Archive of Our Own

Liam figures that it all starts the week Zayn goes home for his grandfather's funeral.

They're in practice, working on the routine for “Chasing Cars,” when Zayn's cellphone goes off, shrilling a rapid succession of rings that quickly drags their attention away from the soft melody of the song. Savan gives Zayn an impatient look, but when Zayn bites his lip and ducks his head, eyes uncertain, Savan nods and waves his hand, giving him permission to take the call.

Zayn skitters out of the room, mobile phone clutched to his ear. The rest of the boys breathe a collective sigh of relief and sit on the floor, happy for the momentary reprieve.

Half an hour goes by and Zayn's still not back.

Savan's face is lined with irritation, and he mutters something to himself as he reaches for his own mobile and dials Zayn. Niall and Harry have collapsed on the floor at this point in a fit of giggles over something stupid, Niall poking Harry's dimples, and Louis is mocking both of them, seating himself on Niall's shoulders. Liam just looks at all of them, rolling his eyes like he can't believe he's friends with these idiots, though he knows he wouldn't have it any other way. Louis has a way of diffusing the seriousness of a situation, and Liam tries to go along with it, let himself think that everything's fine.

Zayn doesn't pick up, and Savan cusses under his breath, and orders them to stay put as he leaves to find Zayn.

“Where do you figure Zayn went?” Niall asks, fidgeting, and he looks a little cranky. Liam figures it's because they've been at practice for long and he's hungry.

“Probably to go take a nap,” Liam tells him, scratching his arm absently and running a free hand through his hair.

“Freaking Malik. Outsmarting all of us, really,” Louis puts in jokingly, and the rest of the boys chuckle uneasily. Liam busies himself protesting as Harry and Niall tickle him.

Eventually as the minutes drag on, they fall into unsettling silence. Niall and Harry sit cross-legged on the wooden floor, and Louis drums his fingers against his thigh. Liam kicks at the floor with his shoe, hoping the awkwardness isn't obvious. It's quiet which is weird because just a few minutes ago, they were laughing and dancing and Savan was telling them to reel it in and focus.

It seems like an eternity has gone by by the time Savan comes back in. His mouth is in a grim, tight line and he brushes his hand through his hair. He asks them to come gather around him because he has a quick announcement. Liam feels his heart beat a little faster, and braces himself for what he somehow knows will be bad news.

“Zayn's going home this weekend,” Savan tells them, and his voice is gruff and sorrowful. “His grandfather died, so he's going to the funeral. But,” he steels himself, making his tone stronger and firmer, “that just means we have to work that much harder, okay? We're one man short, and we don't want to let that hurt us. We want to still be here when he gets back.”

Liam feels sick.

“Are we going to perform without him?” Harry asks in a small voice. He and Niall are now subdued, standing with their hands at their sides, expressions morose and worried.

“He doesn't know when he'll be back,” Savan tells them. “Um... I think it's good if we give Zayn some space and time—as much as he needs. I'm sure he'll come back as soon as he can, but for right now, we're going to practice without him. Sound like a plan?”

Liam bites his lip and nods. The rest of the boys follow.

____________________________________

Most of Zayn's belongings are gone when they get back to their room. His bedsheets are still on his bunk, and there are a few t-shirts hanging off the ladder, but his suitcase is gone, and it feels weirdly empty without him.

Liam hadn't really thought about how codependent all of them have become, how close they are, and it's weird now, not having Zayn curled up in the bunk, snoozing past breakfast. It's weird not having Zayn cracking jokes with Louis or ruffling Niall's hair or sitting and pretending to be moody, when they've all discovered it's just a front because he's almost painfully shy.

They crawl into their bunks, and none of them say a word. Liam wonders if he should offer a good night or something, but the minutes tick by, and the moment is lost. He glances over in the dark, and he can see Zayn's empty bed.

It feels wrong.

____________________________________

There's an unsettling sort of weight on Liam's shoulders when he wakes up. It follows him around as he rolls blearily out of bed, refusing to rinse away as he showers. In fact, there's a point as he's washing his face where he feels so, so immensely sad he's not sure what to do. He's never quite felt like this, and it hurts him, tears at his heart, makes him want to cry.

It's still there when he goes down for breakfast before any of the boys. He's thinking about it as he methodically eats, spoon to mouth, chews his Cheerios absently. It's so weird.

Louis comes down, and pours himself a cup of coffee. His forehead is lined with fatigue and he doesn't look like he slept very much. He doesn't say anything to Liam, just nods, which is really unlike him. Louis's always so outgoing and loud, always has something to say, even early in the morning when the rest of them haven't quite woken up yet.

“Where are Harry and Niall?” Liam asks casually, shifting to try to move the weight off his shoulders. It doesn't come off, just coils into his chest, where the sadness sits, heavy and foreboding.

Louis shrugs, failing to answer. He fidgets with a scone, but doesn't eat any of it.

They sit in silence. Liam thought he was hungry, but now his breakfast looks utterly unappetizing as his cereal's been soaking up milk for too long, and he's just too sad to eat. He searches his brain for a reason of why he's sad, but he can't figure it out—sure, he misses home, but he's doing what he wants, he's where he wants to be, he's in an amazing group of boys and he's performing in front of live audiences and—

“Guys?” Harry's voice breaks through the silence, and Liam looks up. Harry looks worried, face laced with concern, and it's wrong, because Harry's always so happy and easygoing and silly. “I think there's something wrong with Niall. He... I don't know,” he says, wringing his hands helplessly.

“What?” Liam asks, and then both he and Louis are on their feet, traipsing after Harry upstairs to their room.

Niall's curled up on his bunk when they burst in, in an impossibly small ball. His arms are wrapped around his legs and he's sobbing like he'll never stop. Harry sits on his bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight, and puts a hand on Niall's shaking body.

“What's wrong, Niall?” he soothes, raking a hand through Niall's hair. “Nialler, what's wrong?”

Niall just cries harder, and his face is pink and blotchy. Hot tears are spilling down his cheeks, and Liam feels it like a blanket, the sadness wrapping over all of them, suffocating them, really. There's something especially awful about seeing Niall cry—it's bad seeing any of them cry, but Niall's such a ball of sunshine and so easygoing that it hurts to see him like this. Liam's only seen him cry after he didn't get through as a solo act, but now he's seeing him cry again and it just makes him even more sad.

“I don't know,” Niall practically wails. “I don't know what's wrong—I'm just... I'm just so sad,” he admits, eyes brimming up again.

“I'm feeling really sad too,” Harry puts in, pulling Niall into a hug. “Feels like I've lost something.”

“You feel it too?” Louis asks, scrunching up his nose, eyebrows knitting in the middle of his forehead. “I've felt off all morning-”

“Me too,” Liam contributes quietly, and all of the boys stop and look at each other. Niall's sniffling still, but his tears have subsided a bit.

“I don't know why I'm sad,” the blonde says morosely, “I just am.”

Liam's forehead is lined with worry at this point as he looks from boy to boy, gaze finally landing on Harry. “Harry, you said you feel like you've lost something?”

Harry looks at him from where his arms are wrapped around like Niall like he's an octopus. “Yep.”

“That's how I feel too,” Louis puts in, “almost like someone important's died.”

Liam bites the inside of his cheek at that, drawing a bit of blood. He can taste the copper on his tongue, but it reassures him that he's alive and awake and this conversation is real. He moves onto gnawing his own lip, the throbbing sting adding to his awareness.

“Liam, you're hurting yourself,” Louis chastises softly, pushing his thumb into Liam's mouth to free the brunette's poor lip from his teeth. “Liam-”

“Do you think it's Zayn?” Liam asks suddenly, as soon as Louis's thumb is out of his mouth. His heart is in his throat. “This feeling—do you think it's because of Zayn?”

His question weighs heavily in the air.

“You mean cause we miss him?” Harry asks quietly, and Liam shakes his head.

“Not exactly,” he offers gently, giving Harry a meaningful look. Harry looks shaken. Niall's stopped crying at this point, and now looks serious as he mulls Liam's comment over in his head.

“I just-” Liam says, and he squeezes his eyes shut. He lets out a gasp of surprise, as he digs his fingers into his scalp. There are images squeezing into his mind, dancing in front of him all at once. A silver and black tie around the collar of a button up. A man who looks fatigued with creases around his eyes, with trembling fingers.

“Liam?” Niall's voice is hitched with concern, and Louis's hand is on Liam's arm as he voices his anxiety. “Li, you okay mate?”

The others watch in concern as Liam shakes his head in dismissal, and opens his eyes. He lets out a shuddery breath, and his voice is barely a whisper as he speaks. “I just... saw something... I just... I don't even know. It can't be real. It was just... It's gonna sound mental but... I think it's Zayn.”

“You saw Zayn?” Harry asks, confusion etched onto his face.

Liam shakes his head. “No... but I think I saw his father.”

____________________________________

Zayn feels weary, stretched thin when he gets back to the house. He thinks he might actually feel better if he’d cried more, but he just. Didn’t. Couldn’t. Not around his dad and his sisters and his mother, God, his mum, she was in pieces and he just felt like he had to be strong for her and for Waliyha and Saafa and even Doniya, because that’s what he does, that’s what he knows how to do.

The boys aren’t around when he enters the room, and he’s kind of glad, just for a few minutes, to have some time to himself, to prepare himself for the inevitable onslaught of sympathy. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate it, he just finds it kind of pointless, in the end. His body feels hollowed out, scratched raw with grief, and I’m sorry for your loss just isn’t salve enough for that. Not yet anyways.

He lays down on his bed—it’s neatly made up, he notes as he presses his face into the pillows, and he’s vaguely surprised at that, wonders if the boys really left his bed undisturbed this whole time. He wouldn’t mind if they’d slept here, to be fair. But then maybe they think death is catching, maybe they worried they’d be infected with it if they slept here.

Fuck. Zayn presses his face harder into the pillows, frustrated, empty and emotionally overwhelmed at the same time. At least when he was at home he could distract himself with looking after his sisters and his mum, lose himself in the logistical aspects of the funeral and the gathering at the house afterwards. Now that he’s back here though, there’s nothing to distract him, nothing to draw his thoughts away from the fact that he’s never going to see his grandfather again, he’s never going to share another Christmas or Eid with him, and maybe Zayn didn’t call him enough or write him enough, maybe he should have been a better grandson, and now he doesn’t even have a chance to try and make it right.

Just as Zayn feels the dam inside him start to give way, there’s a scuffling at the door, then a click of the latch and footsteps padding quietly into the room.

“Hey Zayn?” Liam’s voice is soft, and so is the hand he lays on Zayn’s shoulder. Zayn inhales deeply, lets the breath out slowly.

“Hey,” he responds, without lifting his face out of the pillows. Liam squeezes his shoulder and Zayn feels the mattress dip as Liam sits down next to him.

“We didn’t know you were coming back this evening,” Liam says, “We would have been here if we’d known.” He removes his hand, and Zayn finds that he misses it.

“S’alright,” Zayn responds, shifting a little so he’s not talking into the pillow, “Not really in the mood for a lot of company anyways.”

Liam hums a quiet acknowledgment.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks. Zayn considers for a moment.

“No,” he says. Liam touches him again, just for a second, then withdraws again, almost like he didn’t mean it, and Zayn knows neither he nor Liam are as tactile, as free with their affection as Louis and Harry, but even for Liam, it’s aloof.

Catching, Zayn thinks, and then the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“It’s not contagious,” he snaps. He regrets it instantly, can feel the way Liam tenses up next to him.

For a few seconds, there’s tense, almost suffocating silence. Then Liam lets out a long breath.

“Something happened,” he says, “while you were gone.”

There’s no way to say those words without them sounding ominous, but Liam sounds calm, so Zayn swallows down the sudden spike of panic that they induce in him.

“Okay,” he says carefully.

Liam is quiet for a few moments.

“After you left. The rest of us, we felt really down,” he says eventually, “and like, not just. I mean, we missed you. A lot. But it was more than that.”

Zayn blinks. From his vantage point, he can only see Liam’s lower half—sweatpants-clad, sock feet—but by the way Liam is shuffling his feet along the floor, he can tell Liam is uncertain.

“What do you mean?” he asks, pulling his arms up and folding them under the pillows.

“We felt.” Liam kicks out with his feet, thumps them back onto the floor. “We felt sad. Like, devastated. All of us. Niall, especially. And like, the sadder we got, the worse we all felt.”

Zayn doesn’t really know what to say, doesn’t understand what Liam’s telling him.

“The thing is, we didn’t have anything to be that sad about,” Liam says, “Like, I know what it feels like to miss someone and this wasn’t the same.”

“How so?” Zayn asks. If this was Louis, he thinks, he would have stopped listening by now, but Liam, Liam is reasonable. Rational.

“It felt like. Like we’d lost someone. Like someone had…had died.”

Silence. Zayn thinks it says a lot about his mental and emotional state that it takes him a good five seconds of turning Liam’s words over and over in his mind before it hits him, what Liam is implying.

“Sorry, Li, but. Have you lost your mind?”

Liam huffs out a laugh, but it’s devoid of humor.

“That’s what I thought too. It’s just.”

He stops.

“I was sitting here a couple nights ago with all the boys, just. Feeling really, really shitty. And like. I had like…a dream? But I was awake. And like. I saw your dad. And he was wearing a…a silver and gray tie?”

Zayn’s shock is almost a physical thing, a sharp jolt of surprise, disbelief, because—

“He. My dad. That tie was from my grandfather,” he says, pushing himself up onto his elbows so he can look at Liam properly. “He never wore it, before the funeral.”

Liam looks back at him, eyes wide. Zayn's mind is running a hundred miles an hour because what Liam's saying isn't possible and part of him wants to be irritated because that's private, that's not something he was ready to share just yet, but most of him is just sort of... stunned.

“Liam, what the fuck. Are you saying we're like... all connected? Telepathy or some shit?” he asks, and mentally congratulates himself for sounding at least somewhat calm, because the idea of somebody getting peeks into his personal life without him being able to control what's shared is unsettling at the very least. He doesn't like it.

Liam shrugs. He doesn't look quite as shell-shocked as Zayn feels, but Zayn thinks maybe that's just because he's had a little more time to wrap his head around it—whatever it is.

“I uh. We haven't talked about it. Like. As a group,” Liam says after a couple of seconds, “I mean, we thought it was you but... we didn't know.”

“Maybe it was just a coincidence,” Zayn tries, because it's the only rational explanation he can come up with on the spot. He rolls over onto his side so he can look at Liam, can see how Liam furrows his brow and shakes his head a little in reply. When Liam doesn't say anymore, though, Zayn extends a foot and pokes Liam in the side with it. Liam tilts his head over to look at him, and he looks as tired as Zayn feels.

“Hey,” Zayn says, patting the bed with one hand. “Sleep on it? We can talk more in the morning.”

Liam quirks a half-smile and flops over obligingly onto the bed next to him, throwing a companionable arm over Zayn's shoulders. It's casual, but not smothering, comforting but not condescending, and Zayn just revels in it, wonders not for the first time how seamlessly the five of them have managed to fit together in such a short amount of time.

“Hey Zayn?” Liam's eyes are already closed, and he's mumbling, half his mouth pressed against the bedspread.

“Mm.”

“I'm glad you're back.”

____________________________________

The thing is, at breakfast, there are a bunch of other people hanging around, and Zayn isn't particularly inclined to have anyone else find out that Liam may or may not have had some sort of... vision while Zayn was away. Thankfully, Liam doesn't seem particularly eager to discuss it in mixed company either.

But then they get whisked away to rehearsals and there are a few minutes here and there where it's just the five of them, and Zayn goes to say something, but then Aiden or Cher or someone else is popping their head in in typical teenage hyperactivity and then Savan is back, trying to shoo them out, and the opportunity is lost.

They almost forget about it really. That is, until the next time when Harry gets hurt.

____________________________________

The thing is, Louis thinks, none of them has ever truly messed up a solo before. They’ve fumbled cues before, hit a note a shade flat here, a tad sharp there, but they’ve never just straight up flubbed a solo.

It's because of that collective inexperience with failure that Louis’ stomach drops like a stone as Harry falters and stumbles over vocals he’s sung a thousand times before, voice barely audible and riddled with nerves. Louis figures it’s just because it’s the first time, and it’s in front of so many people. It's in front of a national—maybe even international—TV audience—their first performance off the X Factor that's being televised. It sucks and Louis feels shitty that it happened to Harry, but he also knows it was only a matter of time before one of them messed up.

Rationally, anyways.

They end the TV show on an otherwise positive note and there are plenty of back slaps and congratulations as they leave the stage, but there’s this tightness in Louis’ stomach that just won’t go away, a knot of discomfort, almost like he ate something that didn’t agree with him, only not.

It doesn’t get any better in the car on the way back to the hotel. He’s sitting next to Harry, who’s staring resolutely out the window, only looking away to type out texts on his phone. He and Niall had both tried to give Harry hugs after the show, tried to tell him it was no big deal, everyone makes mistakes, but Harry had just sort of stood there in their arms and not even responded, much less reciprocated.

And now it’s quiet in the car and the tightness in Louis’ stomach has worked its way up to his chest, sharp, clutching fingers of discontent clawing at his insides, and he thinks about Niall when Zayn was gone and how they all generally felt like shit and Liam had that dream (vision?) of Zayn’s dad and he was certain it was something more than just sympathetic pain and, well—

Here he is. Here they are.

By the time they get back to the hotel, Louis’ chest feels so tight that he wonders if he’s going to start having trouble breathing, and he just feels… guilty. Like he didn’t do something he should have.

Harry scrambles out of the car first, takes long strides across the lobby, bypassing the elevators and heading for the staircase instead. Paul watches him go and nods at a couple security guys to follow him up, so Louis doesn’t go after Harry himself. He waits at the elevators instead, and the other boys sort of fill in the spaces around him. They’re standing closer than usual, still a little rumpled and sweaty from the show, and when they crowd into the elevator, Louis sort of tips over against Liam, rests against his shoulder.

“Does anyone else feel like total shit?” Zayn asks, breaking the not quite comfortable silence in the elevator.

“Yep,” Liam confirms without hesitation.

More silence.

“…Remember,” Niall pipes up after a second or two, “Remember when Zayn was gone and we all. We were a mess?”

“Yep,” Liam says again. He glances over at Louis, and okay, yeah, Louis was skeptical then, but. He feels a little bit like he might suffocate right now and he’s been upset for people, for friends, for his sisters, for his mum before, but it’s never been like this. Never so painful, so guttural, so direct.

“Do you think, maybe this is what you guys were talking about. You know, back when… maybe?” Zayn asks, like he can’t even come up with the words for it just now. Louis doesn’t know why they’re all looking to him for confirmation, but he sort of nods anyways.

“Yeah,” he says and it comes out like a sigh, “yeah, maybe.”

____________________________________

No one feels like going out that night, so they just stay in, take showers, and put on movies. Niall stops by Louis’s room to ask if he wants to watch TV with him and Liam, but Louis declines. His chest isn’t quite as tight anymore, but in its place is a deep sort of ache, a gnawing sense of something that he just can’t get rid of, something wrong.

He turns on the TV in his own room, just to have something to distract him. He watches the moving figures and forms, takes in the colors and sounds without really comprehending them, and at some point he sort of slips into a not-quite-doze, somewhere in between sleep and awake.

The images float into his vision, pixilated like the TV, and brightly colored, only they’re not on the TV at all. They're nearly suspended in his vision, and the words come hurtling at him like bullets, and Louis flinches as the meaning of each string of letters hit him hard.

hes just a kid who thinks he can sing but tonight just proved he cant

one more entitled asshole who got what was coming to him

harry styles is literal shit

Louis blinks, once, slowly, and the images fade, but the memory of them is emblazoned into his mind. harry styles is literal shit cycles rapidly through his head, and he swallows a lump in his throat.

And well. Maybe Liam is right.

____________________________________

Louis emerges from his hotel room, and to his surprise, the other boys (minus Harry) are already gathered around his door. Zayn's eyes are guarded and concerned, as he says, “You all see it too, then?”

“The self-loathing is off the charts,” Niall replies, and Liam's lips straighten into a terse line. “It's really rough.”

Louis squeezes his eyes shut, and a tweet that reads harry's fucking awful, balloons up inside of him. The image looms foreboding and vivid in his mind, and when he reopens his eyes, he can tell that the other boys have seen it too. All doubts he had are gone.

“Where is he?” he asks, and Zayn looks worried.

“I stopped by his room but he wasn't there. Maybe...” he trails off, and he throws a meaningful look towards the bathroom in the hallway. There's a telltale stream of light under the bottom of the door, and Louis huffs out a sigh of relief. Finding Harry would have been a nightmare on its own, because in the time he's gotten to know Harry, he's found out that Harry is actually pretty good at not being found when he doesn't want to be.

Corralling the rest of the boys towards the door, he knocks hesitantly on it. “Harry? You alright in there?”

There's a muffled sniffle and a hoarse reply. “I just want to be alone.”

Harry's voice is ridden with misery, and Louis's heart twists for the youngest boy. It's the first time one of them has been attacked individually—sure, they've gotten shit before as a group; they've been called talentless and too boy band (as if that's a helpful critique), and obviously they didn't win the X Factor—but Louis thinks helplessly, that this, this is the first time one of them has ever been singled out like this. Yes, it was only a matter of time, but that doesn't make it any easier.

Louis sighs and turns, sitting with his back pressed against the bathroom door. The rest of the boys follow suit, Niall burrowing his head under Louis's head (his hair tickles Louis's chin bit, but Louis doesn't push him off as he usually would), Zayn on Louis's other side, and Liam on the other side of Zayn with a comforting arm around the other boy's shoulders.

“Harry?” tries Zayn, and his voice is strained. “We're all out here, you know. If. You need to talk or anything.”

There's a loud sniffle on the other end of the door, and Louis can picture Harry perfectly even though he can't actually see him. He can imagine the youngest boy now, limp curls in his face over reddened, puffy eyelids, bottom lip nearly worn through from so much biting, and long, trembling fingers over a screen with a Twitter feed full of hate. He can imagine how Harry's picking at the sleeve of his shirt—which is probably covered in snot and tears, can think of how badly Harry's beating himself up about this. And Harry doesn't deserve it at all—all of them have messed up, and will mess up in public at some place, and it's a learning process.

“I'm sorry.” Harry sounds ruined and trapped and scared, and Louis wants to break down the door, and pull Harry into his arms and hug him and hold him and promise him that everything—everything—is going to be fine. That they're here for him, and he doesn't have to do this alone.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Hazza.” His voice is firm and resolute, and he wants Harry to believe him with all his might.

There's a pause, and then Niall adds, “We love you.”

Louis squeezes his hand hard in gratitude because yeah, Niall's silly a lot of the times, but there's some moments where he knows exactly what to say.

“Please let us in,” Liam says, and his lips are nearly pressed against the door. “You know we understand.” His palms are spread out on the wooden surface as though if he tries hard enough, he can break through it, and Louis thinks about how he probably could. He thinks about how it's not bullshit—how Liam actually can understand, how they all can—how they're all feeling the way Harry feels right now.

The lock clicks and the door opens, and Louis knows that everything's going to be fine.

____________________________________

The boys realize that this... this telepathy might actually be a thing now. Liam seeing things during Zayn's grieving was one thing, and then Louis envisioning Harry's hateful messages was another. But for awhile, everything is relatively uneventful—well not counting the hectic nature of their lives as they rush from photo shoot to interview to concert to airport. The times when they feed off of each other's exhaustion might just be their own exhaustion, and it's hard to distinguish their feelings from one another's since they're all pretty much mutual.

But the third instance is with Louis, and it's not one that they'll forget anytime soon.

____________________________________

Louis is nursing his fifth glass of beer when the boys catch up to him. His vision is swimming and his head is throbbing because he’s been drinking too much, too fast, but he can’t help it. It feels like his life is in shambles again, feels like he’s eight and sitting at the bottom of the stairs worrying a package of tissues wondering why his father is leaving and wondering if it’s his fault.

Lottie sounded wrecked on the phone, her voice quivering with tears, and Louis had been stricken with betrayal and anger and unexplainable grief. He’s not at home, and he’s been whisked from city to city, touring and having the time of his life, while his sisters are at home crying and watching their family fall apart.

Louis takes another slurp of alcohol, letting the liquid burn its way down his throat. He wants to feel the beer’s numbing effect, wants it to wash through his body and make him stop feeling for once.

“Another one,” he says, gesturing to the bartender. It’s an old man with a grey-dotted chin, and his eyes are worried as he studies Louis.

“I think you’re good for now, son,” the bartender replies, voice gruff.

Louis narrows his eyes. “I’m callin’ the shots here. Another one.”

“Kid,” the bartender starts, and his eyes trail somewhere behind him, shoulders dipping down in relief.

Louis whirls around, and regrets it as he does so, because he falls off the barstool, body landing in a lump, but not before he recognizes four familiar figures heading towards him.

“’m fine,” he snaps automatically, even though he’s vulnerable and his body hurts and his heart hurts. He tries to stumble to his feet, but it proves futile, so he ends up just wrapping his arms around his knees.

“Louis,” Zayn's saying gently, getting down on one knee as he inches towards the older boy, and Louis hates it, hates Zayn’s wide, concerned eyes, the worry creasing his brow. “Louis, it's okay, we get-”

“Fuck off,” Louis hisses, and he hates the way Zayn flinches, hates that he’s hurting his friends when all they want to do is help. Zayn steps back warily, and in his groggy mind, Louis thinks good.

“Lou,” Niall tries, persistent, reaching for Louis’s hand to help him up.

None of them quite understand what happens next.

Louis lashes out on instinct, and he’s not thinking quite clearly.

Niall jerks back like he’s been burned, and he turns away, but not before Louis spots the pink imprint on his cheek from Louis’s fist. Niall’s eyes are watering a bit.

Zayn immediately pulls the blonde into a hug, looking at Louis over his shoulder. Louis expects Zayn to glare at him, expects Zayn’s expression to hold anger and fury because they hardly ever hurt each other—they need each other too much, have been thrown into this together, they know that they can count on each other when they can't count on anybody else—but Zayn looks more sympathetic and sad than anything.

Louis feels like he’s going to throw up.

“Lou, that’s enough,” Liam puts in, and he’s the only one who isn’t skirting around Louis like he’s going to break, the only one whose voice is stubborn and determined. He sounds like he won't back down at any point, and it makes Louis wonder about the kid Liam used to be—cautious and reserved and afraid of confrontation—and how much he's changed. Liam throws a concerned look at Niall who’s now ducked his face into the crook of Zayn’s neck, shoulders shaking slightly, and looks at Louis.

“You need to let us in,” he says, and Harry nods behind him, a sharp, jerky movement.

“I didn’t fucking ask for this,” Louis spits, but it lacks venom, because he’s tired. He doesn’t want them to feel his pain, doesn’t want them to get under his skin, doesn’t want to be vulnerable. “This isn't some fucking group therapy session, okay? Things are messed up, and I can deal with them—I don't need you guys. I can handle this on my own and-”

“Louis,” Harry interjects, and his chin is squared defiantly. “We want to help. We’re here for you—you know that.”

Zayn gives a barely perceptible nod, and Harry’s bottom lip is wobbling, and Louis thinks about how they felt when Zayn’s grandpa died, how shitty everything was when Harry wouldn’t stop hating himself because of faceless mass attacks on the Internet.

“But you have to let us in.” Liam’s voice is resolute, and his lips are in a grim line. “Please, Lou, please.”

Niall whimpers then, unlatching himself from Zayn’s body. Louis is shocked as Niall comes up and wraps his arms around Louis instead like a human koala.

“It’s your parents, isn’t it?” Niall mumbles into the crook of Louis’s neck.

Louis lets out a shuddery sigh. His body slackens of its own accord, and he slumps wearily against the smaller blonde boy, feeling fatigued and angry and frustrated. He feathers a hand through Niall's hair.

“I've already lost one father,” Louis says, and he sounds nonchalant, but all of the boys know at this point that Louis either plays off important things as though they're nothing or tries to overcompensate by being funny. “Now I guess I'm losing another. Just,” he shrugs, before taking a shuddery breath, “feel like maybe there's something wrong with me. Like nobody wants me.”

“Louis,” Zayn starts, “it’s not your fault. Just. Don’t blame yourself.”

“But how can it not be my fault?” Louis manages, voice small. “I'm losing two—two dads, you see—neither of them thought I was worth sticking around, and now my little sisters are at home and they're scared and I'm not there to help them. I'm not there for my mom, my family, you know? What if. What if me being in the band and being missing was what,” he swallows, “what pushed my dad to leave.”

“Louis, don't,” Liam says, and Niall's latching onto Louis, rubbing comforting circles into the older boy's back with his calloused, musician hands.

“Not your fault,” the blonde sighs, “never your fault, 'k? Like that time when you were little and your dad didn't show up to that football match in Leeds, and you kept calling him and he didn't pick up. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't your fault then, and it's not your fault now. Sometimes shit happens, y'know, Louis, but it's not you, okay? You're not to blame.”

Louis stares at Niall, feeling himself getting flushed from something other than the alcohol. The other boys look slightly surprised too, and Niall's flushing a bit, facial features guilty. Louis's face is hot and he's so absolutely vulnerable and it terrifies him. He glances at the ground because he can't take the fact that the boys are staring at him, as if they're wading through his memories—those images that he's worked so hard to bury and hide.

“I don't want you to see me like that,” he finally manages.

“You don't have to be afraid to tell us how you feel,” Niall says, blue eyes earnest, “we're here for you, y'know? Through thick and thin.”

“Hell or high water?” Louis asks him, trying to play off how bare he feels with a quick eye roll.

“Of course,” Harry quips, not missing a beat as he answers. He carefully brushes some of Louis's hair out of his eyes. “You're ours, Louis.”

“I don't know about your dads, Lou,” Niall puts in, “but we're not going anywhere, okay? We'll always be here for you.”

“I took his last name,” Louis says in a small, shaky voice. “I took his last name, y'know? Because I thought he'd always want to keep me-”

“Look at me, Lou,” Niall says, placing his hands on both of Louis's shoulders and staring him straight in the eyes, “and listen. We want to keep you, okay? We will always need you. We're not right without you, you know that, Louis. So I know this sucks—trust me, I know how divorce works, and Harry knows it too—and I think I speak for all of us when I say that any of us would do everything in our power to make it hurt less, so let us help you, okay? You don't need to hide from us.”

Louis looks at him, stares into Niall's crystal blue eyes, and lets his shoulders relax. He slumps a bit, lets Liam pull him in for a much-needed cuddle, lets Zayn ruffle his hair and press a kiss to his temple.

Louis's spent his entire life watching out for others. He's the only one out of the boys who's the oldest sibling, and he's used to putting himself second. He's looked after his sisters, watched over his friends, taken care of his mother. He's tried to lead his boys because they were young and unsure, and they somehow latched onto him and believed in him. They trusted him.

And now they're asking him to trust them.

So he closes his eyes, wraps his arms around them, and takes the leap.

____________________________________

There's a knock on Liam's door at 3:07 A.M.

He doesn't hear it of course, not until the doorbell starts ringing like mad.

Liam curses to himself. His throat is parched, and he's a mixture of furious and miserable, and he stomps to the door, angry words on his lips to be spilled upon the meddling fan who thought it was a good idea to bother him at this ungodly hour. He's usually relatively patient—he knows he's known in the band as the “nice one” and it's truly not an unfounded claim—but his heart is broken and he just really needs some time alone.

He should have seen it coming, honestly. Danielle had been avoiding his texts and his calls for weeks, constantly failing to reply. It was always, “I'm too busy,” or “you're always busy when I'm not,” or “I miss seeing you.” It came down to “this is too hard,” and “I'm doing this for us,” and Liam had thought, if you're doing this for us, why do you get to make the decision?

His bed still smells like Danielle. Every goddam thing in his house reminds him of her, from her sweater left draped over the sofa to her cereal boxes filling up his pantry to her favorite mug sitting in the drying rack to the scent of her perfume clinging in the air. It's leering at him, teasing him basically, showing him everything he can't have. She's in every corner of his house, every crevice of his heart, every thing that surrounds him. Everything that he's lost because he's not good enough for her, he's not enough. He's never been enough—didn't have friends come to his birthday parties when he was younger, didn't do well enough in school, wasn't good enough to get onto the X Factor the first time he auditioned. And now he's not enough for Danielle, and it's his fault because the fact that he was gone so much for tour only allowed her to slip out of his hands more easily. It's another slap in his face that before he was famous, nobody wanted him, and now that he's famous, still, nobody wants him.

So when Liam gets to the door, he rips open the door, about ready to tell whoever is standing there to kindly fuck off.

The problem is that, standing at his front door, are Zayn, Louis, Harry, and Niall. They all are wearing sheepish expressions and are dripping wet, and right, it's pouring buckets outside, this damned London weather.

Liam's shoulders sag. He's too tired to deal with this right now.

“Can we just please. Let it go,” he says, voice small and riddled with exhaustion. “I don't need to talk to anything or sort through my feelings. I just want to be left alone.”

“And that, my dear Liam,” Louis says airily, as he pushes himself into Liam's flat, looping his arm in Liam's and getting Liam's shirt ridiculously wet, “is where you're wrong.”

Louis leads Liam into his kitchen, and leaves him there as he starts fiddling around in Liam's cabinet for a kettle to make some tea. Liam is slightly reluctant to admit it, but tea does usually make him feel better. Zayn puts down a large paper bag on the counter of the kitchen. His hair is disheveled and wet, and he shivers.

“You look like you could use some of this,” Zayn says, pulling out two cartons of ice cream and five spoons. Liam thinks that's all, but then Zayn pulls out two six-packs of beers with only a slightly sheepish expression. He looks a bit apologetic. “I would have brought more but. It was kind of a short notice?” he runs his hands through his hair so it spikes up, and Liam can't help but laugh at how ridiculous it is. He notices the bags under Zayn's eyes and feels a spike of guilt—they hardly get enough sleep as it is on their days off, and now the boys are here sacrificing their rest for him—

“Stop that,” Harry says, and Liam's broken out of his thoughts.

“What?”

“Stop that,” Harry repeats, tilting his head to study Liam with his green eyes. He shakes his head, wringing out the raindrops before he continues. “You're blaming yourself again, Liam. You're worrying about us. You're punishing yourself as always. Think about yourself for once, okay?”

“Oh, Liam,” Louis tuts, as he curls his arms around Liam's torso in a tight hug, “it's okay to be sad. Breakups are messy and shitty, and you can have a good cry if you want. Promise. Me and the boys aren't going anywhere.”

Niall pops open a tub of ice cream and takes Zayn's offered spoon. He digs out an impossible scoop and makes the sound of a whizzing helicopter as he spirals it towards Liam's face.

Liam opens his mouth obediently and lets his shoulders relax. Ice cream dribbles sticky-sweet down his chin, and Harry cackles, and Louis makes an inappropriate joke. Zayn pops open one of the beers, and Liam takes it from him with a grateful smile.

And well. It does help.

____________________________________

The next day Liam has a hangover but thanks to this telepathy (or whatever it is), all of them feel it.

Louis spends half the time puking and the other half of the time cussing at Liam for doing this to him.

Liam just gives him a thumbs up, and turns back to the toilet.

____________________________________

The panic is rising in Harry's throat. His heart thunders in his chest and he has to remind himself to breathe as he draws in desperate, ragged, torn gasps of air. Behind him, Liam is flattened against the wall as though he's trying to disappear, his hair a mess—his hat had been lost in the crowd of screaming girls. Louis looks pissed off, his eyebrows angry and arched, as he examines his ripped shirt, and Zayn is visibly shaken as he reaches into his pocket for his lighter and a cigarette to calm his trembling nerves, flinching away from the paramedic who's attempting to examine a scratch on his face.

“You alright?” Louis asks all of them, face changing from angry to concerned. “Are all of you okay?”

“No,” Liam says, and at Louis's alarmed expression he amends his statement. “I mean yes, I'm not hurt but,” he bites his lip, “It's crazy, you know?”

Harry can practically feel the hands trailing over his arms, fingers grabbing and squeezing and pushing and prodding at his torso. The screams ring, deafening and intelligible, and he ducks his head. There's a shout in his ear, dangerously close, and he jumps, heart juddering, limbs trembling as he falls and caves in on himself.

“Harry?” Liam asks, “Harry, you alright?”

“Ni-” Harry manages, and his heart drops. “Where's Niall? Where's Niall?”

Zayn lets out a pained gasp as though he's choking, and Louis whimpers—a piercing, sharp sound. Liam's hands are clapped over his ears, teeth gritted, and Harry realizes they're all channeling Niall right now.

Harry feels his shirt being torn, fingernails digging into his chest. A girl screams directly into his ear, begging him for a picture and an autograph, and he's whirling around to talk to her, but she's gone, and instead there's a wall of indistinguishable faces and he's freaking out—

“Harry, Harry, you're alright, you're alright.” There are hands on his shoulders, and Harry forces himself to stare at Liam and think this is real.

“Niall?”

“He's alright,” hollers Paul, and Harry chokes on his relief at the sight of Niall being dragged in by security—Niall, shaken and pale, but whole. There's a bit of blood at his hairline, and his arms look like they've been through a war, but the paramedic assessing Zayn right now assures all of them that the scratches are surface level, and that Niall will be fine.

“Niall,” Harry says, and he's breaking out of Liam's grasp to crowd in towards Niall. Paul looks like he's about to say something as the rest of the boys circle around the blonde, but he closes his mouth as if to let it go.

“You okay, Nialler?” Zayn asks, poking the smaller boy playfully in the stomach as Louis tweaks one of his nipples to lighten the mood. Niall squawks at that, and then gives them a shaky grin.

“I'm alright, I'm okay,” Niall tells them, as they surround him. “I was a bit scared, because there were so many people and it's... it gets crazy, y'know? You think you've seen it all, and then you get something-” his voice breaks. His cheeks and ears redden as though he's embarrassed, and Harry immediately tugs him into a hug, running his palms in small circles on Niall's back.

“Excellent idea, Curly,” Louis quips. He declares, “It's time for a proper cuddle, yeah?”

Niall nods, a bit sheepishly, and Liam laughs.

____________________________________

The panic tastes like ash on his tongue, and his heart is about to rip through his chest. Distorted, ghastly faces with indistinguishable features and black holes for mouths surround him, and there are goosebumps on every bit of his skin. Fingers crook out, reaching for him, even though he's curled himself as small as he can to escape their touch. There's a scream building in his throat, crescendoing louder and louder with every second, and then he's jerking awake into a pool of sweat, panic feeding every nerve of his body.

Harry shivers as he sits up in bed, the terror of the nightmare still clinging onto him. Everything was so vivid, so real, and he can't remember a time when he ever was that scared.

It takes him a second or two to think that, actually, he had been that scared before. Earlier that day, when he'd been connected to Niall. And wait, he realizes with a start, it's not his dream. It's Niall's.

He's out of his bed in a flash, sleep pants bunched under his bare feet and nearly slipping off his legs, running towards Niall's room. He's relieved to see that Liam's already heading towards Niall's door, and Louis's heading into Zayn's room to wake him up, his mouth a tight line of worry.

Niall's twisting and turning in his bed. His forehead is lined with distress and he's whimpering and sobbing, and Harry can't bear it.

“Niall,” Liam says gently, and then when Niall continues to toss in his sleep, he says it louder. More firmly. “Niall.”

“Niall!” Harry tries, adding his voice to the clamor, and then there's Louis tugging Niall out of his bed and slapping him lightly on the face to wake him up.

Niall opens his eyes and sits right up with a scream, and Harry can feed off the terror that's coursing through his yell, feels the pain like it's his own. And then Niall's letting out horrible sounding noises, like he's choking on the air in the room, like he's ingesting panic. Harry's throat is constricted, and he feels like he's trying to suck air in threw a tiny stirring straw, it's not him, it's Niall.

“Niall,” Liam says, clapping his hands to Niall's cheeks. “Niall, look at me, okay? You're having a panic attack. You need to breathe with me.”

“I-I-I c-can't,” Niall manages, and his fear seems to swallow his oxygen, and Harry's blindsided by the thought that what if this is it, what if this is where Niall breaks?

“We've got you,” Liam is promising, and Zayn and Louis chorus in there, “We're here. We're not going anywhere. You're okay. You're safe, you're safe, you're safe.”

Liam starts demonstrating then, taking in slow and steady breaths. “One,” he counts, “two. Three. Four.”

Niall's eyes widen, and he's trying then, making a visible effort to catch on, body trembling with exertion. Harry finds himself focusing on Liam's words—finds himself relaxing along with Niall. Niall's breathes start to even out, and are longer. Harry lets himself revel in the sound, thinks about how precious and beautiful the noises are, how happy he is to hear the inhale-exhale of Niall's lungs.

“So,” Louis says, breaking the silence. “You want to tell us what that was about?”

“It's not a big deal,” Niall says, trying to play off his panic attack. He won't look any of them in the eyes. “I just need to get over it—it's not serious like when Zayn's dad died or when Louis's dad left or-”

“You don't have to justify your nightmare, babes,” Zayn says, lacing his fingers into Niall's. “This isn't a competition, Ni. We were all there, in it, with you. This is. We're here. All of us. For you. For each other.”

Niall finally looks Harry in the eyes, and Harry gives him a shaky nod. He brushes a circle into Niall's cheek with his finger, and then squeezes Niall's hand so hard that his knuckles turn white to reassure him that they're there, and they're not going anywhere.

“Is there anything we can do for you?” Liam asks.

Niall's face is flushed pink with embarrassment, and Harry wishes there was a way he could absorb Niall's pain. Lock it up somewhere where it wouldn't hurt him anymore.

“Can you. Um. I don't want to be alone. You make me feel safe,” he explains lamely, and Louis touches his knee in a way that's uncharacteristically sweet.

“We're not going anywhere.”

____________________________________

They end up talking about it that night, all curled up in one bed. They haven't done this since the day before the X Factor finale, when all of them had piled into one bunk in spite of how tight it had been. Now it just seems natural, and all of them are drawn together, wanting to touch as much of the others as they can. They cocoon themselves around each other, reveling in the safety, the softness.

“What do you figure this all means?” Niall's voice is serious. He closes his eyes as Zayn scratches his scalp in an easy sort of way.

“I reckon we're all... soul mates of sort?” Zayn muses. “Not like in the romantic way—but soulmates all the same?”

It's quiet for a bit, as they ponder what Zayn's just contributed, but then Harry's adding, “Wonder if we would've found each other had we not been in the band.”

“You mean like destiny?” Liam suggests quietly.

“Destiny,” Louis says, and it's decided.

In the end, it doesn't really matter that they can't quite define their relationship, can't quite predict when something bad or something good is going to happen. They can't know ahead of time when they'll feed into each other's emotions and be hit by visions, can't read each other's minds all of the time. They won't ever know why they were chosen, out of all of the people who auditioned, to be put together in a group, but they will be forever thankful.

It's nice to know that whatever they're up against, they're not going into it alone.