Chapter Text
Liam Payne is running for his life.
Well. Not really, but he imagines that this is much like how it would feel. The cobblestones blur under his boots, the rush of his blood in his ears drowns out the indignant protests of the people he jostles. His pulse beats fit to burst from his temples like a trapped bird. His pursuers holler from where they've fallen behind, but they're not as quick as he is and he's losing them.
He runs down Main Street for a while more, using the pedestrian crowds to put more distance between them. When he reaches the bridge he veers to the side instead of crossing, stumbling onto the lower walk that runs along the canal. It's not crowded here, the damp stink of the water making for a far less pleasant walk than the streets above. The stones are dark and slimy in places, trash scattered carelessly. Liam doesn't pay it any mind, too preoccupied with hiding to be put off. His breath comes in great heaves, gusting through his mouth to fill his burning lungs. He bends forward, sweaty hot palms braced on his thighs while he tries to regain control of his body.
His mates aren't likely to be deterred by a simple chase, not when the stag party starts in a mere three hours, but Liam finally has what he was chasing; a moment to himself. The first - it feels - in weeks. As soon as his legs stop feeling like pudding he heads further into the filth and slips under the bridge. It's dark and even dirtier, smells vaguely like fish. It's also occupied.
"Oh!" Liam exclaims at the sight of a young girl seating on an upturned crate. She's skinny and dark, with wide eyes and sunken cheeks. "Please do excuse me I didn't mean to startle you."
She must be a good handful of years younger than him, a child too young to be wandering the city by herself. She's clearly underfed too, the ragged dress and shawl draping too loose around her narrow shoulders. But her eyes are hard in the way that Liam has learned to associate with long lives full of hard lessons.
"Pretty paintings for sale Mister, pretty paintings for your home."
Liam balks, befuddled, he hadn’t even noticed the pile of boards the girl has leaning against her knee. He'd been so surprised to see a child down here that he'd failed to see that she's got a blanket laid down over the slimy stones, attempting to protect the collection of canvases. "Oh! How lovely!" He exclaims, stepping to look closer. The girl shifts, spreading the paintings for a better view.
They're really quite good, Liam notes with surprise. He isn't generally artistically inclined himself, but he's been dragged through enough Salons to recognize that this artist possesses unique talent. The canvases themselves are flimsy things, ragged edged material crudely stretched over scrap wood. But the paint laid skillfully over them negates their shabby construction.
"May I?" Liam asks gently. The girl keeps her dark eyes narrowed cautiously, but she tilts her chin in assent. Liam crouches, sparing a moment of mourning for the hems of his trousers on the slimy ground, and look through the paintings.
Beautiful. Is simply Liam's initial thought. The images are stunning, done in the new style that's been trending around the salons lately; he thinks he's heard his father's friends call it Impressionism (though they did not speak the word favourably, traditionalists through and through who spit it through sneering lips). There are still forms, but the artist has constructed them not with smooth shadows and definitive lines like the classics donning the walls of Payne manor. Rather they are born of dappled colour and flurries of strokes. Laying his eyes on each painting is a sensual experience, and Liam drinks it up.
There are a few familiar scenes, city streets, parks, the river. Marketable. But as Liam flips through he uncovers strange landscapes, exotic images full of colours and shapes not found in London, or anywhere in England. There are oceans of blue-green, foliage richer and more lush than the most lavish of gardens. There are fantastical animals, skyscapes of fire. Things that Liam has only ever encountered in the illustrations of encyclopedias. Except nothing in an encyclopedia has this brilliance, the colors jewel deep and vivid, there is life and passion in the marks that sends a thrill to him core. They are strange and exquisite.
And somehow...they feel familiar. The paintings that should be distant, alien, instead inspire an intense longing in his gut. Home this feeling burns, this is the place I belong, this is where I'm meant to be.
His fingers falter on the corner of a painting, heart thundering. His eyes widen as they take in one of the only images containing people rather than wildlife. It's of a group of children crowded around a blazing fire. But Liam doesn't see the vibrant strokes that form the flame, or the smooth dramatic contrast curving the lines of the bodies. Instead he inhales and his lungs fill with smoke. He feels the flames burn down his front, his face scorching, sparks whirling above his head. He feels the jostle of limbs as his companions shift and settle, and elbow to the ribs, a foot treading on his toes. The hears the snap-hiss-pop of the embers, the hoots and hollers and song in his ears, a soaring laugh as pure as church bells. He tastes salt and ash, feels the grit of sand between his toes, the tack of dirt and brine all over his body.
He jolts back to reality when there's a clatter on the bridge above their heads, the harsh cough of an automobile engine. Drops of moisture rain down and the girl hisses, wrenching the paintings back to shelter them from the water. "How much for it?" Liam asks once the thunderous machine has past.
The girls raises dark brows and lets her eyes wander over Liam. He squirms slightly but allows her survey. He's acutely aware that he's dressed up for the evenings party, in his best vest and jacket, silk cravat, imported leather shoes, felt hat and all. The chain of his watch gleams particularly bright in the dark. "Four pounds." She eventually declares, jaw set challengingly.
It's robbery and they both know it. The paintings are beautiful but based on the quality of the materials one is barely even worth a single pound. But Liam considers the threadbare state of the girl's clothes, the jut of her boney cheeks. "How about this." He offers, reaching out to pull a board depicting tropical flowers in a rainbow of hues. Sophia would like it, and if he gets it framed properly it would go well in their new flat. "Make it five pounds and I'll take this one as well."
The girl agrees immediately, she’d be a fool not to. She snatched the coins from his hand like she’s afraid he might change his mind, and then produces a sheet of newsprint to wrap the boards.
“Did you paint these?” He asks as her slender fingers deftly fold and tuck the corners in. He’s not surprised when she shakes her head no.
“My brother.” She says softly, a bit reluctantly. Her aloofness making way for a glow of pride.
“Does he ever come to sell them? I’d like to meet him.” Her eyes shutter again, distrust pressing her features tight. “I really love the paintings.” He tries to placate, “is like to buy more. Maybe commission him for a big one for my home.”
She’s still glaring, so he fishes another coin from his purse and holds it out. “Maybe you can bring him with you? I can’t tomorrow but next week? Same time and place? I’d just like to meet him, talk to him, that’s all.”
“He can’t come here. He’s too busy.” She bites her lip, hungry eyes on the gold between his fingers. “He works at the park.” She offers warily. “In the stables. If you go around lunch he might speak with you.”
Liam tries to smile reassuringly and holds out the promised pound. “Thank you. I have only the best intentions miss, I assure you. Your brother is very talented. What’s his name?”
She’s gotten to her feet, gathering up the rest of the paintings to go. She’s a smart girl, and knows that she should get the small fortune that now sits in her purse home and secure quickly. She answers over her shoulder as she bustles away.
“Ask for Malik.”