Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

They're all shoved in the back of a black car, the locks shutting them in, shouts, "step on it," screams from the girls who've made it outside already, hands banging on the doors and windows, a curse from the driver. Someone in the car is crying. Blood dries on Michael's hands.

"Is anyone else hurt?" Ashton asks, trying to grab Michael by the shoulders as the guitarist keeps ramming his shoulder into the door, as if he means to open it while in motion.

"Calum," Luke says, and it's obvious from the word that he's the one in tears.

"Other than Calum," Ashton says, almost impatiently. "Are the fans okay?" He sounds more Australian when he's upset. He has so many questions and only a few of them can come out at once.

"Calum was the only person shot," Zoe says. She sits upfront with the driver, on his phone, trying to secure a back entrance at the hospital, interrupting her own call to get on the phone with police, texting simultaneously. It's been ten minutes since the first shot fired and they're already on the highway, the driver turning sharply back onto a city street. "Some people stampeded. Bumps and bruises."

"He was aiming for Calum," Michael wrenches his body from Ashton, craning his neck, wondering if the ambulance is in front of or behind them. He'd wanted to get in with Calum but the tides of people had swept them apart and he hates the thought of his band mate scared and alone. "Did you see? He was aiming right for him."

"Did someone call his parents?" Ashton checks his watch automatically and tries to do some mental math. Some time in the morning in Australia. He pats his pockets before remembering his phone had been confiscated before the show.

Zoe, watching him, doles their phones out. "No posting anything until we know," she warns, lowering her gaze at Luke.

"Until we know what?" Luke asks.

Michael's voice was harsh. "Until we know if he's still alive." He nudges Ashton's elbow with his. "I'll call Mali. She's in New York. You good to call his mum?"

"Yeah," Ashton says. It's been twelve minutes since the first shot was fired.

Michael's trying to work his phone but his hands are still slick with barely-dried blood and the iPhone won't recognize his touch as human.

"Mum?" Luke says, and the whole car suddenly goes quiet. Luke fumbles, puts the speaker on. "Mum, something happened."

"Are you alright?" Liz's voice is sharp. "Luke? I saw - on Twitter - is everyone all right?"

Luke has his face buried in his other hand so Michael speaks for him. "No," Michael says, trying to draw in a breath. "Something's happened."

He barely hears Liz's next words. Oh God. Said in a tone that implies that she hasn't been waiting to see if something would happen but when, that Liz was an old fashioned woman who knew that nothing, not fame or worldwide tours, came free, and she's been waiting on the sidelines for the other shoe to drop. She feels, in that moment, a perverse wave of relief that her Luke was okay, that he had called her and his voice was quavery but strong. And then the relief is replaced by a slam of shame and fear so sharp that she actually sits down, like girls do in books, because all of the sudden she can't hold in her head a recent picture of Calum, can only see the boy he had been, shy under a mop of dark hair, young and bursting with potential.

"You boys take care of each other," she orders. "I'll call Joy."

"I should," Ashton begins to say.

"It should come from a mother," Liz says. She knows this like she knows her own name. Only mothers understand what it is like to fear your child's safety, a constant knot of fear, persistent as a toothache. "Call when - when you know."

.

They're told they can't see him. That he's already being prepped for surgery. They're told to take a seat. Michael is pulled from the knot of boys by a middle-aged black nurse and led to a sink. "Wash," she tells him. "Warm water. Scrub hard. I'll get you a towel." She rummages. Comes up with a worn but clean real towel, terry, who knows where these things come from in a big hospital like this. "Is that boy in there your boyfriend, honey?"

"We're in a band," Michael says, thickly. The blood's not really coming off. "He's not my boyfriend," he says, even though that's not quite true, but now in the hospital is not the time to think about recent developments. "He's like my brother."

"Oh honey," the woman says, and it's the way she says it, like she sees this every night. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"Australia," he says.

"Where your parents at?"

"Australia," Michael says again. "We've got - we're on tour. There's a big tour. We've got people."

The woman holds out the towel, and Michael turns off the tap, and she's rubbing his hands dry, like mothers do for their sons, and everything about the moment feels strangely intimate and every nerve Michael has is on edge and his brain won't stop screaming Calum Calum Calum and his hands are still red, and there's still blood under his fingernails from where he cradled Calum's body before they tore them apart.

"Well honey," the nurse says, "if you've got a god I'd start praying. You might be here a while."

.

Ashton is handed a stack of paperwork that he can't make heads or tails of, so he just fills in Calum's name and some emergency contact stuff. "History of diabetes?" he shakes his head. He just doesn't know. Mali is supposed to be here in five hours. Caught a red-eye out of New York. It is nearing midnight. It has been an hour since the shooting. "Well," he says, "at least we know he's never been pregnant." He skips that page.

Their crew is huddled in groups around the room, casting glances at the boys, no one quite brave enough to come over and talk to them. Michael tends to throw off Don't Fuck With Me vibes even when his arms aren't painted in blood. Michael leans over Ashton's shoulder. "Fuck," Mikey says. "I don't know. I think he said he's got a history of mental illness. Depression. Schizophrenia. Something."

Ashton ticks the box. "Helpful, for bullet wounds."

"I've been thinking," Luke says out of nowhere. Luke hasn't really spoken since the venue. He clicks his phone on and off, the news stories flashing. "Like, do you think it's a race thing?"

Ashton's been thinking the same thing but didn't want to say it first. "I don't know," he says. "Like, why? There's no Kiwis in the U.S."

"I just can't think of another reason," Luke says.

"Maybe there is no other reason." Ashton scans the list of possible medical conditions again. Blinks rapidly. "Maybe it just happened."

"He was aiming for him, though," Michael says for about the hundredth time. "There's even a video."

He holds up his phone and Ashton smacks it away. "I don't need to see a video. I was there."

Two sets of eyes on him. "Ash," Michael begins, and that's how Ashton knows he's starting to scare them, and he's never wanted to scare anyone.

"I think it's a race thing," Luke says, like if he says it firmly enough it will be true. "The U.S. is crazy. All white supremacy shit. Remember what happened to Zayn? Every time we were here. All those signs outside the hotel rooms."

"Islamophobia is one thing," Ashton says, trying to get his voice more neutral-sounding. "Who in the U.S. can have any reason for hating Kiwis?"

Luke shrugs, eyes trained on a point far away. "I keep thinking about Zayn's face, do you remember? When he heard what they were saying?"

"I don't remember," Michael says. He's rubbing his hands, trying to flake the blood off. "I don't remember anything."

Ashton puts pen to paper again. Calum T Hood, he writes at the top of each sheet. Calum has been in surgery for almost thirty minutes.

.

A doctor comes out at the three hour mark. It will be a while, he says. He lists a lot of things that are wrong and only a few stick in Luke's mind. Punctured lung, two broken ribs, damaged aorta. His heart stopped, the doctor says. His heart stopped twice. It will be eight or nine more hours. You may want to go someplace comfortable.

A few of the crew stretch and leave, mumbling apologies. "It's fine," Luke says. What a strange dynamic, he thinks sometimes, that he's barely twenty-one and these roadies in their thirties are taking orders from, well, him. "Go get some sleep." He raises his voice. He's the frontman, sometimes, and sometimes even Michael looks at him to call the shots. "If anyone wants to sleep - on the buses, in a hotel, I don't care - we'll text, with updates." He clears his throat. "Thanks for staying this long."

Someone makes coffee. Zoe comes over and they know what she's going to say. "We're not leaving," Luke says, mulishly.

"You're not helping him here. Even when he gets out of surgery there's post-op, and he'll be exhausted. You won't see him for hours." Zoe's voice turns pleading. "You need your rest, boys, you'll make yourself sick."

"We're not leaving," Michael says. Don't Fuck With Us, his tone says. Zoe comes back with pillows. They abandon the chairs for the floor and stretch out and out and out. People have been texting all night, and all three of their phones vibrate. The lights in the waiting room are like day, all the time. Their little entourage has been cornered off somehow but there is still the sounds of a hospital, the intercom, the phones ringing, laughter from the nurses.

In spite of all of it, Luke curls into Michael's side and breathes in deep and sleeps.

.

When Luke wakes up its to the murmuring of voices. He blinks. "Hiya, Lukey," Niall rubs his eyes. "Caught a flight outta LA. Don't tell anyone I'm here, you've already got a vigil outside."

"A vigil?"

"About five thousand girls. Candles. Pictures. Looks like he's already fucking dead."

"Is he?" Luke asks. He'd dreamed, and in his dream Calum had been dead for a long, long time.

"No," Ashton says. Ashton is sitting back on a chair, drinking something steaming, his eyes red rimmed. "Calum's a fighter. It'll be a while yet."

Michael's arms are pulling Luke close again and Luke suspects he'd only slept a few hours the first time. The floor is cold but Michael is warm and he closes his eyes and lets himself be lost in the soothing cadence of Niall and Ashton's murmured conversation.

.

At five-thirty the police come in with all the information they have. All the boys are awake. Niall had charmed a nurse into grabbing them Starbucks as soon as one opened and they all chugged real cappuccinos as if it was their last night on earth. The police say, this is going to be released to the press in a couple hours. They say, we thought you should know what we know.

The shooter was a man named George Liebowitz. Third army trooper. Two tours in Desert Storm. A fifty-three year old dad. Honorably discharged. Worked at the airport with a dog that sniffed out bombs, sometimes, and drugs, and fruit.

Liebowitz had been arrested several times in the past ten years, the most recent and serious: assault and battery. Liebowitz had pleaded PTSD. His target had been an eighteen-year-old black male who had run from the dog that had sniffed out an apple in his pocket.

Michael keeps playing with his Starbucks lid, pulling it off and pushing it back on again. "What does this have to do with Calum?"

Liebowitz had three daughters. Oldest is twenty, youngest is thirteen. They had all been at the concert. Liebowitz drove them, told them he was going to grab dinner and would pick them up when it was over, then he climbed a fence and let the crowd swallow him. He had two rifles under his coat. It was a cool enough day that no one questioned a trench coat. The first really cold day of fall.

Luke shakes his head, not really keeping up. "Sure," he says, "But why Calum?"

The police woman sighs. "The only person who knows for sure is Liebowitz, and he's dead."

"There isn't always a motive," the police man says. He looks really young. "I know on TV there always is but in real life it's a lot more complicated. Sometimes people just kill other people." He stifles a yawn.

"Calum isn't dead," Luke says.

"They're going to say it's race," the police woman says. "The media. Your - friend - Calum - he's Asian?"

Michael closes his eyes. He feels tired even though he slept basically all night, his head buried in Luke's neck. "No," he says, and is about to explain it when Ashton puts a hand on his shoulder. "Sure," Ashton says. "Does it matter?"

"They're going to say it's race," the police woman says again. "And with the priors we're going to explore that direction for a little while."

"So what's the plan from here?" Niall's been standing there the whole time, arms crossed over his chest, keeping an eye on the Australians as the news sinks in. "I mean this guy's already dead. So in terms of legal action..."

"Our job is to make sure this is really a lone wolf. You might pursue a civil suit," the police woman says. "But you'd have to talk to a lawyer about that." She squints at Niall for the first time. "Do I know you?"

"I'm Nick," Niall says, and he suddenly sounds old. "From Backstreet Boys."

.

The surgery is still going on when Mali arrives at eight forty-five. Her boots clack on the tile floor. She crosses the room, draws an arm back, and slaps Michael across the face, swinging from her shoulder. Michael, who had been rising to greet her, is thrown to the side, nearly to the ground, blood blossoming from a ring on Mali's hand.

"Hey hey hey," Ashton puts his body between the girl and boy. "What the fuck, Mal?"

The sister is shaking, hands balled into fists. "You promised, Michael Clifford."

"I know," Mikey wipes the blood form his face. He shrugs off Luke, who is trying to steady him. "I know." He spreads his arms wide. His cheek's really bleeding. "You want to hit me again? It'll make us both feel better. Come on. Hit me."

"I wish it was you in there," Mali says, malice in every syllable.

Michael blinks and there's a flicker of emotion across his face, sadness, regret. "I saw the gun," they 're surrounded by whatever crew stuck out the night and a few that came back after power naps, everyone watching Mali-Koa with wary eyes. "I saw it at the last second. I wasn't fast enough. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I wasn't fast enough."

Mali stares at him and for a second Ashton thinks she's going to relent, pull the boy in her arms. Michael's the only one without siblings and so all their siblings have adopted him. Lauren hangs off Michael's every word. But Mali stays away. "You told me you'd keep him safe. You crossed your heart. You know how many times I defended this band to our mum? Defended Cal? Because I thought you were going to take of him."

"Mal," Ashton begins.

She holds up a hand. "If he dies," her voice hitches. She stares at Michael. "If he dies, I'll never forgive you." Her eyes exactly like two pieces of steel.

Michael meets the gaze head on. "If he dies," he says, seriously, "I'll never forgive me, either."

.

Eleven hours into the surgery Luke's sure he's going crazy. He wishes, desperately, for his mother, but feels like saying that out loud will just make him sound even younger than he is, and Michael will tease him. But his mother was on tour with them for so long, and had taken care of them all so often, that Luke hadn't even realized how hard it is to take care of himself.

Friends keep texting them. Niall's taken over replying, keeping their phones and passwords straight somehow, thumbs moving seemingly disconnected from his mouth. He keeps up a steady patter of bracing positivity mixed with curses. It's full day outside and the girls are moved a hundred yards away from the hospital. They were disturbing the patients.

Someone comes by with oatmeal and granola bars and fruit and, later, hoagies and wraps and chips and Luke doesn't eat unless it's put into his hand and so Ashton's been feeding him. "Eat this," Ashon will say, nudging a turkey sub into Luke's hand, and Luke will eat. Drink this, a bottle of water. Eat this, an apple. Mikey's over at the nurse's station every few minutes, looking for updates. They haven't gotten one for hours, not since a doctor staggered out, haggard looking. Heart stopped again, he said. He's a trooper. Anyone want to give us some blood?

Ashton and Niall were a match but Niall's been feeling claustrophobic even in the big waiting room so it's Ashton who goes back, and, since they're there, Mikey and Luke do, too. Even if they're not a match for Calum, they says, they should do something.

Now Mikey is motioning to them and they flock over to the nurse's station, Luke and Ashton. "He's stabilized," a young nurse says. She smiles at them. "He's not - with surgery there's no such thing as out of the woods. But because he's so young and healthy we can pretty much say that -"

"He's not dying," Michael says with something like wonder in his voice.

"Well," the nurse says, smiling timidly. "Not today. And hopefully not for a long, long time."

Because they're in a teaching hospital there's a viewing booth, like when you go to a sports game. They're allowed to go in only if they don't distract the doctors and only for a few minutes and then, boys, please get some sleep. Niall and Zoe tag along. Michael is wringing his hands. He has mostly gotten the blood off except for right below the fingernails.

They sit. Calum is small. He is hooked up to tubes and wires and monitors and surrounded by people and machines and tools. He is naked. His chest is sliced and pried open. Luke didn't think he was squeamish but he takes one look and vomits immediately into a trashcan by Ashton's foot. This is the best modern medicine can do. He thinks, irrationally, about how for a long, long time Calum wouldn't take off his shirt around them, and they were all young and had various levels of body acceptance and gradually they'd all turned into exhibitionists and Luke thinks, now, about the long, long scar Calum will carry for the rest of his life.

"What's that music?" Michael asks. There's a couple of interns in the room, watching.

"Surgery takes forever," one of them says. "So there's always music. Usually Doctor Wertzer likes classic rock. He's been listening to this shit all night."

Luke listens. This shit is them. It's Sounds Good Feels Good. It's "Castaway," now. And Luke feels a surge of affection for whoever it was in that operating room who'd thought about slipping that CD in and playing it over and over and over again. Like a prayer.

.

Calum's out of surgery but somehow that doesn't make Ashton feel better. Like, at all.

The lead surgeon comes out to talk to them. He's an older man with tired eyes and big, knobbly hands that he rests on his legs. He's been on his feet for nearly fifteen hours. "You're smart kids, you know this was serious. He crashed once on my table and twice in the ambulance. No, I don't think you should tell him that. You're friends? Good. Reassure him. Be familiar faces. He's going to be here for a while."

The biggest problem, the surgeon says, will be breathing. That because Calum's lung collapsed it will be impaired. Forever. That they will have to take out the tube that was currently breathing for him, and once that tube is out Calum will either breathe normally or he won't. Also they had broken open his rib cage to repair the bullet wound near his heart, so every movement for a month was going to hurt like a bitch. Laughing, crying, panting. He'll need therapy.

"But," the doctor says to their stunned, tear-stained faces. "He's alive."

The surgeon stands, stretches, his joints popping. "I'mma take your CD home with me, boys. I like to remember nights like these. Even if it doesn't feel like it now, what you've experienced today is a miracle."

He turns to leave and Luke touches the white, white lab coat. "Can we see him?"

"Sure," the doctor said. "Splash some water on your faces. He'll be waking up soon."

.

They file into the room behind Mali. She's standing by a window, sunlight behind her. There's girls outside, thousands of girls. Ashton twitches the curtains closed. They stare at Calum.

He is bare from the waist up and there are monitors everywhere, over his heart and on his throat and tubes connected to his belly and to his arms and to his nose and Ashton, out of the corner of his eye, sees Luke double over again and Ashton pulls him close.

Michael, after a nervous glance at Mali, leans forward and carefully kisses Calum's hair.

That should be it. All the stories promise that a kiss wakes the sleeping princess. But Calum's monitor beeps steadily and he sleeps on.

"It's exhausting, fighting for your life," a nurse says. "We can call you when he wakes up."

"No," Michael says. "No, we'll stay."

They all sit, Luke and Ashton on the bed across the room, Mali curled in a chair in the corner, Niall on Calum's right, peeking out the window, juggling five or six phones. He's updating Twitter for the first time. He has a picture of Michael kissing Calum's head, a picture of the tears slipping down Michael's cheeks, of the heart monitor in the background. He posts it to the 5sos Instagram and links it to Twitter and retweets it from his own account and from Calum's. He captions it, Thank you for your thoughts. He's waking up!

Then Niall leans his head against the wall and lifts the curtain a little and starts trying to memorize the faces of the girls in the crowd.

.

Ashton's finally asleep. He'd joined Michael and Luke on the bed and somehow they all squeeze to fit. Even though they promised each other to stay awake, to wait for Calum, all three, one after the other, falls to sleep, a sleep like the darkness at the bottom of a great lake, a sleep like space, quiet except for the hum of the universe.

Luke wakes up, planning on taking a piss, and he wanders over to check on Calum. Mali and Niall are keeping eye on him but Luke needs to know. Which is why he's the first member of the band to see Calum's eyes open.

It's a terrible sight. Calum wakes to pain, that much is obvious from the agony etched into his features. He wakes to fear. The monitor jumps with his heart rate. Niall goes to grab his hand but Luke gets there first. "Hey, Cal, hey," Luke doesn't know what he's doing. "Hey you're okay. You're okay. You just came out of surgery but you're going to be fine. Hey, Cal, you're going to be fine."

Cal's mouth moves. Mali lifts his oxygen mask, like the nurse said she could, and slips an ice cube into his mouth. Calum takes a deep breath and winces. His mouth moves again. His voice a croak, a whisper: "Are you okay?"

It's all too much. Luke staggers into the background as Mikey and Ashton swarm awake. Luke's crying again. He hates that he keeps crying, but now he's shaking too, like a leaf, like a child. Someone grips his shoulders. "Let it out, Lukey. Let's just go into the hallway. There's a lad. Let it out."

He cries into Niall's arms and Niall holds him, like a mother holding a babe, crushing Luke to his chest as Luke sobs and sobs. He's sure, at that moment, that he will think of this minute in ten years, twenty, a hundred. He knows with absolute certainty that when he looks back on this awful day this will be the picture he will hold in his head. Calum asking are you okay? as if he hadn't just died. Niall smelling of the antiseptic of the hospital and the spices of his shampoo and home. This feeling in his chest that Luke realizes, all at once, is relief.

.

Calum sleeps and wakes and sleeps again. They tell him the story, like they're writing their own history. They say, you were shot at the concert. They say, no, we're all fine. They say, sleep Cal. You did good. You're okay. Surgery went great. Here's the doc. Here's a nurse. Hey, don't be embarrassed. It's fine. It's all fine. Hey, try not to cry. Hey, Cal, we didn't mean it like that, it's just it'll hurt those ribs of yours. They say, go to sleep. They say, of course we're staying.

They don't tell him that his heart stopped three times. They don't tell him that the shooter was also dead. They don't tell him about the increasingly wild conspiracy theories on Twitter.

They keep people out of the room. Their crew is joined by so many others. Friends. Singers and songwriters and producers and people who were just nearby and those who weren't but made the flight anyway. Niall keeps them all updated, keeps up a stream of medical information, brings out nurses who could explain better, implores their friends to be quiet. The lobby steadily fills with flowers, and Niall arranges for them to be sent to every room in the hospital. When Harry arrives he sends Niall to sleep and takes over. He doesn't say much but Ashton can feel Harry's eyes following him and knows all at once that One Direction feels responsible for them.

The vigil outside breaks up. Flowers and cards and sweets and homemade bracelets are left behind in the thousands. Harry sends them over to the children's hospital.

A police officer comes by again. This is forty hours after the shooting. Ashton is shaken awake. He's on the bed next to Calum's. He fell asleep with one arm around Luke and one arm outstretched towards Calum.

The officer talks to Ashton in the hallway. "Are you the drummer?" The officer is fifty-ish, balding but stern and solid-looking.

"Yeah."

"Your drums have been taken as evidence. There was a bullet found inside the bass. We think it was a miss fire, but we're looking into it anyway."

Ashton blinks. "A bullet inside the drum?"

"Damndest thing." The officer flips his pad closed. "Musta been stopped by the metal or something. Would've blown out your knee, son."

Ashton doesn't know how to respond so he just says, "huh."

"Good to see the kid's out of the woods." The officer jerks his chin back towards Calum's room. "You take care now, you hear?"

"Yeah." Ashton is still trying to process a bullet to the drum. "Thanks."

.

They sell more music in the time that Calum is in the hospital than they have since the week the album was released.

Luke posts a picture of Cal propped on his side, the tubes coming out of his front and back, Calum with his tongue poking out of his mouth as he reads a card someone sent him.

Ashton posts a picture of the vases and teddy bears in the lobby before they're taken over to the children's hospital. He captions it, simply, thank you.

They cancel the rest of the tour.

Another night approaches and Calum begs them all to go get some sleep. He says, "you look like shit," in that whisper-thin voice he has now. He pushes Mikey away with his fingertips, weak as a kitten.

They go. Mali and Niall and Harry stay.

Luke gets a text from his mother: Just landed.

Ashton gets a text from Harry: Come back to the hospital.

.

As soon as Luke sees his mother he runs across the room and buries himself in her chest, and he's about three feet too tall for that to actually work but he tries, making himself smaller in her arms, or perhaps she's larger, somehow, made larger by the demands of motherhood. "His lung collapsed," Luke says. "He's in surgery again."

He notices Joy hovering behind his mother. Luke doesn't know what to do. He barely knows what to do with his own emotions and he's just Calum's friend, and he's empathetic enough to realize the magnitude of a child. He swallows. Looks at Joy. Gently, so gently, wraps her in a hug. She's a tiny woman and not the most hands-on affectionate of mothers - Luke doesn't think he'd ever hugged her before in his life. But she accepts the hug now. "I'm sorry," he says, over and over, "I'm sorry this happened. I'm sorry we couldn't keep him safe."

Mali appears and Luke transfers her mother over to her waiting arms. Watches the women bend towards each other, like willows in the waiting room.

Liz goes around and hugs them all. Hugs Michael, who is gazing at the OR's doors like he's waiting for Calum to walk out of them. Hugs Ashton, who is beating his knees with the flats of his palms, a persistent drumming. She opens her arms wide and hugs Niall and Harry. And then they wait.

.

Calum opens his eyes. It feels like the worst pain he'd ever felt, all at once, radiating from his chest. He thinks, I've been shot. And, strangely, that thought is accompanied by embarrassment. Embarrassment that everyone has had to drop everything and wait for him to catch up.

He sees Mikey asleep in the chair next to him and wants to talk about this feeling, because Mike's good for getting your head on straight, listening to a whole litany of problems and boiling it down to one sentence and one solution. Calum stretches out his fingers. He can't move much. He touches Mikey's cheek.

Someone else moves into his line of vision and the movement is so fast that Calum startles and almost screams and that hurts so much that he just lies there, breathing hard, for a long, long minute.

Mikey is petting his arm. "It's okay, you're okay, breathe in and out. Just like that. In. And. Out."

Mali is giving him another ice cube. Has she done this before? It feels like she's done it before, like they've fallen into a rhythm.

His mother comes into view. Calum wonders if he's dreaming. "Oh my," Mum has a hand over her mouth. "Look what happened to my boy."

The boys keep reminding him not to cry but right now Calum can't help it. Everything will be okay now, he's sure of it. The cavalry has been called in. He can rest now.

.

Five days after the shooting Calum is moved to a different part of the hospital, to his own room. Harry and Niall leave apologetically, promising they will be back. "Liam's going spare," Niall says and he's almost smiling but the bags under his eyes are huge and he yawns instead. "So don't be surprised if we bring reinforcements."

They've gotten into a routine, taking shifts so Calum never has to wake up alone. The mothers are perceptive. Joy and Liz have a shift schedule, too, but know when to leave the room so the others can talk, often whisking Mali away with them. They come back with comfortable clothes for Calum, with food, with warm drinks.

During one of the times they're gone it's just 5sos in the hospital room. Calum can sit up, can drink fluids. When they change his bandages the bullet wounds are puckered oozing scars. "Is it bad," Cal asks, "that I sort of want everyone to leave?"

The other three look at him. They wonder if they are included in the Everyone. They've been treating him differently. They all get quiet when he talks, like he's a prophet or something. No one used to listen when he talked. "Not necessarily," Ashton hedges.

"It's just," Calum continues. He gulps in a breath. They all avert their gazes as he tries to breathe. The heart monitor beeps loudly but not erratically enough for a nurse to come in. "It's just that I feel like - like I'm holding everyone up? Like, this thing happened and now everyone has to come and pay attention to me?"

Luke grips his hand. "It's not like you asked to be shot."

"I know," Cal says. "I know! It's just," he breathes in, too deep, and he coughs and that hurts like the bones are actually grating against each other and then breathing is hard again. They wait for him to get it under control. "I feel like a freak," Calum says.

It's not a statement that encourages discussion. Luke rubs a finger over Calum's knuckles.

There's a knock at the door. Zoe sticks her head in. Clears her throat. "Maybe I'll come back when the mums are here," she says.

"Just spit it out," Michael demands.

Zoe opens the door wider. Three girls are there, all teenagers. Mousy Midwestern girls in ponytails and hoodies. They're obviously sisters, the resemblance in the hook of the nose, the freckles, the way they hold themselves, almost bent over, as if they'd recently been kicked.

"Hi," the youngest says. She looks thirteen.

Zoe coughs. "These are -"

"My name is Abby," the oldest says. She's around their age, nineteen or twenty. "These are my sisters Kirsten and Ruth. Our father's name was George Liebowitz."

It's Michael who registers what this means first. He had risen halfway to his feet. They had been around enough teenage girls these past years to know what they wanted. Hugs. Happiness. He collapses back into the chair. "What the hell, Zoe?" He looks past the girls. Zoe's looking at Calum.

"We wanted to say sorry," the middle daughter - Kirsten? - says. "We're so, so sorry. Dad wasn't like that. We had no idea he'd hurt anyone. We didn't even know he had a gun in the house."

"Well," Mikey bites out, "obviously he did."

The words make the girl shrink in the doorway. "Yeah," she says, quietly.

The oldest, Abby, places a hand on her shoulder. "We want to say we're sorry. If we hadn't been at the concert Dad wouldn't have hurt Calum. I mean, if we never started listening to you guys in the first place..."

"We made you a card," the youngest says. She extends one hand, shyly. Ashton takes it and passes it back to Calum.

Abby watches him read it. "Are you okay?" she asks.

"Yeah," Calum says without looking up. He's been answering this question for days. He puts the card down and Luke slides it away to read for himself. "I'm okay."

"No thanks to your Dad," Michael says to the ceiling.

"Shut up, Mikey." That's Ashton and though his tone is mild there's an edge to it. Ashton looks at the girls. "I'm sorry your Dad is dead," he says.

The youngest girl presses herself into the oldest's side.

"It's not your fault," Calum says from the bed. Everyone in the room looks at him. His normally tan skin is wan. It's Chicago and winter is coming and they all seem to be losing their shine. "I forgive you," he says, trying for a minimum of awkwardness. If people are going to treat him like he's a prophet he might as well act like one.

Abby's face contorts and for a moment they all think she's going to cry. They've dealt with a lot of crying girls, but usually younger teens. Whenever older people cry it always seems like the end of the world. She scrubs a hand across her face. "Calum, can I give you a hug?"

"Be careful," Mikey snaps. Luke punches his arm. "What? They need to be careful."

"I'm not made of glass," Calum says.

The girls come over one by one, all whispering apologies. They hug Calum around the shoulders and then step away quickly, swiping at tears. Ashton touches Abby's shoulder. "You are not your father's actions," he says, like he's been coming up with that thesis statement his whole life.

She nods and sweeps out of the room, her sisters trailing behind her.

.

Four months after the shooting things are busier than ever, but they're also not.

They're back in the U.S., about to try to tour again. Everyone - the other boys and Management and the label and their friends and everyone - had told Calum to take as much time as he needed. Seriously. The tour can wait. And it probably could. Since the shooting their album has been selling like crazy and they've been doing the bare minimum in way of promo. A couple of radio shows with interviewers they liked, all of whom admirably try to talk music for a couple of minutes before turning to Calum and grilling him.

"And you still don't know why it happened?" Nick Grimshaw asks. This isn't on air, just in the studio afterwards.

Calum shakes his head. He's stopped asking himself why. Race has been accepted as the why, though no one, including Calum, is entirely happy with that explanation and people speculate online about his sexuality and religion. He tries to stay away from Twitter. The only thing he knows is that it was deliberate. That he had been the target. It's a terrifying thought, but almost comforting. He's happy it's him and not the other boys. They don't believe him but it's true. Better him than Luke, who always tries to act older than he is. Better him than Mikey who shone brighter than the fucking sun. Better him than Ashton, who was playing mother hen, who took care of everyone. Calum is the last and the least. Better him.

He says as much to Mikey when they're back in America. They're ending in Chicago. It feels like the wrong climax but that's just how the schedule works out.

"Fuck that," Michael says. They're near enough to a window to see out but not near enough for anyone to see them. Michael suggested they go outside on the balcony - it's balmy in Houston - but immediately vetoed himself when he saw something in Calum's face close. "You don't get to be so fucking calm about this, Cal. Get mad."

"I'm not mad," Calum says. "I'm not mad! I wish it didn't happen. I wish I didn't hold up the whole tour. I wish you guys would stop worrying about me. But I just can't - the guy's dead. He's dead. His daughters are sorry. And I don't get to come off as a hero in this whole thing so I get to be happy it wasn't you, okay?" He swipes the back of his hand across his eyes.

"Cal..."

"Fuck you, Mikey," Calum says, like he means it. "I'm happy it's not you, okay? This fucking sucks." He's worried about breathing wrong, about bending wrong. His ribs twinge. There's an ache in his stomach. And he wakes up sometimes in a cold sweat because he's sure, so sure, that he can feel a bullet still inside, rattling around.

He's pulled into a hug. He's being hugged a lot now. He remembers starting something else with Mikey, before, but he won't be he first one to bring that up. If anything he feels closer to Mikey now, closer than sex. He lets himself be hugged. "I'm not mad," Calum says. "I just wish it was over."

That's part of the reason he's been so adamant about getting the show back on the road. He needs to make more memories on stage. Memories that don't include the searing pain of being shot, the screams of the girls, the way everyone ducked, the way Michael had held him and then been pulled away and for a few seconds Calum had just been alone, bleeding on stage, his friends gone, leaving him to die.

"I wish Luke would look at me," Calum says, since he's wishing for things. Luke seems to leave every room Calum walks into.

"He's just a dumb kid," Mikey says, bracingly. "I'll talk to him. He'll come around."

Cal buries his face in his knees. "Yeah."

"And Ash will come around. He's just - he wants to be in control of things."

"He doesn't talk to me," Calum says. "He just keeps asking if I'm all right. You're the only one who talks to me."

"I'll talk to him," Mikey says.

"No," Calum says. "I should." His ribs hurt. It's been a long day. Their first show is tomorrow and they had tech most of the day, and Calum could feel everyone looking at him, not just the boys but everyone, the roadies, the venue's security, the light guys, everyone.

He's had friends texting him for months, friends who say they'll meet up at various stages of the tour, and Calum wants to see them but doesn't quite know how to say that he's tired.

He's already tired. He closes his eyes. Feels the bullet rattling between his organs.

"We'll get through this." Mikey's arm is still draped over his shoulder.

Right now it feels like that's a wish, too. It feels like Calum's shattered everyone into a hundred tiny pieces and he doesn't know how to fix himself, let alone everyone else.

He's bundled onto one of the beds. He hides his wince. He doesn't need Mikey to feel guilty. The act of a madman, the therapist had said. Not your fault. The act of a madman.

Calum squeezes his eyes shut. It's late. He'll just sleep here. He feels Mikey get on the same bed. He wishes they were doubling up for a different reason. He wishes he could fall in love instead of falling apart. He feels lips against his forehead. It's a different kind of kiss, a gesture that feels sweet and ancient. "We're happy you're alive, Cal, just remember that."

"Okay," Calum says. Mikey shakes out his medication and makes him swallow and Calum falls asleep listening to the pounding of Michael's heart.