but forget maybe [five]

[brojan]

He and Niall splurged for their senior year, got an actual apartment with bedrooms and everything, not a university dorm. Liam goes down to the city first to get it set up, since Niall’s still in Ireland, and by the time Niall gets into town he’s made it into something livable; sparse, shabby, but theirs.

Niall hugs him for what seems like ten years when he gets in, dropping his suitcase in their foyer, as it is. Liam pretends it’s Niall who’s holding on but he supposes he might be doing it too, a little.

Later, when Niall’s checked the whole place out and they settle in the kitchen, Liam makes them coffee - they’ve a real coffeemaker now, a hand-me-down from Liam’s sister, but still real and theirs, to drink coffee in their actual, private kitchen - and Liam asks about his summer.

“How was Ireland, then?” he asks, carefully measuring the coffee grounds out of the bag and dumping them in a filter.

“Beautiful as always, mate,” Niall says, and he’s never lost his accent but it’s always stronger when he gets back. “How was your summer? Hardly heard from you at all,” he goes on, and sounds mildly disapproving.

Liam focuses on the coffeemaker so he doesn’t have to look at Niall. “Not much to share,” he says. “Worked a ton and hung out with the family. You know.”

Niall’s quiet. Liam turns the machine on and then there’s nothing left to do so he turns around, leaning back against the sink and watching Niall at the table he’d found on the curb the day he got back to the city.

Niall just looks at him, and Liam’s wracking his brain for something to break the silence - and when has it ever been hard to talk to Niall? - but his roommate speaks first. “You changed your hair,” he says, and Liam runs a hand over it, still not quite used to the feeling.

“Yeah,” he says self-consciously. “It was just so hot. Think I’ll grow it out again soon, though.”

“It looks nice,” Niall offers, and Liam shrugs, turns to look at the coffee machine gurgling next to him.

“Tell me about your summer, though,” Liam says. “Do anything fun? Go on any trips?”

Niall’s quiet again and when Liam looks at him he’s a bit flushed, and suddenly Liam knows what he’s going to say before he says it.

“Spent some time in London,” is what he settles on, and Liam nods and ignores the heavy feeling settling in the pit of his stomach.

“I hear it’s nice in the summer,” Liam says, and god, his voice catches, and he hopes Niall won’t notice but of course he will, so he hopes Niall won’t say anything. The coffee maker spits out the last of the water and Liam moves quickly to grab mugs and pour, turned away from the table.

“It was,” Niall says neutrally. Liam gets the creamer out the refrigerator. “Rained a lot, but.”

Liam nods. He brings the cups over to the table and then he has no choice really but to sit down next to Niall. He smiles and hopes it looks sincere.

“It’s okay, Niall,” he says to break the tension. “You can tell me. How are the boys?”

Niall observes him for a quick second and then shrugs, picking up his mug. “Same as ever,” he says. “I guess they - I guess Harry wrote some new songs when they got back to London and wanted them on the album, so they had to do more recording, but it’s almost done, now,” he goes on, voice steady but looking everywhere but Liam.

Liam keeps the same understanding smile on his face, hopes it doesn’t come off as crazed. “Good,” he says. “Good for them. I can’t wait to hear it.”

Niall looks at him sharply then, and Liam figures he has heard it, and maybe he knows something Liam doesn’t, but he says, “Yeah, Lou sent me some rough cuts I can play for you sometime.”

“Sure,” Liam says. “Sure.” He takes a sip of his coffee. It burns his tongue.

The semester starts and picks up steam quickly. It seems that things move fast in their final year, August gone in a blink, the weather cooling down as they hurtle forward, ever moving. In September a guy in Liam’s Russian literature class asks him out for coffee and Liam says no almost before the sentence is out of his mouth. The guy’s good looking, and he says intelligent things in class but not in an obnoxious way, and the thing is that Liam knows he would probably have a good time, if they went out. Liam would probably fall for him, eventually, and he’d be perfectly comfortable and he might even be happy. (The problem is the guy has straight, short, sensible hair and blue eyes, and the whole time Liam’s thinking about this life he could have, the end of the sentence is always if not for Harry. And he can’t live like that, so the answer is always no.)

When he gets home, Niall’s in the kitchen highlighting a textbook, and Liam drops his bag by the door heavily and says, “Okay, I’m ready.”

Niall looks up blankly, highlighter still poised over his book. “Did we have plans?” he asks slowly.

“No,” Liam says. “I want to hear the songs.”

He expects Niall to try to talk him out of it, but he doesn’t. He caps his pen and says, “I’ll forward you the emails,” and the unspoken implication is “You can listen to them on your own,” but maybe also, “I’ll be here in the next room if you need me.”

Liam goes into his room and closes the door and when he boots up his laptop the emails are all there, a succession of FWDs from Niall. He opens the first and ignores the words Louis's written in the body of the email, just clicks the download and closes his eyes.

The bass kicks up, heavy and thumping, and then Harry's voice, strained high and smooth. I don't want to let you go, but it hurts my hands to hold the rope, and Liam's stomach drops, he swallows, I won't be such an easy mark, and then his voice rises, turning to inelegant, unrestrained screaming and Liam physically recoils, his fingers digging into the splintered wood of his secondhand desk.

If you call then I'm coming to get you
But you wanna sink so I'm gonna let you

That's it, it’s a whole minute into the first song and Liam can't take anymore. He closes the whole thing down, shuts his laptop and climbs into his bed fully clothed, sneakers heavy under his comforter. He pulls the blankets up to his chin, turns on his side and looks at his still-blank walls.

A few minutes later his door opens, gold light spilling in shards across his bed, but he doesn't look over and Niall doesn't say anything. Liam feels him come close, hears him set something down on Liam’s desk and then he leaves, still silent, closing the door gently behind him.

There's a mug on his desk - not tea, cocoa, Liam can smell it. It smells good but Liam leaves it and when he does finally get up, he doesn't know how long later, it's ice cold.

As far as Liam lets anyone else know, that's it, that's the last he listens to any of the songs Niall sent him, but it isn't. He's got his iPod buds in nearly every time he steps out of the apartment, the rough cuts of the songs blasting in his ears while he walks to class, I love you so much that it hurts my head, I don't mind you under my skin I'll let the bad parts in, the bad parts in; Harry yelling at him while he runs on the treadmill, even if I lay my head down at night after a day I got perfectly right, you won't know; while he does homework in the library, if somehow I was new and everything was unsaid, I'd go and buy a hammer and never sing again; while he falls asleep at night, need you like water in my lungs.

His dreams are dark and violent and his sleep is restless, but Liam keeps doing it, keeps listening all the time, and then Niall catches him.

He's singing to himself, almost mindlessly, highlighting a worn out version of Anna Karenina, and Niall wasn't supposed to be home for another two hours. Maybe Liam isn't used to having a multi-room home but he doesn't even notice the sounds of the door, the clunk of Niall's bag in the entryway, and he's singing, do me a favor, baby, don’t reply, ‘cause I can dish it out, but I can't take it, and suddenly Niall's looking at him from his own doorway, eyes narrowing.

He's already caught but Liam's heart races as he pounces for the pause button. He sets his jaw, turns toward Niall and raises an eyebrow, challenging.

"Can I help you?" he asks when Niall doesn't say anything.

"Nice song," Niall says, and destroys any remaining hope that Liam might be let off the hook.

"I think it's only okay," Liam says, and turns back to his screen so he doesn't have to look at his friend.

“Right,” Niall says. “I suppose that has nothing to do with the fact that the album might as well be called Liam Payne is Mean and Awful.”

Liam’s jaw almost drops at that, he wasn’t expecting Niall to actually acknowledge that any of this is about him, and he’s torn between being amused and amazed and being upset. He settles for the latter and turns on Niall incredulously.

“Me?” he asks. “You think this is my fault?” He can see it, the moment Niall softens, and he takes another step into the room toward Liam.

“Okay,” Niall relents. “Maybe it can be, Harry Styles and Liam Payne are both incredibly stupid people.”

Liam can’t help it and he laughs. It feels like a release and Niall looks pleased, stepping even closer, leaning against the edge of Liam’s bed with his feet still on the floor.

It grows quiet again, afternoon light slanting in the windows over them, and it would be easy to be nostalgic if Liam let himself do that anymore. “I’m so mad at you,” Niall says finally, breaking the silence. Liam looks up at him, surprised, because Niall’s never been mad at him before; annoyed, yes, but never angry, not really.

“I don’t care what happens in your life,” Niall says, “I don’t care if you want to be a hermit, but you don’t push me away. Not me.”

All Liam can do is stare up at him, but the crushing guilt comes soon enough, and he supposes Niall is right. All this time of him being a right asshole, and Niall’s never stopped texting him, inviting him out, trying to get him to talk, even when Liam expected him to give up, even when Liam would have done the same to anyone else.

“I’m sorry,” Liam says, for lack of anything better. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Niall shrugs, gives him a wry half smile. Liam runs a hand over head, shakes it out and exhales loudly. “God, I just can’t stop screwing things up, can I?”

“No,” Niall confirms, and reaches out to touch Liam’s shorn hair himself.

“Teach me how to be around people, Nialler,” Liam says, leaning into his touch, and Niall laughs and Liam knows he’s forgiven, the way he’ll always be forgiven.

“Ok,” Niall says. “I will.”

Later that week, Liam's writing a paper and drinking tea, stupid tea, and he doesn't even have honey. He's reaching for a highlighter, head down trying to read his notes, and suddenly there's hot water everywhere, all over his work and his arm and his lap. He manages to throw his laptop on the bed before the tea spreads, but his notes are a wreck, bleeding blue ink everywhere, and his arm is an angry red and he's wet and he's mad, he's so mad because he doesn't even like tea.

Before he can think about it too much he's climbing into bed after his laptop, dripping tea into his sheets, and he opens the computer angrily, opens his email, types in an address he wishes he didn’t know by heart, and then

i keep buying your STUPID black tea and i don't even LIKE IT and i spilled it all over my notes on FUCKING DOSTOYEVSKY AND NOW I CAN'T READ THEM AND I DON'T EVEN LIKE TEA. but i keep buying it. i don't know why. i hate it. i hate this.

He hits send and sits still, counting the beats of his heart, too many too fast; one two, one two, one two.

Liam knows Harry might not respond. He knows that. He didn't even write anything that requires a response, nothing even approaching sensical, and there are moments he wishes he'd never sent it at all (but usually not, because he regrets it, but not as much as he regrets the times he never said anything at all).

So maybe they'll never talk again. Then again - maybe they will. Maybe Liam will go to London, maybe it will be during his midlife crisis, when his hair is receding and his belly is growing, maybe he'll walk the Thames and duck into a shop and Harry will be there, with the same bright eyes and wrinkles like parenthesis around his mouth. Or maybe it will be in Paris, reaching for the same baguette, maybe Harry will smile and Liam won't be so fucking scared, maybe Harry will show up on his doorstep in the West Village while he prepares lectures for the lit class he teaches, maybe they will be old men and rest their aching bones and ask, "Remember when?"

But forget maybe. It doesn’t count for anything, Liam knows.

It takes two days for Harry to answer, and when he does it's just five words, not enough to ease the ache, and all the same too much, too much, way too much.

i miss you like crazy

and Liam reads it like a crazed animal, like a starved man finally in sight of food. (Only five words, not enough to fill anyone up, but Liam reads it until he's sick. Five words there are no responding to, so Liam doesn’t.)

After his talk with Niall, after his non-discussion with Harry, after everything, Liam tries. Tries to be better, to Niall, to his friends, to himself. Better. He signs into his Facebook for the first time in months, blanches at the number of notifications and starts sifting through the messages he never looked at, never even knew were there.

There's one from Louis, almost a month ago, from his birthday, it says, "happy birthday man!!! you are catching up to me. miss you, liam. if i were there i'd take you to play some tennis and let you win. (i wouldn't.) skype soon? xx lou." A few days later there's a message from Zayn, "happy belated! lou didn't remind me, the rude bastard. don't get on this facebook business very often but text me sometime, if u can figure out how <--- that was an old people joke"

Liam feels heavy and tired and guilty and happy and he writes them back almost identical messages, sorry for the delay, thank you a lot, heard some of the album its sickkkk. Then he goes back to his inbox and sorts through the rest, deletes some, replies to others, tries to be a normal human being.

By the time he's done going through all his notifications he already has a new message and it's louis again. "why aren't you on chat? are you hiding from me??????????? can't hide when we're in town in a few weeks. tennis at the pier? golf? did you see my surfing pix from australia this summer? me and you have to go!!!! x"

Liam reads the message three times and then he gets up very calmly and walks into their kitchen, where Niall is sitting with his laptop in front of him, playing a game.

"Niall?" Liam asks sweetly, and Niall looks up. "Do you have anything you want to tell me?"

Niall looks confused for a moment and then he freezes and Liam knew he knew.

Niall skirts the question and narrows his eyes on Liam. "Are you google-stalking?" he demands accusingly.

Liam feels it's okay to be offended, because although he does google-stalk, this knowledge is not a result of that. "No and how very dare you," he says, and realizes belatedly he sounds like Louis. "Lou emailed me. Facebooked me. Is that a verb now? Whatever."

"You're the English student," Niall says, and Liam sees what he's doing.

"I see what you're doing," Liam tells him. "I won't have it in this house, Niall!"

Niall looks confused. "Won't have what?"

"You and your -" Liam sputters out. He's not even sure what he's arguing about anymore, but the histrionics are kind of fun and certainly better than thinking of Harry being in this very city in - whenever they’re coming, Liam doesn't even know yet. "Your lies by omission!"

Niall rolls his eyes. "I just found out today," he says, and reaches for a chip. "Should I tell you about every conversation I have every day, immediately after I have it?"

"Maybe," Liam huffs. He goes to the cabinet and finds a bag of M&Ms, eating them one-by-one in quick succession to distract himself. "When are they coming?"

"Thought you were in the know now," Niall drawls, and Liam cannot deal with anyone he knows right now.

"Niall," he says, voice serious, so Niall knows he isn't joking anymore. He looks up and Liam can see that he gets it.

"Two week-ish?" Niall suggests. "I think Harry said the eleventh."

Liam almost chokes on an M&M. "Harry?" he asks when he's recovered. "You talk to Harry?"

Niall stretches out his neck like he can't believe this conversation. "Of course I talk to Harry, Li."

"How can you say of course?" Liam asks. He puts the M&Ms away, they're making him ill. "You're supposed to be on my team," he pouts.

"I am on your team," Niall says, sounding bored. "And Lou and Zayn are on Harry's team, but they still talk to you, right?" he asks, and he might have a point but Liam doesn't care to admit it.

"It's not our fault you're both dumbasses," he goes on, which is rude and frankly unnecessary.

Liam searches for words. He’s frustrated and fed up and he knocks a fist against the counter. “I don’t see how you can call us dumbasses,” he says finally, strained.

Niall looks at him like he’s being very dense. “Because you’re obviously making each other miserable and you don’t do anything about it?”

Liam tries not to focus on Niall knowing that Harry is miserable. Instead he bursts out with, “So what if we did? What if I told him everything and he felt the same, what then, Niall?”

“Then it’s up to you,” Niall says, like that’s sensible.

“Up to me?” Liam asks, and throws his hands in the air. “How is it up to me? I’m a student in New York, he’s a musician in London. What exactly do you think is going to happen, Niall?”

“Are you telling me that’s the reason?” Niall asks, calm in comparison to Liam. And Liam doesn’t know the answer. He takes a deep breath, two, and slumps back.

He picks at the edge of the kitchen counter, the silence heavy. "I emailed him, you know," he says quietly.

Niall looks at him for a long time, then says, voice neutral, "Yeah? How'd that go?"

Liam narrows his eyes. "'Yeah' like you did know?"

Niall shakes his head slowly. "No, Li, I didn't know." Liam doesn't say anything, keeps his eyes on the crumbling edges of the tile, and finally Niall asks, "Did he answer?"

"Yes," Liam says.

He hazards a glance up and Niall's nodding. Niall shrugs. "Well? What did he say? What did you say?"

Liam sets his jaw stubbornly and looks at the front door, regretting bringing it up. "I don't want to talk about it," he says finally.

Niall says, "Okay," like it's easy, and Liam sighs.

"I'm gonna go for a run, I think," and Niall just looks at him and looks at him and Liam doesn't move. "You're going to hang out with them, aren't you? While they're here?" he asks, sounding pathetic and broken and hating himself for it.

"I want to," Niall says slowly. "They'll want to see you too, I reckon."

"Yeah," Liam says, and looks at his hands. "Lou wants to play tennis."

"Didn't you guys suck last time?" Niall asks, confused, and Liam can't help but laugh.

"Terribly," he says.

Niall smiles, but it fades quickly. "I'd like - I mean ideally, I'd like to show them our fancy new digs," he says.

And Liam nods, because, why wouldn't he? "Of course you can, Nialler," he says, and finally manages to push away from the counter and head back toward his bedroom. "Just give me a heads up when, okay?" He pauses in his own doorway and thinks. "And maybe help me come up with a good excuse for not being here," he says.

Niall rolls his eyes at Liam over his computer screen. "You always were shit at lying," he says, but he sounds disappointed and Liam knows it's not because Liam can't lie.

Liam doesn't answer. He pulls on his running shoes and heads out the door. He doesn't bring his iPod.

I'm not going, Liam chants to himself for the hundredth time. Going would be an absolutely horrid idea.

No. Liam is decidedly not going.

Niall had texted him during his Native American Literature class, "boys touched down this morning. coming over around 3. text u when it's safe KISSSESSSSSSSSSS" And he wishes Niall had reminded him last night (not like he'd forgotten, not like he'd stopped thinking about it for three minutes since Louis messaged him, but still, he didn't know they were coming straight to his own place), because he'd not been prepared to stay on campus all day. He'd tried to force down lunch but felt nauseous about it, went to the library and banged out a paper on Longfellow, read the Times cover to cover in the student center, gone to the gym and walked on the treadmill since he didn't have any gym clothes with him, and then walked the River Park practically to midtown before heading back south, his back aching from carrying his backpack with him.

And still no all clear from Niall.

He shouldn't go. He can't go home.

Of course, Liam goes home.

Maybe he's working himself up for nothing. Maybe Niall just forgot to text him when they left, it's been hours now, and of course that would happened to Liam. He stops at the Starbucks on the corner and gets himself a venti hot chocolate, he definitely doesn't need caffeine, he probably doesn't need sugar either, but he does need something comforting so he can curl up in bed and not think about how Harry had been in his home just hours before, among his possessions, looking at all the things Liam collected for them just a few months before.

They're definitely gone by now, Liam's convinced himself by the time he opens his front door. And then there's Louis, looking up from the kitchen table and smiling widely. "Hello, Liam."

In retrospect, it's clear that Liam had the upper hand. Niall obviously told them he'd be gone all afternoon, and when Liam glances into the living room Harry's standing there looking like he's seen a fucking ghost. To his credit he recovers quickly, turning back to the television where Niall and Zayn are playing FIFA.

"How was school?" Louis asks at the same time Zayn calls, "Jesus, man, what happened to your hair?"

Liam sees when Harry turns to look, as if unable to help himself. He rubs a hand over his head self-consciously and turns to Louis. "School was fine, thanks," he says, and then to the room generally, "Just trying something new with the hair."

"It looks nice," Harry says quietly, and then turns back to the television. Liam tries to look away from him but finds that it's hard; he looks the same, really, but somehow better, more beautiful, all broad shouldered and rumpled and standing in Liam's living room.

Louis clears his throat and Liam tears his eyes away. "Thanks," he says, awkward and delayed, and then he motions to his room. "I'm just going to..." but no one's looking at him anymore, so he slinks into his room without explaining.

He can't stay in here forever, Liam knows, but he spreads out across his bed and wishes that he could. He needs to change out of his dirty clothes, put his things away, and then go into the living room and be a normal, sociable human being. Just one more minute, he thinks, and closes his eyes.

It's probably more than one minute, but Liam is fairly certain it's not that long and he hasn't fallen asleep, but there's a loud knock on his door and Liam knows that knock, Niall's "stop being a hermit, I'm coming to drag you out," knock.

"I'll be out in just a second," he yells, probably more annoyed than he should be.

"Can - Can I come in?" the voice calls back, and it's not Niall at all.

Liam jumps off his bed quickly, stumbling a little. “Just a moment,” he calls, trying to keep his voice steady, and he spins around like there’s something to do, but there’s not. He sits in his desk chair quickly, reclines and grabs a random paper to look at, trying to appear relaxed.

“Come in!” he yells, and looks up like he doesn’t know who to expect.

It’s Harry who opens the door of course, and Liam tries to be light hearted, even happy to see him. “Oh, hey, Harry,” he says, twisting in his chair. “What’s up?”

Harry moves slowly, closes the door behind him and dread creeps up, settling in Liam’s stomach. He swallows, hard, and flicks his eyes back to the paper in his hand just for something to do.

Harry seems okay, more at ease than Liam feels anyway, and looks around the room. “Like what you’ve done with the place.”

Liam doesn’t know if he’s joking, maybe, because the furniture is shabby and the walls are still empty, but he says, “Thank you,” anyway, and Harry smiles at him, perching at the edge of his bed with his arms crossed over his chest.

It’s quiet for a long time and Liam takes the opportunity just to look at Harry, while Harry looks at everything in the room except him. He tries not to be obvious about it but he’s essentially staring, and Harry either doesn’t notice or lets him.

He looks away when he can’t take it any more. Only then does Harry look back at him and speak.

“Did you know we’ve known each other a year this month?” he asks.

Liam wasn’t expecting that, never thought about it. “No,” he says honestly. It seems strange, because in some ways it feels like so much longer, like he’s an entirely new person now from last fall; in other ways it feels so much shorter. Maybe because he’s only been around Harry for a few months of that year. Not nearly enough.

“Yes,” Harry confirms. “A whole year.”

“Wow,” Liam says, for lack of anything better. When Harry looks at him, Liam catches his gaze, brown on green, and smiles, sincere.

Harry only holds it for a moment and then looks down at his hands. “A whole year and I still don’t understand you at all,” he says suddenly.

Liam inhales sharply. In a corner of his mind, he’s wondering, is this it, is this the moment? But he’s jumbled. “I don’t understand you either,” he says, because it’s true.

Harry smiles again, disarming. “I can tell,” he drawls.

Liam doesn’t know how to take that, so he doesn’t say anything.

Harry kicks out, so the tip of his shoe connects with Liam’s ankle, and it’s a shadow of how they used to be, tangles of limbs and Harry’s hands everywhere, Harry acting out just to make Liam laugh, and Liam doing so because Harry wanted him to. But now only this, a ghost of the past.

“I do want to,” Harry says, suddenly serious and still. “I have tried.”

Liam looks at him with wide eyes, he thinks he understands but it’s hard to be sure -

“To understand you,” Harry clarifies. “I want to.”

Liam nods, slow and dumb. He feels the same, of course, and he should probably say it, but he can’t find the words.

Harry looks away uncomfortably and his hair falls in his face. “Anyway,” he says, and clears his throat. “Are you coming to the show tomorrow?”

“I don’t,” Liam starts, searching for his voice. “I wasn’t planning on it,” he says honestly. He’s never been good at lying.

Harry nods like he’s not surprised, pushes his hair out of face with his palm but he’s looking at the door and Liam can already feel him leaving. “You should,” he says, and then looks at Liam for the briefest of moments before he’s on his feet and headed toward the door.

He pauses in the doorway. “I hope you do,” he says, and then he’s gone.

He’s late for the show. It’s because he keeps changing his mind about it; he’s going, he’s not going. The whole time he knows he’ll make it there eventually - he thinks he will - but he has to go through the process anyway. He goes to his old favorite café and buys a croissant, and then he sits on a bench in Washington Square Park and eats it, tiny flaky pieces, the first real food he’s had all day.

It’s dark already, and starting to get cool and turn to fall, but there are a lot of people in the park, sitting around the edge of the fountain, a man with a cello playing sad music - Liam wonders if cello music is even capable of sounding happy. His crumbly dinner attracts the pigeons and they swarm at his feet, pecking at the fallen bits, and eventually he starts dropping them on purpose. The woman at the next bench over gives him a dirty look and moves to sit further away, and Liam thinks, this could be my life. A lonely old man feeding pigeons on the bench who no one will sit by.

This could be his life, if he keeps letting these things slip through his fingers. Los Angeles at 16 is one thing, but Brooklyn at 22 is something else entirely, Liam knows.

Eventually his food is gone and the pigeons lose interest, and the lady who hates him leaves and even the man with the cello packs it in and walks away and then it’s just Liam and the fountain and the lights of Fifth Avenue glittering in front of him, and he blinks into them until his vision goes blurry and he has to close his eyes.

I’m late. I’m late. I’m late. Liam’s feet slap against concrete as he runs from the subway to the venue and he doesn’t let himself think anything else but that thought. No more questions, no more second guessing, no more hesitation. Just this. I’m, left foot. Late, right foot.

He can see the venue rising in front of him when he realizes he should be able to hear the music by now, but - there’s no music. There’s no music, and Liam runs.

There’s a man at the back door and Liam wonders for a moment if his name is even on the list tonight. He told everyone he wasn’t coming, there’s no reason it should be - but he tells the man his name, he looks down at the list, his face doesn’t change but he nods and Liam’s heart lifts because he’s on the list anyway and it feels like a good sign.

Liam pushes into to the short hallway and almost immediately runs into Zayn.

“Bit late, mate,” he says like he’s not surprised to see Liam at all. “Missed the whole set, in fact.”

Liam groans, because of course he did. “Is Harry still here?” he asks, still breathless from his run.

A grin starts to spread across Zayn’s face like he’s catching on. He slings an arm around Liam’s neck. “This is so romantic,” he says, running his hand over Liam’s shorn hair.

“What?” Liam says. “I don’t - I’m not - Okay, I can’t deal with that right now. Is he here?”

“God, Louis is going to be so mad he didn’t find you first,” Zayn says, going on like he didn’t hear Liam at all and doesn’t realize this is a situation. Liam wants to grab his shoulders and shake but he settles for opening his eyes very wide and staring.

Zayn chokes on a laugh and pulls a cigarette from behind his ear, twisting it between his fingers. “Yes, Liam, don’t have an aneurysm on me, he’s still here.” Crew members shoulder past them, carrying out Lou’s drum set and guitar stands. Zayn motions that he’s going outside and then points the other way down the hall. “Think he’s in the dressing room,” he says. “Good luck, mate.”

He’d run so fast to get here, blocking everything else out, but now that he’s actually here - now that he’s creeping down the hall to the dressing room he remembers so clearly, past the hallway where he’d sat on the floor with Harry talking about how he’d be leaving soon, god, so clueless - now it all comes rushing up. Panic itching beneath his skin, anxiety twisting his stomach, doubt creeping up the back of his throat. He’d run all the way here only to walk down this hallway as slowly as any human has ever moved.

The door to the dressing room is cracked open and from his limited view the room looks cleared out and abandoned. There’s an empty pizza box and a stack of beers on a side table and Liam thinks it might as well say “Niall was here,” but it’s quiet except for the crew moving down the hall.

Liam pushes the door the rest of the way open, just to check, and for a moment there’s nothing and he thinks, Zayn was wrong, I’m too late - and then in the corner of the room there’s a movement, and Harry is rising slowly from where he was, apparently, crouched against the wall.

“Hi,” Liam sighs on instinct, sliding his hands in his pockets to still their shaking.

Harry is staring at him openly and doesn’t bother to return his greeting. “You’re late,” he says, half accusing, and Liam supposes he deserves that.

Liam takes a few steps into the room but he is still far, far away from Harry, a couch and a long table between them. “I tried to get here faster,” he says.

Harry stares at him a moment later and then he shakes his hair down in front of his face, pushes it away out of his eyes. Liam’s foot taps nervously, he wonders if maybe he shouldn’t sit down or end up on the floor involuntarily. He’d thought once he got here, once he found Harry it would be easy, it would come easy, like it always seems to in the movies, the grand speech pouring out, but it doesn’t. He’s still Liam and Harry is still Harry and there is still an ocean of space between them.

“You were wearing that shirt when I met you,” Harry says suddenly, and Liam looks down at himself as if to check, as if he could remember. His shirt and is blue and green checked, flannel, he’s had it forever, he’s worn it a million times, but still, it seems like he should remember that one. He doesn’t.

“I was?” he asks. He pulls his arms out of his pockets, holds them out in front of them, clutching the sleeves in his fists as if it will help him remember.

Harry smiles like he’s trying not to. “Yes,” he says. “The boy standing in the back and drinking a soda by himself,” he goes on, and he doesn’t look at Liam, and Liam, Liam couldn’t move if you paid him to. “Imagine my surprise when I found him on my bus later that night.”

“Imagine,” Liam repeats numbly, he’s the one staring now. Harry’s nostalgic smile falters.

“Yeah, well,” he says, quiet, leaning against the wall. He looks at his feet.

In the hallway the sounds of the crew are dying down, it’s still, and Liam imagines they don’t have much time. They don’t have much time, they’ve never had much time, and still somehow this has taken way too long. “I’m so sorry I missed your show, Harry,” Liam says in a rush.

Harry looks up, confused etched on his face. “That’s -“ he says. “I didn’t think you were coming at all, to be honest,” he says, and somehow that’s just, it’s one of the worst things Liam’s heard. He moves a few steps farther into the room, closing the gap ever so slightly. Maybe it isn’t fair, because Harry’s backed into a corner, he couldn’t widen the gap if he wanted to, but Liam has to keep reminding himself that he’s pretty sure Harry doesn’t.

“You said you wanted to understand me, right?” Liam asks. Harry doesn’t answer, but he looks curious, so Liam goes on. “Well, I’m not good at speeches,” he says, and he shrugs, slight, small. “I’m not good at grand gestures, I’m late to important things, I don’t always get the joke, I almost never get the hidden meaning, I - I -“ and Harry’s face is rapidly going from curious and back to confused and Jesus, this is hard. “What I’m saying is that I mess up a lot of things, okay, and that probably isn’t going to change. But I can - I can show up. If you want me to. I’ll show up.”

Harry’s slouched over against the wall and somewhere in the middle of Liam’s little speech he’d half turned his head to the ground so his face is hardly visible. It’s very quiet and Liam can wait, he can, he fights down the babbling trying to escape his mouth and he waits.

Finally Harry looks up but Liam still can’t tell what he’s thinking. His eyes are guarded. Then he raises a hand, holding it out toward Liam, and Liam doesn’t know -

“C’mere,” he says when Liam doesn’t move. “Come over here. I want to feel your new hair.”

It’s maybe a strange request at the time, but Liam’s not entirely surprised by it, coming from Harry, by now. He moves closer, moves around the couch and the table and then he’s in front of Harry, closer than he’s been in months. Harry’s slouched enough that he’s looking up at Liam through his lashes, and when he’s close enough Harry does slide his hand along Liam’s scalp, and Liam almost shivers, almost leans into it -

But it’s still there, that prickling panic beneath his skin, the fear. It makes him take a step back, put the distance back between them and immediately Harry’s face closes off like a curtain’s fallen over it, and Liam thinks, Jesus, this is so fucked, we are so fucked.

“No,” Liam says, his head is shaking almost of its own accord. “I still don’t get it, I don’t - I’m not, like, it’s not like my self-confidence is super low, you know that, but I don’t get this, I don’t get what you see here, you’re a rock star, I’m me, I don’t -“

Harry’s smiling now, dazzled a bit, maybe. He takes a deep breath and stretches his neck out and then he says, “I’m just so tired, Liam,” and Liam can see it now, the tiredness, at the corner of Harry’s eyes and pulling on the edges on his mouth, “I’m tired of strangers and small talk and irony and faux-sincerity, and you, you’re -“ He shakes his head, his curls falls into his face and he brushes them away impatiently. “You work so hard and you’re dedicated and you’re genuine and - you know how I said I don't want anything more than this?" he asks, eyes wide and searching Liam's face, and Liam feels like he's standing on a great precipice.

"Yes," Liam says, he remembers, how serious Harry's face was, how steely his voice sounded.

Harry's watching him closely but he drops his eyes again, and Liam wishes he wouldn't. "I'm not sure that's true anymore,” he says, hunching over into himself again like it hurts to let out. And just in case Liam doesn't get it, because Liam never gets it, he says, “Because now there's you,” and he shrugs.

It’s quiet for a long moment, the only sounds are crew members' voices from far down the hallway and Liam remembers they’re running out of time, always running out of time. “Me,” Liam says, struck dumb and unmoving.

Harry shrugs again and straightens, eyes lifting, hands dropping to his sides. “You,” he repeats. “If you want.”

“If I want,” Liam says, because apparently all he can do now is parrot Harry, and then Harry nods and Liam steps forward again without thinking about it, reaching out just enough, touching the hem of Harry’s shirt, holding on.

“God,” he says, and finally makes himself look up into Harry’s face, guarded but hopeful, and the panic buzzing beneath Liam’s skin is gone now, replaced by something else - adrenaline, anticipation - Liam licks his lips. “You’re going to break my heart, I know it,” but his lips are curving up while he says it because yeah, he is, and maybe Liam could do with a breaking.

“Maybe you’ll break mine,” Harry replies, mumbling because somehow they’re closer now, Liam doesn’t even know who’s moving but his fist is caught between them, still twisted in Harry’s shirt so his knuckles brush Harry’s waistband.

“Maybe,” Liam tells him, distracted now, looking at his face, his lips, all the places Liam’s wanted to touch for so long. “Can’t promise I won’t.”

Harry’s eyes lift then, wide and green and gorgeous, and Liam can’t help but stare. “I'd let you,” he says, close enough Liam can feel him say it at the same time he hears it. "But not tonight."

Liam grins full out, flattens his palm against Harry’s stomach and the space between them is almost gone. “Not tonight,” he confirms, and he kisses Harry.

The first time he’d been too shocked to notice, but Harry kisses like he’s got the world on his shoulders, eyes screwed shut and forehead furrowed. He’s still leaning against the wall and Liam pushes him back into it, kisses him soft, tries to ease him up, a hand on his waist.

It’s over almost as fast as it started, as suddenly there’s someone right outside the door and Liam jumps away, flushed and hiding his face. Only then does Harry crack a smile. He’s got a finger through Liam’s belt loop and he leaves it there.

There’s a man in the door way, looking at them warily. “Time to go, boys,” he says, and then he’s gone. Liam looks at Harry, confused.

“Tour manager,” Harry says simply. “Guess our time’s up," but Liam knows he's wrong.

The blast of cold air as they step out the back door of the venue hits him like a slap in the face, drags him back to reality. Harry’s holding his hand, holding his hand right out there on the sidewalk, in the open, and then he’s looking at Liam with bright eyes and saying, “What now?”

What now?

What he wants now is to get Harry backed up against the wall again, wants to touch the tattoos peeking out the collar of his shirt, wants to touch all of his tattoos, even the ones he’s only caught glimpses of, especially those - but here they are on a street in Brooklyn and Harry’s holding his hand and he can’t do any of those things. He rubs his hand over his hair and thinks, exhales noisily.

“My place,” he says finally, decisively, and he takes off in the direction of the train, dragging Harry behind him with a tight grip. When he chances a glance behind him, Harry’s just staring at him, a slightly dazed smile on his face. Liam tightens his grip.

Before they get into the subway station he texts Niall.

Liam: where u at?

Niall: eating w the boys. need me?

Liam: no.. any chance u cud not come home for awhile?

Niall: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Louis: ??????????????????

Zayn: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Liam rolls his eyes, and Harry catches up, trying to peek over his shoulder. They’re about to walk down the stairs and Liam won’t have service until they’re back in the city.

Liam: i’ll take that as a yes, ta

Harry follows him down the steps into the station obediently, and Liam swipes his Metrocard, once for him and once for Harry, and he grits his teeth and waits.

On the train Harry chatters at him, mindless, their hands still tangled. He tells a story about the man he’d sat next to on their flight over, the restaurant they’d gone to the night before. Liam pushes their knees together and doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even allow himself to look over, his eyes trained on the dark shadowy shapes passing outside their windows, and he counts the seconds.

Liam drags Harry up the stairs at the subway station, down the street to his apartment, and only lets go of his hands to fumble with his keys in the cold and the dark. Harry still stands close, his chest against Liam’s arm, and Liam huffs out in frustration until the key slides in the lock and the door swings open, and then he grabs Harry’s hand again and drags him the four flights of stairs up their apartment.

“You haven’t said anything in awhile, Li,” Harry says off-handedly while Liam unlocks the front door, and when it’s open Liam just looks at him, looks at him, until the smile slides off his face, and the door is barely closed behind them when Liam has him pressed up against it, head tipped up because Harry is taller when he’s not slouching, and Liam is finally, finally kissing him, finally, finally sliding his hands beneath his clothes, finally, finally, finally.

Harry tears away long enough to say, “Here?” and then again when Liam presses into him, dragging lips against lips again, leaning back to say, slightly more firmly this time, “Not here,” but his hips are rutting into Liam’s and Liam thinks he could get away with it.

But no. If Harry wants “not here” then they’ll go somewhere else, Liam can do that, at least. He presses one more kiss into Harry’s mouth, up against the door, and then his jaw and his neck and when he pulls away Harry groans breathlessly, almost looking angry, and Liam smirks to himself. Harry’s hands are at his waist, following as he leads the way into his bedroom.

He wishes he could be smoother, wishes he could tease and build and work up that slow, delicious burn - but they’ve already waited so long and Liam cannot wait one single solitary second longer. The moment Harry is over the threshold into his bedroom Liam is peeling off his coat, throwing it into an unknown corner, his mouth attached to Harry’s neck, and he’d feel embarrassed but Harry seems to be in the same mindset, his hands scrambling underneath Liam’s sweater, clawing at the muscles of his back.

Their mouths are crushed together, almost painful, but less so than being separated, and Harry only pulls back to grind out, frustrated, “Get this off,” tugging sharply at Liam’s top. Liam obliges, shedding the sweater and the tee underneath in one movement and his arms aren’t even lowered yet before Harry is back on him, twisted into his neck, biting marks against his shoulders.

“Okay,” Liam says, gasping, trying to get his hands between them, trying to get his hands on skin, on anything, “Okay,” he says again. He tries to take a few steps in the direction of his bed but Harry isn’t budging and he’s bigger, so Liam can’t do much about it.

“Harry,” he says, breathless, when he can tear his mouth away from hands, neck, cheek, hair, “Harry.”

“What,” Harry mumbles, mouth against Liam’s ribs, hand splayed across his hip, almost kneeling.

“Bed,” Liam grinds out, he’s painfully hair against his jeans but Harry isn’t moving, isn’t touching him anywhere he needs to be touched and isn’t allowing him to relieve the pressure, so he sinks his hands into Harry’s hair and pulls.

Harry groans, loud, unexpected, and Liam tucks that away for later. Harry finally rises and all Liam can do is shove him in the direction of the bed, following quickly as he unbuttons and unzips his jeans, sighing in relief at the release.

Harry loses his t-shirt somewhere on the way to the bed but his jeans are still intact, and they must be painfully tight, even more painted on than Liam’s own, so Liam makes it his mission to get them off as fast as possible, made more difficult when Harry groans loudly again as soon as Liam’s hands make contact with his fly.

“Stop doing that,” Liam growls, nipping at his neck. “’S distracting.”

Harry’s reaching for him, reaching for anything he can get a grip on and it ends up being Liam’s waistband, which he quickly makes work of pushing to the ground. Liam finally gets Harry’s jeans undone and they join his own on the floor and then they’re in just their boxers and Harry’s half laid back on the bed, pale and beautiful and Liam has to climb over him, find his mouth again, groaning as their cocks make contact, Harry immediately grinding up into him, teeth sinking into his lip.

“Fuck,” Liam gasps, and he rolls his hips against his own will. “Not like,” he grinds out, “Not like this -“

Harry releases Liam’s earlobe from his mouth long enough to say, “Yes,” and “Please,” and “Need it now,” and that’s enough, okay. Liam hauls himself off of Harry, immediately strips him of his remaining briefs, drops his own and then crawls back over him so they’re completely skin to skin. He doesn’t kiss Harry immediately, dropping his forearms on either side of Harry’s head and just looking at him for a moment, his chest filling with something that makes him feel like he might float away - and then Harry presses up against him and he falls back to earth.

“Okay,” he mutters against Harry’s lips, rocking slowly. “Okay.” He shifts enough to get a hand between them, takes them both in one fist, and Harry makes a choked off noise as they press together, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“Open your eyes,” Liam whispers, stilling over him. He keeps his grip on them tight but stops moving entirely, and Harry is going red in the face but Liam doesn’t move. “Harry, look at me.”

It’s another long two count before Harry’s eyes eventually open and he looks absolutely wrecked, almost panicked, and then it’s Liam who can barely keep his eyes open, can barely meet his gaze. He starts moving again, his grip tight, he knows he isn’t going to last long but he’s fairly sure Harry is right there with him.

“Come on,” he says, nose against Harry’s cheek, eyes still locked. Harry’s hips buck up suddenly, bracketed by Liam’s knees, and he makes a steady noise low in his throat, hips working endlessly. Liam starts moving his hand faster, his own hips grinding in small circles. “Yeah, c’mon Harry, come for me,” he says, and then Harry’s eyes slam shut and his hips stay up, thrusting helplessly as he spills over Liam’s hand. Liam is only a moment behind, keeping his eyes on Harry and his screwed up face and his flushed chest before he can’t do it anymore either, his eyes slam shut and he falls over Harry, still holding them together in one hand.

It’s a long few minutes before his vision goes normal, before his breathing evens out. He goes to slide off Harry, eyes still closed and looking peaceful beneath him, but he makes a small noise of protest and holds Liam at the knee, so his leg is still looped over Harry even as slides the rest of the way off, their sticky mess between them.

“Let’s just clean up, Haz,” he says, still feeling foggy and slow, not particularly inclined to get up and do anything.

Harry’s grip around his knee tightens minutely and he shifts so his head is against Liam’s arm. “’n a minute,” he mutters, and never opens his eyes.

A minute turns into five turns into fifteen, but Liam does eventually find his legs, get them cleaned up and slides back into his boxers and some sweats before he falls back into bed, his heart still pounding too hard. Harry’d succumbed to being washed off and putting his pants back on, but he’s still sprawled across the bed, red splashed against his chest reminding them of what they’ve done. Liam thinks it probably matches his own cheeks.

“So,” he says, settling cross-legged into the bed. Harry’s spread out like a starfish, taking up most of the space, and he moves to flop an arm across Liam’s lap.

“So,” he says, voice ragged. “Let’s rest and then we’ll do it again. Better.”

Liam can’t help but laugh. “Better?” he asks.

Harry waves his arm around, and his eyes never open, but he tugs on Liam until he moves down, tries to arrange himself around Harry’s mess of limbs. “Better,” he says again. “More, longer, better, whatever.” He yawns, pressing his face into Liam’s neck, winding around him. “We have time.”

“Yeah,” Liam whispers into his hair. “We do.”

When he wakes up an hour later, Harry’s wrapped around him and his phone is flashing with an unread text.

Niall: can I come home yet?

six