Archive of Our Own

you’re my religion. you’re all i’ve got.

- a farewell to arms, ernest hemingway

suppose that people live forever.

the population of the world splits into two, interestingly: the laters and the nows. 

the laters rationalize that there’s no hurry to enroll in university, to learn a second language, to read newton or dostoevsky, to seek promotions in their jobs, to fall in love, to raise a family.

in endless time, all things can be accomplished; thus, all things can wait. time is sweet in infinite amounts, slow and soft and continuously expanding like a galaxy. 

after all, hasty actions breed mistakes and good things come to those who wait.

the laters can be recognized strolling in shops and down city promenades. they walk an easy swagger and wear loose-fitting clothes. they talk slow, the letters heavy, and their skin smells like permanent ink.

they take pleasure in reading whatever magazines are open or rearranging the furniture in their homes or slipping into conversations the way a leaf falls from a tree.

the laters sit in cafes sipping coffee or in bars throwing back tequila and discusses the possibilities of life – their eyes are full and filled with stars.

on the other hand, the nows note that with infinite lives, they can do all they can imagine. they will have an infinite number of careers, they will acquire an infinite amount of education, they will change their politics infinitely.

each person will be a lawyer, a carpenter, an accountant, a journalist, a physician, a farmer. the nows are constantly reading new books, studying new trades, new languages.

in order to taste the infinities of life, they begin early and never go slowly.

the nows are easily spotted. they are the owner of cafes, the college professors, the doctors and nurses, the politicians, the people who rock their legs constantly whenever they sit down. they move through a succession of lives tirelessly, eager to miss nothing.

when two nows chance to meet at the hexagonal construct of trafalgar square, they compare the lives they have mastered, exchange information, and glance at their watches.

when two laters meet at the same location, they ponder the future and follow the parabola of the fountain with their nebulous gaze.

liam payne is now. harry styles comes later.

it is important to understand this in the progression of this story.

the track disappears from beneath liam’s feet as he rounds the last corner and picks up pace to the finish point. his calves tighten, his shoulders lock, and his lungs move to the count in his head.

in – one, two – out – one, two –

the soles of his feet tingled with heat and air swooped to fill the expanded space in his ribcage, and when he stops the watch, it says he’s two seconds ahead but liam already knew that. he finishes with a leisure lap around the track to relax his muscles and when he finally stills, he checks his pulse and drinks half his gatorade.

in – one, two – out – one, two –

“could barely spot you,” a teasing voice hollers from under the bleachers. “you were a blur out there.”

and for a moment, all liam could see were dancing tendrils of white smoke and the gold filter of sobranies. then were lashes that reached to infinity, inconsolable eyes, and red copper skin stretched over lovely white bones.

“hey.” his neck prickles with heat and he’s breathless but not in the way one is after a hundred meter sprint.

“hey yourself.” zayn’s smile is kind and a bit shy as he swayed onto the field. zayn had outgrown his gawky phase for years, what with cheekbones that break hearts and slim roguish shoulders, but he’s always half-retained a masked hesitancy in the way he shuffles his feet and in his habit of peeking through his lashes.

zayn’s eyes are all sorts of lovely; electric and dreamy.

“what’re you doing out here?” liam asks instead of ‘aren’t you suppose to be in maths’ because zayn skips class all the time – usually (in ascending order of likeliness) hiding out in the art room or annoying niall in the gym or lighting a bowl with eddie sheeran and the burnouts behind the administrative building or home – but zayn rarely comes out to the track just to watch him do his laps.

not that zayn isn’t supportive of liam; he wears liam’s varsity jacket like it’s melded with his skin. it’s just that zayn sees running as liam’s thing and saw his own presence there as a distraction.

that and zayn doesn’t really do ‘outside’, it suits his quiff ill. 

“was just on my way home.” he replies, scuffling up some dirt with his trainers, imperceptibly moving closer and liam closes the rest of the distance like adjusting to a shift in orbit until he can smell zayn’s gucci cologne and english cigarettes. “thought i’d come watch you run for a bit. there’s a meet this weekend, yeah?”

liam smiles and tries to untangle zayn’s hands from the hem of his t-shirt because he’s sweaty and they’re in school and liam’s self-discipline isn’t that good, “yeah. it’s the qualifier. before they rank me for nationals.”

“right.” zayn’s fingers close around liam’s wrists – zayn’s got the longest fingers liam’s ever seen – pressing lightly into the pulse points and when it thrums, zayn breathes. “d’you reckon you’ll place?”

he laughs, turning his palms upward so that zayn can trace through the fortune lines (love and fate and life), “zayn, i haven’t - ”

“ – you will, won’t you?” zayn’s voice is heavy and soft like a sigh and when he smiles, it looks tired but the edges are frayed with affection. liam stares down at the way their hands fit together and compares his ivory complexion against zayn’s russet and while liam’s arms are freckled and sun-spotted and dusted with blonde hairs, zayn doesn’t even have callouses. “lee?” zayn prompts, “say you will. for me.”

“yeah.” liam is counting the space between zayn’s lashes and the crinkles in his brows when he gets emotional and how many teeth he shows when he smiles and how many inhales until they’re inhaling the same air and, “yeah.”

“good.” zayn looks relieved and he reaches up to curl his hand around the nape of liam’s neck, ghosting over the grooves of his spine and liam has to press down hard into the ground with his heels to stop from shivering but then zayn touches their forehead together and liam does shiver. zayn’s eyes are dark, dark, dark and deep, deep, deep (liam sees himself in them; swimming) but they wing up on the side and the grin he pulls is so light and lazy (and liam is floating), “i’ll go now. you’re being distracted and i need a kip.”

liam frowns, reaching over the bench to unzip the side of his duffle, “take my gloves for the walk home, it’s chilly.”

zayn kisses his brow and laughs quietly, “always the considerate one, you are.” he stays there for a few beats, long enough for liam to sense his reluctance, slipping the wooly mittens into his pockets, he confesses, “doniya dropped by.”

doniya. the name is sticky like toffee caught in liam’s throat, the letters thick and rich and expensive, and liam thinks zayn’s older sister is nothing short of polite, kind, and responsible but out of all zayn’s siblings, doniya is the only one to live with their mother, tricia, while she’s studying in university.

so maybe it is just coincidence and convenience that doniya’s presence means zayn will take an inevitable limo-trip into london to see his mercurial socialite mum.

‘you know she won’t give my old man a break until i go’ zayn had said the first time she sent for him when he was fifteen and he’d turned into all angles; hipbones cheekbones and jawbone. and liam had replied ‘i know’ because mr. malik is mild-mannered and sympathetic and it’s awful when he’s upset. and zayn had went on angrily ‘she just wants to parade me around like her little bitch to all her rich filthy friends’ because, perhaps to her surprise, zayn is sprouting like an armani billboard waiting to happen.

nonetheless, zayn always goes and he’s always back by the week’s end, smelling of glass and bourbon and cold city rain, his smile too sharp like it could slice. but then niall will take him to the lake behind his house and they’ll row and smoke until it gets cold (or they start getting pecked at by geese). and then later that night maybe zayn will undress liam and press him into the mattress and wrap his long fingers around liam’s cock until liam begs and shouts.

maybe then zayn will start to smell more like green grass, irish cream, and boy; and when his lips curve, the expression is tender and lazy and very, very soft. liam counts zayn’s heartbeats on those nights and in zayn’s chest he hears footsteps against a tartan track and he thinks to himself: okay.

“the meet won’t start until the afternoon, i’ll be back with time to spare, alright?”

liam wishes zayn wouldn’t talk about impossible things because he’ll only hurt himself in the end when he can’t make them come true (beneath the leather, the ink, the smoke, zayn is a dreamer) but he doesn’t want to make zayn upset before he leaves so he agrees, nods, says, “yeah. maybe.”

the way zayn grins almost makes liam believe it and his brows look happier, “will you come over after class? boris misses you.”

liam laughs, “boris saw me this morning, zayn.”

the way zayn is looking at him makes liam think 11 years-old, a pout that wasn’t as pronounced and tender butterscotch eyes. the first time liam’s been kissed after swim practice under a yellow sun; liam had tasted bubblegum lips, cherry tongue. now when zayn kisses liam, it’s usually electricity, fireworks, sleek hot hunger, and liam sometimes forgets zayn can still kiss like this (forgets that zayn remembers too), but he is glad to be reminded. despite zayn’s quiet smolder, dark shyness, he can be very very sweet. and there’s an overcast in the skies today but when zayn licks softly into liam’s mouth, he can swear there’s sun blazing on his skin.

“boris misses you whenever you aren’t there. as do i.”

liam was 8 when he moved into bradford for prep school. 

the town of bradford is rich. estates stretched for acres, all the greenery is well-manicured, the weather is less dreary. and at first, liam had felt painfully out of place, being one of the few kids that had to stay on board at campus because his parents worked steady jobs back in his hometown to afford the steep tuition. so of course the occasional taunt thrown his way couldn’t be avoided but mostly the elitist kids gave him sneers from a good safe distance.

then along came niall. irish, brunette, and his arms ladled with a welcome basket of warm muffins from his jovial mum. he’d hug liam at first sight and offered him a tour of the neighborhood standing off the back of his bike. niall was also on the school junior footie team and invited liam to come watch them practice, which is where liam saw zayn for the first time, who was skinny, brooding, and pretending to have pulled a calf muscle so he could sit out.

(zayn tells him years later that it was just an excuse to be next to him).

things get easier from there. the school offers him a scholarship because they see potential. they must be right because liam is never late for anything, gets ‘a’s on his coursework, captains the track team and the swim team (he also cycles and rows and liam is a proper prince on the polo field), and once the science lab caught on fire and liam got to the extinguisher before it could spread into full-blown danger.

so yeah, liam is well-liked in the community; he’s nice and athletic and never holds grudges. and so yeah, he likes bradford – and when zayn’s with him, he fancies it ‘home’.

zayn’s house is 1.6 miles from campus. liam runs there every morning to take boris out for his walk. he knows the code to get through the gate, he has a copy of the key, and he’s got his own seat in zayn’s towncar (it’s liam’s seat because he’s got a cupholder for his wheatgrass and it’s right next to zayn’s) when the driver drops zayn and his sisters off for school.

liam knows to leave his shoes at the door and his book bag on the bench in the foyer when he arrives. boris scrambles up to meet him with great enthusiasm, tail swatting like a metronome, tongue lolled to the side as liam gives him an affectionate scratch behind the ears, ruffling the short fur, “hey mate, how’s it going? have you been behaving today? where’s – ”

“hey liam.”

“doniya.” liam controls his surprise, “hello.”

doniya is leaning against the arch of the entryway, holding a steaming mug that must be as warm as her smile. she looks older than liam remembers; there are more lines on her face, less color. “how’ve you been?”

“good. it’s been good. thanks.”

“you still running for the school?” liam nods, very carefully. doniya’s lips quirk, “and niall? does he still play on the footie team with zayn?”

“no. erm. i mean, niall still runs for the school. and he was on the footie team this year but the season just switched over to lacrosse. but zayn hasn’t been on football since year 11.” he responds slowly.

doniya blinks; she doesn’t pick her eyes back up, just keeps them down where her lashes sweep her cheeks and it startles liam – how similar they look in that moment. when she speaks, her voice splits, like the spine of an old book, “we don’t…talk…as we used to. it’s harder now…because of tricia. he blames me. for leaving him, leaving dad, the girls. and for making him leave you.”

liam understands in a way; gets that zayn with all of his angles can cut and carve and cleave because zayn is delicate, easily hurt (shatter, liam thinks, zayn shatters, and leaves your hands bloody) if he’s not handled just right.

only liam disarms zayn.

“don’t dwell on it.” liam moves past her towards the stairs, touching her arm for a brief moment. he looks into her eyes and smiles very very calmly, in the way zayn likes for him to smile when he’s nervous, “i’ll always be here.”

then he bounds up, two at a time, goes to the bedroom at the end of the hall, knocks twice, waits until the other side huffs ‘get in here, lee’ before he enters. inside, it’s spacey; the floors are beige wood, the bed is low, the walls are white but colorful canvases are everywhere, some patiently leaning, others already hung.

“you don’t have to knock. you never do.” zayn is standing at the center of the room, barefoot in paint-splattered chinos and a tattered track shirt with the sleeves rolled. his eyes are squint all silly because of the grin he’s pulling and liam feels he’s melting (he thinks he could sink through the floors if not for zayn’s hands and zayn’s lightness and zayn’s gravity keeping him afloat).

liam crosses the room for him. it’s colder the closer he gets. he sees that the window is open, the cigarette between zayn’s teeth is burning, and clair de lune is playing quietly on the stereo because zayn’s sentimental and romantic and gay.

“it’s polite.” liam defends without any real conviction.

zayn’s eyes are sparkling, his mouth is inviting, “i like it when you’re rude.”

he looks away in a blush as zayn goes to stub out his fag on the windowsill, instead focusing on a stack of his clothes that’s been neatly folded on top of zayn’s drawer. liam’s socks are rolled into little donuts – and the fabrics smell like lavender – and liam reaches out to trace along the collar of his uniform shirt. “you did the washing up?”

he remembers the second button on the shirt had fallen off when he changed for swim –

“mhm.” he hears zayn’s footsteps coming up behind him. his presence shadowing a low warmth radiating against liam’s back, “i took one off mine to replace it. i know how you like to be all buttoned-up to your throat.”

the strike of affection that hits liam in that moment is simply breathtaking. it feels nothing short of a thunderclap spilling on his chest because when he turns, zayn’s smiling crookedly, eyes alight in lightening gold. their noses touch. liam smells lavender, and zayn tilts his head, “alright?”

instead of responding, he kisses zayn slow and searing, reveling in the languid flutter of zayn’s lashes against his cheek, tanned arms wounding around liam’s neck, the sinking noise in the back of zayn’s throat. he licks into zayn’s soft mouth, pulling on his bottom lip every time he draws away, and zayn makes an urgent gesture, scrambling to dig his fingers into liam’s bicep.

liam catches his hand, intertwining their fingers, and steadies zayn’s rutting hip until they’re just swaying and rubbing occasionally even though liam is already hard in his trousers, he doesn’t want it to end so fast.

zayn is laughing breathlessly against the crook of his neck, “are we going to dance now?”

he realizes belatedly that clair de lune is still twinkling sweetly in the background. there’s also a paintbrush behind zayn’s ear. a varsity jacket lying in an open suitcase. crumpled pack of cigarettes next to wooly gloves. imprint of warm bodies on the bed from the night before.

and he opens his mouth to say ‘no, i don’t want to dance anymore’ but zayn’s already shoved his hand down liam’s pants so what liam does say is: zaynyesgodyespleaseyes.

when liam gets out of school, he thinks he’ll study physical therapy because liam is a healer; likes to find out what hurts then love it until it’s better. liam thinks bodies are fascinating, how people all start out the same until they aren’t anymore (because bodies deteriorate; sometimes when you’re 90, sometimes before you’re born) – there’s a story within every body.

liam loves zayn’s body; loves it when it moves in tandem with his. it is quite so romantic and exciting a thing.

liam learns the story of zayn’s body through:

the lithe, agile length of zayn’s muscles in lean cords twisted under bronze satin. zayn’s firm-smooth skin, equal parts red and gold and lavender ink. his ears are stamped with little stars, they match the nebula, the supernova, the constellation of stardust in zayn’s wide wild eyes.

he loves zayn’s body; his tendons, his pulse, his veins that run in analog. he likes what it does: bends, flexes, arches, writhes, folds, melds; the thrill of zayn under him; likes the hows and the shock of zayn’s electric fur.

he loves every part of zayn down to his bones. he marvels that these are the structures that build up zayn and hold him together. he wonders if him and zayn’s bones are made from the same matrix, or if zayn’s composed from something else entirely like diamonds or planetary rings.

he likes to feel zayn’s spine (its dips), zayn’s clavicle (its hollows), zayn’s wrists. he thinks zayn’s bones are very delicate. they certainly feel slender and bird-like; almost flighty in its lightness, grounded only by zayn’s heartbeat, which are always heavy in echo of the rhythm of liam’s runs.

zayn sleeps with his head on liam’s chest and his hand cupping liam’s shoulder like liam’s something precious he never grew out of. and liam’ll very gently caress over the elegant joints, neat knuckles, metacarpal discs finely slotted into one another.

there are 27 bones in a human hand; an eighth of all the bones in a body. liam counts to 27 every night before he sleeps, zayn’s hand in his.

in the morning, zayn goes to london and liam walks boris. he calls his mum because it’s saturday and she has weekends off. he tells her he’s well, he’s fast, he’s happy. she says she’s glad. they talk a little about his sister ruth’s baby shower until he has to get to the gym. in training, he sharpens his turns then runs two practice trials (he beats his personal best both times) so his coach lets him get off early with a clap on the back. 

he goes to niall’s house, walking up the driveway just in time to see a leggy brunette being escorted out. she stumbles past liam, carrying her high heels, and turns to wave, giggling still, “bye niall! give me a ring when you decide on that movie, yeah?”

“take care, cher.” niall is all careless laughter, waving back.

liam’s up the patio now and niall brightens further, “mate, you alright?” opening his arms enthusiastically wide and liam can’t help but fall into niall’s warm hug even though niall has epic bedhead and smells like stale pints.

niall feels solid, broad, flat like oars; like maybe he’s forged from willow trees and rugged cobblestone. niall is tough in the way that underarmour is, fused tight against your body, damn near impenetrable.

“hey. yeah. i was just gonna see if you wanted to go for a row.”

“sure. breakfast first though.”

niall ushers him inside the house, making a beeline towards the kitchen where maura horan is still in her bathrobe talking recipes to the housemaid. liam is worried he’s imposing but she kisses him, fusses with his hair, and asks about track so he doesn’t think she minds.

they go out the back door and liam thinks it’s ridiculous that the horans have a whole lake (pond, corrects niall, but still). they take out a rowboat instead of a racing shell because it’s spacier, their legs sprawled on the wooden hull.

“m’like rowing with you better. zayn doesn’t row worth a shit. just broods there. pissin’ about his hair and his nails and his gay.” niall’s holding a donut in his mouth while he steers, words spitting out along with flecks of glaze and liam wrinkles his nose in disapproval.

“you listen to justin bieber."

“justin bieber is a fucking artist,” his accent curls reverently around the word, “piss off.” niall looks only slightly indignant, mostly fond, so they spend the next moment in silence. liam focuses on his breathing (in – one, two – out – one, two –) while niall finishes chewing, fishing a cigarette out of his pocket to light. niall smokes hand-rolled cigarettes that smell more herbal, more natural than the ones zayn smokes. niall claims he smokes for the taste, zayn smokes for the addiction. in his sleeveless, it is easy to see niall’s limber arms work each stroke as they move towards the center of the pond, his muscles pulled tight in stripes. through a puff of white, he inquires off-handedly, “where is your boyfriend anyway? is he prancing around with eddie or have you got him ironing pleats into your trousers?”

“he’s in london.”

“oh. shit.” niall falls out of rhythm, which causes the blade of their oars to clank together. it takes them a minute or two to regroup, finding the beat of their catch. once they start back up, niall is staring at him cautiously, “well when’s he coming back? he’s going to be at the meet, right?”

liam stares his hands, which feel a little raw, loosening his grip on the wood. he thinks he’s a little out of practice. “he says he’ll try to make it.”

“you and i both know what that means.” niall tosses his unfinished cigarette into the water more forcibly than necessary, huffing with great irritation, “honestly liam, he gives you so much bullshit and you just let him get away with it. he does understand that we get ranked nationally based on this, yeah? you might make the front runners list and fuck, lee, he should be here, misting your face and dabbing at your sweat with his fucking gucci hankie.”

“he doesn’t have a – that’s not….you know zayn’s mum – ”

“ – i know. i know.” niall exhales sharply and some of the red leaves his cheeks. they’ve stopped rowing at this point, the little boat just spinning in loose circles with the breeze. niall’s eyes are startlingly blue, enhanced by the pale pinkness of his skin. when he directs them on liam, he looks wistful, “i just. liam. i wish…you would tell him how important this is to you, how much it would mean if he were here. i don’t think he knows. i think he would’ve stayed if you told him. zayn would do anything for you, liam, don’t you get it?”

liam shifts, his skin feels too tight under niall’s scrutiny, “of course i do.”

niall sighs, “i wish you’d let him.”

a half-life is the period of time it takes for a substance undergoing exponential decay to decrease by half. the name was originally used to describe a characteristic of unstable atoms.

biologically, it is the time taken for a substance (radioactive nuclide, drugs, blood) to lose half of its radiological, pharmacologic, or physiologic activity.

everything organic has a half-life; an inevitable breakdown. love is no different.

when liam was warming up to get onto the field for his meet, he’d put his hands in his pocket and uncovered a neatly folded paper heart. there were no words in it but liam didn’t need any because they’ve long mastered how to read into each other’s silence.

liam advances into the next round of qualifiers.

zayn comes back from london.

zayn comes back and he’s different but liam can’t figure out how. this frightens him because liam knows everything about zayn; he knows zayn’s favorite flower (lavender), he knows zayn’s voice (knows the hundreds of shadows and shades zayn can express with his voice), he knows all 27 bones in zayn’s hand (he knows them all by name).

“zayn?” he’s sitting on the steps that lead up to liam’s dorm, smoking a joint. liam had just finished with swim, his hair damp still and a towel hanging around his neck. liam’s eyes dart all around nervously because at any moment a teacher could walk by and since when is zayn reckless?

“zayn?” liam repeats because he didn’t answer the first time.

zayn says nothing at first. he just pulls liam down next to him – his hair is floppy today, his smile very tired. he’s curving to fit tight against liam’s side and he’s wearing liam’s hoodie and liam’s joggers, fingertips digging into liam’s shoulder as if he’s trying to crawl and disappear inside liam’s skin and it’s all very surprising, “zayn, what is it?”

he mumbles against liam’s neck, his confession tender, “missed you, s’all.”

liam doesn’t think zayn is telling him what he needs to know but what zayn said didn’t sound like a lie so maybe it’s okay to think it’s the truth. he smiles because even though zayn can’t see it, he knows he can hear it, “i missed you more.” it’s true. and zayn laughs out ‘you big sap’ or he tries to until his voice chokes halfway and he’s forced to trail off.

liam frowns. he pulls zayn’s face back, his thumb tracing zayn’s brow, “hey. you alright?”

zayn’s eyes are big and young and topaz like jupiter; liam wonders what zayn’s seen with those eyes while he was in london. he almost asks but then zayn’s speaking and his voice is sweetsweetsweet, “congratulations on your race” and “sorry i wasn’t there” and he kisses liam sticky with the acrid scent of pot, his body lax in liam’s arms, his pulse thrumming very very slow and he answers liam’s silence, “darling, i’m just fine”.

life resumes as it’s always been for a short while and it’s almost familiar except not because liam can sense the gravity around him and zayn splitting like tectonic plates deep beneath the earth and he still doesn’t know why.

he does catch zayn dazing more these days, as if wishing he were some place else: during lunch when him and niall talk about sports, while they’re watching a movie with boris in their lap, or staring at a canvas, his paintbrush caught in midstroke.

he also knows when doniya visits again two weeks later, zayn packs his bag without a fuss. he kisses liam goodbye and liam watches him go and he can’t remember rather he didn’t tell zayn or zayn has forgotten about his rowing match.

liam thinks: drugs.

because zayn is thinner, colder, and everything about zayn gets sharper like a digitally enhanced photograph and liam isn’t sure rather he’s really seeing zayn or seeing ‘enhanced’ parts of zayn that aren’t really there.

first, it was little yellow pills rattling in zayn’s monogrammed silver cigarette case when liam knocks it over (when zayn sees liam holding it when he gets out of the shower, he takes it gently out of liam’s hand, kisses him with a hand on the back of his neck and velvet tongue).

but then it was a hollowed out fountain pen; rolled up bank-notes; white powder on zayn’s leather jacket (zayn corners liam against the bedroom door, tugs down liam’s boxers with his teeth, he mouths, licks, and sucks liam’s cock and zayn keeps his eyes on liam the whole time even as liam comes, hot to his core; and liam thinks zayn’s eyes burn – as bright as a dying star).

eventually, there will be a thin elastic band knotted into a tiny circle that seems just the right size for zayn’s slender arms sitting in the bottom of zayn’s duffle and liam will feel so helpless all he wants to do is lay down on the floor and beg zayn to tell him what could possibly be wrong – but zayn will be standing behind him, whispering wistfully, “oh lee” although his voice sounds downright electric (everything about zayn seems charged these days) right before he does indeed lay liam down on the floor and makes love to him, slow and intimate and aching.

liam bites zayn when he refuses to move faster. he’s pretty sure he breaks skin, his mouth tastes of metal, salt, cologne. zayn doesn’t seem to mind. his face is manic, cracked almost, as he beams down at liam and his smile is wicked, teeth gleaming whitely.

liam thinks he shouldn’t be allured by cheekbones that look more like glass chips and collarbones that jut out obscenely but the starved way zayn looks at him, even if his hands can’t stop trembling sometimes when he’s undoing liam’s shirt, it makes it hard to resist him because maybe part of liam wants to pretend that zayn is hungry for him and not syringes or prescriptions.

(and it turns out zayn isn’t hungry for syringes or prescriptions but rather the person he’s associated it with as liam will come to find out).

it’s like this: zayn secretly loves glamour. he loves glamour as certain dark things are to be loved – silently, trapped between the shadow and the soul.

zayn likes shiny things; things that sparkle. things like champagne, chandeliers, mirrors; zayn likes things that are reflective.

zayn is drawn to them and they are drawn to him (reflective); the way glamour always seem to love razor jawlines, brooding stares, and obscure country boys it can corrupt with all of its champagnes and chandeliers and mirrors; and secretly zayn loves to be chased.

liam, as far as he’s concerned, has never been shiny or sparkly.

he is not a glamorous person. he is neither a friday sunset nor a saturday night. he is wednesday at 4pm, feet planted firm on the ground or arms shredding through a chlorine pool. his joints need daily stretching, his skin is weathered down from sports and being outside, especially on his soles where he has chased too much.

when zayn starts going to london by himself, liam thinks – he should chase, zayn would like that; but then zayn starts coming back with bites on his neck, red grooves scratched down his back, hands harsher than liam’s bruised on his ribs and liam feels as if he’s tripped in the middle of a race and gotten disoriented about which direction to head towards.

but just like zayn’s weight loss and tremors and now-steady trips into the city, they both pretend not to notice. and the leviathan gap between them just continues to grow with everything that they don’t say to each other.

it’s painful. like an infected injection site they’re letting fester beneath a scab (if they don’t look at it, it’s not there) and it feels dangerous (in a controlled way, which is why he allows it) but liam still prefers this to the possible amputation they might face if they ever were to try to fix it.

and it is not a real thing until they acknowledge it so they don’t.

timeline: a month after the cocaine.

the first time liam tries, it’s late one evening, zayn is sitting on the floor painting up a frenzy, pupils huge, buzz beneath his skin. liam’s already showered and coddled in bed, concentrating on a chapter in his text. mozart’s symphony 40 molto allegro is accompanying them both in void of the silence. they’ve kept the window open even though it’s cold. outside, it’s drizzling steadily as if it will last all night.

some time later, an hour, maybe a little more, zayn has tired himself out (he tires very easily these days), rocking back on his heel, points with his chin, “what’s that you’re reading?”

liam peers at him over his page, at nebulous irises and muted lids, answering dutifully, “french. i’ve got an exam friday.”

“french.” zayn repeats, mouth curved coy. his lashes are fluttering delicately when he asks liam, one bit breathy two bits roguish three bits shy, “voulez-vous…coucher…avec moi ce soir?”

“bien sur.” liam replies easily, closing the book and chafing his palms together for warmth. zayn’s brows come together in a quizzical little furrow so he pulls a small smile and nods, “oui.”

zayn leaves his painting behind (liam is glad he throws a cloth over it because the colors were too bright; it hurt liam’s eyes) to move onto the bed, lazily cat-crawling over him, his body a slender reed of lovely blood and bones. he slides icy hands under zayn’s loose vest and zayn shudders, digging his toes up the leg of liam’s pajama pants to seek heat.

zayn sucks teasingly on his birthmark, making liam squirm and whine until he flips them over, pinning zayn by slotting a knee between zayn’s slim thighs. he combs into zayn’s half-fallen coif, nosing the nape of his neck.

along the gold column of zayn’s spine, there’s an unmistakable love-bite the size of liam’s thumb that is obviously not bitten or loved by liam, burgundy red, as if somebody had pressed zayn facedown and…and…it looks so raw, so careless, pulsing until liam squeezes his eyes shut. he sits up, leaving zayn dazed at the abrupt motion, setting his feet on the floor and gripping the edge of the bed while he tries to remember how to count.

in – one, two – out – one, two –

“lee?” zayn touches his shoulder but he drops it when liam flinches; zayn’s stereo’s stopped by now and the silence is smoldering.

“are you unhappy?” liam finally asks, because he had never given much thought to it before. he’s never asked zayn and maybe he should’ve, should’ve been more considerate –

“ – no. no, don’t do that.” zayn is speaking sadly and too soft. it makes liam’s chest ache because it’s too honeyed and zayn’s voice didn’t used to be like this; so lush and vivid and convincing. it scares liam but zayn continues, “don’t think like that.”

liam shakes his head, something akin to acute panic gripping his throat with black fingers, croaking, “d’you love him? is that it? is that why?”

“no! no. s’not...” zayn’s fingers cup his face, long and bony like skeleton keys, splotched with bright green paint (liam doesn’t know what green means; not yet). his tender voice like ink, staining liam’s waking conscience, “you know i don’t love anyone but you.” zayn’s eyes are endless when liam searches them for the truth. zayn says, “you shouldn’t mind because someone else loves me.”

liam swallows. he feels discomposed, as if somebody had broke something crucial deep inside then pieced him back together all wrong and that it’s only a matter of time before he rips a stitch and comes apart. he thinks he should let go, of his uncertainties, and just press on the problem until he finds a resolution, but zayn’s eyes are butterscotch and his skin is warm so liam just holds onto zayn’s hand and counts to 27 (recalls the name of the bones like a chant) and he thinks: okay.

zayn lets liam hold onto his hips that night and make marks of his own and liam comes undone when zayn rasps, “murmur me something french, yeah lee?”

the flannel sheets know the shape of their bodies, pooled snugly around their hips, and zayn’s already half-gone, his lungs working slow and deep. liam takes in the small comfort that the few broken noises zayn makes are lost syllables of his name and that zayn still clutches at liam insistently, still too bound by fears to let go.

“may i stay?” asks zayn even though they’re in his house, his room.

“which way?” said liam.

“like this.” said zayn.

liam doesn’t answer, just intertwines their fingers and brushes back zayn’s fringe. he murmurs against zayn’s temple, “personne ne m’aime et j’ai les mains froides.”

nobody loves me and my hands are cold.

in his sleep, zayn hums and makes a move to curl closer to liam’s chest. that night, rest escapes liam as he lies alert, listening to zayn’s heartbeat, but the sound is foreign and all he can make out is a thumping bass line and static white noise.

when liam boxes, he is fancy footwork and slippery feints. liam is fast, sticks to the combinations he’s learned, and his strikes are dense like his gloves are packed with sand.

in comparison, niall boxes slugger-style; with powerful single punches and illusive hooks. niall is sturdy in his platform stance and has bad reaction time in the ring (because niall’s instincts don’t tell him to strike when he sees a fist coming, his reflexes tell him to absorb) but he more than makes up for it in finesse and accuracy. by definition, liam is a better boxer in regards both to technique and strength but niall is wily. he likes to play dirty.

(niall is not so innocent beneath the braces, the easy cackles, the glaring brightness; he’s all wrapped up in smoke and women and secrets.)

liam doesn’t mind though because niall is good company, keeps him on his toes, and when niall cheats (such as clocking him in the balls), the match is usually resolved by liam clinching his arm tight around his neck (once liam locks, he doesn’t let go) until the irishman coughs and tap out.

on a good day, liam’s got niall purple-faced by the hour mark, trapped against the corner, ribs at him until he throws in the towel. on a bad day, niall breaks his groove with a vile uppercut, swarms him then does something wildly prohibited like sit on his back.

on a really, really bad day (such as today), liam can barely keep his form – he’s exhausted from holding zayn at night and holding himself together in light – but liam is a creature of habit and on saturdays he alternately rows, cycles, and boxes with niall.

(even though they’re both on the track team, they never run together because running is and always has been liam’s thing.)

he grits his teeth, holding his crouch even as his knee twinges while niall jabs at him wildly, knocking his gloves at every hole liam exposes at his torso.

“c’mon, mate.” niall pants, caught between annoyance and confusion. “what’s with ya? haven’t got a single proper hit in today, damn it payne, don’t be a prat.”

“m’not.” liam protests before he breaks from defense into a weak bob-and-weave but niall sees the right cross coming and ducks around to liam’s back, rabbit-punching him in the kidneys. liam turns to swing but niall blocks him jab for jab until liam’s knuckles feel numb.

“yes. you. are.” niall punctuates with small but meaningful taps around liam’s flank. his blue eyes are tight in concentration, “your head’s not in this and your body’s not either.” he very nearly socks him in the chin but liam reels back in the last second. niall squints, “you’re getting slow. d’you want to stop?”

his muscles are straining to agree but he shakes his head woodenly, his skin damp with sweat, “sorry. i just. no. i mean. let’s keep going.”

“well then quit arse-ing around. stop daydreaming about zayn for a bloody minute and fucking hit me.”

and suddenly liam’s angry. angry at everything. angry at niall’s remarks, then on a deeper level, angry at niall’s easiness with everything that liam has to work so hard to achieve. angry at zayn for his drugs, his unfaithfulness, his manipulations. angry at himself because he’s tired and he’s jealous and he’s been slow on his runs and zayn’s slipped off into the city again like a receding tide called away by gravity. and all liam can do is watch from the shores and wait for its return to sweep him up once more.

until then it feels as if there are cracks in liam’s body (his armour), not so gaping that he would break, but just enough that he can feel the aches and the wind and saltwater ooze through and sting his wounds.

but for now, it’s easy enough to confuse pain with anger, so liam wounds his muscles, feels them coiling alongside his tendons like steel springs, crowds into niall’s space. he breaks niall’s counters quickly, slips, feints, finds an open gap, and dealt him a blunt cross under his jaw.

niall’s head snaps back. he swears (“motherfucker”), whips off his glove and touches his chin gingerly with wrapped fingers. he waves liam away when he rushes forward (“christ, niall, i’m sorry, you alright? god i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m so sorry”). he stumbles over to his corner of the ring and slides down to the floor, his mouth turning and liam winces as he hears the little clicks and crack before niall spits out a wad of blood and holds a cold water bottle to his jaw.

“alright.” niall grunts wobbly. “now that you’ve got a hit in, you want to talk about zayn? or do i have to take another cross before you’re feeling guilty enough?”

liam stares at his hands, slowly undoing the bandages keeping his bones in place, as if all that’s keeping him together these days are a few flimsy pieces of gauze. he hears his own voice unravel when he mumbles hollowly, “nothing to talk about.”

“okay then. i’ll talk. you listen.” niall’s tone is firm but his mouth is pressed in concern. “look, i don’t want to get into whatever’s happening between you and zayn because getting into it means picking a side so the less i know the better. but he’s been missing a lot of school and he’s just…god he’s –so thin.” niall’s eyes are milky blue, gazing at liam but seeing zayn’s shoulder blades, sharp as fins. “i don’t know if you’re just pretending not to notice or you’re too full of shit to believe it but there’s something wrong with him and you need to get him to talk about it.”

niall puts down the water bottle. his jaw is swollen but niall will be fine because he’s carved from wood. he looks off to the side of the ring, pensive. sometimes niall gets small and quiet and liam’s stomach clench with bitter guilt because niall is so empathetic; he feels everything. he sounds very sad when he continues, “you both live so much inside your heads. you both expect too much, you forget how important words can be. it makes it so easy to hurt each other. and you two really know how to break each other’s hearts, don’t you?”

hearts are a wondrous thing. they’re strong.

highly-resistant to fatigue, restless in its work. it symbolizes life more than any other anatomy (the brain or the lungs) because it’s blood and tissue and valve and because just like life: it goes on.

makes sense that we would love with it as well. for once you start loving someone, parts of them start to replace the role of your vital organs. you stop thinking about it in terms of ventricular and aortic and your heart stops pumping hemoglobin; it pumps lavender, ink, and a voice (it pumps a name).

heartbreak does not occur easily; in fact, it’s safe to say it doesn’t occur at all. the heart is a muscle trained to withstand enormous amounts of pressure, fortified by a cage of bones. a heart can strain or murmur or drown, it can become infected or lose it’s beat. it’s fickle; sometimes it’s too small or sometimes too large; it can explode. but a heart does not break.

it corrodes.

in ancient aztec culture, hearts were istli, a fragment of the sun’s heat (“round, hot, pulsating”) and was entrapped by the body and its desires. heart-extraction was viewed as a means of liberating the istli and reuniting it with the sun.

the victim is placed on a sacrificial stone. the priest would cut through the abdomen with an obsidian blade then the heart would be torn out still beating and held towards the sky.

in modern times, they use turtles.

most people were heartless about turtles because a turtle’s heart will beat for days after it has been cut up and butchered.

liam’s got two turtles (achilles and patroclus), both rescued by zayn. he looks to them and he thinks: i have such a heart too.

zayn turns 18.

timeline: 2 weeks after zayn starts injecting heroin.

there’s a big affair that takes place in zayn’s mum’s penthouse in london. the dj plays soft upbeat music, there’s a three-tiered cake, catered food, and all sorts of people show up. celebrities and journalists and louis tomlinson.

“who’s that niall’s talking to?” liam is lingering with zayn on the second floor – zayn’s been on edge all night, startling when people approach him. he’s eventually able to sneak upstairs where there are considerably less people. he’d thread slim fingers through liam’s and they’d occasionally sway to the music (it was nice, normal even) – overseeing niall talking at a furiously enthusiastic pace to a slinky brunette in braces.

zayn sweeps a lazy glance down, freezes, and the entire length of his spine stiffens. he looks away quickly, focusing on the champagne flute sweating in his hand instead.

“louis tomlinson. think nialler says he knew him from back in camp.” zayn shrugs, going for nonchalant, but it’s twitchy at best and liam wishes he could read zayn’s mind. they have gotten to be such strangers lately even though they’re strangers that share a bed every night (but liam’s felt that zayn is cosmos away even when they’re sharing breaths), “he’s some sort of writer now.”

“of what?” it doesn’t surprise liam, niall’s perpetual connections. but louis tomlinson does not look like niall’s usual companions (guileless josh or clever aidan or homely liam). niall likes people he can protect and louis tomlinson, well –

louis wears the word ‘worldly’ like it’s an old sweater and he’s tanned and his hair is carefully windswept. his blue eyes are crinkly and clever and he has the pointy chin of a shakespearean villain.

“i dunno. published a book, i think.”

soon after, zayn gets pulled away for photos and liam is left alone nursing his soda and the ache in his side where it still stings from zayn’s tender phantom touches. he leans against the banisters, overlooking into the hall below, marveling at how you can be so close to someone, they start to only exist in your mind.

“like it?” a slow, dark voice asks and liam turns in time to see a skinny boy in a well-cut suit approach. “i know it’s vulgar to discuss about the party while we’re still here but what d’you reckon?”

“s’alright. what do you think?” liam blinks in surprise.

he sways up next to liam, his hands in his pocket. he looks young, liam decides, younger than him even. his drawl is sleepy like he’s reading off the post, “it’s a lie. we’re a bunch of sad strangers dressed beautifully and all the glittering assholes say it’s grand because it’s what they want to see. but we’re sad and alone, standing here, aren’t we, mate? it’s just the pictures make this all seem beautiful, which is a lie, and everyone loves a big fat lie.”

“i’m the big fat liar’s boyfriend.”

“bastard!” he swears affectionately and barks a laugh. it’s riotous and it sounds a bit like a bullet to the chest.

mentally, liam catalogues that he’s quite lovely-looking, smiling at liam in a way that seem to suggest he’d be sweet to unwrap. he has a head of devilish curls and a mouth red as sin. he sweeps his fringe away from his white-pink face and his eyes are huge and lush and pure green.

green like what zayn’s been trying to recreate for weeks on canvas and liam has to stagger back from the impact of the realization. the boy’s grin widens, this one is more menacing; his smiles have layers and edges.

this is harry styles.

“harry styles.” he doesn’t offer his hand, just thins his irises into a silent purr as means of introduction.

the back of liam’s neck is tingling in a dreadful way, the way your body reacts when it’s sensing imminent danger, “liam payne.”

“i know who you are.” harry intones smoothly. liam turns rigid. but harry just goes on smiling mysteriously some more. he explains, “you were in the papers. they say you’re going to race in the olympics.”

liam shifts uncomfortably. he tries not to think about how he’s been lagging on his laps as of late. he tries not to think about the reason for his lagging is standing right in front of him and he’s waiting for the wave of rational anger and jealousy to overtake him but he’s finding it hard to conjure those emotions at the moronic youth (even if the innocence is only for show). instead, he wonders, “how do you know zayn?”

as if they don’t have any idea exactly who each other are.

and the green-eyed boy catches his tongue between his teeth, like he’s biting down on the things he wants to say, studying liam closely before answering in a breezy tone that bypasses the question completely, “i’m here with louis.” and he says ‘louis’ like it were synonymous with ‘god’ or ‘beckham’. then he adds, pointedly and borderline possessively, “i’m his date.”

liam tries to map out the basis of their intertwining relationships with the knowledge of liamandzayn which broke down into zaynandharry, which intrudes into harryandlouis.

he wonders if louis knows about liamandzayn or zaynandharry – liam thinks he must know because louis looks too sharp for his own good (they could all do with a little ignorance in times like this) – and he wonders how louis feels about this black web of lies and play-pretend.

maybe he doesn’t care, liam takes into account that he’s a writer. or maybe he likes it.

“zayn tells me your bloke wrote a book. any good?” my boyfriend said this about your boyfriend, seems to be what he’s trying to communicate but really it feels more like liam’s drawing lines in water.

harry smirks, his response is dutiful, “of course.”

liam isn’t immune to the dark charm of harry styles, nor does he pretend to. he sees the big pretty jaw that juts out proud. he sees the cherub cheeks, the dimples, the long elegant bones that harry styles is comprise of.

(liam wants to know what harry’s bones feel like. it looks like it might feel dense, filled with so much easy loveliness. and tight, like maybe his joints are bound together the way steel is melted and forged.)

“it’s about you, isn’t it?” it’s not so much a question as an observation.

he laughs quietly, shy, “some of me.”

“oh? what did he leave out?”

“the truth.” liam thinks harry is too young to be this sad. too young to be this tired and this jagged and seen so much.

liam doesn’t understand because he’s privileged and trusting and insensitive to human emotion – liam doesn’t know words like fury or revenge or manipulation. they stand in a hanging silence because zayn interrupts unintentionally by cutting the cake and cameras go off from everywhere.

then harry asks him, “how do you like london?” harry seems preoccupied with location, how do you like it here how do you like it there, as if being in a different place could make him a different person.

“dunno much about it. you tell me. you live here, yeah?”

harry gives a wry smile, “louis likes ibiza. we have a house there.” louis. the name is so weighty on harry’s tongue, as if harry had to trade something precious for it. harry’s eyes are starry on his moon face, green like the ibiza shallows. he explains to liam patiently, “and london? london is a lot like a street girl…the problem with london is that she’s gorgeous and darling and she’ll suck your cock until you stop paying her. then you start to see that when you look behind the right lighting, the good manners, it’s cold and filthy, but by then she’ll have left you penniless and…empty.”

“so what were you doing here?” liam can’t keep the judgmental tone out of his voice.

“you know.” harry gestures vaguely with his hand, raising both of his brows in challenge.

liam frowns, “well, no i don’t. were you studying?”

he snickers, genuinely amused, “no. not school.”

“work?” he presses, stepping closer.

“sort of.”

“what sort?” asks liam suspiciously.

harry flashes a perfect line of white teeth, shrugs lazily, “’suppose you can say i was a distributor…”

“distributing wh – ” oh. oh. and there’s a montage of zayn’s blown pupils and zayn’s manic smile and zayn’s shaking hands playing in the back of liam’s head.

liam feels his eyes widen in realization and he didn’t notice how close he was to harry until he counted all the viridian veins that made up harry’s galactic irises.

“look at your bambi eyes.” harry muses, his breath is hot and wet and his mouth is sweet with wine.

“i can’t see my bambi eyes.” liam admits quietly. harry rocks forward on the balls of his feet and liam blinks like a butterfly. harry tilts his head accordingly with a small sweet grin, leans in, when liam murmurs just barely, “where is louis, harry?”

harry stops and lingers there the time it takes liam to run a lap around the track. finally, he pulls back with great force, like drawing himself from orbit, and nods without glancing away from liam, “he’s over there. talking to your bird.”

liam turns to see that zayn had mostly defaulted to what he always does when he’s uncomfortable or shy; indifferent and cool, as niall tagged with louis, retold an event with lots of emotion. zayn bobs along, scanning the room, and stops abruptly at the two of them.

harry waves down. “stay away from london. it’s not for you.”

“you too.”

he smiles sharply at liam, and his smile doesn’t stop growing, “you take care now.”

liam swallows, “i will.”

it’s not until harry’s walking away, taking a flute of champagne from a passing waiter, that liam sees zayn’s watch hanging off his stone pale wrist.

timeline: winter break so liam stays the next week in london with zayn.

mornings are weird because zayn’s mum’s penthouse is silent and liam wakes up feeling too wound up without boris and high-pitched chatterings about ballet and french braids. afternoons are better because zayn and him hold hands and walk around town and zayn wears his glasses with his hood pulled over his head. he smiles at liam before kissing him softly by the thames. the grimy overcast of the city paints shades and holes on zayn’s face, swallowing him like a tide, and liam just tries to hold on despite lunar gravity.

they go see the london eye (they don’t ride it because zayn’s afraid of heights). they stand in the hexagonal construct of trafalgar square and liam reads about the history on the plaque while zayn follows the parabola of the fountain with nebulous eyes.

saturday night coming back from the garden museum, liam is dozing in the back of the car, tucked against zayn’s side, zayn’s long fingers carding gently through his cropped hair. the gesture is sweet and mindless, which would usually put liam out like a light, but liam hasn’t ran in a week so his synapses are hyperactive, firing restlessly.

he settles for recounting zayn’s bones – scaphoid, triquetrum, pisiform, capitate, lunate –

“hey.” zayn whispers. liam almost answers back until he realizes zayn isn’t talking to him. “drop me off at the lizard lounge, you know where that is? take liam back to the house. try not to jostle him, yeah?”

the driver hums in affirmation and liam feels the car shift as they make a turn. liam is questioning himself internally; what would happen if he were to wake up, would zayn still leave or would he stay with him and crawl into bed with him?

liam must take too long deciding because the next thing he knows, zayn is laying him horizontal on the seat (it’s warm where zayn’s been sitting). he smooths out liam’s hair one last time before sliding out, and for a second there’s heavy rhythmic music, then the door shuts like it’s pressing all the noise back into a container.

he can feel the tires shifting, picking up speed, and liam is thinking about things he could do tonight to preoccupy himself. he could run a bath, read, find a track, go see niall at his hotel, call his mum. instead, he hears himself call out, “stop the car. please.”

he knows what he hopes to resolve by following zayn (come home, choose me) but he can’t know for sure that it will.

and liam is really not the kind of guy who would be at a place like this at this time of the evening.

but here he is, the lizard lounge, and the terrain is entirely unfamiliar. the music is absolutely pounding. the floor shakes; glitters then disappears with the flashing of strobe lights and stomping feet. everywhere liam looks, it’s a sea of faces. zayn is nowhere in sight.

“you look like you need a drink.” someone says. liam can’t tell place where the voice is coming from but there’s a shot of something purple swirled with pink pushed into his hand.

he downs it.

details get fuzzy after that and liam finds himself leaning back against a post that may or may not be structural with regard to the building, but it certainly feels essential to his maintenance of an upright position. he’s trying to recall his purpose here when he gets approached by a sultry creature that introduces herself as dani. she’s very pretty; not as pretty as zayn but very few people are. dani asks if it’s his first time here.

liam is having difficulties stringing together words, “it’s…i mean, i’ve…i was,” he pushes the heel of his hands into his eyes, scrubbing.

“it’s okay.” dani soothes, patting his shoulder. she keeps her hand there, scratching her acrylic nails in what she probably thought was comforting but it made liam shudder unpleasantly. her smile is blue under the music, “you look tired, love. let’s get you a pick-me-up, yeah?”

in the bathroom everything is sandy marble veined with white. there are long full-length mirrors everywhere, which makes it tough to be discreet. but clearly liam is not the only person led in here to take on fuel.

lots of sniffling going on in the stalls.

dani picks one in the far left, bolting it behind her. liam shakily sits on the toilet, it’s drafty in here and he shivers as his sweat dries on his skin. dani is taking out a compact and a key card from her little purse then a little baggie from her bra.

she shakes out white powder, pushing them into two little bumps. she offers it to liam, along with a thin straw that comes with the cocktails at the bar.

he just stares dazedly for a long moment, shakes his head, “i don’t…no, i’m – i’ve never…”

“first time for everything.” dani prompts very kindly. she puts the compact with the lines on the water box, guiding him by the shoulders towards it, “it’s good stuff. bolivian. they call it the ‘marching powder’.”

“why’s that?”

dani beams; she’s really quite beautiful, “you’ll see.”

liam takes the straw carefully with two fingers. it feels awkward, holding it up to his nose, plugging his other nostril. a voice in his head is warning him that this is an epically bad idea, it’s his own voice, and maybe liam wants to escape that for a little while.

the first line is a disaster because the sensation of something trickling up his airway is foreign and the spot between his eyes burns and he ends up coughing, blowing the rest of it into the air.

dani rubs his back sympathetically, “sharp, huh.” then leads him to the next bump and this one goes better. it still burns but in a nice way that makes him feel warm and blurred and fast on the inside, the way his lungs ache after he’s ran for a long, long time.

“alright, love?” she asks.

and liam blinks against the oncoming high, his voice loose and gooey, “yeah. yeah.”

“excellent. let’s go dance.”

and liam is not much of a dancer but he like the way she moves, the oiled ellipses of her curvy hips and easy smile. and it’s not until liam’s on the dance floor, rhythm pulsing thick with white noise, does he understand the meaning of ‘marching powder’ because his brain at this moment is composed of brigades of tiny bolivian soldiers, tramping to the beat of the bass.

he thinks the music might be latin-themed as well and it’s not just the piranhas cruising in his bloodstream –

“liam?”

 - the electrifying buzz of marimbas in his nerves –

“liam!” infinite fingers grab him. he jolts, nearly boxing them in reflex, but it’s zayn (quiff disheveled, eyes wild) but still zayn. zayn shakes his head, holding onto liam’s ears, “lee, what…what are you – ”

i chased after you, is what liam wants to tell zayn, isn’t that what you wanted? but the bolivan soldiers won’t allow for sentimentality.

“oh god. oh god. what did you do? what did you do?” zayn brushes his thumb above liam’s lip to catch the stray cocaine and liam’s silence makes zayn flinch more than if liam’s yelled.

“m’fine.” liam mumbles, putting his hands over zayn’s.

“relax, darling. looks like he’s just having a bit of fun.” a sleepy drawl interrupts and insert on cue: harry styles, all slinkiness, wearing his perpetual smirk.

there’s no fancy suit this time, just a t-shirt dragged down around the neck and a ratty old beanie; but the sight of his clavicle and slim arms make liam feel like he’s seeing too much. liam decides that harry styles wears obscenity well – the way an animal does.

zayn’s jaw clenches and the glare he shoots harry is harsher than what liam recognizes. he hisses through his teeth, “shut. up.” his face softens considerably (his eyes are melted and his mouth slacks) when he takes liam by the arm and tells him, “let’s get you some air, yeah lee?”

dani steps in this time, hip cocked in annoyance, “wait a minute – ”

but zayn snarls, “fuck off.” and dani purses her lips then backs off in surrender.

he lets zayn lead him forward blindly, pausing only when harry squeezes zayn’s shoulder, “don’t take too long. i’ve got shots lined up.” – and liam can tell by the way harry’s knuckles lock, that it’s a hand that’s been broken and the bones are mismatched and rough; he’s been put back together wrong.

then when liam passes, he’s got his tongue between sharp teeth again, his green eyes in slits. he sounds exasperated and perhaps that’s disappointment liam hears too but he can’t be sure, “i told you to stay away.”

and as liam walks away, he thinks dazedly that harry styles’ a python, body wrapped tight around zayn, swallowing everything whole.

they go out the back door and zayn props him gingerly against the wall of the alleyway after taking a helpless look at the dirty wet ground. he lights a cigarette as soon as his hands are free, and he’s halfway done when liam starts to feel kind of unsteady.

the euphoric dancing in his head is morphing more into stomping.

he thinks the ground is getting a lot closer before zayn drops his cigarette, slots his hands under liam’s armpits, hoisting him to his feet. he swears in frustration but the undertone of panic overwhelms him, “christ. liam, what were you thinking? dammit, you’re heavy.”

liam can’t talk right now because he thinks he might puke and zayn’s alarm pitches, “lee, you with me?”

in – one, two – out – one, two – in – one, two – out – one, two –

“y-yeah.” he croaks.

“for god’s sake.” zayn closes his eyes in stark relief. he brushes back liam’s sweaty fringe, “you have a meet next week. how are you supposed to run? and your kidney. do you have any idea…” how damaging this is? zayn must be very upset (even his eyebrows look tortured) and his plead is watery, “why did you come?”

liam laughs, his bitterness catches even himself off guard, “why else but for you?”

and zayn mumbles, “you shouldn’t have.” as if liam’s bought zayn a book of poetry or a bouquet of lavender.

“i was – i am…trying to understand.” the bolivians are fighting in his head, marching for more powder.

zayn shakes his head, “you won’t. you can’t. how can you possibly…” zayn chokes so for a silent moment, they just both try to compose themselves, trying to contain the fallen pieces but between the two of them, there are barely any safe words left and liam doesn’t know what to think about that. the words are worn and very vulnerable when zayn speaks, “it’s my burden. s’not yours to bear.”

“but i am bearing it, aren’t i.” the weight has settled deep in liam’s back, wearing into his muscles, and it dragging him down with every step. and it’s so heavy and i’m tired. “i just don’t know what it is.”

“i know it hurts but that’s just the way love is.” somehow, it’s colder in zayn’s arms than being in the biting english weather. zayn kisses his cheek, it’s too familiar liam has to turn away. zayn doesn’t wince but liam feels him shrink back. he begs with boundless lashes, “go home, please, liam.”

“come with me.”

and here is the repeated image of lovers destroyed:

zayn with his back to liam and liam waiting for hopeless absolution and zayn just walks back into the club and leaves liam with nothing but the memory of his bones and his cocaine heart.

there’s the image, and here it is again:

liam sitting on the curb, numb from the cold, pulse crawling under his skin. liam sees sunrise and tanned, elfin hands lifting him into a warm, bright-colored car, his head pillowed by a stack of shakespeare leatherbounds and a musical voice prattering to a beatles song.

here’s how olympic trials work.

olympics-eligible athletes are very categorically separated into a two-tier system based on performance: a standard and b standard.

if two or more athletes in a given trial event have met the a standard, then the top three athletes with an a standard will make the olympic team – regardless of whether they finish in the top three of the trial race (meaning: if that year’s runners happen to all meet standard, only the fastest three can compete).

complex. here’s more.

if fewer than two athletes in a trial final have met the a standard, then only one athlete – the best finisher with an a or b standard – will make the olympic team. if an even has no a qualifier, the trial’s highest placing b will go to the olympics. a b-standard athlete does have a chance but mostly likely only if an a-level athlete is knocked out by an injury.

you must meet at least the b standard in order to be considered and the difference between a and b are a matter of .1 milliseconds.

so it’s fair to say liam knows how quickly one’s life can change all in the span of .1 milliseconds.

liam knows to measure by every breath; knows how to ‘make it count’.

in – one, two – out – one, two –

timeline: monday night 11pm, bradford; liam waits for zayn to come home. he puts on chopin’s nocturne opus 9 no. 2.

“hey.” zayn comes through the door of his room and blinks at the sight of liam standing by the window. he seems surprised but smiles shyly, dumping his monogrammed duffle on the floor. liam forces his lips to curve in response and zayn pulls on the cuffs of his leather jacket to shrug it off. “thank for waiting up. what’s the time?”

“about midnight.”

“christ. my head’s in two places.” usually this is the part zayn wraps his arms around liam’s waist and kisses the back of his neck but liam is warning him off with a wary look. zayn twitches nervously, “how’s track?”

“good. ongoing.” not so good, actually – niall’s been kicking his ass. liam takes a measured step forward, “i think we – ”

zayn jumps and interjects wildly, “how ‘bout some tea, hm? i’ll start a kettle.”

he’s walking briskly to the door but liam’s at least fast enough to hold it close before he gets there, “no. zayn…”

“what?” zayn tries for defensive and when zayn is defensive he crosses his arms over his sternum like a chestplate, fingers digging into his own shoulders. he picks his gaze up from liam’s sneakers, jeans, hoodie, up to his eyes and zayn is inconsolable. he asks meekly, “why are you dressed?”

“because i think i might be about to leave you, and i didn’t want to be wearing a sleeping gown.”

he already did the washing up this morning, carefully separated what was his and what was zayn’s but so much has been shared, traded, swapped so many times that he can’t tell. he threw away his toothbrush that sits next to zayn’s in the bathroom, packed up his books about anatomy and french and great expectations.

at one point, he thought to himself: how did it all get here? how did these shimmying atoms of his end up in the nuclear space that is zayn?

where does liam end and zayn begin?

zayn is making broken noises that sound like he’s tearing out of his body, his armor still on lock and liam can’t stay for this. he feels ancient and too wracked with grief to properly cry out. he fists his hands like he’s ready to box because he’s never been restricted from touching zayn before and he’s not sure what the proper procedure is.

“i’m sorry.”

zayn rocks his head back and forth, “what are you sorry for?”

“everything.” but everything doesn’t even begin to cover it.

“why didn’t you do this before?” there are faint purple lines on zayn’s arm – scarred veins; track marks.

“dependency. and cowardice.” liam answers quietly. zayn shudders. “at first, it was because i needed you as much as you needed me. but then you didn’t anymore. and then it was because i still needed you.”

he’s practiced these responses in his head but nothing can prepare him for the hole in his chest from zayn’s wrecked eyes and zayn’s wet sobs.

“then why are you doing it now? is it because you don’t love me anymore?”

liam feels like he might sink under the sadness. he says very, very softly, “no. it’s because i do love you…i love you so much…and you don’t even understand it.”

“how can i?!” zayn lashes out, his hands shaking so badly by his side, he slips twice before grabbing onto the corner of the dresser. “how do you expect me to when you’re swim captain and head of the class and running in the fucking olympics and i’m just a fuck-up with nice cheekbones, yeah? and i…i think about it all the time. how you are everything that’s good about me. and how long it would take you to realize it.”

and it’s easy to forget that zayn has a whole mountain of insecurities and self-loathing filled to the brim, reaching towards everest because liam is usually cautious to keep the demons at bay.

he doesn’t know when he stopped.

“zayn – ” liam blanches, “why didn’t you – i would’ve…”

zayn just snorts, looking away at a spot on the floor, “so much of our relationship is built on the implied. and when shorthand’s not enough, we had forgotten how to speak to each other.”

how would you like me to tell you, liam thinks desperately. does he say it in sighs from his tired lungs or scream it across the space that’s separating them? should he kneel down with hands clasped together and string together a phrase that begins with ‘will’, ends sweetly with ‘stay here forever’, the ‘you’ whispered reverently in between the two halves like a prayer? does he carve it to leave scars or should he swallow it and hope that when zayn looks into his chest, the letters are white like bones in an x-ray?

“is that why…harry?” liam doesn’t want to know the answer but he needs the truth to justify all that he’s doing, “do you love him?”

“it felt good to be needed. to know we were both going nowhere fast together. mindless. numbing.”

“could you leave him?”

“could you give up running?” and liam can’t because liam is filled with self-righteousness and moral obligations and liam didn’t come from wealth or a famous name so there’s the need to prove himself worthy of his fancy education and leadership and zayn. but he can’t pretend, even to himself, that this is entirely about zayn.

his identity is inextricably linked to the track now. if he loses that, he loses his strength, his value, his sense of entitlement. and if he loses all those things, he isn’t liam payne. and everyone in bradford knows that zayn malik loves liam payne.

if i don’t run, you won’t love me, you’ll see.

but he won’t delude himself into romanticizing this. he wants zayn plus – zayn plus gratification, zayn plus admiration, zayn plus a gold medal because he’s earned it, dammit.

so maybe liam can be selfish.

they won’t lie but they can’t face the truth so then there’s just nothing left to say. and liam can do nothing but move out the door because he’s already got his response. he knew it before he asked it. thinking back, it was childish of them, liam supposes, to think that they can endure anything just because they love each other more than anyone else ever can, to think that love could be enough.

“please, liam. please.”

and here is the repeated image of lovers destroyed:

liam walks out of the room, a hollow man (his belief that zayn and him were always meant to be shattered by insecurity and glory), and leaves zayn crumpling within himself.

and some say the world will end in fire. some say in ice. but liam thinks:

this is the way the world ends. this is the way the world ends. this is the way the world ends. not with a bang but with a whimper.

now let’s go back to the beginning.

suppose that people live forever.

the population of the world splits into two, interestingly: the laters and the nows.

the nows and laters have one thing in common. with infinite life come an infinite list of relatives. generations never die, all alive and offering advice. sons never escape from the shadows of their father. no one ever comes into his own.

when a man makes a decision, he feels compelled to talk it over with his parents and grandparents and great-grandparents, ad infinitum, to learn from their errors.

where every action must be verified a million times, life is tentative.

bridges thrust halfway over bodies of water and then abruptly stop. buildings rise nine stories high but have no roofs. the grocer’s inventory of crisps, salt, cod, and beef change with every change of mind, every consultation.

sentences go unfinis –

engagements end just days before weddings. and on the boulevards, people turn their heads and peer behind their backs to see who might be watching.

such is the cost of immortality. no person is whole. no person is free. neither a later or a now.

over time, some have determined that the only way to live is to die. in death, a man is free of the weight of the past. these few souls dive into lake constance or hurl themselves from monte lema, ending their infinite lives.

in this way, the finite has conquered the infinite, millions of autumns have yielded to no autumns, millions of snowfalls have yielded to no snowfalls, millions of lovers have yielded to none.

lovers make history: here are the blankets, layer on layer, down and down.