moment longer.

–

“30 minutes till the vans are here, everyone! Little mixup with the timing, apologies,” a roadie yells over the commotion, and grumbles arise from the group of musicians in front of you. Your heart is pounding in your chest, and you can feel your breathing slowly leaving your control. You’ve been a wreck since you departed backstage, pacing anxiously around the green room in anticipation for the band's arrival and questioning about your departure. To your relief, everyone was far too caught up in the high of the first successful festival show of the run that they did not even stop in the green room, instead heading straight for the loading area where vans would take you all to a bar.

As you peer out the green room door to spot the band and several crew members waiting in front of the loading dock, along with Matty resting on top of a hardcase, your breathing begins to pick up rapidly. You spot a washroom in the other direction of where the group is standing and robotically begin to walk towards it, focusing carefully on the feeling of each step you take to try and ground yourself.

You walk briskly around the corner into the washroom, carefully and succinctly stepping into a stall and locking the door. The second the door shuts and the metal lock clicks into place, all of your resolve crumbles. You sink to the floor and bring your knees to your chest, heaving as you try to muffle the sobs with your hand. It’s hitting you all at once, as it has several times this week. You’ve had countless moments of rapid breathing and heaving sobs, the panic and emotion overwhelming you until you cannot continue on.

You can hear a sink run as someone washes their hands, and your hand presses tighter against your mouth to muffle the anguished sobs hurling out of your throat. Tears burn your eyes as the stranger’s heels click past your stall,

In for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four, you repeat to yourself over and over, desperately attempting to steady your breathing. The tears continue to fall as you try to slow your breaths, the attempts to rein them in falling flat. But slowly, as time goes on, your breaths measure out and the tears dry on your skin. You remove your hand from your mouth and take a few shaky breaths, wiping the tears off completely as you exhale.

When you are sure the anxiety has subsided, you slowly stand up inside the stall and unlock the stall door. You touch up your makeup in the mirror with a sniffle, wiping the ruined mascara off with a paper towel. Your reflection stares back at you. It’s a girl lost in her feelings, so different from the eager-eyed one who met with Matty in the coffee shop all those months ago. The bags under your eyes are evident, even with all of the concealer you tried to layer on them. There’s a profound emptiness inside of your eyes, and the longer you stare at yourself the more you feel tears welling up inside of them. You avert your gaze quickly so as to not break down in tears once more, and exit the washroom breathing in time with your steps.

“You all good?” Polly asks as you return, the band gathered around on the street still waiting for the imminently arriving vans. You met up with her before the show to chat briefly, reusing the excuse of your departure to reassure her worry. Across the loading dock, you see George stepping into a large black van as Matty is about to follow in behind him, laughing at something the taller man is saying. As he steps inside the van he turns to look back at the group, and immediately catches your eye. Once more, you two are locked onto each other’s gazes. The only emotion you can pinpoint on his face is confusion. It almost hurts more than any malicious sentiment would, as the idea of him being so truly unaware of his harm for you chokes you with bitterness. Matty lingers before seemingly hearing someone call for him inside the van, and then he steps inside with an air of hesitation you have to convince yourself you aren’t imagining.

“All good,” you say with your eyes lingering on the disappearing van and a forced smile that you know it doesn’t reach your eyes. You can never seem to act when you need to the most.

–

The conversations flow throughout the night continuously between the various people gathered at the table. You interject occasionally, laughing along with George as he talks about something amusing that happened to him the night before, taking a picture of you and Polly smiling together, asking Ross about a new bass you hear him mentioning he purchased. You nod along and say what you can, but you’re not really there. You can’t focus on anything for the life of you, when Matty’s and your own gazes are at war with each other. You can’t look away with him, and you feel his eyes burning into the side of your head every moment you briefly glance away. It’s a game of cat and mouse, challenging each other to see who can observe the other the longest. It started hours ago on the stage, and it does not seem to be ending any time soon.

There’s a quiet moment after you murmur something to Polly, one of the first lulls of the night. The silence is not awkward, but your anxiety shapes your atmosphere with nothing but fear. You turn to find Matty’s gaze, as expected, locked onto yours with sharpness.

“Why’d you leave New York early?” he asks bluntly, his stare unflinching. The first words he’s spoken to you since you left, since the moment together in the club hallway. You see George briefly look at Matty oddly out of a reaction to his tone, and looks quickly at you before returning to his conversation with Rebecca.

“Wanted to visit my family,” you say curtly, only briefly meeting his cold eyes as you take a sip from your glass. It hurts to see them like that, even with all that you know of the truth behind them. That wretched heart of yours, never able to listen to your mind.

“You never said you have family here,” he remarks doubtfully, overtly suspicious of your claim. He knows where you're from, and that the likelihood of any other family members escaping from your village is a minuscule one. He takes a sip from his drink brusquely, maintaining his unfaltering stare.

“You don’t know everything about me, Matty,” you bite back, the retort and distaste for him bleeding through even with the falsity of your statement.

“That’s definitely true,” he scoffs, turning his head to the side and taking a sip of his pint. The bitterness is palpable, your loathing and his confused resentment swirling together to create an observably uncomfortable environment.

“So, how’d you like the set?” Ross interjects to ask you, trying but failing to come across smoothly and change the subject. You gracefully accept it anyways, and chat with him as you feel Matty’s eyes bore into you from across the table.

The conversation with Ross continues on, but Matty’s presence is suffocating you in a way that is becoming too much to endure. You force a smile on your face, gather your things, and announce to the table that you’re going for a smoke. The fight to not meet his eyes as you turn away is a difficult one, but you refuse to give him any more signs of your weakness.

The bar is absolutely crowded, a massive group of football fans cheering and embracing each other as their team of choice seemingly scores on the television blocking most of the main pathway. You squeeze past them carefully, needing to escape the table before you can take it no longer. The fresh air hits your skin like a current, a wonderful escape from the humid atmosphere inside.

You walk towards the railing of the terrace to view the city lights below, Buenos Aires still bustling even at this late hour. You light a cigarette briskly, and the drag immediately provides a slight relief from the all-consuming dread that has filled you for days, and you exhale the smoke out of your nose with a sigh. Any thoughts about quitting are wiped away in your mind, the only thought being a desire to smoke all of your thoughts and emotions away and tap them away with the ash in the wind.

A vibration from your phone in your pocket disturbs you, and as you reach to grab it when you suddenly hear the door loudly slam open. You turn around to observe the commotion when your eyes widen to Matty storming towards you.

“What the actual hell is your problem, mate?” He nearly shouts at you, and you’re immediately thankful that the terrace is empty save the pair of you. You take a deep breath. There’s no avoiding him now.

“You’ve been ignoring me all week, you mugged me off at the show, now you won’t even look at me? Did I do something to you?” He throws his hands out passionately in exasperation, and it only enrages you more. You stamp the cigarette out on the railing and flick it away before answering his accusation.

“Did I do something to you, that’s fucking rich, Matty, jesus. Just leave me alone, please.” You push your way past him towards the door to the bar when he suddenly grabs your arm and spins you around, forcing you to face him. He’s fuming, passion and anger rolling off of him in waves.

“No. I’m not leaving you alone. Tell me what the fuck your issue is, I’m not doing this game of avoidance any longer.” His brows are furrowed, and this act of confusion only infuriates you more. How could he not know why you’re angry after he released the interview?

“Don’t be thick, Matty, I know you’re not an idiot, so stop acting like one,” you scoff, trying to wrench your arm out of his grip. He holds tight, unwilling to let you leave.

“What the fuck are you on about? We go from, like-” he runs his free hand through his hair, aggravated and lost for words. “Just-just talk to me for fucks sake! I feel like I’ve lost you, and I don’t even understand why.” He suddenly sounds more hurt than angry, but you can’t withstand feeling any more pity or sadness for him. All you feel are your own wounds, rising rapidly to the surface and filling you with ire.

You finally rip your arm out of his grip and reach it up to press a firm finger against his chest, no longer holding anything back.

“I trusted you, and you manipulated me for what, a fucking concert show?” You scoff through a laugh, ignoring the confusion on his face before continuing.

“I will not,” you emphasize with a press to his chest, his eyes wide and brows rigid, “be a piece of fucking performance art for you, Matty. If you think you can treat me like that, then you never even knew me at all.”

He looks like he might cry, and you hate how much the sight makes your stomach drop. But you can’t stop now. You need him to hear the hurt he’s caused you, the words you’ve gone over in your head a million times the past week.

“Well was it worth it? Are you happy now?" you accentuate with another sharp jab to his chest, his mouth open more in shock and anguish. He seems to be about to speak, but you cut him off before he has the chance.

"If me falling in love with you was your goal, then you got it, man. Congratu-fucking-lations! Did I act how you wanted?” you ask bitterly, and the hurt on his face only fuels you more. You want him to hurt after how he’s made you feel, the cruelty of his manipulation and lies. “Are you not fucking entertained, then?" you near-shout with another joyless laugh, and you feel a tear drip down your cheek.

“No, no, please just listen to me, you-” he grabs your shoulder in a feeble attempt to draw you back to him, but you shove him away and escape his grip.

“No, Matty, I don't care about any of your excuses.” You sniffle a cry away before continuing, refusing to let him get a word in.

“I want out of my contract, I'm done with this. I'm done with you." His mouth is open wide as his face is splayed with hurt. The confliction between the desire to relish in your success in achieving the hurt you wished to cause him and the emotional response to seeing the man you wish you were not still in love with only muddles your brain more. It’s all becoming too much, but you need to get this out. You need him to hear it.

“Please, love, you've got it all wrong-” he asks you, desperate and pleading. The nickname burns at your skin.

“Don’t fucking call me love, Matty!,” you point at him, anger coursing through you at the sound of it. “I’m sick of your games, I’m sick of all of this!” You wipe the tear quickly with the back of your hand, feeling the bone press against your skin.

"What is it, exactly, that I have wrong, Matty? Did I misinterpret how much the show has changed? Did I misinterpret all those nights of us writing songs together? How you’d tell me you’d never felt as close with anyone, how you showed me around your hometown? And then I go and watch you tell that artist bloke you want the lines of the show and reality blurred? You want it all to seem like a performance?” You see his face seemingly putting together what you're dishing out for him. It stirs a moment of confusion in you, unable to understand why he just doesn’t seem to know why you’re hurt. After everything he did to you.

“Well guess fucking what, you did a wonderful job, Matty. Sure fooled me!” A tear drips down his cheek. You can’t stop now.

“Stop it, please just listen to-” he begs once more, his voice shaky.

"Was any of that fucking real?” you cut him off, eyes wide and fuming. You take another step forward, narrowing the distance between you even more.

“I know that I stopped acting up there long ago, so tell me the fucking truth because I know you stopped too. Are you that much of a piece of shit artist that you wanted to ruin yourself too for this? Or am I just that fucking gullible, then,” you laugh out sardonically and cruelly. The hurt bleeds through, and you hear your voice crack with the tears. His face is anguish-ridden, tears now matching your own. You’re almost scared to hear what he has to say, so you cannot do anything but lay it out for him.

“Was it really all just an act, Matty?” you ask, the anger melting away to expose only the raw, bloody wounds of hurt.

“Just tell me the truth. That it was all a lie so I can move on from this. On from you,” you say softly, tears dripping down your cheeks. Your chests are nearly touching now, the lack of distance suffocating and claustrophobic. He’s so close to you that it's terrifying, and the look of horror on his face feels like daggers piercing through your skin. Why won’t he just answer?

“Please Matty,” you breathe shakily, “I’m begging you-” his lips crash into yours before you can finish. His arms engulf you and press you against him, and you can feel his heartbeat as you begin to kiss him back.

It’s different from it is on stage. It still feels like the Matty you’ve spent hours tracing the features of with your eyes, the Matty who grins into the kisses on stage even when the audience can’t see, the Matty who you’re so in love with that it makes you nearly sick. But there is an all-encompassing desperation coursing through it, filling every molecule and every pore of the moment. It’s electrifying, explosive, the currents running through your veins as he gasps into your mouth.

His arm reaches around behind you to grasp your waist and pulls you even closer to him. You deepen the kiss unquestionably and instinctually, eagerly accepting his tongue as it traces your lips. He moans unabashedly into your mouth, desperation-filled and longing. Your mind is barely processing the nature of the moment, only able to focus on the sensation of Matty taking up all of you. His hand tangles into your hair, the sensation familiar yet suddenly foreign. He’s kissing as if he is trying to devour you, to translate as much emotion as possible with just the action.

Slowly, you break for air as your foreheads press against each other, both of you breathing heavily. He’s warm against you, as he always is. You’re acutely aware of every physical sensation, the way his skin feels against yours in too many places to count, his calloused fingers splayed against your waist, his breath hot against your face. You’re about to speak before he beats you to it. He’s out of breath, panting through each carefully chosen word.

“It was all real,” he says with a heaving chest. His eyes meet yours as your foreheads stay touching. The closeness is no longer suffocating. It’s exhilarating.

“It was always real,” he continues with a slight shake of his head. “On stage, off stage, everything. There’s nothing else to it. Everything was real. I- "

You kiss him back with a grin before he can continue. It feels like coming home.

–

a/n: tell me thoughts😁

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