One Direction fic | So Much Of The City Is Our Bodies | AU | Part 1/3
So Much Of The City Is Our Bodies
Louis/Zayn, Harry/Niall (Harry/Nick Grimshaw) | NC-17 | ~23,000 words | AU
A place/ where everything too big to take apart/ had been left behind. Toronto AU.
Many, many thanks to castoffstarter for betaing and to randominity for letting me send this to her while I was writing and listening patiently as I endlessly changed my mind about how I wanted it to go, ♥!
Title and cut tag from Phantom Limbs by Anne Michaels
One: Louis
Louis wrote the house number on the back of his hand but it got smudged when he pulled on his coat. It’s past eleven and the street is quiet, so it’s still easy to tell which house they’re looking for -- the only one on the street where ten people are hanging off the front porch and the music inside is loud enough to send this throbbing pulse outward to the sidewalk even from three houses away.
“Who do you know here?” Louis asks as Niall bounds ahead, making his way past the small crowd and letting them in through the front door.
“Everyone,” Niall says, and apparently he means it, because he’s immediately swallowed up by a swarm of high fives. They’re passing around two-six of vodka and Louis doesn’t recognize any of the people here, but he takes the bottle when it comes his way, and sucks down enough vodka that tears prickle furiously in the corners of his eyes before he hands it back, and after that it’s a lot easier to make friends.
It’s been a year since he broke up with Eleanor, which is long enough not to be aching over it anymore, and too long to still feel weird going out and not being part of a couple. It’s just strange to be here on his own, like even though he and Niall showed up together, it doesn’t mean anything. He’s still going to be going home alone.
Still, Niall knows how to find a good party, and this is no exception. Louis meets half a dozen new people, joins in for a quick game of Suck and Blow, and then before he knows it, he’s dancing outrageously on the heavy wooden coffee table in the middle of the room, a girl in front and a girl behind him. For a minute it feels like being on stage, like he’s putting on a show and everyone’s watching, and it’s such a relief to be playing a part again, but then he realizes that it’s not actually a role -- he’s genuinely just the drunk guy dancing on the coffee table.
He hopes that none of these pictures end up on Facebook.
“Okay,” he says when the song changes, pushing his sweaty bangs away from his face and then ruffling them up again to slide them up onto his forehead. “I’ll be right back.”
Niall’s nowhere to be seen, but from what Louis can hear, some people are doing keg stands in the backyard, so if he had to guess, that’s where he would look for Niall first.
There’s a bathroom on the main floor -- there’s got to be, but Louis isn’t sure exactly where, and it seems like enough people have spread to the upstairs that he doesn’t feel guilty about walking up as well. It’s easy to tell where the bathroom is here, because the line is already four people long.
Louis can’t stand waiting, so he walks to the end of the hall, poking his head through the open door.
It’s a second kitchen, which is great because Louis could probably use a glass of water, but when he walks inside and rounds the corner, he sees that there’s already someone there, standing at the sink.
“Oh, sorry,” Louis says.
“That’s all right,” the guy says. “Do you need something?”
Louis stands awkwardly, unsure if he should just double back. The whole house felt like the party, like Louis could go anywhere he pleased, but he is suddenly reminded that it’s a house, that people actually live here, that not all of the space is communal.
“I was just going to get some water,” Louis says. “But it’s okay.”
“No, come on, I can get you a glass.”
The guy pulls an actual water glass out of the cupboard and grabs a Brita jug out of the fridge to fill it with water before passing it over to Louis.
“Thanks, man,” Louis says. He was going to stick his head under the faucet; he hasn’t even been using a glass to drink alcohol for most of the night, and this water feels unexpectedly extravagant. That’s the thing about parties like this -- there’s a host, but the host is probably just as drunk as everyone else. No one’s paying attention, except maybe to ensure that none of the people are stupid enough to vomit inside. There’s definitely no one checking if people need water.
He watches the guy over the rim of the glass as he pulls a pot off the stove and uses the lid to drain the boiling water into the sink, dumping in the packet of powdered cheese as he finishes stirring together a pot of Kraft Dinner.
“We’ve met before,” Louis says, quirking his mouth to the side as he tries to pull a name to mind. “Niall’s birthday last year -- at Sweaty Betty’s, right?”
“Oh, yeah, I was at that,” the guy says. “I’m Zayn.”
“Louis.”
Zayn’s still holding the handle of the pot in one hand and he wipes his other hand on his pants before grabbing Louis’s hand in a quick, soft handshake.
“You want some?” Zayn asks, giving the macaroni another stir.
“I don’t want to steal your dinner,” Louis says.
“Nah, it’s never a good idea to eat the whole box by yourself,” Zayn says, reaching to the cupboard for two bowls. “It seems like it will be a good idea, but then you’re like two spoons away from being done and you realize that you’ve just punished your intestines in a way that they never really needed to be punished.”
Louis snorts. The bowl Zayn hands him looks like white ceramic but feels like plastic when he reaches for it.
“Kraft Dinner is basically the healthiest thing I know how to make myself for supper,” Louis says.
There’s a wooden table pushed against the blank wall that’s almost twice as big as what would comfortably fit in the room and piled high with cereal boxes and empty plastic containers and an unusually large stack of phone books.
Louis pulls the far chair away from the table -- there’s a copy of The Star on it, but that’s not breakable, so Louis sits down on top of it.
Zayn’s perched on the other side of the side of the table, his feet up on the chair so he’s squatting instead of sitting, his bowl of K.D. resting on his knee. Louis hasn’t eaten anything since the shwarma he grabbed on his way home, which, okay, was only like three hours ago but he feels suddenly famished.
“This is good,” Louis says, “thanks.”
Zayn nods, his mouth full.
“Your roommate’s throwing a party?” Louis asks, like it isn’t already obvious.
“Yeah,” Zayn says. “Just didn’t really feel like a crowd tonight.”
“Sorry,” Louis says. The bass of the music is pulsing against the soles of his feet. He can’t quite make out the words of the song and it makes the beat feel even stronger, like the music has wrapped around the whole house, fused into the walks and the floors, and is now travelling up the legs of Louis’s chair.
“Not your fault,” Zayn says.
“Do you want us to go?” Louis asks. He knows like at least three people in the party, but he could probably still convince everyone else to leave, maybe, probably.
Zayn laughs, “No, no, it’s good. Just needed to, like, fortify myself before heading down.”
“With booze though,” Louis says. “How is macaroni going to help get you ready for a party?”
“Fair point,” Zayn says. He walks over, grabbing Louis’s bowl and his own and putting them in the sink before reaching into the cupboard and pulling out a mikey of rum.
“Aw, damn,” Zayn says, “this isn’t even full.”
“Remember in, like, junior high,” Louis says, “when you’d get a mikey to drink to a party and it was a contest to see who could finish the whole thing, and then you’d be so so drunk afterwards?”
“Maybe more like high school,” Zayn says, “but yeah, sure.”
“And now you realize, mikeys are like eight drinks,” Louis says. “It’s not even that much.”
“Are they really only eight drinks?” Zayn says, pouring half of what is left in the bottle into Louis’s water glass. There was still maybe a sip of water left in the bottom of the glass, but that just makes it go down easier.
“I think?” Louis says. “How many ounces are there?”
“Dunno,” Zayn says, without looking at the bottle. “Do you need a mixer?”
“Nah,” Louis says, especially not with the little bit of water left to cut the sharpest edge of the alcohol. It also helps that he’s been drinking already.
Zayn shakes the mikey around, watching critically as the rum splashes around, and then he lifts it to his mouth and downs the rest in one go, setting the now-empty bottle on the table and wiping at his mouth with the corner of his sleeve.
“Well, there it is,” Zayn says. He blinks, like he’s a little surprised with himself, even though clearly he knew exactly what he was doing, and Louis hurries to finish what is left in his glass.
Zayn walks over to the sink and starts splashing around, or trying to do the dishes, or whatever. Being at the sink is silly, Louis thinks. There’s no reason why Zayn needs to be there.
He walks over and hops up on the counter, pushing three cups and a plate aside to make room for his ass.
“I thought you were fortifying yourself,” Louis asks.
“That wasn’t very much rum,” Zayn says, wrinkling his nose. He sloshes some water over a fork and then puts it in the drying rack.
“I’ll be back,” Louis says, hopping off the counter.
He takes off down the hallway, realizes once he’s already down two stairs that the bathroom is free, dashes inside to pee quickly -- it’s a weird bathroom with this full mirror running across the length of the back wall, but maybe there was a fire or something because the mirror has this grey tinge to it and it’s not fully reflective any longer. And then he runs downstairs.
He brought a twelve-pack of Richards Red with him (not a strong choice, but it was the only thing he could find as twelve that was already chilled), except it seems like someone else drank it all, because the box is empty and Louis only remembers drinking the two he had during the walk over. So he doesn’t feel guilty about snatching the mostly full two-six of Smirnoff from the counter by the fridge, tucking it somewhat stealthily under his arm just in case someone notices as he makes his way back up the stairs.
When he walks back into the second kitchen, Zayn is still at the sink, and he seems surprised to see Louis, even though Louis said he’d be back.
“Here you go,” Louis says, pushing the bottle into Zayn’s wet hands. There are still a few plates and glasses in the sink, plus the two bowls they just ate out of, and if he were a better person he would probably help to clean them, but Louis doesn’t even do his own dishes: he’s certainly not going to do someone else’s.
He doesn’t know how much he’s had to drink, because most of it has been straight from the bottle and not measured out, but he feels drunk.
“Your house is going to be trashed tomorrow,” Louis says.
“Probably,” Zayn says, a little disgruntled, but mostly resigned. “Aiden’s the one who has to clean it up though.”
“Is he actually going to?” Louis says, because he’s thrown more than a couple parties that Liam has done most of the cleaning for afterward.
“Probably,” Zayn says. “Either way, it isn’t going to be me.”
Zayn’s eyelashes are longer than anything Louis has ever seen before. He thinks that he’s meant to be steering them back to the party, but he doesn’t want to. He likes being here, like he’s the only one allowed in Zayn’s kitchen, likes that he’s got an in.
“Firm,” Louis says, admiringly. He likes a person who is as indisposed to cleaning as he is. Although, Zayn’s basically spent this entire time cleaning up after himself in the kitchen, so not quite like Louis.
“Are we still trying to get you fortified?” Louis asks, because at one time there was a point to all this alcohol.
“Don’t know,” Zayn says.
“I don’t -- we don’t have to go anywhere,” Louis says. His head isn’t quite in the right place for a party. Or maybe it is, but the kind of place where he’s happy to be in a house with the music so loud that the windows are trembling but he’s still tucked away somewhere removed from the crowd. “Unless you still think you want to be alone,” Louis says, belatedly, even though he can’t actually remember at this point whether Zayn said he wanted to be alone or just that he didn’t want to be at the party.
“This is good,” Zayn says, finally wiping his hands off on his jeans and stepping away from the sink to sit down beside Louis at the table.
Louis loses track of time and the next thing he knows it’s past three am and the subways aren’t running any longer.
“I hate the night bus,” Louis says, sadly. Niall is long gone. Everyone is long gone, really. A few stragglers are left downstairs, having a deep conversation in the kitchen. There’s a couple making out on the front porch but they look too tired to get up to much else.
“You can sleep over,” Zayn says, holding the front door open as Louis pulls his coat tight and fumbles with the zipper. It’s just filled with foam, not proper downe, and it doesn’t cut the cold as well as Louis would like given how drunk he was a few hours ago.
“It’s okay,” Louis says, setting his shoulders down against the long shiver that runs up his spine. “Thanks, though.” He walks down the steps, leading away from the house, and turns around once he’s hit the sidewalk to wave at Zayn, who’s still standing in the doorway.
Louis takes a couple side streets and manages to pop out on Bloor, which was luck more than anything because all of the streets looked the same -- brick semis with wooden porches and a small patch of grass in the front. Zayn lives in the Annex, so the streets are still pretty busy for how late it is, groups of students meandering home, a few houses where the lights are still on and the party seems to have stayed strong into the early morning.
Louis lives at the far end of Bloorcourt Village and it’s a long way to walk, but still better than waiting for the bus at night.
Most of the cars driving down Bloor are cabs, and other than that the street is quiet. It’s cold, and eventually Louis’s face starts to burn from it. They’ve had snow but then it got warm and the rain washed it all away, so the sidewalk is clear as Louis walks along. It feels like it’s going to snow again soon; the air is sharp and clear and there’s not a cloud in the night sky, so it won’t be snowing tonight, but soon.
He’s walked this stretch countless times, but it’s different without the crowds, different when all the stores are closed. The street’s well lit and occasionally Louis walks past other people. He feels like he’s part of streetscape now, like there’s always meant to be someone walking home in the dead of night and tonight he’s that person, sobering up in the cold, his legs going numb so all he has to do is put his head down and keep moving forward and eventually his feet get him home. It’s reassuring, because even though he’s still stupid drunk, he knows how to do this, he knows how to get to where he needs to be. He just wishes he could also feel this way when it wasn’t four in the morning.
--
---
--
Two: Harry
“To Harry,” Nick says, raising his glass and gesturing comically until everyone else at the table does the same. Rather a lot of beer is being spilled.
“Nick,” Harry starts, warningly. Nick’s speeches are usually inappropriate or long or both.
“To Harry,” Nick says again, and Harry ducks, letting his hair fall into his eyes even though it does little to cover his face, “and his shiny new lawyer-hood. Lawyer-ship?”
“I was called to the bar,” Harry says. “Christ, Nick.”
“A-plus lawyer boss status achievement,” Nick finishes. “Contragustations to Harry. Let him remember this night and always answer our calls for free legal advice.”
And then there’s some clapping and a lot of drinking and eventually everyone seems distracted again, so Harry can scoop his hair away from his face and look up. He doesn’t spend much time talking about what he does -- first because he was still in school when everyone had already graduated (nothing wrong with being younger than everyone, but people still get a bit snippy about being reminded that they’d hanging out with a student), then because he was articling, which was like a real job. Nick dicks around at the 88.1 Indie Toronto and gets his paycheque selling tickets at Lee’s Palace, Pixie’s done like three modeling campaigns for this hole in the wall on Queen Street, and Henry’s going to be a fashion designer but right now he works at Anthropology, and no one gives a shit that Harry spent sixty-five hours last week drafting a briefing for a developer who wanted to appeal the city of Burlington raising development charges.
“Nice one, rockstar,” Nick says, quietly, just for Harry and not the whole table. He sounds sincere for the first time.
“Thanks,” Harry says.
This is the third celebratory dinner he’s been to this week. First with his parents, who took him to Scaramouche where he had a roasted partridge breast with pan-seared foie gras, farro heirloom carrots, and braised belgian endives with a blood orange reduction; then out with his other friends from law school to Jack Astor’s for a buffalo chicken cobb salad; and now he’s at Black Bull with non-school friends eating deep fried perogies.
“Are you excited?” Nick asks.
“It’s the same, isn’t it. I’m not changing jobs or anything.” Harry articled at one of the big five on Bay Street and then they hired him on. It’s great, but it’s not exactly unexpected.
“Well, you’re not a little bitch boy anymore,” Nick says. “Now you’re a fancy man.”
“I’m a first year associate,” Harry says.
“It’s good,” Nick says, “why aren’t you excited?”
“I am,” Harry says, giving Nick a smile and then reaching across the table for the pitcher of Steamwhistle. He’s so used to brushing everything off as nothing that he can’t even tell now if he’s acting on habit or if he’s genuinely feeling nonchalant. He’s known he was going to be a lawyer for as long as he can remember; maybe it’s just hard to get excited about a forgone conclusion.
“Assholes,” Aimee says, cutting her gaze sideways to the table full of men in suits sitting one over from them.
The waitress looks pained and is laughing awkwardly, so even though Harry missed the joke, he can catch the gist of it.
“Why do that they do that, anyway?” Nick asks. “Come in here in their suits.”
“Probably came straight from work.” Pixie says, which is also what Harry was thinking, but he wasn’t about to say so out loud.
Nick rolls his eyes. “Bet not. They probably went home first to change. Douchebags.”
Harry plays with the edge of his phone, surprised when it actually lights up under his fingertips with a text from Niall, You coming out t night? Louis’s dancing on a table your missing out !
I’m with Nick, how long are you going to be there? Harry texts back.
It takes a long time before Niall texts again. Three more pitches of beer come to the table and leave empty, before Niall replies with:
They ad a keg but iy ran out do leaving anytomes.
You want to meet up with us ? Harry texts, because there’s nothing better than a drunk Niall on the hunt for more beer.
By the time Niall actually arrives, everyone else is about to clear out.
“Sorry that took so long,” “Niall says. “Didn’t actually get to leave right away.” He’s flushed, his hair pushed away from his face, baseball cap backwards on his head. He’s wearing white high tops, jeans, and his parka’s unzipped to show his grey hoodie underneath.
“It’s okay,” Harry says. “We’re heading to Disgraceland now. So let’s grab the Queen streetcar to the subway.”
“Or we take the bus up Spadina and then we’re not going in the complete opposite direction of where we want to be,” Niall says.
“No,” Harry groans. “Tracks are under construction so the streetcars aren’t running.”
“I don’t understand your refusal to take buses,” Niall says. “They’re not worse than streetcars.”
“I don’t trust them,” Harry says, “they don’t go on tracks. It’s all bumpy.”
“Have you ever seen twelve streetcars all piled all along the street because the one in front is stalled and then no one can get to work?”
“Yes, because I’ve been on St. Clair,” Harry says.
“So,” Niall says pointedly.
“We’re not trying to get to work,” Harry says.
Niall chortles delightedly, but still shakes his head.
“I don’t even feel like going anywhere else,” Harry says. “You want to just come back to mine?”
It’s maybe 50-50 that Niall will actually come back; he’d rather go somewhere than stay in, and even though he doesn’t know Nick’s friends as well as Harry does, he’s never had a problem tagging along with people he doesn’t know. Everyone Niall meets is just someone he hasn’t yet had the chance to make friends with.
“Yeah, alright,” Niall says.
They take a cab back to his condo because now that it’s just him and Niall, no one’s going to gawk about the cab fare. Niall’s happy enough to sit with Harry in the back of the car, trying drunkenly to text on his phone. He’s on his iPhone for most of the trip, but eventually pulls a Blackberry out of his pocket and fumbles with the unlock button long enough that Harry takes it away from him.
“What’s this?” Harry asks. “You know so many people that you can’t keep up using just one phone?”
“Work Blackberry,” Niall says. “Need to see if I’ve got any emails.”
“Maybe not tonight, drunkie,” Harry says, sliding the phone back into Niall’s pocket. He can’t imagine that anyone would have emailed Niall this late anyway; Niall does something related to marketing, Harry’s not exactly sure, but it doesn’t seem like the kind of job where there would ever be people needing to email Niall in the middle of the night.
Niall goes for it again, but they’re pulling in front of Harry’s building and he distracts Niall by pushing him out the side of the cab.
They take the elevator up to Harry’s condo and Niall makes himself at home, hopping up on the breakfast bar instead of sitting on one of the stools.
Harry opens his fridge and says, “I’ve got Waterloo Dark, Mill Street Organic, and Richards White.”
“Dark,” Niall says. “Thanks.”
Harry’s also got a dozen bottles of wine, Smirnoff for when Louis comes, Barardi for Nick, Crown Royal for his mom, Knob Creek for his dad. He’s got Bombay Sapphire and tonic in the fridge because that’s what the girls he brings back usually ask for.
He passes Niall his beer and then pours himself a glass of apple juice.
“Should we be drinking champagne?” Niall asks, and then lifts his beer to toast Harry with that instead. “Congrats, man. That’s really awesome.”
“Thanks,” Harry says, taking another sip of apple juice, and then leaving the glass on the counter to grab a beer out of the fridge instead.
The kitchen’s open to the rest of the condo, and Harry follows Niall into the main part of the room, sitting on the other side of the sectional.
“I remember what it was like when I started working,” Niall says. “It’s a bit fucked.”
Niall graduated and started working faster than any of them, but sometimes Harry forgets it because Niall’s more likely to talk about the last concert he’s been to than what he did during his work day.
“It’s good,” Harry says. “It’s just. I guess this is it now.”
“Yeah,” Niall says, shrugging. He’s pink-cheeked and started to get a bit squinty-eyed, like maybe all the alcohol has finally caught up with him. He still looks happy, sinking lower and lower on Harry’s black leather sectional until his back is almost flat along the seat. His legs are spread in front of him, loose jeans hanging off his open thighs. Harry almost never hangs out with Niall when it’s just the two of them -- Niall’s loud and excitable and always the center of the crowd, but somehow it still feels comfortable now. Like Niall’s actually let down his guard down enough to look tired in front of Harry; Harry’s never seen him look tired before.
“It’s a bit fucked,” Harry echoes. “But it’s good, it’s fine. I’m happy.” Harry’s probably also tired now, but his brain is nowhere near quiet enough to let him slide down in the sofa, and anyway his back is killing him after a week hunched in front of the computer and over a notebook in meetings and curled around his phone.
“Are you?” Niall asks.
Harry takes a long drag of beer, finishes what is left and then holding the empty bottle between his open palms. “I think I’m going to be.”
--
---
--
Three: Louis
“I can’t and I won’t,” Louis says, pulling what he can reach of his comforter over his head. The entire lower half of his body is uncovered from where Liam has yanked the blanket away.
“I have to be at work in twenty minutes,” Liam says.
“I don’t,” Louis says, trying to pull his blanket back.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Oh my god, Liam,” Louis says, sitting up in a huff. “Just send me a text later.”
“It’s important,” Liam says. He lets go of Louis’s blanket now that Louis is no longer actively trying to hide from him.
“Well,” Louis says, after a long minute where Liam doesn’t say anything, important or otherwise. “I already know how you look when you’re standing in stunned silence. You didn’t need to wake me up to demonstrate.”
“I’m moving in with Dani,” Liam finally says. “We’re, um. We’re moving in together.”
Louis blinks. Liam and Danielle broke up last summer, and even though they were back together by the fall, but Louis had kind of thought it was just a last stint before they broke up for real.
“But you live with me,” Louis says. He rubs his hand over his face. It wasn’t fair of Liam to spring this on him so early. “I mean -- that’s great. Congrats.”
“Thanks,” Liam says, his face lighting up. “I’m really excited. I kind of proposed? But she said that we should live together first, so that’s what we’re doing. It’s going to be great.”
“You proposed,” Louis echoes.
“Not properly,” Liam says. “I didn’t have a ring or anything. It was kind of just talking.”
“And then you asked her to marry you.”
“Yeah. But for now just living together.”
“Right,” Louis says. He’s been sharing a one bedroom with Liam for almost a year now. Liam’s got the front room, which is also sort of their living room, because there’s a couch on the other side of Liam’s bed. It works okay because Liam wakes up early.
Liam’s looking at Louis expectantly and Louis tries to remember if he’s supposed to ask for the security deposit back or something (except he’s pretty sure Liam paid that in the first place), until he realizes that Liam is waiting for his reaction.
“That’s awesome, bro,” Louis says. “Congrats.” He untangles himself from the blankets and scoots over to the side of the bed so that he can pull Liam in for a hug.
When they part, Liam’s grinning like an idiot.
“I’m really excited,” Liam says. “I didn’t know if she’d say yes.”
Doesn’t seem like she actually did say yes, Louis thinks unkindly, but makes sure to keep a smile on his face. It’s not -- it’s not Liam’s fault. Louis thought that he’d be the first one married and instead he’s perpetually single (which is really more wretched than inspirational posters led him to believe); he thought Liam was going to be his roommate... maybe not forever but for a lot longer than this.
“So when are you leaving?”
“I’m giving you two months notice,” Liam says. “Like how you’re supposed to. I’ll still pay rent until April. But, I mean, I’m probably going to start moving my stuff over there pretty soon. I mean, just gradually. You’ll hardly notice I’m gone.”
Louis hardly notices when Liam’s around these days, which is less and less common lately.
He’s been friends since back when he was going to York University and Liam was still trying to make it as a singer by playing all these little gigs in coffee shops. Liam’s the most ambitious person that Louis knows, but he was crap at school and never found a band he wanted to join and doesn’t really write his own songs, and there are only so many places that will book a guy with a great voice and no original material. Liam works at this auto parts factory down past Lakeshore during the day and usually gets at least one gig a week signing covers at corporate parties or wherever.
Louis thought he was going to be an actor before he realized that even being a drama teacher was pushing it. When he and Liam first moved in together, Louis had this idea of them being a team, like they’d both go to auditions and drink when they didn’t get the gig and then Louis would come watch Liam sing and Liam would be in the crowd watching Louis on opening night. And Louis has gone to see Liam when he’s been booked, but there’s literally no point to an actor who doesn't audition, and Louis can’t even remember the last time he went to a casting call. Liam leaving is screwing up Louis’s plan right now, but every other part along the way has been screwed up by Louis.
Liam leaves for work and Louis drags himself out of bed, his body feeling tired, verging on hungover if he gives any attention to the dry rasp of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He’s cranky and it’s not even eight in the morning, which is an absolutely ridiculous time to be awake. Liam is the worst roommate ever; Louis will be glad to see him gone.
--
Louis’s too old to make new friends, but he’s got Zayn added on Facebook, and Zayn actually comes online, and then they’re just talking about whether or not it is a complete bastardization of canon to have Batman settle down with Catwoman when Zayn has to go because he’s done work but Louis doesn’t have any groceries so it makes sense to meet up for dinner.
“It seems like we’re stress drinking,” Zayn says after Louis says yes without checking with Zayn first when the waitress asks if they want another pitcher.
“We are,” Louis says. “You’re observant and you should never do anything to hurt your eyeballs.”
“Definitely wasn’t planning on it,” Zayn says.
“I’m basically being evicted,” Louis says, sighing loudly and using the edge of his thumbnail to pick at the edge of the cardboard coaster under his beer which has gone soft from the condensation.
“Really?” Zayn asks.
“My roommate is moving out,” Louis says.
“So, that’s not quite the same thing as being evicted,” Zayn says and then gives Louis a deliberately cheesy grin and a thumbs up.
Louis scoffs. “It’s the intent of... the effect of something. My lawyer friend would know. I’ve got a lawyer friend,” Louis says. “And my roommate is moving out because he’s going to marry his girlfriend. I’m old, everyone around me is old, the entire world is moving on without me.”
Louis says it darkly, ridiculously, and hopes that Zayn knows he’s meant to take it as a joke even though it’s basically the truth.
“You can’t be older than me,” Zayn says.
“I just turned twenty-six,” Louis says, pulling heavy weight on every syllable. “Actually, that was like two months ago now. It’s not even just! I’m fully twenty-six.”
“You were born in December?”
“The day before Christmas,” Louis says. “Everything in my life is the worst, and has been since day one. My mom even held me back a year, but it didn’t help.”
“Oh yeah?”
“It was either be the very oldest or the very youngest, so I was the oldest, which was great for that one beautiful year that I was actually taller than everyone and has been completely useless ever since.”
“You could drink in first year,” Zayn points out.
Outside, it’s starting to snow -- heavy flurries whipped around by the wind so the whole sky has gone hazy with it, a white fog settling in as well. It’s still early in February and it’s been steadily cold for ages now, so Louis thinks it’s probably going to stick. He takes a long drink from his pint glass.
“And now I’m 26, which is closer to 30 than to 20. I’m closer to being middle aged than I am to being a teenager.”
“Don’t think anyone counts 30 as middle aged anymore,” Zayn says. “And I turned 25 like two weeks after you, but I think we’re probably both going to be alright.”
“Twenty-six,” Louis moans. “Why are people getting married?”
“You don’t want to get married?” Zayn asks.
“Of course I want to get married,” Louis says. “I want to get married and have at least half a dozen babies. I just don’t want everyone else to get married. I don’t think I’m going to do very well living on my own.”
“Can you afford to keep the place yourself?” Zayn asks.
Technically, the answer is yes. When Liam and Louis first started living together, Louis was mostly only working day shifts, where tips were crap. He’s on full time now, and he always gets at least one of the Friday or Saturday night shifts, and has only dropped the tray full of glasses like twice in the entire past year, so he’s basically a god at work now. He’d have to cut back on his student loan repayments a bit, but there was no way he was paying those off before he turns thirty anyway. He’s also never going to be able to finish paying off his credit card bill, and at least 60% of his income would be going toward rent, but that’s... “afford” is a complicated term.
“I don’t know,” Louis says. “I am not a banker.”
“What?” Zayn gasps. “I had no idea.”
Louis laughs and swats at Zayn’s hand, resting on the other side of the table. It’s easy to be with Zayn, easier than it should be given that they hardly know each other. Maybe that’s what Louis needs right now -- a new friend who’s only ever seen him drunk.
“Are you still hungry?” Zayn asks. “Do you want to share sweet potato fries?”
“Yeah,” Louis says. He pours what is left in the pitcher into Zayn’s glass and says, “And we can get another one of these.”
--
---
--
Four: Harry
It’s been a long week, and half of Harry wishes that he’d just gone home, but when the office was starting to clear out at eight and everyone was talking about where to go for dinner, Harry came along.
They’re at the Spring Roll in the Atrium on Bay, with more chairs than can comfortable fit around the two tables, pushed together. Harry’s stuck between Simon, who’s one of the junior partners and someone that Harry probably does need to suck up to, and Brock, who’s only a second year associate but has the office right beside Harry’s.
He keeps trying to talk to Rita, sitting across from him, but there’s a giant vase filled with water and a couple floating orchids getting in the way.
“Nice,” Simon says, meanly.
Harry turns his head, following Simon’s gaze out the window. He sees purple pants and for a moment he thinks it’s Nick, he thinks it’s Nick walking past the restaurant while Harry’s sitting here at this table full of men in suits and they’re talking shit about how he’s dressed, but it’s not Nick. It’s another tall guy in tight maroon pants and enough swagger to make them work for him.
“I just hate it when they’re so obvious about it,” Simon says, turning away.
“Fags know how to dress,” Brock says. “That’s the worst part -- women are into it.”
“Is that true then?” Simon says to Rita.
“No, I wouldn’t say women are usually into sleeping with gay men,” Rita says, with a sharp smile. She’s too beautiful not to know how to hold her own, all blonde hair and dark skin and bright red lipstick.
Brock snorts, and passes a derisive look over Harry’s head to Simon, and Harry keeps his head ducked down, staring at his plate and pretending that not saying anything is the same as not being part of the conversation.
It gets easier after that. The vodka tonics make it easier, and everyone else loosens up. Simon even puts his Blackberry in his pocket instead leaving it beside his glass where he can attend to it constantly, and when the cheque comes, he puts his credit card down for the whole table.
They all head out together afterward, and that was Harry’s chance to slide away, but he’s not tired anymore, and his dad always said that no one should ever go home before his boss does. It’s brutally icy outside because it warmed only long enough for the majority of the snow to melt and then freeze again; the sidewalks are black with ice, and Harry watches his feet as he walks. Yonge Street is bright from the lights and the billboards; even in the night it’s bright, only the sidewalks are dark.
They go to the Pravda Vodka Bar, wait in line at the door, wait in line for coat check, wait in line at the bar.
It’s crowded inside and they walk upstairs but it’s not any better up there.
“God, look at the rack on that one,” Brock says, speaking too loudly for how close he is to Harry’s ear, like he can only halfway follow through on his original plan to whisper.
Harry nods, looking across the club. There are any number of women with noteworthy racks, but eventually he follows Brock’s gaze to the blonde in this halter-strappy thing.
Simon seems to have cued in to the conversation and gives a low whistle.
“Nice,” he says, and then both Brock and Simon are looking at him expectantly.
“Sure,” Harry says. “Nice.”
“Okay, rookie. It’s time for boys to become men,” Simon says. “Go pick her up.”
“Seriously?” Harry asks, sounding more annoyed than he means to, given that Simon is his boss.
“Seriously,” Simon says. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Harry gives him a long look, takes in the smug grin that Simon is just managing to hold back, the one that’s already plastered across Brock’s face. Harry knows how this goes, knows they’re just trying to give him a hard time to make a point. He’s not one to fight to be top dog; he’s young and he looks it. He’s still awkward and soft around the edges, and the main way he knows how to be friends with men is to be accommodating -- the main way he knows how to be friends with anyone is to be accommodating, and it’d be easy to let them turn him into the butt of a joke, but there’s something prickly inside of him tonight.
“Alright,” Harry says. They both look surprised, and just like that Harry’s set. He spent his second year at Western learning how to pick up girls in clubs. It was kind of stupid, but there was this group of them that went out all the time, and it seemed like. Whatever. Like a bit of a challenge, and Harry likes getting good at things that are difficult.
He knocks back the rest of his drink and hands the empty glass to Brock just to be an ass about it, then walks up beside the blonde, who’s waiting in the crowd at the bar.
“Well, that’s not going well,” he comments, keeping his voice soft, just enough volume to be heard over the music. When she turns her head to look at him, he tilts his chin toward the bar, where a red faced guy who’s popped the collar of his button-up is gesturing angrily. The bartender looks a little nervous, but mostly angry.
“Probably cutting him off,” the woman says.
“I hate it when people turn into douchebags when they’re drunk,” Harry says.
“How do you know he’s not always a douchebag?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” Harry says, “maybe I like thinking the best of people.”
“Really?” she asks.
“No,” Harry says after a beat, laughing. He times it right, and she giggles a little as well. “He’s probably definitely a douchebag all of the time.”
“Signs point to yes,” the woman says.
“Can I buy you a drink?” Harry asks. “If they ever start serving again. What are you drinking?”
“Gin and Tonic,” she says.
“I’m Harry,” he says, reaching out to shake her hand, but in this kind of ironic way, where he makes it clear that he knows he’s being a dork.
“Lindsay,” she says, letting Harry hold her hand for one long second.
The wait is long enough that by the time they’ve made their way to the bar, he’s learned that she’s just started a new job as a receptionist at the main CTV office but that she wants to be in front of the camera one day. He can’t tell if she knows how much older than him she is, if that’s part of it for her.
He buys her a drink, then another one. From the other side of the bar, he can see Simon and Brock watching him. Broke looks a little impressed and a little disgruntled and when Harry makes eye contact, Simon lifts his hands to clap slowly, showily, his arms lifted above his head.
Harry clenches his jaw, and looks over to make sure Lindsay hasn’t noticed, but if she has she doesn’t react.
That’s Harry’s cue: he’s good to go back to the group now, he’s made his point, but fuck that.
“My condo’s close,” Harry says, touching his fingers to Lindsay’s hip under the pretext of leaning in close to be heard over the music. “You want to have another drink back at mine?”
“Okay,” she says, after a pause that’s just long enough to make it look like she’s thinking it over.
“Okay?” Harry repeats, angling his body towards hers so that she looks him in the eye, and then grinning.
“Okay,” she says again, but she’s smiling too this time.
He slings his arm around her shoulders and follows half a step behind as she walks towards the door, doesn’t look back to say goodbye to anyone from work.
It’s close enough that they could walk if they really wanted to, but Harry hails a cab, holds the door open for her, gives his address. He can feel his phone vibrating in his pocket but he doesn’t pull it out to check the message.
The concierge opens the door for them when Harry waves at the front door, and Lindsay says, “So what do you do?”
“I’m a lawyer,” Harry says, hoping it doesn’t sound as awkward as it feels in his mouth. This is something that he gets to say now.
It’s a long wait for the elevator, and the lobby of the building is too brightly lit. Harry rubs at his forehead, and tries to ignore how exhausted he suddenly feels. It’s been a long week.
When they’re finally inside his condo, he locks the door behind them, throws his keys onto the little side table and asks, “Should I open some wine?”
“Sounds good,” Lindsay says, touching her fingers to the wall as she works open the strap on her shoe.
Harry walks to the counter and pulls the top bottle off the built in wine rack.
“Can I see your balcony?” Lindsay asks.
“Yeah, come on,” Harry says. He pulls open the door and grits his teeth against the sudden gust of wind. It’s not that cold, but it’s strong, and he has to give a yank before the door slides the rest of the way open.
“God,” Lindsay says, stepping outside. “What a view.”
He’s too far north to see the lake, but there’s a clear view of the CN Tower, all of the other skyscrapers in between, the glowing squares of countless windows, flashes of neon and tiny pricks of light from cars floating around at ground level.
Lindsay’s hair is whipping around and she tries to tuck it behind her ears, her cheeks gone pink, face just visible in the soft blue darkness. Harry keeps the door open behind them, the heat from inside provides just enough of a backbone against the fierce wind slamming between all of the skyscrapers.
Harry wraps his hand around the rail of the balcony, locks his knees against the sudden wave of vertigo. He feels like he’s posing for someone to take a picture of his life. In this moment, he’s finally slotted into place, exactly where he’s meant to be: the condo and his job and the beautiful woman to bring home at night, looking out over the city. Like from this great height he can see enough of the world to understand how all of the pieces are supposed to fit together. This is what he’s been working for, this is what everyone wants for him, this is what he should want for himself.
The way Lindsay is staring at him makes him think he looks exactly how he’s supposed to, his slacks and blazer and v-necked t-shirt. Like he’s young and competent and happy, and he waits for the moment when all the pieces clicking into place starts to feel good, waits to feel anything other than numb, alone on the edge like he’s about to fall off into the sea of lights.
He forces himself to let go of the railing, to reach for Lindsay instead. His hands feel entirely removed from his body, but her skin is warm when he touches her.
She smiles and he says, “Let’s go back inside.”
--
---
--
Part Two
Louis/Zayn, Harry/Niall (Harry/Nick Grimshaw) | NC-17 | ~23,000 words | AU
A place/ where everything too big to take apart/ had been left behind. Toronto AU.
Many, many thanks to castoffstarter for betaing and to randominity for letting me send this to her while I was writing and listening patiently as I endlessly changed my mind about how I wanted it to go, ♥!
Title and cut tag from Phantom Limbs by Anne Michaels
One: Louis
Louis wrote the house number on the back of his hand but it got smudged when he pulled on his coat. It’s past eleven and the street is quiet, so it’s still easy to tell which house they’re looking for -- the only one on the street where ten people are hanging off the front porch and the music inside is loud enough to send this throbbing pulse outward to the sidewalk even from three houses away.
“Who do you know here?” Louis asks as Niall bounds ahead, making his way past the small crowd and letting them in through the front door.
“Everyone,” Niall says, and apparently he means it, because he’s immediately swallowed up by a swarm of high fives. They’re passing around two-six of vodka and Louis doesn’t recognize any of the people here, but he takes the bottle when it comes his way, and sucks down enough vodka that tears prickle furiously in the corners of his eyes before he hands it back, and after that it’s a lot easier to make friends.
It’s been a year since he broke up with Eleanor, which is long enough not to be aching over it anymore, and too long to still feel weird going out and not being part of a couple. It’s just strange to be here on his own, like even though he and Niall showed up together, it doesn’t mean anything. He’s still going to be going home alone.
Still, Niall knows how to find a good party, and this is no exception. Louis meets half a dozen new people, joins in for a quick game of Suck and Blow, and then before he knows it, he’s dancing outrageously on the heavy wooden coffee table in the middle of the room, a girl in front and a girl behind him. For a minute it feels like being on stage, like he’s putting on a show and everyone’s watching, and it’s such a relief to be playing a part again, but then he realizes that it’s not actually a role -- he’s genuinely just the drunk guy dancing on the coffee table.
He hopes that none of these pictures end up on Facebook.
“Okay,” he says when the song changes, pushing his sweaty bangs away from his face and then ruffling them up again to slide them up onto his forehead. “I’ll be right back.”
Niall’s nowhere to be seen, but from what Louis can hear, some people are doing keg stands in the backyard, so if he had to guess, that’s where he would look for Niall first.
There’s a bathroom on the main floor -- there’s got to be, but Louis isn’t sure exactly where, and it seems like enough people have spread to the upstairs that he doesn’t feel guilty about walking up as well. It’s easy to tell where the bathroom is here, because the line is already four people long.
Louis can’t stand waiting, so he walks to the end of the hall, poking his head through the open door.
It’s a second kitchen, which is great because Louis could probably use a glass of water, but when he walks inside and rounds the corner, he sees that there’s already someone there, standing at the sink.
“Oh, sorry,” Louis says.
“That’s all right,” the guy says. “Do you need something?”
Louis stands awkwardly, unsure if he should just double back. The whole house felt like the party, like Louis could go anywhere he pleased, but he is suddenly reminded that it’s a house, that people actually live here, that not all of the space is communal.
“I was just going to get some water,” Louis says. “But it’s okay.”
“No, come on, I can get you a glass.”
The guy pulls an actual water glass out of the cupboard and grabs a Brita jug out of the fridge to fill it with water before passing it over to Louis.
“Thanks, man,” Louis says. He was going to stick his head under the faucet; he hasn’t even been using a glass to drink alcohol for most of the night, and this water feels unexpectedly extravagant. That’s the thing about parties like this -- there’s a host, but the host is probably just as drunk as everyone else. No one’s paying attention, except maybe to ensure that none of the people are stupid enough to vomit inside. There’s definitely no one checking if people need water.
He watches the guy over the rim of the glass as he pulls a pot off the stove and uses the lid to drain the boiling water into the sink, dumping in the packet of powdered cheese as he finishes stirring together a pot of Kraft Dinner.
“We’ve met before,” Louis says, quirking his mouth to the side as he tries to pull a name to mind. “Niall’s birthday last year -- at Sweaty Betty’s, right?”
“Oh, yeah, I was at that,” the guy says. “I’m Zayn.”
“Louis.”
Zayn’s still holding the handle of the pot in one hand and he wipes his other hand on his pants before grabbing Louis’s hand in a quick, soft handshake.
“You want some?” Zayn asks, giving the macaroni another stir.
“I don’t want to steal your dinner,” Louis says.
“Nah, it’s never a good idea to eat the whole box by yourself,” Zayn says, reaching to the cupboard for two bowls. “It seems like it will be a good idea, but then you’re like two spoons away from being done and you realize that you’ve just punished your intestines in a way that they never really needed to be punished.”
Louis snorts. The bowl Zayn hands him looks like white ceramic but feels like plastic when he reaches for it.
“Kraft Dinner is basically the healthiest thing I know how to make myself for supper,” Louis says.
There’s a wooden table pushed against the blank wall that’s almost twice as big as what would comfortably fit in the room and piled high with cereal boxes and empty plastic containers and an unusually large stack of phone books.
Louis pulls the far chair away from the table -- there’s a copy of The Star on it, but that’s not breakable, so Louis sits down on top of it.
Zayn’s perched on the other side of the side of the table, his feet up on the chair so he’s squatting instead of sitting, his bowl of K.D. resting on his knee. Louis hasn’t eaten anything since the shwarma he grabbed on his way home, which, okay, was only like three hours ago but he feels suddenly famished.
“This is good,” Louis says, “thanks.”
Zayn nods, his mouth full.
“Your roommate’s throwing a party?” Louis asks, like it isn’t already obvious.
“Yeah,” Zayn says. “Just didn’t really feel like a crowd tonight.”
“Sorry,” Louis says. The bass of the music is pulsing against the soles of his feet. He can’t quite make out the words of the song and it makes the beat feel even stronger, like the music has wrapped around the whole house, fused into the walks and the floors, and is now travelling up the legs of Louis’s chair.
“Not your fault,” Zayn says.
“Do you want us to go?” Louis asks. He knows like at least three people in the party, but he could probably still convince everyone else to leave, maybe, probably.
Zayn laughs, “No, no, it’s good. Just needed to, like, fortify myself before heading down.”
“With booze though,” Louis says. “How is macaroni going to help get you ready for a party?”
“Fair point,” Zayn says. He walks over, grabbing Louis’s bowl and his own and putting them in the sink before reaching into the cupboard and pulling out a mikey of rum.
“Aw, damn,” Zayn says, “this isn’t even full.”
“Remember in, like, junior high,” Louis says, “when you’d get a mikey to drink to a party and it was a contest to see who could finish the whole thing, and then you’d be so so drunk afterwards?”
“Maybe more like high school,” Zayn says, “but yeah, sure.”
“And now you realize, mikeys are like eight drinks,” Louis says. “It’s not even that much.”
“Are they really only eight drinks?” Zayn says, pouring half of what is left in the bottle into Louis’s water glass. There was still maybe a sip of water left in the bottom of the glass, but that just makes it go down easier.
“I think?” Louis says. “How many ounces are there?”
“Dunno,” Zayn says, without looking at the bottle. “Do you need a mixer?”
“Nah,” Louis says, especially not with the little bit of water left to cut the sharpest edge of the alcohol. It also helps that he’s been drinking already.
Zayn shakes the mikey around, watching critically as the rum splashes around, and then he lifts it to his mouth and downs the rest in one go, setting the now-empty bottle on the table and wiping at his mouth with the corner of his sleeve.
“Well, there it is,” Zayn says. He blinks, like he’s a little surprised with himself, even though clearly he knew exactly what he was doing, and Louis hurries to finish what is left in his glass.
Zayn walks over to the sink and starts splashing around, or trying to do the dishes, or whatever. Being at the sink is silly, Louis thinks. There’s no reason why Zayn needs to be there.
He walks over and hops up on the counter, pushing three cups and a plate aside to make room for his ass.
“I thought you were fortifying yourself,” Louis asks.
“That wasn’t very much rum,” Zayn says, wrinkling his nose. He sloshes some water over a fork and then puts it in the drying rack.
“I’ll be back,” Louis says, hopping off the counter.
He takes off down the hallway, realizes once he’s already down two stairs that the bathroom is free, dashes inside to pee quickly -- it’s a weird bathroom with this full mirror running across the length of the back wall, but maybe there was a fire or something because the mirror has this grey tinge to it and it’s not fully reflective any longer. And then he runs downstairs.
He brought a twelve-pack of Richards Red with him (not a strong choice, but it was the only thing he could find as twelve that was already chilled), except it seems like someone else drank it all, because the box is empty and Louis only remembers drinking the two he had during the walk over. So he doesn’t feel guilty about snatching the mostly full two-six of Smirnoff from the counter by the fridge, tucking it somewhat stealthily under his arm just in case someone notices as he makes his way back up the stairs.
When he walks back into the second kitchen, Zayn is still at the sink, and he seems surprised to see Louis, even though Louis said he’d be back.
“Here you go,” Louis says, pushing the bottle into Zayn’s wet hands. There are still a few plates and glasses in the sink, plus the two bowls they just ate out of, and if he were a better person he would probably help to clean them, but Louis doesn’t even do his own dishes: he’s certainly not going to do someone else’s.
He doesn’t know how much he’s had to drink, because most of it has been straight from the bottle and not measured out, but he feels drunk.
“Your house is going to be trashed tomorrow,” Louis says.
“Probably,” Zayn says, a little disgruntled, but mostly resigned. “Aiden’s the one who has to clean it up though.”
“Is he actually going to?” Louis says, because he’s thrown more than a couple parties that Liam has done most of the cleaning for afterward.
“Probably,” Zayn says. “Either way, it isn’t going to be me.”
Zayn’s eyelashes are longer than anything Louis has ever seen before. He thinks that he’s meant to be steering them back to the party, but he doesn’t want to. He likes being here, like he’s the only one allowed in Zayn’s kitchen, likes that he’s got an in.
“Firm,” Louis says, admiringly. He likes a person who is as indisposed to cleaning as he is. Although, Zayn’s basically spent this entire time cleaning up after himself in the kitchen, so not quite like Louis.
“Are we still trying to get you fortified?” Louis asks, because at one time there was a point to all this alcohol.
“Don’t know,” Zayn says.
“I don’t -- we don’t have to go anywhere,” Louis says. His head isn’t quite in the right place for a party. Or maybe it is, but the kind of place where he’s happy to be in a house with the music so loud that the windows are trembling but he’s still tucked away somewhere removed from the crowd. “Unless you still think you want to be alone,” Louis says, belatedly, even though he can’t actually remember at this point whether Zayn said he wanted to be alone or just that he didn’t want to be at the party.
“This is good,” Zayn says, finally wiping his hands off on his jeans and stepping away from the sink to sit down beside Louis at the table.
Louis loses track of time and the next thing he knows it’s past three am and the subways aren’t running any longer.
“I hate the night bus,” Louis says, sadly. Niall is long gone. Everyone is long gone, really. A few stragglers are left downstairs, having a deep conversation in the kitchen. There’s a couple making out on the front porch but they look too tired to get up to much else.
“You can sleep over,” Zayn says, holding the front door open as Louis pulls his coat tight and fumbles with the zipper. It’s just filled with foam, not proper downe, and it doesn’t cut the cold as well as Louis would like given how drunk he was a few hours ago.
“It’s okay,” Louis says, setting his shoulders down against the long shiver that runs up his spine. “Thanks, though.” He walks down the steps, leading away from the house, and turns around once he’s hit the sidewalk to wave at Zayn, who’s still standing in the doorway.
Louis takes a couple side streets and manages to pop out on Bloor, which was luck more than anything because all of the streets looked the same -- brick semis with wooden porches and a small patch of grass in the front. Zayn lives in the Annex, so the streets are still pretty busy for how late it is, groups of students meandering home, a few houses where the lights are still on and the party seems to have stayed strong into the early morning.
Louis lives at the far end of Bloorcourt Village and it’s a long way to walk, but still better than waiting for the bus at night.
Most of the cars driving down Bloor are cabs, and other than that the street is quiet. It’s cold, and eventually Louis’s face starts to burn from it. They’ve had snow but then it got warm and the rain washed it all away, so the sidewalk is clear as Louis walks along. It feels like it’s going to snow again soon; the air is sharp and clear and there’s not a cloud in the night sky, so it won’t be snowing tonight, but soon.
He’s walked this stretch countless times, but it’s different without the crowds, different when all the stores are closed. The street’s well lit and occasionally Louis walks past other people. He feels like he’s part of streetscape now, like there’s always meant to be someone walking home in the dead of night and tonight he’s that person, sobering up in the cold, his legs going numb so all he has to do is put his head down and keep moving forward and eventually his feet get him home. It’s reassuring, because even though he’s still stupid drunk, he knows how to do this, he knows how to get to where he needs to be. He just wishes he could also feel this way when it wasn’t four in the morning.
--
---
--
Two: Harry
“To Harry,” Nick says, raising his glass and gesturing comically until everyone else at the table does the same. Rather a lot of beer is being spilled.
“Nick,” Harry starts, warningly. Nick’s speeches are usually inappropriate or long or both.
“To Harry,” Nick says again, and Harry ducks, letting his hair fall into his eyes even though it does little to cover his face, “and his shiny new lawyer-hood. Lawyer-ship?”
“I was called to the bar,” Harry says. “Christ, Nick.”
“A-plus lawyer boss status achievement,” Nick finishes. “Contragustations to Harry. Let him remember this night and always answer our calls for free legal advice.”
And then there’s some clapping and a lot of drinking and eventually everyone seems distracted again, so Harry can scoop his hair away from his face and look up. He doesn’t spend much time talking about what he does -- first because he was still in school when everyone had already graduated (nothing wrong with being younger than everyone, but people still get a bit snippy about being reminded that they’d hanging out with a student), then because he was articling, which was like a real job. Nick dicks around at the 88.1 Indie Toronto and gets his paycheque selling tickets at Lee’s Palace, Pixie’s done like three modeling campaigns for this hole in the wall on Queen Street, and Henry’s going to be a fashion designer but right now he works at Anthropology, and no one gives a shit that Harry spent sixty-five hours last week drafting a briefing for a developer who wanted to appeal the city of Burlington raising development charges.
“Nice one, rockstar,” Nick says, quietly, just for Harry and not the whole table. He sounds sincere for the first time.
“Thanks,” Harry says.
This is the third celebratory dinner he’s been to this week. First with his parents, who took him to Scaramouche where he had a roasted partridge breast with pan-seared foie gras, farro heirloom carrots, and braised belgian endives with a blood orange reduction; then out with his other friends from law school to Jack Astor’s for a buffalo chicken cobb salad; and now he’s at Black Bull with non-school friends eating deep fried perogies.
“Are you excited?” Nick asks.
“It’s the same, isn’t it. I’m not changing jobs or anything.” Harry articled at one of the big five on Bay Street and then they hired him on. It’s great, but it’s not exactly unexpected.
“Well, you’re not a little bitch boy anymore,” Nick says. “Now you’re a fancy man.”
“I’m a first year associate,” Harry says.
“It’s good,” Nick says, “why aren’t you excited?”
“I am,” Harry says, giving Nick a smile and then reaching across the table for the pitcher of Steamwhistle. He’s so used to brushing everything off as nothing that he can’t even tell now if he’s acting on habit or if he’s genuinely feeling nonchalant. He’s known he was going to be a lawyer for as long as he can remember; maybe it’s just hard to get excited about a forgone conclusion.
“Assholes,” Aimee says, cutting her gaze sideways to the table full of men in suits sitting one over from them.
The waitress looks pained and is laughing awkwardly, so even though Harry missed the joke, he can catch the gist of it.
“Why do that they do that, anyway?” Nick asks. “Come in here in their suits.”
“Probably came straight from work.” Pixie says, which is also what Harry was thinking, but he wasn’t about to say so out loud.
Nick rolls his eyes. “Bet not. They probably went home first to change. Douchebags.”
Harry plays with the edge of his phone, surprised when it actually lights up under his fingertips with a text from Niall, You coming out t night? Louis’s dancing on a table your missing out !
I’m with Nick, how long are you going to be there? Harry texts back.
It takes a long time before Niall texts again. Three more pitches of beer come to the table and leave empty, before Niall replies with:
They ad a keg but iy ran out do leaving anytomes.
You want to meet up with us ? Harry texts, because there’s nothing better than a drunk Niall on the hunt for more beer.
By the time Niall actually arrives, everyone else is about to clear out.
“Sorry that took so long,” “Niall says. “Didn’t actually get to leave right away.” He’s flushed, his hair pushed away from his face, baseball cap backwards on his head. He’s wearing white high tops, jeans, and his parka’s unzipped to show his grey hoodie underneath.
“It’s okay,” Harry says. “We’re heading to Disgraceland now. So let’s grab the Queen streetcar to the subway.”
“Or we take the bus up Spadina and then we’re not going in the complete opposite direction of where we want to be,” Niall says.
“No,” Harry groans. “Tracks are under construction so the streetcars aren’t running.”
“I don’t understand your refusal to take buses,” Niall says. “They’re not worse than streetcars.”
“I don’t trust them,” Harry says, “they don’t go on tracks. It’s all bumpy.”
“Have you ever seen twelve streetcars all piled all along the street because the one in front is stalled and then no one can get to work?”
“Yes, because I’ve been on St. Clair,” Harry says.
“So,” Niall says pointedly.
“We’re not trying to get to work,” Harry says.
Niall chortles delightedly, but still shakes his head.
“I don’t even feel like going anywhere else,” Harry says. “You want to just come back to mine?”
It’s maybe 50-50 that Niall will actually come back; he’d rather go somewhere than stay in, and even though he doesn’t know Nick’s friends as well as Harry does, he’s never had a problem tagging along with people he doesn’t know. Everyone Niall meets is just someone he hasn’t yet had the chance to make friends with.
“Yeah, alright,” Niall says.
They take a cab back to his condo because now that it’s just him and Niall, no one’s going to gawk about the cab fare. Niall’s happy enough to sit with Harry in the back of the car, trying drunkenly to text on his phone. He’s on his iPhone for most of the trip, but eventually pulls a Blackberry out of his pocket and fumbles with the unlock button long enough that Harry takes it away from him.
“What’s this?” Harry asks. “You know so many people that you can’t keep up using just one phone?”
“Work Blackberry,” Niall says. “Need to see if I’ve got any emails.”
“Maybe not tonight, drunkie,” Harry says, sliding the phone back into Niall’s pocket. He can’t imagine that anyone would have emailed Niall this late anyway; Niall does something related to marketing, Harry’s not exactly sure, but it doesn’t seem like the kind of job where there would ever be people needing to email Niall in the middle of the night.
Niall goes for it again, but they’re pulling in front of Harry’s building and he distracts Niall by pushing him out the side of the cab.
They take the elevator up to Harry’s condo and Niall makes himself at home, hopping up on the breakfast bar instead of sitting on one of the stools.
Harry opens his fridge and says, “I’ve got Waterloo Dark, Mill Street Organic, and Richards White.”
“Dark,” Niall says. “Thanks.”
Harry’s also got a dozen bottles of wine, Smirnoff for when Louis comes, Barardi for Nick, Crown Royal for his mom, Knob Creek for his dad. He’s got Bombay Sapphire and tonic in the fridge because that’s what the girls he brings back usually ask for.
He passes Niall his beer and then pours himself a glass of apple juice.
“Should we be drinking champagne?” Niall asks, and then lifts his beer to toast Harry with that instead. “Congrats, man. That’s really awesome.”
“Thanks,” Harry says, taking another sip of apple juice, and then leaving the glass on the counter to grab a beer out of the fridge instead.
The kitchen’s open to the rest of the condo, and Harry follows Niall into the main part of the room, sitting on the other side of the sectional.
“I remember what it was like when I started working,” Niall says. “It’s a bit fucked.”
Niall graduated and started working faster than any of them, but sometimes Harry forgets it because Niall’s more likely to talk about the last concert he’s been to than what he did during his work day.
“It’s good,” Harry says. “It’s just. I guess this is it now.”
“Yeah,” Niall says, shrugging. He’s pink-cheeked and started to get a bit squinty-eyed, like maybe all the alcohol has finally caught up with him. He still looks happy, sinking lower and lower on Harry’s black leather sectional until his back is almost flat along the seat. His legs are spread in front of him, loose jeans hanging off his open thighs. Harry almost never hangs out with Niall when it’s just the two of them -- Niall’s loud and excitable and always the center of the crowd, but somehow it still feels comfortable now. Like Niall’s actually let down his guard down enough to look tired in front of Harry; Harry’s never seen him look tired before.
“It’s a bit fucked,” Harry echoes. “But it’s good, it’s fine. I’m happy.” Harry’s probably also tired now, but his brain is nowhere near quiet enough to let him slide down in the sofa, and anyway his back is killing him after a week hunched in front of the computer and over a notebook in meetings and curled around his phone.
“Are you?” Niall asks.
Harry takes a long drag of beer, finishes what is left and then holding the empty bottle between his open palms. “I think I’m going to be.”
--
---
--
Three: Louis
“I can’t and I won’t,” Louis says, pulling what he can reach of his comforter over his head. The entire lower half of his body is uncovered from where Liam has yanked the blanket away.
“I have to be at work in twenty minutes,” Liam says.
“I don’t,” Louis says, trying to pull his blanket back.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Oh my god, Liam,” Louis says, sitting up in a huff. “Just send me a text later.”
“It’s important,” Liam says. He lets go of Louis’s blanket now that Louis is no longer actively trying to hide from him.
“Well,” Louis says, after a long minute where Liam doesn’t say anything, important or otherwise. “I already know how you look when you’re standing in stunned silence. You didn’t need to wake me up to demonstrate.”
“I’m moving in with Dani,” Liam finally says. “We’re, um. We’re moving in together.”
Louis blinks. Liam and Danielle broke up last summer, and even though they were back together by the fall, but Louis had kind of thought it was just a last stint before they broke up for real.
“But you live with me,” Louis says. He rubs his hand over his face. It wasn’t fair of Liam to spring this on him so early. “I mean -- that’s great. Congrats.”
“Thanks,” Liam says, his face lighting up. “I’m really excited. I kind of proposed? But she said that we should live together first, so that’s what we’re doing. It’s going to be great.”
“You proposed,” Louis echoes.
“Not properly,” Liam says. “I didn’t have a ring or anything. It was kind of just talking.”
“And then you asked her to marry you.”
“Yeah. But for now just living together.”
“Right,” Louis says. He’s been sharing a one bedroom with Liam for almost a year now. Liam’s got the front room, which is also sort of their living room, because there’s a couch on the other side of Liam’s bed. It works okay because Liam wakes up early.
Liam’s looking at Louis expectantly and Louis tries to remember if he’s supposed to ask for the security deposit back or something (except he’s pretty sure Liam paid that in the first place), until he realizes that Liam is waiting for his reaction.
“That’s awesome, bro,” Louis says. “Congrats.” He untangles himself from the blankets and scoots over to the side of the bed so that he can pull Liam in for a hug.
When they part, Liam’s grinning like an idiot.
“I’m really excited,” Liam says. “I didn’t know if she’d say yes.”
Doesn’t seem like she actually did say yes, Louis thinks unkindly, but makes sure to keep a smile on his face. It’s not -- it’s not Liam’s fault. Louis thought that he’d be the first one married and instead he’s perpetually single (which is really more wretched than inspirational posters led him to believe); he thought Liam was going to be his roommate... maybe not forever but for a lot longer than this.
“So when are you leaving?”
“I’m giving you two months notice,” Liam says. “Like how you’re supposed to. I’ll still pay rent until April. But, I mean, I’m probably going to start moving my stuff over there pretty soon. I mean, just gradually. You’ll hardly notice I’m gone.”
Louis hardly notices when Liam’s around these days, which is less and less common lately.
He’s been friends since back when he was going to York University and Liam was still trying to make it as a singer by playing all these little gigs in coffee shops. Liam’s the most ambitious person that Louis knows, but he was crap at school and never found a band he wanted to join and doesn’t really write his own songs, and there are only so many places that will book a guy with a great voice and no original material. Liam works at this auto parts factory down past Lakeshore during the day and usually gets at least one gig a week signing covers at corporate parties or wherever.
Louis thought he was going to be an actor before he realized that even being a drama teacher was pushing it. When he and Liam first moved in together, Louis had this idea of them being a team, like they’d both go to auditions and drink when they didn’t get the gig and then Louis would come watch Liam sing and Liam would be in the crowd watching Louis on opening night. And Louis has gone to see Liam when he’s been booked, but there’s literally no point to an actor who doesn't audition, and Louis can’t even remember the last time he went to a casting call. Liam leaving is screwing up Louis’s plan right now, but every other part along the way has been screwed up by Louis.
Liam leaves for work and Louis drags himself out of bed, his body feeling tired, verging on hungover if he gives any attention to the dry rasp of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He’s cranky and it’s not even eight in the morning, which is an absolutely ridiculous time to be awake. Liam is the worst roommate ever; Louis will be glad to see him gone.
--
Louis’s too old to make new friends, but he’s got Zayn added on Facebook, and Zayn actually comes online, and then they’re just talking about whether or not it is a complete bastardization of canon to have Batman settle down with Catwoman when Zayn has to go because he’s done work but Louis doesn’t have any groceries so it makes sense to meet up for dinner.
“It seems like we’re stress drinking,” Zayn says after Louis says yes without checking with Zayn first when the waitress asks if they want another pitcher.
“We are,” Louis says. “You’re observant and you should never do anything to hurt your eyeballs.”
“Definitely wasn’t planning on it,” Zayn says.
“I’m basically being evicted,” Louis says, sighing loudly and using the edge of his thumbnail to pick at the edge of the cardboard coaster under his beer which has gone soft from the condensation.
“Really?” Zayn asks.
“My roommate is moving out,” Louis says.
“So, that’s not quite the same thing as being evicted,” Zayn says and then gives Louis a deliberately cheesy grin and a thumbs up.
Louis scoffs. “It’s the intent of... the effect of something. My lawyer friend would know. I’ve got a lawyer friend,” Louis says. “And my roommate is moving out because he’s going to marry his girlfriend. I’m old, everyone around me is old, the entire world is moving on without me.”
Louis says it darkly, ridiculously, and hopes that Zayn knows he’s meant to take it as a joke even though it’s basically the truth.
“You can’t be older than me,” Zayn says.
“I just turned twenty-six,” Louis says, pulling heavy weight on every syllable. “Actually, that was like two months ago now. It’s not even just! I’m fully twenty-six.”
“You were born in December?”
“The day before Christmas,” Louis says. “Everything in my life is the worst, and has been since day one. My mom even held me back a year, but it didn’t help.”
“Oh yeah?”
“It was either be the very oldest or the very youngest, so I was the oldest, which was great for that one beautiful year that I was actually taller than everyone and has been completely useless ever since.”
“You could drink in first year,” Zayn points out.
Outside, it’s starting to snow -- heavy flurries whipped around by the wind so the whole sky has gone hazy with it, a white fog settling in as well. It’s still early in February and it’s been steadily cold for ages now, so Louis thinks it’s probably going to stick. He takes a long drink from his pint glass.
“And now I’m 26, which is closer to 30 than to 20. I’m closer to being middle aged than I am to being a teenager.”
“Don’t think anyone counts 30 as middle aged anymore,” Zayn says. “And I turned 25 like two weeks after you, but I think we’re probably both going to be alright.”
“Twenty-six,” Louis moans. “Why are people getting married?”
“You don’t want to get married?” Zayn asks.
“Of course I want to get married,” Louis says. “I want to get married and have at least half a dozen babies. I just don’t want everyone else to get married. I don’t think I’m going to do very well living on my own.”
“Can you afford to keep the place yourself?” Zayn asks.
Technically, the answer is yes. When Liam and Louis first started living together, Louis was mostly only working day shifts, where tips were crap. He’s on full time now, and he always gets at least one of the Friday or Saturday night shifts, and has only dropped the tray full of glasses like twice in the entire past year, so he’s basically a god at work now. He’d have to cut back on his student loan repayments a bit, but there was no way he was paying those off before he turns thirty anyway. He’s also never going to be able to finish paying off his credit card bill, and at least 60% of his income would be going toward rent, but that’s... “afford” is a complicated term.
“I don’t know,” Louis says. “I am not a banker.”
“What?” Zayn gasps. “I had no idea.”
Louis laughs and swats at Zayn’s hand, resting on the other side of the table. It’s easy to be with Zayn, easier than it should be given that they hardly know each other. Maybe that’s what Louis needs right now -- a new friend who’s only ever seen him drunk.
“Are you still hungry?” Zayn asks. “Do you want to share sweet potato fries?”
“Yeah,” Louis says. He pours what is left in the pitcher into Zayn’s glass and says, “And we can get another one of these.”
--
---
--
Four: Harry
It’s been a long week, and half of Harry wishes that he’d just gone home, but when the office was starting to clear out at eight and everyone was talking about where to go for dinner, Harry came along.
They’re at the Spring Roll in the Atrium on Bay, with more chairs than can comfortable fit around the two tables, pushed together. Harry’s stuck between Simon, who’s one of the junior partners and someone that Harry probably does need to suck up to, and Brock, who’s only a second year associate but has the office right beside Harry’s.
He keeps trying to talk to Rita, sitting across from him, but there’s a giant vase filled with water and a couple floating orchids getting in the way.
“Nice,” Simon says, meanly.
Harry turns his head, following Simon’s gaze out the window. He sees purple pants and for a moment he thinks it’s Nick, he thinks it’s Nick walking past the restaurant while Harry’s sitting here at this table full of men in suits and they’re talking shit about how he’s dressed, but it’s not Nick. It’s another tall guy in tight maroon pants and enough swagger to make them work for him.
“I just hate it when they’re so obvious about it,” Simon says, turning away.
“Fags know how to dress,” Brock says. “That’s the worst part -- women are into it.”
“Is that true then?” Simon says to Rita.
“No, I wouldn’t say women are usually into sleeping with gay men,” Rita says, with a sharp smile. She’s too beautiful not to know how to hold her own, all blonde hair and dark skin and bright red lipstick.
Brock snorts, and passes a derisive look over Harry’s head to Simon, and Harry keeps his head ducked down, staring at his plate and pretending that not saying anything is the same as not being part of the conversation.
It gets easier after that. The vodka tonics make it easier, and everyone else loosens up. Simon even puts his Blackberry in his pocket instead leaving it beside his glass where he can attend to it constantly, and when the cheque comes, he puts his credit card down for the whole table.
They all head out together afterward, and that was Harry’s chance to slide away, but he’s not tired anymore, and his dad always said that no one should ever go home before his boss does. It’s brutally icy outside because it warmed only long enough for the majority of the snow to melt and then freeze again; the sidewalks are black with ice, and Harry watches his feet as he walks. Yonge Street is bright from the lights and the billboards; even in the night it’s bright, only the sidewalks are dark.
They go to the Pravda Vodka Bar, wait in line at the door, wait in line for coat check, wait in line at the bar.
It’s crowded inside and they walk upstairs but it’s not any better up there.
“God, look at the rack on that one,” Brock says, speaking too loudly for how close he is to Harry’s ear, like he can only halfway follow through on his original plan to whisper.
Harry nods, looking across the club. There are any number of women with noteworthy racks, but eventually he follows Brock’s gaze to the blonde in this halter-strappy thing.
Simon seems to have cued in to the conversation and gives a low whistle.
“Nice,” he says, and then both Brock and Simon are looking at him expectantly.
“Sure,” Harry says. “Nice.”
“Okay, rookie. It’s time for boys to become men,” Simon says. “Go pick her up.”
“Seriously?” Harry asks, sounding more annoyed than he means to, given that Simon is his boss.
“Seriously,” Simon says. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Harry gives him a long look, takes in the smug grin that Simon is just managing to hold back, the one that’s already plastered across Brock’s face. Harry knows how this goes, knows they’re just trying to give him a hard time to make a point. He’s not one to fight to be top dog; he’s young and he looks it. He’s still awkward and soft around the edges, and the main way he knows how to be friends with men is to be accommodating -- the main way he knows how to be friends with anyone is to be accommodating, and it’d be easy to let them turn him into the butt of a joke, but there’s something prickly inside of him tonight.
“Alright,” Harry says. They both look surprised, and just like that Harry’s set. He spent his second year at Western learning how to pick up girls in clubs. It was kind of stupid, but there was this group of them that went out all the time, and it seemed like. Whatever. Like a bit of a challenge, and Harry likes getting good at things that are difficult.
He knocks back the rest of his drink and hands the empty glass to Brock just to be an ass about it, then walks up beside the blonde, who’s waiting in the crowd at the bar.
“Well, that’s not going well,” he comments, keeping his voice soft, just enough volume to be heard over the music. When she turns her head to look at him, he tilts his chin toward the bar, where a red faced guy who’s popped the collar of his button-up is gesturing angrily. The bartender looks a little nervous, but mostly angry.
“Probably cutting him off,” the woman says.
“I hate it when people turn into douchebags when they’re drunk,” Harry says.
“How do you know he’s not always a douchebag?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” Harry says, “maybe I like thinking the best of people.”
“Really?” she asks.
“No,” Harry says after a beat, laughing. He times it right, and she giggles a little as well. “He’s probably definitely a douchebag all of the time.”
“Signs point to yes,” the woman says.
“Can I buy you a drink?” Harry asks. “If they ever start serving again. What are you drinking?”
“Gin and Tonic,” she says.
“I’m Harry,” he says, reaching out to shake her hand, but in this kind of ironic way, where he makes it clear that he knows he’s being a dork.
“Lindsay,” she says, letting Harry hold her hand for one long second.
The wait is long enough that by the time they’ve made their way to the bar, he’s learned that she’s just started a new job as a receptionist at the main CTV office but that she wants to be in front of the camera one day. He can’t tell if she knows how much older than him she is, if that’s part of it for her.
He buys her a drink, then another one. From the other side of the bar, he can see Simon and Brock watching him. Broke looks a little impressed and a little disgruntled and when Harry makes eye contact, Simon lifts his hands to clap slowly, showily, his arms lifted above his head.
Harry clenches his jaw, and looks over to make sure Lindsay hasn’t noticed, but if she has she doesn’t react.
That’s Harry’s cue: he’s good to go back to the group now, he’s made his point, but fuck that.
“My condo’s close,” Harry says, touching his fingers to Lindsay’s hip under the pretext of leaning in close to be heard over the music. “You want to have another drink back at mine?”
“Okay,” she says, after a pause that’s just long enough to make it look like she’s thinking it over.
“Okay?” Harry repeats, angling his body towards hers so that she looks him in the eye, and then grinning.
“Okay,” she says again, but she’s smiling too this time.
He slings his arm around her shoulders and follows half a step behind as she walks towards the door, doesn’t look back to say goodbye to anyone from work.
It’s close enough that they could walk if they really wanted to, but Harry hails a cab, holds the door open for her, gives his address. He can feel his phone vibrating in his pocket but he doesn’t pull it out to check the message.
The concierge opens the door for them when Harry waves at the front door, and Lindsay says, “So what do you do?”
“I’m a lawyer,” Harry says, hoping it doesn’t sound as awkward as it feels in his mouth. This is something that he gets to say now.
It’s a long wait for the elevator, and the lobby of the building is too brightly lit. Harry rubs at his forehead, and tries to ignore how exhausted he suddenly feels. It’s been a long week.
When they’re finally inside his condo, he locks the door behind them, throws his keys onto the little side table and asks, “Should I open some wine?”
“Sounds good,” Lindsay says, touching her fingers to the wall as she works open the strap on her shoe.
Harry walks to the counter and pulls the top bottle off the built in wine rack.
“Can I see your balcony?” Lindsay asks.
“Yeah, come on,” Harry says. He pulls open the door and grits his teeth against the sudden gust of wind. It’s not that cold, but it’s strong, and he has to give a yank before the door slides the rest of the way open.
“God,” Lindsay says, stepping outside. “What a view.”
He’s too far north to see the lake, but there’s a clear view of the CN Tower, all of the other skyscrapers in between, the glowing squares of countless windows, flashes of neon and tiny pricks of light from cars floating around at ground level.
Lindsay’s hair is whipping around and she tries to tuck it behind her ears, her cheeks gone pink, face just visible in the soft blue darkness. Harry keeps the door open behind them, the heat from inside provides just enough of a backbone against the fierce wind slamming between all of the skyscrapers.
Harry wraps his hand around the rail of the balcony, locks his knees against the sudden wave of vertigo. He feels like he’s posing for someone to take a picture of his life. In this moment, he’s finally slotted into place, exactly where he’s meant to be: the condo and his job and the beautiful woman to bring home at night, looking out over the city. Like from this great height he can see enough of the world to understand how all of the pieces are supposed to fit together. This is what he’s been working for, this is what everyone wants for him, this is what he should want for himself.
The way Lindsay is staring at him makes him think he looks exactly how he’s supposed to, his slacks and blazer and v-necked t-shirt. Like he’s young and competent and happy, and he waits for the moment when all the pieces clicking into place starts to feel good, waits to feel anything other than numb, alone on the edge like he’s about to fall off into the sea of lights.
He forces himself to let go of the railing, to reach for Lindsay instead. His hands feel entirely removed from his body, but her skin is warm when he touches her.
She smiles and he says, “Let’s go back inside.”
--
---
--
Part Two