Chapter Text
Something about Barbados is so fucking bleak for Matty. It doesn't matter that the sun is perpetually shinning, or that the landscape is so lush and green, or that the actual rehab facility boasts comfortable individual rooms and common areas, and is, dare Matty say, nice. Something about it is still so fucking bleak.
He withdrawals from everything, even weed, and chain smokes for the first few days. He'd kill for a bottle of wine. Something cheap, like he and George used to lift from supermarkets and smuggle back to his room when they were kids. He'd kill for George to be around at all. They text some and there were a few phone calls when Matty was in the throes of withdrawal, curled up and sobbing because everything hurt. Matty doesn't recall making those phone calls and suspects George listed himself as Matty's emergency contact. He's spoken to his mum and brother, too, but the calls were stilted and uncomfortable.
Once he's well and truly sober for the first time in more years than he'd care to admit, nicotine the only thing in his head, he stumbles his way through therapy and group and so on and so forth. He can't stop all the way all the shitty things he's done, to George in particular, from flashing through his head, so he sits in silence unless he's asked to speak, a pity party of one. The most vivid memory is going downstairs and sitting in the kitchen of the studio and telling George he needed to go to rehab. Then, there's George, packing Matty's bags, because he can't get himself to move away from the edge of a panic attack. There's George, breaking, and handing Matty three little Xanax pills just so he can calm down. There's Matty himself, hiding the pill bottle in the lining of his jacket before they go to the airport, because even though he known he needs to stop, he doesn't want to.
The big, bay gelding Matty is introduced to once he's functional is more intimidating than he's willing to admit and he can't remember the horse's name for more than a few seconds, instead caught by the way he lifts his big head to prick his ears at the sound of human voices, his the white star on his forehead bright in the sunlight as it peaks out from under his forelock and his mouth still full of grass. He listens for a moment, then finishes chewing his mouthful of grass and returns to grazing.
Matty stays tuned out until, his therapist, Dr. Johnson, or Dave as he likes to be called, says, "Go on," and unlatches the gate.
"What?"
"Go on," the therapist repeats. "You're gonna stand about halfway between him and me, and wait for him to get curious about you, like you have been."
Matty privately thinks this is all a bunch of bullshit, and he's about to protest, or say something smart, but George, begging him to get better, flashes through his head, so he goes, albeit a little reluctantly. He can't help but feel very out of place in his jeans and converse, and a t-shirt that had once belonged to George--Matty suspects George packed it in an attempt to give him some comfort. It's way to big, but If Matty tucks it into his jeans and leans into the look, it looks purposeful, not like he's just scrawny and overmedicated.
Not far from where Matty is standing, the gelding is still grazing, tail swishing idly with one ear angled toward him. He can't help but recall the girls he had known as a kid who rode horses. He recalls thinking they were insufferable, but he probably was, too, and in hindsight, he was more jealous that they had something that they were dedicated to that came with social connections, than anything else. And they missed a lot of school. He was a little jealous of that, too.
Matty's spiral of thoughts is interrupted by the feeling of the gelding's prickly whiskers and breath against his arm. "Hi, mate," he murmurs. "Sorry you're stuck with me."
The horse doesn't give any indication that he's heard Matty's words. Instead, he gives Matty's chest a sniff then a little nudge with his nose, so Matty raises a tentative hand and scratches his forehead, feeling his way under the horse's dark forelock. The horse lets out something that sounds a little like a sigh, and Matty can't help but smile and ask, "You like that, yeah?" The horse gives him another little nudge, like he's just not getting something and it suddenly strikes Matty that somehow, the horse looks like he's reflecting the emotional turmoil that Matty's feeling. "You and me both, mate," he mutters. "You miss someone? I miss George. Must suck for you, babysitting a bunch of smackheads."
It strikes Matty that this, standing in a field in fucking Barbados, talking to a horse, and missing George more than he misses heroin, might be more ridiculous than anything he did while high. It is a little comforting, though, like being around a dog, so he stays. He keeps mumbling the things that pop up in his mind and scratching the horse's broad forehead. When the therapist, still standing at the fence and watching how Matty interacts with the horse, waves for him to come back, the horse follows Matty across the field, head at Matty's shoulder as they walk.
"Not a such a load of bollocks now, is it?" the therapist asks, echoing what Matty had said when he'd first learned that he'd be expected to interact with a horse.
Matty shrugs and stares at the ground, muttering, "Guess not."
"Let's sit for a minute," Dave suggests, gesturing to some lawn chairs set in the shade. Once they've sat down, he continues, "This doesn't work if you don't let it, Matthew. You told me you have a bad track record with conventional talk therapy, but you also said you want this to work. You have to let it work."
Matty is silent for a moment, then he admits, "I miss George. I wanna get stoned. I miss my mates. I don't get how standing in a fucking field with a horse is going to fix it."
"It's not about fixing," Dave says. "It's about moving forward. It's about letting your past be past and making your future something new. It's about evaluating your behaviors and patterns and building new skills to support your sobriety. Equine assisted therapies have proven to be effective in treating substance abuse. Horses and humans have evolved side by side for thousands of years. Buddy out there," Dave gestures to the horse Matty had been petting, "probably knows you better than you know you right now. It will help if you participate and let it help."
Matty nods. He feels strangely like crying.
"It gets better, Matthew. Every day it gets easier and easier."
Matty nods again. "I wanna get it right," he whispers. "I wanna do better."
----
When he sits down for dinner, in corner he'd hoped would offer some seclusion, Matty is cornered by the same chatty American guy who's been trying to make friends with him for days.
"How's the horse?" the guy asks.
Matty doesn't answer, just pokes at his food absently.
"Which one are you working with?"
Matty shrugs. "Dunno. A brown one?"
"You don't really call horses brown," the guy says. "Maybe bay or-"
"If I wanted you to tell me about horses, I'd fucking ask," Matty snaps. The guy looks like Matty had slapped him across the face and it makes him feel horribly guilty so he sighs and says, "Look, mate, I'm not trying to be a dick, I just-"
"You're a junkie," the guy cuts in. "We all are. We've all lost shit. Get your head outta your ass."
Matty doesn't say anything. He feels like this should be the end of the interaction. He's established himself as a dickhead and now this guy can stop trying to be his friend.
"Who'd you lose?" the guys asks. "Might help to talk about it."
"I miss G," Matty admits. "I miss my mates."
"I lost my girlfriend," the guy offers. "She tried, but you know how it is. You say you'll get clean over and over, and when you never do, or when you start stealing from your friends and family to pay for your habit, they stop trusting you, and then they stop trying."
Matty stays quiet.
"Who's G?" the guy tries.
Matty ponders for a moment. He'd been about to say George was his mate, but that's not really accurate. George is more than that. His soulmate, maybe, but Matty finds it increasingly difficult to believe in things like that. "He's important," Matty settles on saying. "My best mate, my, he's George, a constant in life, since I was a kid."
"Well, he might be willing to reconcile when you get outta here," the guy offers.
Matty shakes his head, not interested in explaining the intricacies of his relationship with George to this veritable stranger.
"Did you do something awful to him?"
"He stayed," Matty says, before he has a chance to think about it. "Everyone did. They just don't trust me right now."
"Hell of a friend," the guy says.
Against his instinct, Matty finds himself letting out a little laugh. "Yeah, you could say that."
"You love him," the guy says after a beat. "Did you tell him?"
Suddenly Matty finds himself aching to spill everything to this stranger. "You're not gonna, like, sell anything I say to the press, are you? I'm not gonna see something like 'Matty Healy: Rehab Woes' next time I Google myself?"
"I'd have to Google you to know who you are."
"Best not," Matty says. "Save yourself."
The guy laughs and says, "Honestly, man, I don't really care what flavor of famous you are. I just want a decent conversation. Consider it junkie to junkie confidentiality."
"Of course I told him," Matty says. "I always tell my mates I love them, but George is-"
"The one you're sleeping with?"
"What?"
"It's obvious."
"I can't quantify my relationship with George as something so simple and fucking base," Matty argues. Really, though, he has a long list of evidence that could help quantify his relationship with George. The hours and days in the studio, the writing, the shared hotel rooms. The way George never judged him, not once, and worked so hard to understand for Matty's sake. The way George tried so hard to help him get and stay clean, the nights spent taking Matty apart and helping him sink down, down into that fuzzy headspace so he might experience that rush of happy chemicals without drugs. The way George has been texting every day, even though Matty doesn't always respond. "George means more to me than I mean to me. It's not that fucking simple."
"'course he does."
"Who are you going home to, then? Who packed your fucking bags? Who's going to pick you up at the airport?" Matty snaps, irritation flooding into his words. It will be George at the airport for him, George and Jamie who will sort out his visa and paperwork so they can join them in LA to work on the album.
"No one," the guy admits. "My brother, maybe, if I'm brave enough to call him."
"Brothers," Matty echoes, and suddenly, his chest is tight and he can't quite catch his breath. His own brother is so young, so much younger than him, and this is the example he's setting. "I need a cigarette," he mutters, heading outside. The guy follows and accepts Matty's offer of a cigarette.
Matty smokes without talking, but his head is busy. His phone has buzzed several times today, all texts from George he hasn't been brave enough to read, and he needs to call his mum and his friends. He should talk to Louis, too, but he feels the same bout that as he does talking to George. When his cigarette burns down to the filter, he lights another, and offers one to the American, who declines.
"I didn't mean to be pushy with all the questions," the guy says as Matty lights his second cigarette.
Matty shakes his head. "It's alright. It's nice to talk to someone who's," Matty wives his hand around, "here, too."
"Junkie to junkie confidentiality," the guy repeats.
"None of my mates," Matty pauses, taking a drag of his cigarette, "heroin was the first secret between us." It's admission of guilt, the deepest most corrosive kind of guilt. "No one trusts me anymore, which I figure is fair, it's just, well, it sucks to be a liability in the eyes of the people you love."
The guy nods. "I know what you mean."
"I think I tuned out your name," Matty admits. "I'm Matty."
"Josh," the guys says.
"Well, 's good to meet you, Josh."
----
About a two weeks in, Matty builds up the confidence to call George. His morning is spent in a round pen, following his therapist's instructions to begin working with Buddy, the bay gelding. It seems a little pointless until Buddy drops his head, flicks his ear towards Matty, and starts licking and chewing and Matty turns his back and not a minute later, Buddy is sniffing his shoulder. It all clicks in Matty's head at that point and he feels a little like a dick for being annoyed with the whole thing. His afternoon is spent in group, then dodging Josh, who now thinks they're best friends.
By the time evening rolls around, Matty has worked himself into an anxious mess and he's ready to text George an apology and bail on their call, when George texts a picture Allen, curled on the foot of Matty's bed, looking as sad as a dog can look, accompanied by a text reading 'we miss you :( hope you're doing ok.' The guilt is like a blow to the chest, and Matty feels his breath catch. There's no way he can not call now, so with shaky hands, he dials George's number and lets it ring.
George answers enthusiastically and Matty can hear Allen in the background, nails tapping against the floor.
Matty's greeting is far less excited and his voice trembles when he murmurs, "Hi."
"How are you?" George asks. Then, "That's a bad question, but-"
"I'm ok, G. You don't need to worry so much about me."
George laughs softly, and says, "I'm always gonna worry about you, Matty. That's what happens when you love someone."
If Matty closes his eyes and imagines, they could be in the same room, he could on the couch with his head in George's lap while they share a spliff and George calls him a heathen for drinking wine directly from the bottle. The illusion can't last long, though. "I miss you," Matty admits.
"I miss you, too," George responds. "I'm glad you're getting help, though. I think Allen misses you, too. Did you see my text?"
"Yeah, I did. I-" And then Matty is choking back a sob, hand pressed against his mouth.
"Shit, I'm sorry," George apologizes. "I don't mean to upset you. I just thought you might like to see him."
"I did, I do," Matty says, voice tight. "he just looks so fuckin' sad. It makes me feel supper fucking guilty."
"I'm sorry," George repeats. "Happy pictures from now on, yeah?"
"That might make me feel worse," Matty admits. "Maybe no pictures for now? If that's ok?"
"Whatever you need," George agrees. "Do you need anything? Is there anything I can do?"
"I don’t think so." There's quiet for a few moments, then, "I'm sorry, George. I'm so fucking sorry about all of it. I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if you'll let me. I didn't mean for it to be this bad. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I fucked up. I'm sorry I'm fucked up. I'm sorry I'm an addict and-"
"Matthew," George cuts in, "it's ok. I'm not upset with you. You're not fucked up. You did make some mistakes, but the important thing is that you're ok and that you're sorting yourself out."
"I lied to you," Matty argues. "I promised I'd never lie to you and I did and how can you trust me anymore? I'm a liar and-"
"Matty," George interrupts again. "I'm not upset with you, not anymore. There's no point and I don't like it and you don't need that. Don't worry about us, we're fine. Just focus on getting better, ok?"
"Ok," Matty echoes.
There's a few beats of silence, then George asks, "You still there?"
"You told me once back before everything, when we still shared that flat and I was trying to kick cocaine the first time, that we'd get through all the barely getting by," Matty says.
"Sounds like something I'd say," George agrees.
"I'm barely getting by, G."
"It's gonna get better, Matty," George says. "I promise."
"It doesn't feel like it," Matty mumbles.
"I know."
Matty is quiet for a few moments, then he says, "Sorry for being mopey and unpleasant. It's good to talk to you."
"It's good to hear from you, even if you're feelin' mopey. I, uh, I didn't really think I would."
"Sorry," Matty mumbles. "I'm sorry about everything."
----
"I made George give me Xanax," Matty says one afternoon, brushing out Buddy's mane. "Then I hid the rest of it in my jacket so I could get high on the plane."
Buddy flicks one ear back toward Matty's voice and shifts his weight, cocking own back leg.
"You've probably heard it all, haven't you?" Matty mutters. "Nothing I can say that'll be new. Still. He packed my bags while I had a panic attack, did you know that? And I couldn’t stop crying and hyperventilating so he gave me the pills. I think it broke him a little to do it, but maybe that was better than me passing out. Dunno. What do you think?"
Buddy licks and chews and flicks his ear to shoo away a fly. Matty decides this is better than traditional talk therapy. He can say what he needs to and no one wants to talk about it. If he had said any of that to a human therapist, he'd be stuck trying to quantify how he feels about it. He knows how he feels about it: guilty. He doesn't need someone trying to ask him why he feels guilty or what that means for his relationship with George. He'll have to talk about it eventually, he knows, but this is better.
"D'ya wanna here more?" Matty asks. "More fucked up things I did to the people I love?" Buddy doesn't do anything, but Matty is finding it freeing to say things, so he continues, "I haven't spoken to my mum in ages. I should. I'm sure she blames herself for how fucked up I am."
Buddy flicks his ear at another fly and shifts his weight to cock his other hind leg. Matty finds himself continually in awe of how functional this creature is. He eats what he should with no complaints--if Matty himself were forced to eat the same thing, day in and day out, he might loose it--and there is no malice, no pettiness, no grudges in a horse. Buddy may have hooves the size of Matty's hands with steel shoes nailed to the bottom and muscles that could let him destroy anything he liked, and still the most violent action Matty has ever seen him make was stomping a hoof when flies buzzed around his legs. Somehow even more awe-inspiring is the fact that Buddy quietly puts up with Matty's inexperienced fumbling and inconsistent moods and still seems to like him. Matty doesn't claim to be anything near knowledgeable when it comes to horses, but he thinks this might be as perfect a creature as is possible.
"I think," Matty continues, "I might blame my mum a little bit, too. I can't say that to anyone though. Maybe I could tell George, but I don't want him to hear more of this. Is it unfair of me to blame her a little bit? I mean, she didn't make me, but it's not like she set a good example when I was growing up, either. Is that unfair? I feel bad about it, at any rate."
Buddy shakes and blows his nose and Matty can't help but laugh.
----
"I don't wanna be a junkie all my life," Matty says, drawing his knees up to his chest where he's seated on a couch. "I don't wanna be a junkie at all."
"You can't define yourself by your addiction, Matthew," Dave says, patiently. He and Matty have been talking in circles for over an hour. Matty keeps putting aside all other adjectives for 'junkie' or 'smackhead,' and Dave keeps telling him he's more than that, and Matty argues that can't be true, since his friends sent him to rehab and around and around they go. "I want you to give me two other ways you could describe yourself. Two other descriptors."
Matty shrugs. "Pretentious? Annoying? Narcissistic? A liability? A liar? A shitty partner? A shitty bandmate? A shitty friend? A shitty son? A shitty brother?"
"How about something positive?" Dave tries.
Matty shrugs again, silent.
"Neutral, then?"
Yet again, Matty shrugs. "I don't like myself very much right now. I don't really have anything good, or neutral, to say about myself."
"Ok, what might George say about you?" Dave asks.
Matty is quiet for a moment. This feels like a cheap shot, using George to manipulate Matty into being nice to himself when he wants to wallow in his own self pity and misery. "George would say I'm strong and brave and all the other things people call you when they find out you're going to rehab," Matty says.
"That doesn't sound like the person you've told me about."
Matty sighs. "He wouldn't say it like everyone else does. He would say that I'm strong and brave and shit because I admitted I needed help and because we were in the middle of recording an album and shit. He calls me clever and dedicated and kind and creative and, and, well, George tells me I'm a good person."
"And would George lie to you?"
Matty shakes his head. "I'm the liar between the two of us."
"Matthew, continuing to talk like that about yourself is unconstructive. I understand that you don't feel particularly positive about yourself and it's a self-defense mechanism, but self-flagellation is going to push you to relapsing. You have to unlearn the habit."
Matty nods. He feels a bit like a child that's just received a scolding. "It's not that I don't believe him," Matty tries to explain. "It's that I think I've somehow hidden all those bad parts of me. George thinks I'm a good person because he hasn't seen the part of me that are shit and a liar. I live with me every day. I know I'm shit and using turned me into a liar. George doesn't know all the things I've lied about, but I do. If he knew me the way I know me, he wouldn't think I’m a good person, he'd think I'm shit."
"You have a warped perspective of yourself. You have to learn how to forgive yourself."
Matty chokes back a sob as a wave of self-loathing crashes over him. "I don't know how to do that," he chokes out. "How do I forgive myself for every shitty thing I've done since I was eighteen years old?"
"You grow and you learn and you make amends for the shitty things you did, but it doesn't happen overnight," Dave explains. "For now, you need to believe that it just might be possible that you're not as bad as you think."
Matty gives a choked little laugh. "Maybe," he agrees.
----
Matty calls his mum the week before he leaves rehab. He's read Infinite Jest and Joan Didion and watched The Center Will Not Hold and written some songs to add to the record. He's spoken to George several more times and even found himself on a FaceTime call with Adam, Ross, and Jamie. Matty cried when the call ended. The one thing he hasn't done is talk to his family, so at his therapist's urging, he dials his mum's number one evening.
Denise sounds ecstatic when she answers the phone.
"I'm sorry, Mum," Matty says once she's done gushing about how happy she is to hear from him.
"Matthew," she says, "you do not have to apologize for this. You're doing what's best for you, and that's a good thing, not something you need to apologize for."
"I fucked it all up, though," Matty says. "I lied, about everything. I lied to George."
"You got the worst bits of me," Denise says. "I always worried about that in you."
"'s not your fault, Mum.
"That doesn't mean I don't worry about you." There's some noise in the background, and Denise continues, "Your brother just got home. He'd love to talk to you, if you're up to it."
"Yeah," Matty agrees, "I'd like that."
There's a little bit of commotion in the background, then Louis is on the phone, saying, "Hi, Matty. Mum said you're in Barbados. 's it nice?"
"Rehab isn't nice, Louis," Matty mutters. "Don't do drugs, ok?"
"Ok," Louis agrees, a little confused.
"How've you been?" Matty asks. "Tell me what you're up to."
So Louis tells Matty about school and his friends and his life. When he's done, Matty feels a little better.
----
Matty spends his flight from Barbados to LA horribly anxious and declines the drinks in first class, opting for water or coffee. He'd very much like to drink himself into a stupor, but that's probably frowned upon, especially for someone who just got out of rehab. He tries to read, but his anxiety makes his hard to focus. Sleep, too, is illusive, so Matty resigns himself to staring out the window with his headphones on.
It's George who meets Matty at the airport. Matty knew it would be, but still, something about seeing George standing at the baggage claim makes his chest and throat tight, like he might cry.
"I really, really love you and I'm really, really sorry," Matty mumbles when George pulls him into a hug.
"It's ok," George says. "It's really all ok."
Chapter Text
Sometimes, when Matty finds himself unable to sleep, he sneaks outside and watches the horses in their pastures. He doesn't go into the pastures, just stands at the fence and watches, sometimes petting the horses who come up to the fence. It's peaceful, a kind of peace that Matty doesn't know he's ever felt. He thinks back through his life, beginning with his childhood and adolescence in Wilmslow. He thinks about all his desperate attempts to escape, mostly from himself. He thinks about growing up with his mum being so obviously unwell, then about his brother being born, and then about his parents yelling and fighting. There was no peace there, not unless he got stoned and still, that was never quite enough.
He thinks about starting the band. That was good. That was the best thing that's ever happened to him. He thinks about all the times they were told they weren't good enough or they weren't what people wanted to listen to. He thinks about Jamie and Dirty Hit and those early Eps, then the first record. That was a hectic time in his life, and in those early months, when they'd first met Jamie and Dirty Hit was born, Matty was developing a cocaine habit, then cleaning up. He's thought a lot about that recently. There was no peace in most of that and kicking a cocaine habit is fucking hard and miserable.
He thinks about that first tour and how much he loved it, but also about how it had, in many ways, laid the groundwork for him to end up in rehab. He thinks about "I Like It When You Sleep…" and just how much of him is in that record, but how much of it is him at what may be his worst--arrogant and full of himself, drunk off the success of their first album, beginning to use heavily and freaked out. There's very little peace to be found in how he felt then. He thinks about Latitude Festival and how he lied and about how George found out. He thinks about how that's the only time he's ever heard George raise his voice. He can't think about that for too long, though, or it sends him into the throes of anxiety and self-loathing. He thinks about the phrase 'heroin chic.' There's no peace there, either.
But standing at the fence in the middle of the night, watching the horses, with no responsibilities other than getting better, which he so desperately wants, Matty feels more content that he ever has. Of course it's less than ideal--he is, after all, in rehab, and he's beginning to account for all his problems--but it's still comfortable.
Some nights, Buddy comes up to the fence, but usually, his dark coat makes him blend into the night, unless the moon is particularly bright. There's a grey horse and a chestnut that often come up to the fence on the nights Matty sneaks outside, more often than Buddy does. The chestnut eyes him suspiciously the first few times, then warms up to him and the grey is friendly. Mostly, though, the horses don't bother with Matty and continue grazing or dozing. Matty finds it somehow refreshing to not be the center of attention. He likes attention, and in many ways, he thrives off it, but sometimes it's nice to be an observer. And he likes watching the horses.
Matty has heard people relate horses to dogs, he's done so in his own head, but that's not entirely accurate. A horse doesn't necessarily look at you like a dog does. A dog looks at you like you're their whole world, and in many ways, a dog's world does revolve around their person, but horses aren't like that. A horse looks at you like they respect you, like it's a partnership. Horses are independent in a way dogs aren't. That makes it more special when Buddy trots up to the fence so Matty can scratch his forehead.
----
"I'm really fuckin' scared," Matty confesses to George one evening on the phone.
"About what?"
"Leaving here."
"You wanna talk about it?" George offers.
Matty shrugs, even though he knows George can't see it. "Dunno. Maybe later?"
"Ok," George agrees, even though he's desperate to push.
"Tell me what's going on with you. When are you headed to LA?" Matty asks, careful to change the subject.
George takes the bait, probably because he knows Matty doesn't really want to focus on himself, and starts talking about the production that is getting to LA to record. He asks if he can bring anything to LA for Matty. Matty responds with a long list of clothes and instruments and personal items he wants George to bring. George laughs at Matty's long list and gets a pen.
"I miss you," Matty murmurs when the line falls into silence.
"I miss you, too," George responds. "You get out next week, right?"
"Yeah, yeah, uh, eight more days. I'm fuckin' scared, George."
"I know you are," George says. "I'll listen if you want to talk about it."
Matty sighs. "I don't think I do. Not now, anyway. I don't really know what I want to say."
"Talk to someone, then," George urges. "Your therapist, maybe."
"I will," Matty promises.
They swap 'I love yous' and goodbyes before hanging up the phone, and the next day, Matty brings his fear to Dave.
----
"I'm really fuckin' scared," Matty says, echoing his words to George the night before, as he sits on Dave's couch.
"Of what?"
Matty shrugs, then he admits, "Leaving here."
"Lots of people feel anxious about the prospect of leaving a rehab program," Dave says. "You've built patterns and routines and habits here that might be difficult to keep when you go back to your life. I imagine that's doubly true for you, given what you do for a living and the lifestyle that involves."
"I love it," Matty says. "I love touring and playing shows and making music and all of it. I never really wanted to do anything else. I miss George and Ross and Hann so much it almost physically hurts. I miss making music so much it almost hurts."
"Let's think about your support systems and what it is that you're actually afraid of, then," Dave suggests. "In your own words, what's the biggest thing that scares you about leaving here?"
"Relapsing," Matty says, automatically. "I'm afraid of relapsing and making a record and going on tour without drugs and of letting people down and how everyone is going to look at me and treat me. I'm afraid of fucking it up again and losing everyone."
"Do you think that's a possibility--losing everyone?"
"I think that I only get so much grace," Matty says carefully. "I think that I don't get to make the same mistakes again. I don't think I have much grace for different mistakes, even."
Dave nods. "Let's think about your support systems, then, about how you might not make the same mistakes again."
Matty shrugs. "I've had people all this time and I still ended up here."
"But you didn't ask them for help when you needed it, did you?"
Matty shakes his head, a little reluctant.
"So how might you do it differently in the future?"
Matty shrugs again, and with a sigh says, "I'd ask for help, I guess. I'd tell George, probably."
"You don't have to sound so disappointed about it," Dave suggests.
"I don't want to bother them. I've put the people I love through so much shit already. If I tell George every time I can't sleep, he's just going to get tired of hearing that I can't sleep every night and it's not like I can ask him to sit up with me. If I tell Ross or Adam I need them to sit with me every time I feel like scoring and getting high, they're going to get awfully tired of sitting with me."
"Do you really think that's how it'll be? Or do you think that things will get easier and better over time?"
"It doesn't feel like that right now," Matty replies. "Mostly I just feel kinda shit."
"It will get better," Dave says. "But you have to use your support system."
----
Matty thinks that Buddy might be the most forgiving creature in the world, the kindest creature in the world. He feels a little guilty when he thinks that, given that he has Allen at home and he does love Allen, but Buddy is special. Matty's mostly just following instructions when he interacts with the horse, but it's still good. He's beginning to see why equine therapy is a thing.
One afternoon, though, Matty accidentally hits Buddy in the nose while he's talking. It's not hard, but it's hard enough that Buddy jerks his head up in surprise and Matty stumbles back out of his own surprise, trips and falls on his ass, and knocks down Buddy's grooming kit. Buddy spooks backwards in his cross-ties, snapping the baling twine attaching the cross-ties to the wall. The sound of steel shoes hitting against concrete echoes through the barn. Buddy doesn't run, just stands in the barn aisle with his head high and body tense. Matty sits where he fell on the concrete floor, almost frozen. He watches one of the barn staff materialize, taking hold of Buddy's lead rope and scratching him until he lowers his head and snorts out a breath. Dave turns up in front of Matty a few seconds later.
"You alright?" he asks.
Matty nods and lets Dave pull him to his feet.
"Amy's gonna fix the cross-ties and you can get back to it, yeah?"
Matty nods again.
Amy, the barn staff member, drapes Buddy's lead over he shoulder while she cuts and ties new loops of baling twine to reattach the cross-ties to the eye-hooks in the wall. Then she clips the cross ties back to Buddy's halter, produces a treat from her pocket, offers it to Buddy, and scratches him on the forehead, then disappears again.
"Back to it, yeah?" Dave repeats when Matty doesn't move.
"Yeah, uh, yeah," Matty echoes, but he still doesn't move.
"He's ok," Dave says. "You didn't hurt him. You just spooked him. Horses are prey animals, after all."
Matty nods again. He offers a hand to Buddy to sniff and when Buddy sniffs and nudges his hand, Matty chuckles and scratches his forehead. "Sorry," he whispers. Buddy gives Matty another little nudge, so he gathers up the grooming kit he'd spilled and gets back to it. As it turns out, horses don't hold grudges, even though Matty thinks he deserves it.
----
Matty finds it a little weird to be back living in a house with his best friends. Mostly, he wants to isolate and feel sorry for himself. Isolating is pretty much off the table for him, given the givens, so he just doesn't join conversations unless he's spoken directly to and otherwise tries to fade into the background and get lost in his mind. And he gets stoned. It all reaches a head with Matty yelling. He's yelled at his friends a lot lately.
"What the fuck do you want from me?" he snaps. "I fucking went to rehab, like you all wanted!"
"Matthew," Jamie ventures, "I think we're all just concerned that-"
"That what?" Matty interrupts. "That I won't stay clean? That I'll fuck everything up?"
It's George who interrupts Matty's tirade. "Matty," he says, "think about it from the other side, just for a minute."
At that, Matty loses all his anger and he heads for the door.
"Where are you going?" Jamie asks.
"For a fucking fag, Jesus Christ."
Matty gets through one cigarette and is about to light a second when the door opens revealing George.
"Hey," Matty mumbles. "Sorry for yelling."
"Tell that to them," George says, gesturing to the door he's just come through, "not me."
Matty shrugs and goes back to lighting his cigarette.
"D'you want some space?" George asks.
Matty shakes his head exhaling smoke. "Not from you. Never from you."
So, George crosses the space between them and plucks the cigarette from between Matty's fingers and takes a drag.
"Do you guys wanna drug test me? Do you want me to piss in a cup for you guys?" Matty asks, desperation creeping into his voice. "I fucking will if that’s what you all want. I’m sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I'm sorry I'm like this. I'm sorry I'm an addict. I'm sorry I lied and I'm sorry I let you down."
"I know," George says. "I've forgiven you, though."
"Did you guys talk about it?" Matty asks after a beat of silence. "About what to do about me getting out of rehab?"
George nods. "We've had a lot of conversations about you, Matty. We get that you had reasons for doing what you did, and we get that you're working really hard right now to stay clean, but-"
"What do you think?" Matty interrupts. "I wanna know what you think. I wanna know how you feel about it."
"I love you," George says, almost automatically. "I love you in spite of all the things you think make you unlovable, because of the things you think make you unlovable-"
"You love me because I'm an addict and a narcissist?" Matty asks, incredulous.
"I love you because you're dedicated and creative and thoughtful. I love that you're so confident in making music. I love that you're passionate about the things you care about. I love the way you think. You're an addict because of the way you think, because you never figured out how to shut your thoughts off otherwise."
Matty narrows his eyes and studies George for a moment, then says, "That sounds like something I'd say."
"The bit about why was you," George admits. "You said that to me the night before you left, after I gave you Xanax."
"I don't remember that."
"I know," George says. "But if you wanna know what I think about it, I think you probably need some support right now and, if you'll let me, I want to give you that. I think we probably shouldn't be having conversations about you without you now that you're back, but mostly I'm glad you're ok. I'm forever grateful that I didn't have to see you in a hospital bed."
Matty drops his cigarette butt and crushes it, saying, "I wouldn't, I wasn't-"
"I was scared you would. We all were," George cuts in. "I was so scared for you. I'm still scared for you."
"George," Matty murmurs.
"I am," George says. "You might not remember, but you were so strung out and fucked up. Watching you at Latitude scared the living shit out of me."
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I scared you. I'm sorry you're afraid I'm going to relapse and overdose and kill myself. I'm sorry I made you think that's a possibility."
"I know," George repeats. He doesn't say anything else.
----
Matty isn't sure what he had expected, but life is different after rehab. Everything feels raw, like life is a wound that's just beginning to heal. George offers gentle, lingering touches that soothe it some. They share cigarettes and meals and sometimes seats. One morning, Matty comes into the studio in George's t-shirt, obviously too big and exposing the top of his chest tattoo. George chuckles at him, but no one else says anything and somehow it feels a little better.
Still, everything feels raw. Or maybe that's just LA. Matty has never particularly liked LA, but now it feels rough, like sandpaper, and it rubs harshly against the raw and tender scar that is Matty's life right now, threatening to rip it open. Matty doesn't share this idea, though. Instead he sits on it and internalizes it rolling the idea over and over in his head while he works out and gives interviews and makes music. The working out is new, but he likes it. It makes it easier to sleep and gives him some of those happy chemicals he was chasing with drugs. That, too, gets stuffed behind the dam that Matty's begun to build in his head.
The dam cracks when Matty writes "It's Not Living (If It's Not With You)" and "I Always Wanna Die (Sometimes)," and breaks entirely with recording them. Both songs require several takes for Matty to get through the vocals without crying in the vocal booth. He hadn't left rehab and its intense therapy planning to write songs about his addiction and mental health, but the songs almost wrote themselves. When Matty brought the lyrics to everyone, Adam very carefully asked Matty if those were really songs he wanted to share with the world, if those were things he could stand singing about every night on tour. Matty had nodded and mumbled something about needing to get it out, so everyone went with it.
Matty brings up to George one afternoon when they sneak away for a cigarette after he's done the vocals for the two songs.
"Do you think I'm losing my mind?" Matty asks, lighting a cigarette.
"Matty," George sighs.
"I worded that poorly," Matty says. "Do you think I was wrong to want to do those two songs?"
George shakes his head. "I think you know you best and if that's what you need to do with how you're feeling, then you should."
Matty lets himself lean against George and takes a drag of his cigarette. It's warm, it's always warm in LA, but Matty suddenly feels chilled. "I don't think I know me very well right now."
George takes Matty's cigarette when he offers, but he doesn't say anything.
"I mean, I keep telling people I'm ok now and I'm better now and I know what I'm doing and shit, but it's not true. I don't feel ok and I don't feel better and I've got no idea what I'm trying to do."
"Do you want me to tell you it'll get better or do you want me to just listen?"
Matty shrugs. "I wanna hear that it gets better, but if you tell me it gets better I won't believe you, 'cause you haven't experienced it. I just want it to be better. I want it to be actually better."
----
Matty has had a decidedly Bad Day. He had trouble falling asleep, couldn't find the shirt he wanted to wear, lost track of his notebook, and had to beg George for a cigarette because he'd left his own pack god knows where. And then, because there's always an 'and then,' nothing has been working in the studio for him. He keeps fumbling chord progressions and his voice simply won't cooperate. Logically, Matty knows it's only because he's a little out of practice--he's been gone, away from making music, for seven weeks, so of course it'll take a minute for him to get his muscle memory back. Still, everything seems to be going poorly and combined with the way everything seems to be rubbing up against that barely healing scar that’s Matty's life, it's a Bad Day.
Mid-afternoon, after what seems like the millionth screw up, Matty sets his guitar aside and goes outside. He doesn't go far, just sits on the steps right outside the door and lights a cigarette. He doesn't take more than a drag or two, and it burns down to the filer, nearly burning Matty's fingers, while he sits there feeling sorry for himself. He swears, stubs it out, and gets about halfway through lighting another cigarette when the door opens and Adam sits down on the steps next to Matty. He doesn't say anything, just offers a lighter when Matty has trouble with his own. Matty finds himself appreciating the quiet company. Adam waits until Matty has finished his cigarette to speak.
"Are you alright?" he asks.
Matty shrugs, eyes fixed on the concrete step in front of him.
"Matty?"
Matty sighs. "I'm not 'go out and score bad' but I'm not great, either," he confesses.
"Do you wanna talk about it?"
Matty shrugs again, but he says, "Maybe, just, don't tell anyone else?"
"Of course," Adam agrees instantly, like he's almost offended that Matty would suggest that.
"I know you guys have been having conversations about me without me," Matty says, glancing at Adam quickly.
"It's not-"
"George told me," Matty interrupts. "I asked and he told me. I get it, I fucked up and you guys have a right to talk about it, it just kind of sucks all the way around."
Adam nods and says, "Ok. I'll keep it to myself."
"Thanks, mate," Matty mutters. "I just feel, like, unbalanced, ya'know? And I hate this fucking city and nothing's going right and what if I'm just shit now? What if I can't make a good record without drugs? And I know that's not fair to you guys but I can't stop thinking it and everything is so fucked."
"Matty," Adam says gently, "you were gone for seven weeks, right?" When Matty nods, he continues, "That's almost two months. When was the last time you took seven weeks, almost two months, away from playing music?"
Matty takes a moment to search his memory, then admits, "Never?"
"So give yourself some grace. You're allowed that. You deserve that. At least."
Matty shakes his head. "Not really. I was a dick to you guys and, and I could have wrecked the band and I could have gotten us all sent to fucking prison, or-"
"I don't think that's fair," Adam murmurs.
Matty shrugs. Then, he lights another cigarette, mostly so he has something to do with his hands.
"We care about you, Matty. You matter to us and we've forgiven you. Let yourself move on."
Matty chokes out a laugh. "You sound like a therapist."
Adam laughs.
"Do you ever think about what you might be doing if it wasn't this?"
Adam shrugs. "Not really. I mean, you always believed so strongly in it that I kind of figured that it would work out eventually."
Matty hums, like he's thinking.
"Do you?" Adam asks after a beat of silence.
Matty taps the ash off the end of his cigarette and takes a drag, then glances at Adam and says, "I think I'd probably be dead by now."
Adam looks like Matty has physically struck him.
"Sorry," Matty mutters. "But it is true." Then he stubs out his cigarette and goes to get up and go back inside. Adam grabs his arm before he can.
"You're starting to worry me, mate," Adam says in that serious voice he hardly ever uses. It's the same voice he's used when they'd sat Matty down and suggested he go to rehab.
"Sorry," Marry repeats. "I'm really sorry, but I'm ok, Hann. Really. I'm pretty much mostly ok. I just need to get my footing again."
----
Matty's Bad Day becomes Bad Days, plural, when he wakes the next morning feeling similarly out of sorts. There's no cause to blame this time--George fucked him well enough that he passed out almost as soon as they fell into bed after showering, his lost items have reappeared after some simple tidying, and Jamie had brought him not only another pack of cigarettes, but a working lighter, as well. Still, Matty feels unsettled and on edge when he makes it to the studio.
What's an even bigger afront to Matty's Bad Day is that things in studio are going much better. He gets some vocals recorded and a few guitar parts done before they take a break. Adam shoots him an 'I told you so' look across the room, and all Matty can do it attempt to give a genuine smile back. Adam is right, he's not going to argue about that, but that doesn't stop they way Matty's bad mood curls in his chest and sits heavy against his ribs. And George is busy, depriving Matty of his usual target for physical comfort and affection.
Matty's not sure how it happens, but by lunch time, he's still sitting in the same spot he was all morning, a mug of tea gone cold on the end table, and the studio is empty, save for him and Ross.
"Where'd everyone go?" Matty asks when he realizes that the space is empty.
"They're picking up takeaway for lunch," Ross says, sitting on the other end of Matty's couch.
Matty frowns. "Everyone?"
"We thought you might want some space," Ross admits. "I can go if-"
Matty shakes his head and cuts Ross off with, "No, that's ok. I'm just, havin' a bad day. Like a Bad Day bad day."
It's Ross's turn to frown at that. "How bad?"
Matty shrugs. "I think it's just anxiety. It's not that bad." He puts a particular emphasis on the word 'that.' "It's not heroin bad."
Ross seems to relax a little bit at that. "Can I do anything?"
Matty moves down to Ross's end of the couch so he can lean against his shoulder and says, "'s just me and my moods. You know how I get."
Ross nods and rifles through the drawer on the end table with the hand that's not rubbing Matty's arm. He comes up with a joint and a lighter. "You want a spliff?" he offers.
Matty shakes his head. "Not really. I just want," he shrugs, "dunno."
"Alright, then," Ross says, "I'm right here until you do know."
Matty offers a little smile and nods. "Thanks." Then, "Actually, can I have that spliff?"
Ross laughs and ruffles Matty's hair, but he hands over the spliff and says, "That's more like you."
----
"I missed this," Matty admits to George one evening, only a few days before they're set to go back to England. They're watching a movie, all of them, not just Matty and George. The two of them have occupied the couch, Matty tucked into George's side with a glass of wine and they're sharing a bowl of popcorn. Adam and Ross have occupied the armchairs, and they've been passing joints between them. They could be sixteen again.
"Yeah?" George says, prompting Matty for more.
Matty nods. "I missed thing being good and normal. I missed this."
George presses a kiss into Matty's curls and holds him a little tighter. "Me, too," he agrees. "Me, too."
Matty further relaxes into George's arms. He drinks his wine, takes drags when a joint gets passed to him, snacks on the popcorn, and lets the combination of weed and wine move him towards sleep. He's barely conscious of George taking the wine glass from his fingers before he spills the last few sips.
Matty doesn't remember the end of the movie, or George carrying him to bed. He wakes briefly in the middle of the night, his body entwined with George's, he can't think of a single reason he might get up, so he snuggles closer and falls back asleep thinking that this, this kind of peace and love and friendship is exactly what it’s all about.