round 5 - team future - shattered glass houses
Title: Shattered Glass Houses
Pairings: implied past Harry/Louis, implied past Zayn/Liam
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3,646
Warning(s): none
Summary: One heart with a million voices,
One day it could all be gone,
Hold on to the words they told us,
Hold on to it all my son
One heart with a million voices,
One chance to remember your name,
Hold to the words they told us,
Hold on to it all
A/N: There are so many people who have helped with this fic that I probably won’t be able to list them all. It’s evolved and changed probably 30 times in the past months while in the works (definitely last minute as well lol). But here we go: hazzalovescats gets the biggest cuddle ever for helping me develop the whole idea for the fic and has been there every step of the way since the wee beginning (I also blame her cause reasons), itsathinline_ff for being my second biggest cheerleader and telling me that I’m awesome (cause fic reasons), ruby_crowned for being amazing as always, snuffleslove for being brilliant and reading through my crazy, and badjujuboo for being an amazing cheerleader and telling me I’m not crazy (When I really know I am, but it’s okay).
It ended like this: on a stage with haze surrounding the audience and five figures standing in the middle, arms in the air, the last chords of the music fading as the lights go down. Cameras are flashing, phones are glowing, and glow sticks are waving in the air, a bombardment of light that signals the end of a story. The sound that erupts from the crowd is deafening, a roar that sounds alot like we love you we’ll miss you we’ll always support you and we’ll never forget.
This was how it ended. It started on the stairs with five boys such naive boys then and a dream. A dream that they never thought they could accomplish on their own, let alone together, but succeeded way past their imaginings. For a couple years, things were perfect. They got to do what they loved with people they loved and they did it together. Then they crumbled, slowly, like the erosion of rock being hit by wave after wave of ocean water, until nothing was left. Nothing but the wreckage of what once was.
That was the end of One Direction.
********
Louis wakes up to the smell of bacon, the sound of food fizzling in a frying pan, and the white white walls of his room surrounding him. Every morning is the same. He awakes to the sounds being made in the kitchen just down the hall and his blank walls staring at him from all sides, wondering where everything went. Wondering what happened, where did you go, where did the life go? And just as every other morning, he lays in bed on his side and stares at said walls, searching his empty hands for the answers to their questions.
When he eventually ventures out of his room, breakfast is sitting on the table, stream rising from the plates. Harry sits on his usual side of their square table, waiting with his fingers interlocked for Louis to sit down. They both look at each other for a moment before picking up their forks and digging in. The silence stretches as it always does, neverending, with them. When they finish eating, they move soundlessly, taking their plates to the kitchen and putting them in the sink, cleaning up the leftover ingredients. No words, no touching, no sound. Just orbiting around each other like planets lost in space.
(Coexisting is what you could call it. It’s like they both have an invisible force-field around themselves. They look and observe each other, but never touch, and almost never talk. It’s all silent communication with eyes, body language, and movement.
It doesn’t make sense that they live together. Their relationship was over long before the band was, but they can’t not be together, no matter how broken and wrecked their ‘relationship’ is. After they ended, they both went on benders of hook-ups, short relationships, and mistakes, ignoring the voices in the back of their minds telling them that they need each other need the boys to even function to breathe.)
When they’re sitting in the living room a short time later, cups of tea in hand and curled up at opposite ends of the sofa, Louis speaks, for the first time in days.
“Do you remember the day we met?”
Harry almost chokes on his tea in shock and looks at Louis. He doesn’t say anything, only slightly nods in affirmation. Louis looks down and goes silent again. It’s that day today. July 23rd. More sips are taken from cups as the silence stretches on once more.
“You once asked me what it was like to be afraid of drowning,” (when I submerge myself so often under salt water and sunsets). Harry looks at the side of Louis’ face, waiting for him to continue.
“It’s a lot like falling in love with you.”
*******
Niall has a daily routine, a habit he still has from those days. He wakes up, makes breakfast, reads the newspaper that’s dropped off every morning, and then settles in the living room with his guitar. Most days he just messes around endlessly, strumming and picking what he feels like or whatever sounds nice, sometimes singing (“long nights chased shadows into our backs, but our silences knew no end”). Others he plays a sporadic mash-up of songs that remind him of them and those days. He doesn’t really let himself think about it too much while he plays, or he knows he’ll be a mess on the floor.
At night, Niall goes to the local pub in the small middle-of-nowhere Irish town he lives in for a pint and sometimes to play, just to have something to do with his time. A nod to the bartender and his usual drink is set in front of him on the bar. He grabs it, nods his thanks, and settles into his usual table in the back. On his regular nights, he just watches the people come and go, watches them interact with each other (and if he compares their interactions to how they used to be, well, no one’s there to judge him). Other nights, he brings his guitar along and he’ll play. Songs that no one could ever use to connect him to those days (though he’s pretty sure the bartender knows who he is and just doesn’t mention it).
Tonight's a regular night for Niall, no set to play. After his pint, he goes up to the bar to talk to George, the tender and owner. They chat amicably for a little while before Niall slaps his hands on the top of the bar.
“Right, best be gettin’ home I think. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” Niall asks him. George laughs and then shakes his head.
“Are you ever going to talk to anyone in this town besides me, son?” He asks the boy. Niall’s face falls a bit but then springs back into his signature fake grin.
“Never, they’re not good enough for me, eh?” He replies with a hoarse chuckle on the end before stepping outside.
The walk home is short, but he walks slower to make the time pass. It’s beautiful outside, unusual for Irish weather, but Niall enjoys it all the same. He supposes he could look up at the sky and the stars, make some philosophical musings about them, but decides that’s too much thinking for one night.
He tries to stay away from it, the thinking. Thinking leads him to people, places, and things he misses wants needs and that’s always dangerous.
Niall reaches his house and unlocks the door, stepping inside and shucking his shoes off in the entryway. He could have another drink, play some guitar before he crashes but decides against it. He’s more exhausted than he thought he was. With his hands in his pockets, he shuffles down the hallway to his room. He stops at the end of the corridor and looks up at the lone picture hanging on the wall. It’s of them, all of them, a picture from the last time they were all truly happy together. Their smiles are bright and real, arms wrapped around each other, the love shining in their eyes hard to miss. He brushes his hand lightly against the glass covering the photo before turning towards the door.
“Goodnight lads.” he mumbles quietly, before stepping through the doorway and closing it behind him.
**********
She parks the car in the driveway, slamming the door after retrieving her things out of the passenger seat. It had been another long day at the studio, the dance studio that she owned and ran herself, her lifelong dream. And after a long day, all she wanted was to come home to dinner made and on the table and to a kiss from her husband on her cheek, and she knows that won’t be the case but she still hopes nonetheless. The front door swings open after she unlocks it and she sets her things down in the entryway, noting that the amount of light in the house hasn’t changed since she left this morning.
The sound from the TV in the living area is muffled but present, and she knows exactly where he is. He’s sitting on the couch, zoned out, staring unseeing at the TV in the sweatpants and jumper he was wearing this morning when he got up. She sighs in exasperation and moves to stand in front of him. He makes no sound or movement of acknowledgement but she knows that he knows she’s there. Another sigh escapes her and she places a hand on her hip. Grabbing the remote from the coffee table she turns the TV off. It takes a minute or two, but he finally turns his attention to her, looks into her face with empty, dull brown eyes.
“Liam.” she says, waiting to see if he’ll answer. He blinks, swallows and opens his mouth.
“Dani.” he whispers, his voice almost hoarse and feeble from disuse. Dani really wants to throw her hands up in the air and yell at him, but she knows it won’t do any good. Liam will just sit there, like always, listening but not really listening, seeing but not really seeing, present but not really there. She doesn’t know when he became this way (honestly she’s in denial, knows that he’s never been the same since the band broke up but she thought she could help, fix him somehow, make him the Liam she fell in love with all those years ago) but she’s had enough.
“Where are you, Liam?” she asks him, trying, begging him to just come back to himself. His face contorts into something like confusion.
“I’m right here, Dan.” he says, though they both know what she means and he’s skirting around the true answer. Physically he’s there, yes, but mentally Liam is a couple hundred miles and a couple years away in his memories. And that’s the last straw for Dani. She really can’t take this marriage, this fake, farce of a relationship anymore when all it’s done is hurt her even more than it did that last time. It’s funny how distance, physical and mental, will always be the thing that breaks them.
“Yeah, I get it Liam. You’re here, but you’re really not. You haven’t been ever since we got back together. Your body may be here, but your head is in a whole other world where I can’t follow. I’ve tried so hard the past few years to bring you back, help you, something, anything to get you back to at least a semblance of the person you were when we met, hell even the person you were before it (the unspoken ‘the band’ hanging heavily between the lines) ended but I can’t. I won’t hurt myself for you again, anymore. I’m done.” Liam almost jerks too quickly out of his seat as Dani walks briskly out of the room.
“What do you mean, you’re done? I’m fine Dani, I’m just tired today. I’m sorry I didn’t do what you-”
“No Liam,” she raises her hand in finality and closes her eyes, “you don’t get to do this, not now. You don’t get to bask in the denial some more while I’m trying to fix this. I can’t handle you not being here. I’ve needed you so many times in the past few years, in this marriage, and you’ve been a walking zombie in the house, in our lives. Where were you when I almost lost the studio? Where were you when my mother died? Where were you when I miscarried our baby, Liam. Our baby. Where were you?” Dani can’t hold back the tears any longer, tiny sobs leaving her mouth as she clutches her chest. Liam swallows audibly and his mouth drops open, words stuck in his throat. He tries clearing it a couple more times before speaking, tears shining in his own eyes.
“I-I...I’m so sorry Dani. I’m trying I really am, I just, I can’t-”
“I know. I’m not them. I’m not him. I can’t replace them. They’re them and I’m...just me. I can’t replace four other people, Liam, no matter how bad you want me to and no matter how hard I try. I love you, and I know you love me, but not the way you have and always will love them. I...we’re done, Liam. I’ll send you the papers to sign when they’re finalized.” Dani swallows, wipes her tears roughly off her face, and grabs her things from the entryway. She turns to look at Liam one last time, standing in the doorway of the kitchen with his mouth dropped open in shock, before she turns away.
“Bye Liam.”
The door closes softly behind her.
***********
Zayn remembers when the sound of the city streets used to bother him in the beginning. It was so loud and unnerving compared to Bradford, or even London. It used to scream at him you don’t belong here and you’re a stranger, a traveler. New York City is a league all in its own when it comes to sound, lights, and action. Then again, that’s what made it the perfect escape. He could blend in easily in a city that was bursting with people, places, and things.
As these things usually happen, his steps matched in time to the beat of the song he was currently listening to. It reminds him of home, but what doesn’t these days. Though where home is, he’s not sure of at all (the whispers of with them and with him in the back of his mind don’t go unnoticed, but they pass without reaction).
Zayn shifts the straps of his pack up higher on his shoulders as he continues on his way. A couple of feet further and he can’t ignore the craving anymore. He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and grabs a cigarette, lighting it with the lighter also hidden there. The first inhalation feels like rain after a drought and calms his raging thoughts.
He takes in his surroundings, breathing in the dirty, polluted city air, though he makes the same walk every day (and maybe he’s hoping the industrial skyscrapers will turn into rounded suburban homes, but even if he is he won’t admit it). Some time later he reaches his destination, the bell above the door tinkling as he enters. It’s a gallery, with paintings hanging haphazardly in order and covering every available patch of wall. He nods at the guy behind the counter, an artist and the boy he co-owns the gallery with.
“Did you set out the paintings I asked you to?” Zayn asks him while setting his pack down behind the counter. The boy, Riley, nods before he speaks.
“Yeah, and the other one you set aside. It was right next to the stack so I put that one up too.” Zayn stiffens before he turns to look at Riley again.
“Which one are you talking about?” Zayn says, almost in a panic, wondering if it’s the painting he thinks it is.
“The one of the face, a guy I think it is.” Riley replies while distractedly filing away some papers. Zayn just about sprints to the area he had left open on the wall for his newest paintings to be hung and almost cries with relief. It’s still there, the painting. He gently takes it down off the wall and covers it with an extra drop cloth that was lying around. He rounds on Riley then, eyes seeing red.
“Riley, I told you that one was private. It was covered and kept separate for a reason. You’re bloody lucky no one came in a bought it today or I would’ve throttled you.” Zayn grits at him, teeth clenched tightly closed. He picks up the painting again carefully and slings his pack over his shoulder. Ignoring Riley shouting apologies, he goes through the back of the shop to the stairs that take him up to his flat. He climbs them two at a time and almost trips when he reaches his door. He fiddles with the keys, dropping them a few times before the door finally gives. Once inside he sets his pack down and looks at the cloth-covered painting in his hand, not really sure what to do with it at this point.
Deciding that he doesn’t really want to look at it, he sets it on the mantle above the red brick fireplace in his living room and leaves it there.
Dinner is a lonely, yet normal affair. He cooks quietly by himself in the kitchen, fills his plate, and puts the leftovers in the fridge for tomorrow. He sits at the small table in his eating area and instantly gets goosebumps. It feels like someone is watching him, calculating his every move and writing it down, but Zayn knows he’s alone in his apartment. All throughout his meal and the clean-up afterwords he feels much of the same, like he’s really not alone when he is, and he knows he is.
When he enters the living room some time later, the feeling heightens and intensifies, like it’s coming from the room. His eyes flicker towards the painting on the mantle and Zayn shivers, the source of the feeling now clear. He hastily grabs the painting off the surface and rips the drop cloth off, revealing the piece beneath it. It’s an abstract yet cartoonish portrait of a boy, a boy Zayn used to know like the back of his hand, a boy he used to love (and still does, but when is Zayn every really honest with himself when it comes to feelings?).
Zayn stares the painting, his emotions raging in a vicious cycle that reaches both ends of the spectrum. He had been doing so well lately, painting everything around him from the city skyline and people he goes to class with to things from his imagination. Then...it happened again. He got lost in the haze, the blunt he had smoked earlier that night had
clouded his thinking and brought forth things he didn’t want to relive. Times, people, places, and things best kept from the forefront of his mind.
(A relationship long lost, a boy with perfect lips, a crinkly-eyed smile, abs like a greek god, and a laugh like the tinkling giggle of a child. Four boys who were his best friends brothers soul mates and the biggest and best part of his life. Gone. Shattered.)
When Zayn comes back to himself he feels the tears tracking down his face. He rubs them away angrily, mad that they somehow seem to come back, every time, no matter how hard he tries to erase them. He digs into his trouser pocket until he finds his pocket knife and brings it out, flipping it open. His breathing is heavy and he tries to steady himself before he makes the first strike, ripping through the heavily painted canvas.
Control is lost after that, his arms strikes the canvas again and again until the painting is now a pile of painted fabric and broken wood on the floor. Zayn’s uncontrollably sobbing now, tears flowing, snot running down his chin as he drops the knife to the floor. He falls backward, his back hitting the wall behind him and sliding down until his bum hits the floor. He curls up into a ball and cries, for everything he misses and everything he doesn’t all at the same time.
(you called the ambulance
the night i stopped breathing, my
lungs slowing to help you forget me
until they stopped completely and
our room was filled with too loud,
too loud lights and noise)
******
It’s night time when Harry sees Louis again. They both hold mundane, everyday jobs now where no one knows their names (or remembers One Direction). Like every other night, Harry hears Louis drop his keys on the entryway table and shuck his shoes off underneath it. Harry buries his head in his comforter and pillows, (hiding) laying in his bed like he does every other night when Louis comes home.
He hears Louis enter the kitchen to make his night time tea, as per usual. Pots clanging, water running. Some minutes later, cupboards are being opened and a cup being set on the counter once the tea is ready. But something is different tonight. Instead of heading towards his room on the other side of the flat, Harry hears Louis padding down the hallway towards his room. Harry shuts his eyes rapidly as he hears his bedroom door open and Louis steps through, shutting it quietly behind him. The bed dips a second later next to Harry.
Nothing happens for some time. Both of them just sitting in bed together. Eventually, Harry can’t take the silence.
“Do you think...we’re the wreckage?” Harry asks him, and he’s not surprised when Louis isn’t startled by the sound of his voice. He knows Louis knew he was awake the whole time.
“The wreckage of what, do you suppose?” Louis answers, always a question for a question. Harry turns towards him, watching Louis sip his tea with bony, tan fingers.
“I don’t know,” Harry sighs, “the wreckage of each other? The wreckage of something, certainly, maybe even life itself.” He watches Louis nod hi head and take another sip before setting his cup and saucer on the bedside table. Louis shuffles down the bed, pushes the covers away, and slips underneath fully clothed.
“Yeah, maybe so.” He says and Harry nods before closing his eyes and letting sleep carry him away.
i. you asked me what it felt like
to be afraid of drowning when i
submerge myself so often under
salt water and sunsets; i turned
and whispered, “it’s a lot like fall-
ing in love with you.”
ii. long nights chased shadows in-
to our backs but our silences knew
no end; you called the ambulance
the night i stopped breathing, my
lungs slowing to help you forget me
until they stopped completely and
our room was filled with too loud,
too loud lights and noise
iii. “we are the wreckage,” you said
as you pulled bed sheets over our
mistakes. “wreckage of what?” and
i sipped tea with bony fingers.
“i don’t know, the wreckage of each
other? the wreckage of something,
maybe even of life itself.”
Pairings: implied past Harry/Louis, implied past Zayn/Liam
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3,646
Warning(s): none
Summary: One heart with a million voices,
One day it could all be gone,
Hold on to the words they told us,
Hold on to it all my son
One heart with a million voices,
One chance to remember your name,
Hold to the words they told us,
Hold on to it all
A/N: There are so many people who have helped with this fic that I probably won’t be able to list them all. It’s evolved and changed probably 30 times in the past months while in the works (definitely last minute as well lol). But here we go: hazzalovescats gets the biggest cuddle ever for helping me develop the whole idea for the fic and has been there every step of the way since the wee beginning (I also blame her cause reasons), itsathinline_ff for being my second biggest cheerleader and telling me that I’m awesome (cause fic reasons), ruby_crowned for being amazing as always, snuffleslove for being brilliant and reading through my crazy, and badjujuboo for being an amazing cheerleader and telling me I’m not crazy (When I really know I am, but it’s okay).
It ended like this: on a stage with haze surrounding the audience and five figures standing in the middle, arms in the air, the last chords of the music fading as the lights go down. Cameras are flashing, phones are glowing, and glow sticks are waving in the air, a bombardment of light that signals the end of a story. The sound that erupts from the crowd is deafening, a roar that sounds alot like we love you we’ll miss you we’ll always support you and we’ll never forget.
This was how it ended. It started on the stairs with five boys such naive boys then and a dream. A dream that they never thought they could accomplish on their own, let alone together, but succeeded way past their imaginings. For a couple years, things were perfect. They got to do what they loved with people they loved and they did it together. Then they crumbled, slowly, like the erosion of rock being hit by wave after wave of ocean water, until nothing was left. Nothing but the wreckage of what once was.
That was the end of One Direction.
********
Louis wakes up to the smell of bacon, the sound of food fizzling in a frying pan, and the white white walls of his room surrounding him. Every morning is the same. He awakes to the sounds being made in the kitchen just down the hall and his blank walls staring at him from all sides, wondering where everything went. Wondering what happened, where did you go, where did the life go? And just as every other morning, he lays in bed on his side and stares at said walls, searching his empty hands for the answers to their questions.
When he eventually ventures out of his room, breakfast is sitting on the table, stream rising from the plates. Harry sits on his usual side of their square table, waiting with his fingers interlocked for Louis to sit down. They both look at each other for a moment before picking up their forks and digging in. The silence stretches as it always does, neverending, with them. When they finish eating, they move soundlessly, taking their plates to the kitchen and putting them in the sink, cleaning up the leftover ingredients. No words, no touching, no sound. Just orbiting around each other like planets lost in space.
(Coexisting is what you could call it. It’s like they both have an invisible force-field around themselves. They look and observe each other, but never touch, and almost never talk. It’s all silent communication with eyes, body language, and movement.
It doesn’t make sense that they live together. Their relationship was over long before the band was, but they can’t not be together, no matter how broken and wrecked their ‘relationship’ is. After they ended, they both went on benders of hook-ups, short relationships, and mistakes, ignoring the voices in the back of their minds telling them that they need each other need the boys to even function to breathe.)
When they’re sitting in the living room a short time later, cups of tea in hand and curled up at opposite ends of the sofa, Louis speaks, for the first time in days.
“Do you remember the day we met?”
Harry almost chokes on his tea in shock and looks at Louis. He doesn’t say anything, only slightly nods in affirmation. Louis looks down and goes silent again. It’s that day today. July 23rd. More sips are taken from cups as the silence stretches on once more.
“You once asked me what it was like to be afraid of drowning,” (when I submerge myself so often under salt water and sunsets). Harry looks at the side of Louis’ face, waiting for him to continue.
“It’s a lot like falling in love with you.”
*******
Niall has a daily routine, a habit he still has from those days. He wakes up, makes breakfast, reads the newspaper that’s dropped off every morning, and then settles in the living room with his guitar. Most days he just messes around endlessly, strumming and picking what he feels like or whatever sounds nice, sometimes singing (“long nights chased shadows into our backs, but our silences knew no end”). Others he plays a sporadic mash-up of songs that remind him of them and those days. He doesn’t really let himself think about it too much while he plays, or he knows he’ll be a mess on the floor.
At night, Niall goes to the local pub in the small middle-of-nowhere Irish town he lives in for a pint and sometimes to play, just to have something to do with his time. A nod to the bartender and his usual drink is set in front of him on the bar. He grabs it, nods his thanks, and settles into his usual table in the back. On his regular nights, he just watches the people come and go, watches them interact with each other (and if he compares their interactions to how they used to be, well, no one’s there to judge him). Other nights, he brings his guitar along and he’ll play. Songs that no one could ever use to connect him to those days (though he’s pretty sure the bartender knows who he is and just doesn’t mention it).
Tonight's a regular night for Niall, no set to play. After his pint, he goes up to the bar to talk to George, the tender and owner. They chat amicably for a little while before Niall slaps his hands on the top of the bar.
“Right, best be gettin’ home I think. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” Niall asks him. George laughs and then shakes his head.
“Are you ever going to talk to anyone in this town besides me, son?” He asks the boy. Niall’s face falls a bit but then springs back into his signature fake grin.
“Never, they’re not good enough for me, eh?” He replies with a hoarse chuckle on the end before stepping outside.
The walk home is short, but he walks slower to make the time pass. It’s beautiful outside, unusual for Irish weather, but Niall enjoys it all the same. He supposes he could look up at the sky and the stars, make some philosophical musings about them, but decides that’s too much thinking for one night.
He tries to stay away from it, the thinking. Thinking leads him to people, places, and things he misses wants needs and that’s always dangerous.
Niall reaches his house and unlocks the door, stepping inside and shucking his shoes off in the entryway. He could have another drink, play some guitar before he crashes but decides against it. He’s more exhausted than he thought he was. With his hands in his pockets, he shuffles down the hallway to his room. He stops at the end of the corridor and looks up at the lone picture hanging on the wall. It’s of them, all of them, a picture from the last time they were all truly happy together. Their smiles are bright and real, arms wrapped around each other, the love shining in their eyes hard to miss. He brushes his hand lightly against the glass covering the photo before turning towards the door.
“Goodnight lads.” he mumbles quietly, before stepping through the doorway and closing it behind him.
**********
She parks the car in the driveway, slamming the door after retrieving her things out of the passenger seat. It had been another long day at the studio, the dance studio that she owned and ran herself, her lifelong dream. And after a long day, all she wanted was to come home to dinner made and on the table and to a kiss from her husband on her cheek, and she knows that won’t be the case but she still hopes nonetheless. The front door swings open after she unlocks it and she sets her things down in the entryway, noting that the amount of light in the house hasn’t changed since she left this morning.
The sound from the TV in the living area is muffled but present, and she knows exactly where he is. He’s sitting on the couch, zoned out, staring unseeing at the TV in the sweatpants and jumper he was wearing this morning when he got up. She sighs in exasperation and moves to stand in front of him. He makes no sound or movement of acknowledgement but she knows that he knows she’s there. Another sigh escapes her and she places a hand on her hip. Grabbing the remote from the coffee table she turns the TV off. It takes a minute or two, but he finally turns his attention to her, looks into her face with empty, dull brown eyes.
“Liam.” she says, waiting to see if he’ll answer. He blinks, swallows and opens his mouth.
“Dani.” he whispers, his voice almost hoarse and feeble from disuse. Dani really wants to throw her hands up in the air and yell at him, but she knows it won’t do any good. Liam will just sit there, like always, listening but not really listening, seeing but not really seeing, present but not really there. She doesn’t know when he became this way (honestly she’s in denial, knows that he’s never been the same since the band broke up but she thought she could help, fix him somehow, make him the Liam she fell in love with all those years ago) but she’s had enough.
“Where are you, Liam?” she asks him, trying, begging him to just come back to himself. His face contorts into something like confusion.
“I’m right here, Dan.” he says, though they both know what she means and he’s skirting around the true answer. Physically he’s there, yes, but mentally Liam is a couple hundred miles and a couple years away in his memories. And that’s the last straw for Dani. She really can’t take this marriage, this fake, farce of a relationship anymore when all it’s done is hurt her even more than it did that last time. It’s funny how distance, physical and mental, will always be the thing that breaks them.
“Yeah, I get it Liam. You’re here, but you’re really not. You haven’t been ever since we got back together. Your body may be here, but your head is in a whole other world where I can’t follow. I’ve tried so hard the past few years to bring you back, help you, something, anything to get you back to at least a semblance of the person you were when we met, hell even the person you were before it (the unspoken ‘the band’ hanging heavily between the lines) ended but I can’t. I won’t hurt myself for you again, anymore. I’m done.” Liam almost jerks too quickly out of his seat as Dani walks briskly out of the room.
“What do you mean, you’re done? I’m fine Dani, I’m just tired today. I’m sorry I didn’t do what you-”
“No Liam,” she raises her hand in finality and closes her eyes, “you don’t get to do this, not now. You don’t get to bask in the denial some more while I’m trying to fix this. I can’t handle you not being here. I’ve needed you so many times in the past few years, in this marriage, and you’ve been a walking zombie in the house, in our lives. Where were you when I almost lost the studio? Where were you when my mother died? Where were you when I miscarried our baby, Liam. Our baby. Where were you?” Dani can’t hold back the tears any longer, tiny sobs leaving her mouth as she clutches her chest. Liam swallows audibly and his mouth drops open, words stuck in his throat. He tries clearing it a couple more times before speaking, tears shining in his own eyes.
“I-I...I’m so sorry Dani. I’m trying I really am, I just, I can’t-”
“I know. I’m not them. I’m not him. I can’t replace them. They’re them and I’m...just me. I can’t replace four other people, Liam, no matter how bad you want me to and no matter how hard I try. I love you, and I know you love me, but not the way you have and always will love them. I...we’re done, Liam. I’ll send you the papers to sign when they’re finalized.” Dani swallows, wipes her tears roughly off her face, and grabs her things from the entryway. She turns to look at Liam one last time, standing in the doorway of the kitchen with his mouth dropped open in shock, before she turns away.
“Bye Liam.”
The door closes softly behind her.
***********
Zayn remembers when the sound of the city streets used to bother him in the beginning. It was so loud and unnerving compared to Bradford, or even London. It used to scream at him you don’t belong here and you’re a stranger, a traveler. New York City is a league all in its own when it comes to sound, lights, and action. Then again, that’s what made it the perfect escape. He could blend in easily in a city that was bursting with people, places, and things.
As these things usually happen, his steps matched in time to the beat of the song he was currently listening to. It reminds him of home, but what doesn’t these days. Though where home is, he’s not sure of at all (the whispers of with them and with him in the back of his mind don’t go unnoticed, but they pass without reaction).
Zayn shifts the straps of his pack up higher on his shoulders as he continues on his way. A couple of feet further and he can’t ignore the craving anymore. He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and grabs a cigarette, lighting it with the lighter also hidden there. The first inhalation feels like rain after a drought and calms his raging thoughts.
He takes in his surroundings, breathing in the dirty, polluted city air, though he makes the same walk every day (and maybe he’s hoping the industrial skyscrapers will turn into rounded suburban homes, but even if he is he won’t admit it). Some time later he reaches his destination, the bell above the door tinkling as he enters. It’s a gallery, with paintings hanging haphazardly in order and covering every available patch of wall. He nods at the guy behind the counter, an artist and the boy he co-owns the gallery with.
“Did you set out the paintings I asked you to?” Zayn asks him while setting his pack down behind the counter. The boy, Riley, nods before he speaks.
“Yeah, and the other one you set aside. It was right next to the stack so I put that one up too.” Zayn stiffens before he turns to look at Riley again.
“Which one are you talking about?” Zayn says, almost in a panic, wondering if it’s the painting he thinks it is.
“The one of the face, a guy I think it is.” Riley replies while distractedly filing away some papers. Zayn just about sprints to the area he had left open on the wall for his newest paintings to be hung and almost cries with relief. It’s still there, the painting. He gently takes it down off the wall and covers it with an extra drop cloth that was lying around. He rounds on Riley then, eyes seeing red.
“Riley, I told you that one was private. It was covered and kept separate for a reason. You’re bloody lucky no one came in a bought it today or I would’ve throttled you.” Zayn grits at him, teeth clenched tightly closed. He picks up the painting again carefully and slings his pack over his shoulder. Ignoring Riley shouting apologies, he goes through the back of the shop to the stairs that take him up to his flat. He climbs them two at a time and almost trips when he reaches his door. He fiddles with the keys, dropping them a few times before the door finally gives. Once inside he sets his pack down and looks at the cloth-covered painting in his hand, not really sure what to do with it at this point.
Deciding that he doesn’t really want to look at it, he sets it on the mantle above the red brick fireplace in his living room and leaves it there.
Dinner is a lonely, yet normal affair. He cooks quietly by himself in the kitchen, fills his plate, and puts the leftovers in the fridge for tomorrow. He sits at the small table in his eating area and instantly gets goosebumps. It feels like someone is watching him, calculating his every move and writing it down, but Zayn knows he’s alone in his apartment. All throughout his meal and the clean-up afterwords he feels much of the same, like he’s really not alone when he is, and he knows he is.
When he enters the living room some time later, the feeling heightens and intensifies, like it’s coming from the room. His eyes flicker towards the painting on the mantle and Zayn shivers, the source of the feeling now clear. He hastily grabs the painting off the surface and rips the drop cloth off, revealing the piece beneath it. It’s an abstract yet cartoonish portrait of a boy, a boy Zayn used to know like the back of his hand, a boy he used to love (and still does, but when is Zayn every really honest with himself when it comes to feelings?).
Zayn stares the painting, his emotions raging in a vicious cycle that reaches both ends of the spectrum. He had been doing so well lately, painting everything around him from the city skyline and people he goes to class with to things from his imagination. Then...it happened again. He got lost in the haze, the blunt he had smoked earlier that night had
clouded his thinking and brought forth things he didn’t want to relive. Times, people, places, and things best kept from the forefront of his mind.
(A relationship long lost, a boy with perfect lips, a crinkly-eyed smile, abs like a greek god, and a laugh like the tinkling giggle of a child. Four boys who were his best friends brothers soul mates and the biggest and best part of his life. Gone. Shattered.)
When Zayn comes back to himself he feels the tears tracking down his face. He rubs them away angrily, mad that they somehow seem to come back, every time, no matter how hard he tries to erase them. He digs into his trouser pocket until he finds his pocket knife and brings it out, flipping it open. His breathing is heavy and he tries to steady himself before he makes the first strike, ripping through the heavily painted canvas.
Control is lost after that, his arms strikes the canvas again and again until the painting is now a pile of painted fabric and broken wood on the floor. Zayn’s uncontrollably sobbing now, tears flowing, snot running down his chin as he drops the knife to the floor. He falls backward, his back hitting the wall behind him and sliding down until his bum hits the floor. He curls up into a ball and cries, for everything he misses and everything he doesn’t all at the same time.
(you called the ambulance
the night i stopped breathing, my
lungs slowing to help you forget me
until they stopped completely and
our room was filled with too loud,
too loud lights and noise)
******
It’s night time when Harry sees Louis again. They both hold mundane, everyday jobs now where no one knows their names (or remembers One Direction). Like every other night, Harry hears Louis drop his keys on the entryway table and shuck his shoes off underneath it. Harry buries his head in his comforter and pillows, (hiding) laying in his bed like he does every other night when Louis comes home.
He hears Louis enter the kitchen to make his night time tea, as per usual. Pots clanging, water running. Some minutes later, cupboards are being opened and a cup being set on the counter once the tea is ready. But something is different tonight. Instead of heading towards his room on the other side of the flat, Harry hears Louis padding down the hallway towards his room. Harry shuts his eyes rapidly as he hears his bedroom door open and Louis steps through, shutting it quietly behind him. The bed dips a second later next to Harry.
Nothing happens for some time. Both of them just sitting in bed together. Eventually, Harry can’t take the silence.
“Do you think...we’re the wreckage?” Harry asks him, and he’s not surprised when Louis isn’t startled by the sound of his voice. He knows Louis knew he was awake the whole time.
“The wreckage of what, do you suppose?” Louis answers, always a question for a question. Harry turns towards him, watching Louis sip his tea with bony, tan fingers.
“I don’t know,” Harry sighs, “the wreckage of each other? The wreckage of something, certainly, maybe even life itself.” He watches Louis nod hi head and take another sip before setting his cup and saucer on the bedside table. Louis shuffles down the bed, pushes the covers away, and slips underneath fully clothed.
“Yeah, maybe so.” He says and Harry nods before closing his eyes and letting sleep carry him away.
i. you asked me what it felt like
to be afraid of drowning when i
submerge myself so often under
salt water and sunsets; i turned
and whispered, “it’s a lot like fall-
ing in love with you.”
ii. long nights chased shadows in-
to our backs but our silences knew
no end; you called the ambulance
the night i stopped breathing, my
lungs slowing to help you forget me
until they stopped completely and
our room was filled with too loud,
too loud lights and noise
iii. “we are the wreckage,” you said
as you pulled bed sheets over our
mistakes. “wreckage of what?” and
i sipped tea with bony fingers.
“i don’t know, the wreckage of each
other? the wreckage of something,
maybe even of life itself.”