Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Niall woke as he had done every day since it happened, those first few moments blissfully unaware of how the world had shifted—or rather, how it hadn't. The world went on, but for him, it felt colder and emptier than ever before. Reaching for his phone, as he always did, he'd pause. That familiar sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, a chill creeping up his neck. It would help him come to the realisation of just what was missing. His hand stopped short, hovering, before he turned away, retreating under the thick duvet.

The heaviness, the loss, pressed him down - down - down into the mattress as he pulled the covers tighter, his breath shallow, his chest heaving as he gasped for air.

Niall hadn't cried since that first night. When the news broke, disbelief had gripped him. He'd scrambled for reassurance, proof that it wasn't true—that Liam wasn't gone. But as that reassurance stayed out, as more and more news started trickling in and confirmed what that odd little voice in the back of his head had already been whispering, the denial cracked. Liam had died.

Niall had cried then. Loud, heaving sobs that wrecked his body, and later, silent tears that streamed down his face. He cried until his eyes felt raw, swollen, and gritty. He had cried himself to exhaustion, until Amelia soothed him into a fitful sleep. But the following day, he woke dry-eyed. Since then, the tears hadn't come again.

Instead, there was just the weight—numb and unrelenting. He moved through the days, barely present. Just going through the motions. His mother had called, but he couldn't recall what he'd said to her or if he'd said much at all. Amelia eventually took the phone from him, speaking to his mother in hushed tones. Afterwards, she held him and told him it was okay to cry. But Niall didn't, couldn't. He just sat there, staring into nothing, and it settled over him with cold finality: Liam was gone. There was no more Liam. He would never see him again, never roll his eyes at one of Liam's incomprehensible texts or laugh at another rambling voicenote.

There had been a meeting. The boys had gathered—Zayn, too. Niall sat through it, his mind drifting. Liam would've loved this, he thought bitterly. Liam would have been overjoyed to see them all together again. But he couldn't be, because he wasn't there. Why hadn't they done this before? Why had it taken this to bring them together? And now, even as they sat in the same room, they weren't whole. They'd never be complete again. There would never be five of them, never be a full set. Not until they were all gone—all five would be dead, then they would be complete in the fact that there were no more of them. And Christ, Niall had thought that this wasn't something they had had to worry about anytime soon, because they were so young.

The thought curdled in his mind like milk gone sour. They were too young for this, weren't they? But maybe not, apparently not.

And Niall wanted to be angry, angry at Zayn, for leaving the band all those years ago in the way that he had, because they had been complete then, and they hadn't known it was the last time that they ever would be, and Niall hadn't appreciated it to the fullest, hadn't known he had to… But the anger wouldn't come. It was swallowed by the weight, the dull, suffocating heaviness. He was too tired. Too numb. And all he could think about was Liam—about how much he'd hate it if they fought now.

So Niall sat there, staring. He was sure the others had asked him questions, they must have, but he couldn't remember responding to any of them. He hadn't missed the worried, sorrowful look Harry kept sending his way. Hadn't missed how Zayn avoided his gaze—avoided all their gazes. Maybe because he could read Niall's thoughts, because he knew Niall would be fucking angry if he wasn't feeling so numb and detached.

Or maybe Zayn just felt guilty. Guilty for thinking there had been more time—to make things right, to be Liam's friend again, to make them complete as a band again.

Louis hadn't said anything about Niall's silence during the meeting, but he'd kept his hand on Niall's knee, squeezing it in that quiet, big-brotherly way of his. Afterwards, he had pulled Niall aside. He'd mostly talked around the point, but Niall knew what he was getting at. Niall had been the last of them to see Liam alive. Had he known? Had Liam seemed different?

And the truth was, Niall hadn't known what to say. Because yeah, Liam had seemed different. But they all were, weren't they?

All four of them were still his boys, always his boys, but every time they met up after the band split, there would be something—a story about life after the band, or a new mannerism, or just the way they carried themselves now—and it always threw Niall. How much older they all seemed. How much had changed. How the boys who had practically lived in each other's pockets didn't anymore, and how they weren't boys anymore either. So yeah, Liam had been different.

And yeah, Niall had been worried. He had smelled the alcohol on Liam's breath when they'd talked backstage after the gig. But Liam had been smiling, happy, grinning from ear to ear as he hugged Niall so tightly that he was half-convinced that he had heard his ribs crack.

So when Liam wandered out of earshot, Niall asked Kate about it. She had waved it off—just a couple of glasses of wine with dinner, nothing to worry about. It was fine. It was normal. It was something they did.

Niall had wanted to push. To ask if it was really fine, or if it was wise for Liam to drink at all. Liam had said, way back when he'd just come out of rehab, that he'd never touch the stuff again. But then… people changed, didn't they? Liam had grown up. Maybe he managed it better now. And who the fuck was Niall to judge? He had been holding a pint while they were talking.

What kind of mate did that? What kind of mate drank around someone they knew had struggled with alcohol? What kind of mate didn't even know if Liam was drinking these days, or if he stuck to just two glasses and really was fine, or if that was just bullshit people told themselves?

Not a good one, clearly.

With a sick sort of clarity, Niall realised that Liam's sobriety wasn't something he thought about much. Sure, if they sent each other a quick picture, Niall always made sure there wasn't any alcohol in the shot—because surely that would be triggering, right?

And yeah, he would check in every couple of months, ask about Bear, and keep it light. He'd tiptoe around the whole thing, suggesting cringy shit like going for a coffee instead of a pint - because a pint was his usual go-to, and he couldn't possibly do that now, could he? It always felt so fucking awkward, like he didn't know what the hell he was doing.

Because he didn't. Niall always felt so out of his depth when it came to shit like that.

And if he shared that with Louis—if he admitted that Liam had been drinking the last time Niall saw him—then he would have to admit something else, wouldn't he? He'd have to admit that he had planned to check in a few days later, but he had been too wrapped up in finishing up his tour. That he hadn't actually followed through. That he had just replied to one of Liam's snaps instead, a private one, not to one from the account managed by his social media team.

He had told him he looked well—because he had, in the photo. Liam had been smiling, tan, happy, sitting with Kate. Comfortable. And Niall had thought, maybe I'm just overthinking this. Perhaps I worry too much. Liam was an adult, wasn't he?

Sure, what he had gone through before had been bad - the amount of drinking he'd been doing towards the tail-end of the band, and straight after - it had been too much. But if Kate said he could have two glasses of wine at dinner nowadays, then surely Kate and Liam knew better than little old Niall, who knew fuck-all about addiction or sobriety or any of it.

So why be weird about it? Why put Liam on the spot and make him feel judged?

It felt easier to leave it. Liam knew where to find him. Liam knew he could always talk to Niall, didn't he? And with Kate there, he was loved, happy, and safe. Surely.

Louis would hate him, though, if Niall shared all that. Niall was sure of it. Hate him for not checking in, for not even mentioning it.

Louis had been Liam's rock, hadn't he? Talked him off the metaphorical ledge before, helped him through rehab, and supported him every step of the way. Louis would've known, wouldn't he? If two glasses of wine at dinner were really fine? Whether Liam should or shouldn't have been left to his own devices?

But Niall hadn't said anything. Not back then, not now. When Louis asked, Niall just shrugged. Louis sighed that sad little sigh of his, hugged him, and said they would get through this.

He'd said it with such certainty that it made his skin crawl, and for a second, Niall wanted to scream. How the fuck would you know that? Because Niall felt like he would never be alright again.

But then he remembered—Louis would know. Louis had lost his mum. He'd lost Fizzy. And somehow, he was alright. Mostly, anyway. He'd moved on. Maybe he thought about them every day, missed them every day, but it wasn't all-consuming anymore. It wasn't the end. Louis had found a way to keep going, to live for them, in their honour.

And yet, for Niall, everything just felt so fucking bleak. Maybe he wasn't strong like Louis.

In the end, Louis had let him squirrel away without answering. He'd shepherded Niall back to Amelia, ruffled his hair like he always did, and said he'd call. And he did, but whenever Louis called, Niall didn't pick up.

He didn't know what to say to him. Just thinking about talking to Louis made his stomach churn, made him want to vom. Because it was his fault that Liam had died—every bit of it was his fault. Niall hadn't done enough. He hadn't noticed. He hadn't checked.

He thought he was the glue that held them together, the one constant. Niall was the one who still talked to all of them, who had everyone's numbers, who never forgot a birthday. He sent gifts, even when he couldn't be there in person. He checked in with Liam about Bear, Louis about Freddie, Zayn about Khai, and Harry and his million godchildren. Because he knew that Harry wanted nothing more than a family of his own—spouse, picket fence, cat, kid. The whole shebang, but who didn't want to do any of that on his own.

Niall met up with them, knew what was going on in their lives, and ferried updates back and forth between the ones who didn't speak. He made sure everyone knew everyone else was okay and doing their thing, that life was carrying on, but that One Direction was still One Direction, in a way.

But clearly, he had failed. He'd failed them all. Most of all, he'd failed Liam.

The statement from their 1D account went live. Niall wasn't even sure what they had decided on, but he'd agreed with whatever Louis had said. Louis had always been the better friend, clearly. Louis would know what should be said, what would suit Liam best, and what Liam would have wanted.

Then came the individual posts. Louis's first, followed by Zayn's, and even Harry's. Harry barely touched social media anymore, didn't care for it - but he did what he had to do because he cared about Liam, and he cared about their fans and their well-being.

But Niall's post didn't come.

He had sat down to write something and couldn't. He tried going through their pictures and couldn't. His publicist had called, asking for the post, but Niall hadn't answered. Amelia had to step in, had to talk to her for him. She relayed the messages and asked him what he wanted to do. He'd simply said he didn't know.

In the end, it was decided for him. His publicist and social media manager would write up a few drafts. He would only have to choose one. They would compile the pictures. He would only have to pick one. Maybe that would be better, easier.

Niall had agreed, but when the drafts came through, he hadn't been able to pick. They all felt wrong—too polished, too detached from what he actually felt. But what could he say? That he never wanted to go outside again? That he wanted to spend the rest of his life under the duvet, hiding and letting the guilt eat at him? Devour him whole? He couldn't say that.

Not just because it made him sound like a massive ass, but because it would worry the fans. It would worry everyone. And worst of all, it would make Liam's death about him, and it wasn't about him. It was about Liam.

And the pictures they'd picked—bog-standard ones already floating around online—felt wrong, too. Like he'd just pulled them off Google. But he hadn't. The fans wouldn't know that, though.

He had wanted to use one of his own, to dig through his old photo albums or hard drive for something personal, something unseen. But at the same time, he didn't want to share them. Because now, with Liam gone, those pictures were all he had left of him. The only bits of Liam that weren't already out in the world, weren't shared with everyone else. They were his. And he wasn't ready to give them up.

So, in the end, he didn't choose. Not really. He shrugged, and the choice was made for him. The post went out. Niall didn't check, but he knew what people would think. They would know it wasn't him.

And they would infer something from it. He was sure of it.

They would assume he didn't care enough. Or that he was too busy to bother. But neither was true. He cared too much. And he wasn't busy at all. His schedule was wiped clean. All he did was rot away in bed, burying himself under the duvet as he tried to forget the world out there was one without Liam. It was all he did.

Except for when Amelia manhandled him into walking the dog with her. Or when she insisted he eat something, he did - because he loved her. He ate, but he couldn't tell you what. It all tasted like sand. And then afterwards, he'd go back to bed, sinking deeper and deeper into the mattress. Letting the weight of Liam's loss weigh him down.

Or sometimes he'd go shower, standing there until Amelia came to get him.

One time, she made a quip about checking to see if he hadn't died in there. Niall couldn't remember his response, but his face must've given something away, because her eyes widened in panic. She apologised, wrapped him in the biggest towel they had, shepherded him back to bed, and—for once—didn't bother him about walking the dog with her.

Niall felt stupid for acting the way he did. Sure, Liam had been one of his best mates, but there were other people—people closer to Liam still—who were allowed to wallow like this. But not him.

Since the band split, he and Liam had gone their own way. They would meet up, grab dinner, swap birthday and Christmas presents, and call each other at odd hours, just to chat. But they weren't living in each other's pockets anymore, hadn't been for years.

Last time he stayed at Liam's, he hadn't dug through Liam's closet after a shower. Instead, he'd wrapped a towel around his waist and dripped his way back to the guest room to rifle through his own suitcase, even though everything in it was rank. He hadn't used Liam's washing machine without asking, hadn't slept in Liam's bed, and certainly hadn't gone downstairs to make himself a cuppa before hearing Liam stir. That was what their friendship had become—not worse, just different.

So why couldn't he stop wallowing?

It felt like he was living underwater, watching the rest of the world carry on. He was trapped behind a layer of glass, in his own little aquarium. He could see it all, hear the faint hum of everyday life, but he was stuck here, too tired to swim back up and climb out.

If he felt any better, maybe he'd pick up his guitar and try to write something for Liam. But the thought felt hollow. Liam should be the one writing songs about Liam. But he wouldn't. Not anymore. Instead, it was just Niall, alone with his stupid feelings, angry at himself for being so bloody useless.

He huddled deeper into the duvet, burrowing into the cocoon where he could shut out everything—at least until Amelia came by to drag him out. He dreaded that moment, though he equally dreaded the day she finally gave up. Because surely she would.

Or worse yet. He dreaded the day she came in to say Liam's body was home. That there was a funeral to go to. That he had to change out of his sweatpants and into one of his suits. And Niall didn't know if he could.

But he couldn't not go. Failing Liam on that front would be a betrayal he couldn't bear. A failure on a whole new level.

Chapter Text

But even after hours—maybe more, maybe less—of lying there, Amelia didn't come.

Which was... certainly odd. And why was he so damn hot? Every breath felt thick, the air clinging to his skin. He shifted, kicking a leg out from under the duvet, only for the clammy warmth to stick to him. The fine hairs on his legs damp with sweat.

Sure, he always ran hot in his sleep, but his penthouse didn't get like this. It was October in London, cool and grey.

With an annoyed sigh, he pushed himself upright, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from his neck. Why the hell was it so muggy? If this was his mind's twisted way of breaking through, forcing him to feel the little annoyances to pull him out of bed, he didn't want it. The idea of moving on was as suffocating as wallowing. The thought of breathing normally again, of going about his day while Liam was still gone, made him sick.

But as he went to fling the duvet off, his hands froze. Fingers gripping the fabric tightly. This wasn't his bed. This wasn't his duvet.

The sharp, impersonal scent of detergent hit him first, but one look at his surroundings made his heart thud in his throat. The heavy white comforter wasn't his. The curtains, thin and struggling to hold back the bright morning light, were nothing compared to the heavy blackout curtains in his own bedroom. But never mind the curtains, it shouldn't even be light yet. Not in London, not at this time. It should be dark still.

No—he was in Colombia. The resort. The one he had stayed in with the rest of the band, just after wrapping up his tour.

He lunged for his phone, fumbling with numb fingers until the screen lit up. His hands trembled as he stared at the date displayed. He stared until the numbers and letters blurred and danced incomprehensibly before his eyes. How was this possible?

Was it… had it all been just a dream? Or was this the dream?

He pinched himself, wincing, then squeezed harder, afraid to believe. He didn't know what this meant. Had it really happened? Had he finally cracked? Conjured up this whole Liam-dying nightmare in his head? How fucked up would that be?

Or worse—was this not real? Was he imagining himself back in Colombia, before everything went wrong as some kind of weird coping mechanism?

His chest tightened sharply, and he gasped in a panicked breath, realising too late that he'd forgotten to breathe. The pressure then kept building in that all-too-familiar way. Panic attack.

Head between his legs, he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stave it off.

Usually, he would try the 5-4-3-2-1 technique his therapist recommended, grounding himself by naming things he could see, touch, and hear. But right now? Right now, if he tried, he would only spiral further, because he didn't know what was real. Was this really Colombia, or was it all in his head?

So instead, he kept his eyes shut, counting each breath until he didn't have to force them anymore. Until the light-headedness ebbed away, leaving him a shaky, uncertain mess.

When he dared to sit up and look around again, the sun had vanished behind the clouds. Rain pounded against the glass, relentless, just as he remembered it during the days after wrapping up his tour. It was rain season in Colombia, and October was smack-bang in the middle of it. He could hear it now, a low, constant roar, which made the world feel smaller. 

Back when he had enjoyed the nearly empty resort with the rest of the lads and lasses from his tour. They'd shot the shit, had a bit of craic, and Niall had indulged in a few massages to work the kinks out of his back and ease the pain in his knee from singing, jamming, dancing, and running through his third solo tour.

His suitcase stood by the door, waiting to be whisked away—just like it had been that morning, the day he travelled back home. But… but if this was real, he shouldn't be going home, should he? He should be getting to Liam.

His hand hovered over his phone, hesitant. Should he? Should he shoot Liam a text?

If he had really cracked—if Liam was dead—and he texted him now… whoever had Liam's phone would see it. Whether it was the police investigating his death or Liam's family, they would know Niall had lost the plot.

And depending on who it was, they'd either be concerned for him—when they really should be mourning Liam—or they'd sell it to the gossip rags.

Christ, the headlines. "Ex-Bandmate Cracks Over Payne's Death." Or worse. "Horan's Breakdown: Another Smudge on One Direction's Legacy." It was not something he wanted tacked onto Liam's memory—or his own.

No, he couldn't text Liam. He couldn't text anyone —Louis, Amelia, Kate. No, he had to get there. Back to Argentina.

If Liam was there—alive, okay, breathing—he could laugh off Niall's odd behaviour. Maybe give him one of those bone-crushing hugs. Surely, he'd be delighted to see him.

Niall could play it off as tour exhaustion, needing a holiday. And wasn't Liam holidaying anyway? They could just do it together.

But if Liam was there—not fine—then… then maybe Niall was meant to be there. Maybe he was supposed to stop whatever happened, whatever had made Liam fall from that balcony.

And if he got there only to discover that yes, Liam was dead, and yes, fans were mourning him outside the hotel, and yes, the dates on his phone were all wrong—well, at least then, Niall would know . At least he could be shaken out of this stupor. Maybe, just maybe, it would provide him with some sense of closure.

So Niall called his assistant and got her to arrange a flight from Colombia to Argentina. He asked her to book him a hotel on the other side of Buenos Aires—just in case. He would stay with Liam if he could. But if… if reality turned out to be the worst possible version, he didn't want to stay anywhere near where it happened. Or where it would happen. Shit, he didn't even know which tense was applicable.

The fact that she didn't mention Liam was a good sign. Or at least it felt like one— like proof, maybe, that he just had the weirdest, most fucked-up nightmare ever. And her lack of questions? That was promising, too. Or perhaps it was just one of her more stellar qualities.

She'd once complained, back when she was just getting comfortable in her role, and had finally started calling him Niall instead of Mister Horan after suffering through one too many 'you're speaking to Niall, not to my da Bobby ' jokes. She'd said she thought the job would be more unpredictable, more all over the place.

Working for an international superstar—1/5th of One Direction—she had expected last-minute, off-the-wall requests. Hadn't expected him to be so boring, hadn't expected to spend most of her time calling ahead to golf courses to confirm his tee times like he was 50-something rather than in his early 30s. Secretly, Niall had been glad to be considered boring.

Maybe this wasn't exactly weird, but it was definitely last minute, and Niall was sure he sounded more than a little insane on the phone. Voice high and pitchy and more demanding than he had ever been with her.

He had insisted it had to be the earliest flight possible—private jet if nothing else was available, even though he rarely travelled that way. He told her he wouldn't be answering his phone for a while and that she shouldn't call Amelia. But if Amelia called her, she could let her know where he'd gone. He also asked her to be the one to tell the rest of the band he wouldn't be flying back to London with them. He couldn't face them. Not now. Not yet. Instead, he'd told her, "I just… I need to go. Now." Before ending the call.

All through the rest of the morning, Niall felt jittery and unsteady, reaching for his phone only to put it back down again. Reaching for the remote but not actually daring to turn the telly on. He debated going down for breakfast but hesitated, knowing he might run into someone. He didn't want that. He wasn't hungry anyway. He was convinced he couldn't get a single bite past his lips.

He wasn't even sure when it happened. Or it would happen. Or whether he would even be on time, if it was actually the day he believed it to be.

Jesus Fecking Christ. This better be real. He better be on time.

Or was this another nightmare? Like the last one? Was he stuck in some kind of loop? Some sick, twisted Groundhog Day shit where he would have to relive Liam's death in a thousand different ways; always too late? Or was this the nightmare, and the other—the one of him wallowing in London—reality? Was he just getting his hopes up for nothing?

Still, the confirmation email came through, detailing his travel itinerary and hotel information. The dates matched what he'd seen on his phone. So maybe this was real. Maybe he could call Liam, talk to him.

But what if it wasn't real?

What if this was some elaborate trick of his mind? Or worse—what if reaching out now pushed Liam to do whatever had happened even faster? It felt like tempting fate to contact him. He should just go.

So he went.

The waiting car took him to the airport, where he was shepherded onto the plane. Airport staff—who probably recognised him but were professional enough to pretend they didn't—kept their polite, indifferent smiles as they guided him along, assuring him everything was on schedule and thanking him for flying with them. Niall smiled back, though it felt forced, and nodded along, though he couldn't remember who the hell he was flying with, if he had flown with them before, or if he ever would again.

He buckled himself in, then sat back and stared out the window like he hadn't seen the same view a thousand times before.

The passing of time felt slow and syrupy, but also too fast all at once. His heart thudded hard against his ribcage, anxiety pooling in his stomach. He was convinced they'd never get anywhere—least of all on time. Yet he blinked at the clouds, blinked again, and suddenly they were descending. Down, down, down.

He was shepherded out again into another waiting car. Niall took a deep breath, then another, and finally asked the driver to take him to the Casasur Palermo Hotel.

The man didn't react beyond confirming.

And that bugged Niall. Was the driver indifferent because nothing had happened yet? Or was it because he was just being professional? Niall couldn't tell. But he also couldn't ask if someone had died at the hotel—not without sounding insane.

Instead, he plucked at the skin of his bottom lip, wincing as he realised it was raw and tender. He must've been doing it all morning. He pulled his fingers away, now speckled with tiny dots of blood. He fiddled with his phone again, pulling up his texting thread with Liam. The little cursor in the text box blinked at him, mocking him. Daring him to type something. Daring him to hit send.

But he couldn't.

He felt clammy again, like he had when he woke up that morning. A bead of sweat rolled down his back, getting trapped in a crease of his faded T-shirt. Niall shoved his phone back into his pocket, wiping his hands on his trousers. He turned to stare unseeingly out of the window once more, willing time to pass as fast as it had on the plane.

When they pulled up to the right street, Niall saw the fans gathered. His stomach dropped, and he felt incredibly cold despite the warm humidity of his surroundings. So Liam was dead. And Niall had lost the plot. Right?

Only… they were just hanging around, little groups scattered here and there. None of them looked particularly phased. No crying, no shrine.

So, was it just… had it not happened yet? Or wouldn't it happen at all? Had it really just been a nightmare?

Niall didn't dare to feel relieved. Not yet. Not until he laid eyes on Liam, touched him, felt the warmth of his skin beneath his fingers.

Thanks to the tinted windows and the car pulling up close to the entrance, Niall could slip out unnoticed, through to the lobby before anyone really clocked him.

Chapter Text

Liam woke with his head pounding, his stomach churning, and a dull throb radiating from his hand. His mouth tasted foul, dry and acidic, but worse than any of it was the taste of regret.

He'd taken it too far. Again.

He really thought he could've made it work this time. Figured he could've been better, that he wouldn't slip and slide back into being… being a fucking mess. A failure. But here he was.

Washed-up popstar. The least successful of the band. The most troublesome one. No longer Daddy Direction, no longer the respectable one, the responsible one, the nice fucking human being. No. Now, he was the alcoholic. The addict. The disappointment.

The laughingstock...

And he couldn't even fix it, because there was nothing left to fix. There was no way to redeem himself, prove to himself and others that he deserved to be here. The label had dropped him. The second album he'd poured his heart and soul into wouldn't be released. No world tour. No redemption. Nothing.

The thought made him groan, dragging a hand over his face as he forced his eyes open. Maybe… maybe it wouldn't feel so bad if—But the thought trailed off, unfinished. Because when his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the room, he found himself face-to-face with Niall.

Niall.

Niall. Who was staring back at him with tired, haunted eyes. His usually pale skin was almost translucent, save for the deep shadows beneath his eyes. He didn't look tan, glowy, and bright like he had done when Liam had attended his show with Kate.

"Niall?" Liam croaked, his voice raspy and raw. He blinked at him, stunned. Why was he here? How did he get here? Did he know? Well, of course, he fucking knew, judging by the worried look in his eyes.

"Liam," Niall spat, his voice shaking. "Liam, you fucking prick."

The words came out stammered at first, but then he seemed to find them more forcefully. "You can never fucking do that to me, you understand me? You can never fucking do this to me again! You scared me—you nearly fucking scared me to death—"

Niall cut himself off, looking like he wanted to punch Liam, but only managed a weak thud against his bare chest. And then he broke. The words turned into sobs, raw and unrestrained, unlike anything Liam had heard from him before.

Liam sat up hurriedly, hesitating only for a moment before reaching out. He wrapped his arms around Niall, pulling him close and holding him against his chest. He didn't know what to say, didn't know how to fix this.

He wanted to ask. Wanted to ask what Niall meant. Not because he didn't know. Well, he didn't know—he couldn't remember—but it wasn't hard to put one and one together. No, he wanted Niall to say it. To spell it out. As some form of self-flagellation.

He wanted to hear Niall say what a mess he'd made of himself, what a failure he was. He wanted to hear the disappointment in Niall's voice. Wanted those words to stab him right in the heart and stay there. To leave his heart bleeding, raw, so he could feel it. Torture himself with it.

Niall didn't, at least - not yet. He shook in Liam's arms, muffled his sobs in his shoulder, but kept quiet apart from that. But even without Niall saying so, it wasn't hard to piece it together. To fill in the blanks.

It had started with a drink. Followed by another. And another. And there had been no Kate to smile and steal the glass out of his hand, to kiss him instead. Because she wasn't there. She didn't know yet. Didn't know what a loser of a boyfriend he was, because he hadn't told her about the label dropping him.

So he drank. And drank some more. And he hadn't been able to stop at that. He had craved something else. Craved the euphoria of a fix. Wanted to feel better, even though he already knew the comedown would be an even bigger bitch. That it would only send him spiralling further.

Judging by the state of the hotel room, he'd made quite the time of it.

Someone—assumedly Niall—had made a valiant effort to clean up the worst of it. But it was easy to see what had been left behind.

The empty liquor bottles stood by the bathroom sink, visible through the open door. Niall must have poured out whatever was left. The TV, its screen smashed, sat by the door instead of on the cabinet where it had been. Oh, well... That explained the pain in his hand.

The little bin under the desk was overflowing, while the coffee table had been cleared—except for his meds. And the drugs. Neatly lined up.

Niall must have spoken to Louis. Maybe not now, but after Louis had found him in the bathroom of his London apartment way back when. Clearly, Niall had taken a page out of Louis' book, holding on to the evidence in case things went sideways and the paramedics needed to know what the fuck he'd taken.

It had never gotten that far, thank God. He had been spared the shame of paramedics at his door, the cameras catching every humiliating detail. If it had, his bleeding heart would've been splashed across the front pages. His most shameful secrets, dissected and devoured by the world.

No, all that was out there was the carefully curated version. The admission that Liam had struggled with "some things." That he'd gotten help. That he was better now.

Was supposed to be better now.

And yet, he'd fucked that up. Clearly. It wasn't even a surprise. Not to him. And apparently not to Niall, either. Because Niall had known to come here. But how? How had he known?

"Niall, I'm sorry," Liam whispered guiltily. Once again, one of his mates had been left to deal with his mess. And judging by the way Niall was crying, Liam hadn't been the nicest to him last night.

He'd probably been a right fucking prick—like he always was whenever he had had something. People didn't know, but some of the worst things he'd said about friends, about the boys, had always been when he was using.

The little green monster of jealousy would crawl up his throat and out of his mouth, and it always seemed to go straight for the soft underbelly of whichever one of his brothers was nearest. Digging its poisonous little nails in.

Whatever he'd said last night, whatever he'd done, it had scared Niall to death.

He couldn't understand how Niall had ended up here in the first place. He'd just wrapped up his tour—he should've been heading home to Amelia, right? So what was Niall doing here? Had Liam called him or texted him? But even if he had, how could Niall have gotten to Argentina so quickly?

Had Niall already been on his way? Had he been worried? What had Liam done to worry him?

The last time they'd seen each other, at Niall's gig, Liam had been genuinely delighted for him. He'd squashed down his jealousy, dancing along to Niall's songs, hugged him tight, and had told him he was so fucking proud of the man his mate had grown into.

He'd been overcompensating, sure. But he had been proud. Watching Niall command the stage, hearing the fans scream for him—it had been impossible not to be. Niall wasn't just part of something big anymore. He was something big, all on his own.

And Liam had been almost manic trying to get that across to him. Had it been too much?

"Don't fucking a-apologise," Niall choked out, pulling back from where his face had been buried in Liam's neck and interrupting his racing thoughts. His eyes were red, raw, and shining with tears, but they met Liam's head-on. "Just n-never fucking do that to me again."

Liam hesitated, but he was a sucker for pain. He couldn't help himself. "Do what, Niall?"

The Irishman looked as affronted as Liam expected him to be, his mouth opening, then closing, gaping at him like a fish. For a moment, Liam thought he might not answer.

"You fucking died," Niall said, voice cracking. "You fucking died and left me, and how the fuck—" He broke off, shaking his head, then went on, words tumbling out faster than he could seem to stop them. "You died, and I was the worst friend ever. I should've known. But I'm here now. I did it right this time, but you can never do this to me again. I'm not leaving you out of my fucking sight ever again. You—how—"

Liam froze, his mind struggling to process the words.

You fucking died.

This wasn't what he'd been expecting. He'd thought Niall might lay into him for drinking, or using, or both. For his unhealthy coping mechanisms. For whatever asshole things he'd said or done last night.

But instead—what did Niall mean, he died ?

But Liam couldn't ponder it for long, because Niall's panicked gasps were all too familiar. He pulled him back in, holding him tightly as he tried to stave off the other's panic attack.

"Niall, love… I didn't die. I'm right here. Whatever happened last night…"

He hesitated, then tightened his grip, his voice soft and steady. "I'm here still. I didn't die. I'm sorry for whatever I said, or whatever I did that scared you so. But Niall, love, I'm right here. And you're here, so how can you be anything but a good friend?"

His hand moved in a rhythmic motion, up and down Niall's back, his fingers skimming over the bumps of his spine. Liam ignored the damp fabric of Niall's t-shirt, soaked with sweat that stank of fear. It wasn't the clean sweat Liam remembered from back when they were on stage together, when Niall glowed under the lights, entirely in his element.

No. This was the same smell Niall had carried in the back of the bread van, the same fear that had consumed him when Directioners swarmed hotels and arenas and radio stations, when security had to box them in before pushing through the crowd to get them in and out of buildings.

It made Liam's limbs feel heavy with guilt. He was the reason for it this time. The sole reason. He'd brought this on.

"I'm right here, Niall," he murmured. "C'mon, mate, breathe with me. I'm right here."

It became a mantra, repeated over and over, until Niall's breathing finally began to even out.

When Niall calmed, he slowly untangled himself and sat back up, meeting Liam's gaze head-on. The intensity of it unnerved Liam after a moment or two. He wanted to squirm away, to cower under the weight of it, because surely disappointment was coming.

But it didn't come. Instead, Niall just looked exhausted. Sallow. Downtrodden.

“You need help, Li. You do,” Niall said. His voice was thin, worn. Tired in a way that made him sound younger and older all at once.

"I called Lou, and he's coming here. And we… the three of us… we're going to figure out what to do. Because, Li, I love you. And I'm sorry that I've not been a better friend, but I'm here now, and I'm going to get you help and…" Niall trailed off, falling silent.

And Liam wanted, no need, to set the record straight. Because what the fuck was Niall on about?

Liam might be the one who talked about the band the most, remembered every anniversary, and liked to reminisce with the fans, but Niall was their glue.

Niall made sure none of them forgot anyone's birthday. He was always the first to congratulate them on their achievements—no matter what timezone he was in. Liam suspected Niall even set calendar alerts for that sort of thing.

He was the one who stayed in touch, even when they weren't doing well. Even when they pushed him away. Niall always came back, not needing an apology or an explanation. He just wanted—no, needed—them to know he still loved them. That he didn't care about having to deal with the worst of it if it meant he could also be there to cheer them on for the best of it.

Niall worked tirelessly to involve them all in his life and keep them involved in each other's, even if only secondhand. If it weren't for Niall, reaching into the figurative ocean and pulling them out by their life vests, then ruffling their hair and cheering them on when they tried to build a little raft of their own, they would've drifted to the opposite corners of the world.

"But you are a good friend, Ni. This is not on you—none of it is," Liam asserted, his voice firm but gentle. "I don't know what I did or said to make you think that, but I'm sorry. I'm sorry if I made you think you're to blame for any of my shit. But you've been here. You've been my mate. You've had my back. I know that, silly."

He squeezed Niall's shoulder, willing him to listen, to take the words to heart. Liam hated how Niall seemed to have convinced himself that whatever had happened last night was his fault.

Because while Liam's memories were muddy, he knew he'd started this without Niall. He'd been on a downward spiral for days—ever since Kate left—and it had only sped up when he'd received that email. All caps in his head. THAT EMAIL. The one that burned all his bridges and turned his hard work to ash.

After that, he'd reached for the first bottle. He'd made the calls, paid for everything he'd put up his nose. None of that was on Niall. Because Niall had been nothing but supportive.

He thought about how much Niall loved a pint, how a night at the pub was his go-to, but how hard he worked to accommodate Liam. How he'd found other ways to connect—ways that didn't involve alcohol.

How often Niall reached out. He always ensured Liam knew he was thinking of him, missing him, and keeping up with his life. And he did it all without putting Liam on the spot, without guilt-tripping him or trying to force a conversation about feelings or issues.

Liam loved that. It made him feel normal. It made him feel accepted.

He adored Louis, too. He loved how Louis didn't let him get away with anything, didn't let him wiggle out of his grasp no matter how slippery he was or how hard he fought to get away from him, how he called him out on his bullshit and kept him honest. But with Louis, there was always a shadow of judgement. Or at least, Liam felt like there was. Like a part of him was just a project, a commodity. Even though Louis swore he wasn't.

Liam loved Louis for his brutal honesty. But he loved Niall for making him feel normal. For making him feel loved, not labelled.

With Niall, he didn't feel like he had "alcoholic" or "addict" stamped across his forehead. Niall never made him feel like he had to talk, but he also didn't make him feel like he couldn't or shouldn't.

Niall was just as engaged when Liam showed him Bear's latest drawing as when he shared how many days clean he'd been. And that? That meant everything.

The thought of Louis knowing—of Louis heading his way—was a tough one. It made Liam want to hide.

Because while Niall wasn't giving in, wasn't calling him out, Louis wouldn't hesitate. Louis wouldn't hold back. He'd take him to task, pick and prod at every raw spot, exposing the bruises and poking them until Liam caved. Until he got what he wanted—for Liam to get help.

And clearly, Liam was going to get it.

Because the way Niall had just looked at him—sorrowful, afraid, pained—was more than enough to convince him. He never wanted Niall to look at him like that again. Never wanted him to worry like that again.

But Louis would dig deeper. He'd wheedle out the triggers, the excuses, the moments that kickstarted this spiral. And Liam would have to admit it.

Admit that he was a failure. That he was staying behind while the rest of them moved on.

It wasn't even a secret. It was out there for the world to see. He knew what people online had been saying after he went to Niall's gig. Knew they'd laughed at how he'd engaged with Niall's fans and snarked about how he'd met with fans outside his hotel.

He knew what they thought: Poor Liam, trying so hard to stay relevant through his friends. And the worst part was, he couldn't entirely disagree.

He wouldn't bring it up, though. Because whenever Louis or Niall caught wind of him thinking shit like that, they'd vehemently deny it. They'd insist he was just better at engaging with fans in person than they were.

But what if the fans were right? Maybe that's why they didn't care as much. Didn't listen. Why work so hard—why dedicate yourself to being someone's fan—if they were so ready to give it all away? If there was no mystery, no illusion, no perfect image of the man on stage. Just plain old Liam.

Flawed, clumsy, sometimes awful.

The guy who put his foot in his mouth. The guy who so desperately wanted the world's approval. Who wanted his friends. Who wanted to make it on that stage. Who wanted to sell out stadiums.

"I'll get help. I get it," Liam said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Chapter Text

Liam wasn't sure what he'd expected after his admission. Maybe he'd hoped Niall would relax a little, that they could stop talking—or thinking—about it for a bit. At least until Louis arrived. But whatever had happened last night had clearly freaked Niall out.

When Liam suggested that they could have their breakfast on the balcony, Niall nearly jumped out of his skin. He got weird and shifty, avoiding Liam's gaze and mumbling something vague before steering them firmly away from the sliding doors.

There was something Niall wasn't telling him—Liam could see it plain as day—but who was he to call him out on it?

So, instead, they ate breakfast in bed. Or tried to, anyway.

Liam's stomach churned with acid, and even plain toast stuck in his throat, crawling its way back up with every dry swallow. He knew from experience that this was all part of the comedown, the physical toll of the night he'd had. But having Niall there, silently worrying, picking at his food with that faraway look in his eyes, only made it worse. Guilt twisted in his gut, an unwelcome companion to the nausea.

Niall barely ate. He picked apart two croissants, turning them into a mountain of crumbs on his plate. His gaze constantly darted toward the balcony door, shifting whenever he did, as if keeping himself positioned between it and Liam.

It freaked Liam out so much that he finally excused himself, announcing that he was going to take a shower. Niall nodded, then promptly followed him into the bathroom. Liam didn't ask what the hell that was about—though it weirded him the fuck out—but he couldn't think of a valid excuse to send Niall away.

It wasn't as if Niall hadn't seen it all before. Once upon a time, this sort of thing had been the norm for all five of them. Following each other everywhere, carrying on conversations from room to room, barely giving each other personal space. His mum used to fret about it, calling them annoyingly co-dependent, though she'd smiled fondly when she said it.

Nowadays, Liam suspected she missed it—missed the safety net the band had given him. She'd told him once, gently, that he hadn't seemed the same since they'd all gone their separate ways.

But Liam knew it hadn't always been perfect. Especially after Zayn left. Those later years had been rough, even when they were still together. That was when things started to shift, when they stopped sneaking into each other's hotel rooms as often and stopped making an effort to keep each other close. And Liam? He'd been left mostly to his own devices.

His own, and the minibar.

So Liam just stripped down and stepped into the shower. Even with the glass fogging up, he couldn't quite shake the feeling of Niall's gaze lingering on him.

Sure enough, when he stepped out, Niall was still there, sitting cross-legged on the floor like he'd never left. He looked tired, worn, but acted like it was the most normal thing in the world. So Liam did too.

"I've got an extra toothbrush if you want. And you can borrow a pair of sweats. Can't imagine those jeans are comfortable," Liam suggested.

It earned him a watery smile. It didn't reach Niall's eyes, but it was something. The first time Liam had seen him smile since he had arrived. It was a small victory, a strange one. Niall usually smiled at everything.

Still, Niall followed him everywhere. Like a ghost. And that was a little bit insane, considering they didn't even leave the room. But Niall seemed to migrate wherever Liam went, always positioning himself between Liam and the balcony.

At first, Liam was afraid to ask why. But after hours of pacing around the room, cabin fever setting in, he couldn't help himself.

"Why, Ni?" he finally asked, voice hesitant. "What's going on?"

Niall looked at him, his expression closing off, and Liam immediately regretted it. When Niall finally answered, his voice was small, almost childlike. "You just really scared me, Li."

Liam's stomach sank. He wanted to press, wanted to understand—but he couldn't bear to. Maybe that was something Louis could pry out of him. Louis would wheedle and dig until he got to the truth. But Liam wasn't sure he wanted to know, needed to know. If Niall was acting like this, it had to be bad.

Liam and Niall, with the latter still trailing him like a ghostly shadow, settled in to watch something on Niall's laptop. The smashed TV screen and Liam's bruised knuckles went unmentioned.

When Niall insisted Liam pick what to watch, Liam promptly chose one of those trashy reality shows Niall loved to hate. The kind he'd roll his eyes at but secretly delighted in watching.

Niall began to relax. He stopped staring so much, cracked a few smiles, rolled his eyes at the petty arguments on screen, and muttered sarcastic comments under his breath.

Liam's mind drifted as they watched; the way their shoulders pressed together reminded him of those long nights on tour when they had been locked in their hotel rooms. Sometimes, it had just been the two of them, like now. Sometimes, all five of them crammed onto the same bed or scattered across the floor. Sometimes, it was him and Niall while Harry sat nearby, and Louis and Zayn huddled on the balcony, sharing a smoke, hidden from prying eyes.

Back then, keeping them inside, locked up in their hotel rooms, was easier than ferrying them through a city. It was easier to lock them in hotel rooms and let them splurge on room service rather than closing down bars or restaurants so they could act like normal teenagers. It wasn’t healthy, not by a long shot, but Liam didn’t blame their team. Managing One Direction had been a never-ending game of catch-up. The band's fame consistently outpacing every contingency plan.

They'd been five teenage boys with more money than sense, oblivious to danger, egos inflated daily by the screams of adoring fans. Their team had done what they could, wrangling them to and fro obligations, keeping the chaos manageable.

There'd been no line in their contract obliging them to provide mandatory fun to keep teenage boys sane.

Four episodes into the show, Niall's eyes began to droop. Liam noticed the telltale signs of exhaustion catching up with him. His head lolled slightly before snapping upright again—until eventually, it didn't, and his breathing evening out, at least for a little while. It certainly looked like some much-needed rest, considering how worn out the Irishman looked.

But the moments of peace never lasted. Each time Niall started to drift off, he'd jolt awake, gasping quietly. His hand would immediately shoot out to rest on Liam's arm as if he needed to reassure himself that Liam was still there.

Liam didn't ask. Instead, he shifted, untwisting his arm from Niall’s grip, taking his hand instead, and giving it a reassuring squeeze. He would catch Niall up on whatever drama he had missed during his brief nap, voice low and tone half-mocking, coaxing another smile out of him and soothing him back to sleep. It wasn’t so different from what Liam did with Bear when he was stubborn about his bedtime but teetering on the edge of exhaustion.

It worked, at least it did until Niall startled awake again, and the cycle repeated. It was heartbreaking. Nerve-wracking too.

And hours ago, Liam wouldn't have thought it to be the case, but now? He couldn't wait for Louis to arrive. Because apparently, some bruises had to be prodded. Maybe some screaming and shouting and crying was needed. Maybe the usually so lovely Niall needed to dig his claws into Liam's soft underbelly, to kick him while he was down. Perhaps that would be better than this—whatever this was.

It would resolve the tension, wouldn't it? Get rid of the unknowing. What did they always say? Better the devil you know… or something like that.

Even though, truthfully, Liam couldn't imagine Niall as the devil.

It wasn't as if Niall was all good. He wasn't a goody two-shoes. He'd always been Louis's partner-in-crime for the best pranks, his manic giggles ringing through hotel rooms, backstage dressing rooms, and the back of the van like the soundtrack to their mischief. Especially when Harry was the target—so gullible, so easy to lure in.

Liam still couldn't believe Harry never learned to match Louis's smirk and Niall's giggle as the warning that mischief was afoot. Though, to be fair, Liam hadn't always been much better. He'd been an easy mark himself, especially in the early years. Always so easily affronted by Louis, so quick to rise to the bait.

No, Niall was no devil. Any harm Niall had caused had been unintentional, accidental, a by-product of his relentless drive to have a laugh, to connect. He was so naturally sociable, the kind of person people just gravitated to.

It had always been like that, even back in the X Factor house. Niall with his guitar and that easy, belly-deep laugh. The way he'd flash his charmingly crooked teeth, inviting everyone into his orbit without even trying.

It was what had caused the trouble with Ed and Ellie; Niall being so friendly, so easy to love. But even then Ed hadn't been able to stay mad at him. He'd accepted Niall's frantic, earnest apologies, ruffled his hair with a sigh, and admitted that Niall couldn't have helped it.

Niall hadn't known. Nobody had really known. Ed and Ellie had kept things under wraps, valuing their privacy above all.

Sure, what happened wasn't pretty. Liam knew Niall still winced at that line in Ed's song. Still carried guilt, even though it wasn't really about him. Liam hated it. He wanted to punch Ed for it, even if it was more of a dig at Ellie. The fact that Niall was so easily dismissed as a threat? That wasn't his fault.

And how could someone break the bro code if they hadn't even known it was there to begin with? Liam felt angry all over again at the thought of it. Maybe because Niall wasn't. Or perhaps because it was easier to get angry about that than to turn his anger inward again.

Because the truth was, Liam knew he was the reason Niall was sleeping so fitfully now. He was the reason Niall's eyes darted toward the balcony, the reason Niall's shoulders were so tense, and the reason Liam was now wishing Louis would show up and do what Niall wouldn't.

Chapter Text

Louis felt bone-tired as he trudged up to Liam's hotel room, keycard in hand. His shoulders ached, his back was stiff from hours on a plane, and he could already feel a headache brewing behind his eyes.

At least Niall had had the sense to call reception to let them know that Louis would be arriving and to prepare a key for him, which was… promising. Not much, but he'd take what he could get.

Because when Louis had talked to Niall on the phone, the Irish lad hadn't exactly been making much sense. Half sentences, long silences, voice shaky and uneven in a way that set Louis's teeth on edge, as it was not at all befitting of the Irishman. So, despite trekking halfway across the world, he didn't really know what he'd be walking into.

All he'd gathered was this: Liam was using again. It was bad—bad enough that Niall had convinced himself Liam was at death's door, about to kick the metaphorical bucket—and Niall, bless his panicked little heart, had no bloody clue what to do about it. He'd begged, actually begged, for Louis to come. Said he couldn't do this alone. Louis wasn't sure if it was pure panic speaking or if something specific had made Niall so adamant that the Grim Reaper had come knocking. Whatever it was, Niall hadn't been able to articulate it over the phone.

Most of the call had been spent trying to get Niall to calm down enough to explain where Louis needed to go, to confirm that yes, Liam was still breathing, yes, his heart was still beating, and no, he wasn't dead—just unconscious.

Exactly how or why Niall had found himself in Argentina just days after finishing his tour, or what Liam had done to scare him so badly, was not something Louis had managed to tease out in one frantic phone call. There'd been something about a balcony, but whenever Louis tried to press for details, the conversation devolved into Niall blubbering again. Eventually, he stopped asking, deciding his time would be better spent on getting himself on the first flight out.

He managed to calm Niall down enough to square away what needed doing—how to look after Liam until he arrived—and to assure him, over and over again, that he'd be there as soon as humanly possible.

Afterwards, Niall sent him some text updates: Liam was still breathing, and he'd cleared away the worst of the mess. As if that was supposed to be reassuring. Dammit, Niall.

It really wasn't, especially with videos and pictures trickling onto the socials, showing Liam being all but manhandled back to his room by hotel staff. Gossip outlets had, of course, run wild with it. That, in turn, sparked more than one concerned phone call from the Payne family, who hadn't been able to get hold of Liam. Or his team. Or anyone else who'd recently seen him. They said that Kate hadn't heard from him either.

Naturally, Louis was their next point of contact.

He hadn't wanted to scare them, though—not by repeating what little he knew from Niall, or how little of actual substance he'd been able to get out of him. So he'd stuck to placating reassurances: Yes, Niall was already there—hadn't they seen that grainy video of him in the lobby, slamming his fist on the desk, gesturing upwards? They shouldn't worry; Niall was there to help. And yes, it seemed Liam had fallen off the wagon, but they were sorting it. He wasn't alone, at least, and Louis himself was on his way. Liam wouldn't be left to his own devices until they were absolutely sure he could look after himself again. No, Kate didn't need to fly out, thanks for offering. This was something best left to the boys.

They'd done this before, hadn't they? They knew how to handle the most prickly parts, wouldn't take it personally when things got sharp or ugly. "It's fine," Louis had promised. "Please don't cry, Karen. Don't worry, Geoff. We got our boy."

It didn’t stop the worry from gnawing at him, though. Not when he was wedged in a cramped plane seat, nowhere to go, nothing to do but sit with it—waiting, dreading, running through worst-case scenarios in his head.

By the time the plane finally touched down, Louis was already bracing himself. As soon as they hit the runway, he flicked his phone off airplane mode, barely giving it a second before checking his messages. There it was—a text from Niall, sent hours ago. Liam’s awake. Had a shower. Louis exhaled sharply, tension loosening in his shoulders. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

There was also a message from the Paynes, saying they had spoken to Niall. He had let them know Liam didn't have his phone on him at the moment—presumably confiscated by Niall to ensure that the fallout online wouldn't send Liam spiralling further. It had always been their go-to strategy in the band: first the person, then the rest.

All in all, it sounded more promising than when Louis boarded the plane. Niall had clearly shaken off the worst of his panic, followed Louis's instructions, and even thought a few steps beyond that. Still, Louis couldn't quite shake his own concern. He'd never heard Niall like that before. For one awful moment during their call, Louis had thought Liam was already gone.

While Niall hadn't been through the brunt of it with Liam the way Louis had, he'd been involved often enough not to get massively freaked out like this. So, it wasn't just that Liam had been unconscious, sleeping off the worst of it. Whatever had happened had been bad. And Louis needed to know just how bad.

So, despite the texts, Louis still braced himself for whatever he might find inside the hotel room. Which was why it came as such a surprise when he swiped the keycard, opened the door, and found Liam and Niall sitting together, heads bent over a laptop, watching a show.

"Heya, lads," Louis greeted softly, keeping his voice light and his smile as non-judgemental as possible. The last thing he wanted was to make Liam feel more on edge.

Because Liam did worry. He worried about being a burden, about seeming stupid. Thought himself weak, and he was probably already ashamed of relapsing.

Louis didn't think he should feel that way. Wouldn't dream of judging him for it. But he knew Liam too well. He'd take this harder on himself than anyone else ever could. And Louis wanted to make it clear, from the moment he stepped into that room, that his being here wasn't something Liam had to fret over.

Did the lad sometimes make stupid choices? Most definitely. But addiction was a disease, and while Louis wasn't above laying into Liam when he thought it was necessary, he also understood that, like all of them, Liam was just a sum of his parts. Beneath it all, he was still that curly-haired, uptight teenager from X Factor—the one who used to clash with Louis over every little thing because he worried so much and took everything so bloody seriously.

They all were still those five boys on the stairs, somewhere deep down. Hopeful, naïve kids who got swept up in the madness of the band, something that had been both the best thing that had ever happened to them and, at times, a curse.

Louis just knew —knew in his bones—that Zayn wouldn't have made it out of One Direction in one piece if they'd forced him to stay. Stay in the band, that was, not the friendship. Zayn was as co-dependent as the rest of them, and keeping in touch with Niall (and, in recent months, Louis) had helped him flourish. Reuniting Zayn with Harry and Liam—with the band—was still a work in progress, but Louis hadn't given up on it.

Because while Zayn had thrived navigating his career solo, Liam? Liam had floundered without them. All that worrying, overthinking, and relentless criticality he'd once applied to the band as a whole was now turned inward. It had led him down some deeply unfortunate paths.

Especially because Liam was so desperate to be liked that he surrounded himself with the worst kind of people. Enablers. People who encouraged him to stick his foot in his mouth and stuff blow up his nose. Louis detested them, but Liam was a grown man in his 30s, with his own life. Louis couldn't always be there to scare the playground bullies away or hold his hand.

Just like Niall couldn't always be there. Couldn't always poke Liam's dimples to make him laugh or strum along to whatever genius lyrics he had come up with. Niall, who might love a pint but knew better than to invite Liam for one. Who would take him out for coffee or dinner instead. Who'd drag him golfing, or ignore his bad knee to kick a ball around with Liam and Bear, just like he did with Louis and Freddie.

No, they needed to work on getting Liam surrounded by the right kind of people again. To bring him back to his boys. Because while none of them could always be there, maybe it would remind him that there were people out there who didn't need him to prove himself. Who didn't care if he seemed cool, confident, or whatever image he thought he had to project. People who wouldn't egg him on toward destruction. People who already knew that Liam deserved the world.

"Hey, Lou," the two chorused in response, looking blearily but trustingly up at him. Right, time to be the big brother again.

What startled Louis, though, was that Niall somehow looked worse for wear than Liam. For a moment, it made him wonder if they'd gotten up to something stupid together. If Niall had taken something too—something that had only amplified his fear and blown the whole situation out of proportion. It would explain the uncharacteristically panicked phone call.

But no. That couldn't be it. Niall wasn't the type. Sure, he’d experimented—they all had, back when they had more money than sense and half a brain cell between them. But nowadays Niall was the kind of lad who got high on life and stayed away from the heavier stuff. It didn't mesh well with his anxiety and his claustrophobia—both well-managed these days, but certainly not helped by any stimulants to drag those demons back out.

No, Niall liked to stick to what he knew. Beer, usually. A glass of red with a nice dinner. Champagne if there was something to celebrate. A puff or two when Louis was lighting up, just to mellow out a bit, but nothing more. Nothing heavier. Not anymore.

No, Niall looked bone-tired, exhausted, and older than Louis had ever seen him look. Pale, sallow, with dark bags under his eyes. He even looked like he'd lost weight, which didn't really make sense. Was this the same lad who had closed his tour just days ago? Teary-eyed, yes, but fit-looking? Tan, smiley, seemingly on top of the world?

What the hell had happened for him to look like this?

Liam didn't look much better. He was clearly feeling the comedown of whatever he had taken, looking pale and sweaty, his movements sluggish. But it was the guilt-ridden expression on his face that struck Louis the most. The way his shoulders were hunched, his posture nervy, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Always so convinced that when things went tits up, nobody could possibly love him anymore. It was so stupid Louis wanted to grab him by the shoulders and give him a good shake. Stupid, lovely little boy.

Louis shut the door behind him, taking in the state of the room. The smashed TV. The overflowing bin. Plates sat stacked precariously on the desk, half-eaten food congealed—evidence of attempts at meals that had clearly gone half-hearted at best.

But it wasn't the mess that held his attention.

It was them.

Two men—no, boys, really—sitting together in the unmade bed, looking completely and utterly wrecked.

"Well…" Louis started, shrugging off his backpack and toeing off his shoes. Without hesitation, he climbed onto the bed, wedging himself between them. He wrapped an arm around each, pulling them into a firm hug.

"We'll get through this, won't we, lads?" he murmured, tightening his grip just a little more when he felt each of them shudder out a quiet sigh.

Chapter Text

Like any self-respecting Brit, Louis's default for hard conversations was a good cuppa. Things always looked less bleak with a warm mug in hand. It gave you something to hold, something to stare into, something to warm your soul with. His mum had been a firm believer in tackling life's messes over a cup of tea, and Louis had inherited that belief wholeheartedly.

There was something soothing about the ritual, too. Filling the little kettle in the bathroom sink, setting out three mugs, grumbling over the lack of Yorkshire Tea and the injustice of coffee creamer instead of proper semi-skimmed milk. The familiar motions grounded him—and, judging by the tentative smiles Niall and Liam exchanged, it seemed to have a calming effect on them too.

Still, the fragile moment was almost shattered when Louis casually suggested taking their tea out onto the balcony for some fresh air. Niall nearly jumped out of his skin. Tea sloshing over the edge of his mug as he abruptly sat up, fumbling to save it before it spilt entirely. Liam didn't look quite as startled as Louis felt, but his puzzlement with the Irishman's behaviour was evident. He ducked his head sheepishly after a second, glancing sideways at Niall. "Better not," Liam said softly, reaching for the tissues on the nightstand with his free hand and dabbing uselessly at the damp stain on the duvet.

Louis frowned, alarmed by Niall's reaction. "Alright… yeah. Sticky note on that. Definitely coming back to that, Niall," he said, voice calm but firm. "Your pasty Irish ass has seen too much sun recently anyway," he added in a faux-absentminded tone. It was a blatant lie—Niall looked about as pale as he used to do after a panic attack, back in the days when the big crowds outside hotels left him jumpy. Actually, he looked worse than that now. Washed-out and gaunt.

But, it had the desired effect. Niall slouched back down, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. Louis just sat for a moment, watching them both. He wanted to dig into whatever that balcony thing was, but right now, the bigger priority was the other elephant in the room.

Liam.

And Liam? Well, Liam was familiar territory. He sat across from him looking sullen, guilt-ridden, and like he'd rather paste himself behind the wallpaper than have this conversation. But Louis knew how to handle that. Knew where to push and prod. It wouldn't be pretty, but now that he had Liam here—alive, in front of him—he was convinced they could get through it, get Liam through it. Drag him through it, if needed.

"Alright," Louis began, leaning forward slightly. "We knew this was most likely going to happen—" Liam's face twisted, a wounded but resigned look clouding his features, and Louis immediately backpedalled. "Not because of you, idiot," he groused. "Because this is how addiction works, you fucking pillock."

"We did the research together, yeah? You remember?" Louis's tone was steady, probing. "What was it? Something like… 60% relapse in the first month after rehab. 80% in the first two years?" Liam didn't respond, but Louis pressed on. "You've already gotten further than that, haven't you? Beaten the odds twice. And you can do it again. Drag your arse all the way past that five-year mark, and then it's basically nothing."

Liam mumbled something in reply, his voice too low to make out.

"What's that?" Louis prodded, leaning forward in the stupid little cuckold chair every hotel seemed to have. After five years," Liam repeated, slightly louder this time, "the relapse rate… it's something like 7 per cent."

"Yeah, basically nothing. Don't split hairs." Louis waved it off with a flick of his hand, determined not to give Liam any time to get in his head about the finer details. He leaned forward even further, ducking his head just enough to catch Liam's eyes from where he sat, with his shoulders slumped and head bowed on the edge of the bed.

What had gotten him to give up years of sobriety?

"Lad, you're not stupid—you're like… freakishly disciplined. So something must've brought this on." Louis's tone was firm but patient, retaining eye contact even when Liam seemed to want to draw further into himself. "Can you… can you tell us why? What happened? Or just tell me, if you'd rather?"

His eyes flicked briefly to Niall, who shrugged in response to the unspoken question. Clearly willing to make himself scarce if needed.

"I just want you to be alright, Li," Niall said softly. "You don't have to tell me—if you just want to tell Lou, that's fine. But I really just want you to be okay, and I want to help you. I want to be a better fr—" He swallowed hard, cutting himself off as Liam snapped his gaze over to him, breaking eye contact with Louis to fix him with a sharp, almost furious look.

Alright. Clearly, another sticky note for Louis to come back to. Christ with a dick.

"I want to be here for you," Niall continued, his voice quiet and shaky, but no less earnest. "Because you're my mate. One of my best mates. And if there's something I've done, or someone else has done, or if something happened… I just want to help. Whatever it is, I want to help you through it." He looked so sincere, was so full-on with his bloody golden retriever energy, that Louis doubted Liam could deny him anything.

"I've… It's not just been a thing recently. It's been happening for a while," Liam admitted, his voice low.

Louis winced sympathetically. He wanted to reach out but held back, knowing that they would need to dig deeper soon, and it would be easier for Liam to sit there and get it out on his own terms first, rather than having Louis try to make it easier—only to make it harder again when he had to push for real answers. Chasing Liam away again.

Niall, however, seemed to have no such qualms. Why would he? They clearly hadn't talked this through yet. Niall probably hadn't dared—or wanted—to prod too much. That was alright. Louis could play bad cop if it came to it. For now, he stayed quiet, watching as Niall placed a gentle hand on Liam's arm.

"The other day, at my gig… after," Niall began, hesitating for a second. "I asked Kate, and she mentioned that you sometimes have a glass of wine at dinner?"

Niall glanced at Louis then, sending him a quick, shifty look. It was almost guilty. Louis frowned. Niall hadn't mentioned this when they'd spoken on the phone after his last show. He had said Liam had looked well, but he hadn't brought up what Kate had said—or that he'd noticed that something had been off enough to ask about it in the first place. Louis didn't really know how to feel about that, but now wasn’t the time to dwell on it.

"Alright, so let's start there. What brought that on?" Louis pressed, determined to draw Liam out. He resolutely sought out Liam's gaze again, knowing from experience that cornering him—just enough to make him squirm—was the only way to get the truth.

"Everyone's been, like… on my case about Teardrops. A lot," Liam began hesitantly, his voice low. "It didn't perform like it should, and… and that was already not fun. But then people kept, like, mentioning it. Talking about delaying the rest of it…" He sighed deeply, shoulders slumping further. "It just… yeah, it made me spiral a bit."

He paused, looking down at his hands, and Louis let the silence stretch, knowing better than to interrupt. Thankfully, Niall seemed to get that too. Finally, Liam continued, his voice quieter. "I tried talking to my therapist. I tried doing those breathing exercises and… other stuff. We upped my anxiety meds. And I spent most of the summer with Bear, which helped for a while. But the school year started again, so obviously, I couldn't just pull him out of school whenever I felt like it. That's so selfish, even thinking that. Like, what kind of dad…" Niall's hand ran soothingly up and down Liam's arm, grounding him as his words faltered.

"And then… I dunno. I wanted to take a breather, I guess," Liam added, his voice tightening. "So I thought I'd go on holiday."

Louis made an inquisitive hum, prompting him to continue, but Liam hunched in on himself, visibly reluctant to say more, even when the silence stretched on. "So, what happened then?" Louis asked eventually. He watched as Liam squirmed but could not look away, like a deer caught in headlights.

Liam hesitated, swallowing hard before he began. "Kate drinks wine at dinner, which has always been fine. I never minded, never really craved it, but…"

He paused, running his free hand through his hair. "We were at this really upscale place at the start of the holiday. And you know how they do that thing? Where they pour a little into the glass for a taste before filling it up? They did it in mine. And I wanted to trade with Kate, but the waiter… he was looking at me. And, I dunno… he'd already corrected my pronunciation of whatever the fuck I ordered for a starter, and it was…"

Liam exhaled sharply. "I just thought, what harm could one sip do? So, I tasted it, did that nod thing to say it was alright, and then… well, he filled up my glass. And Kate's."

Louis didn't say a word, but he understood. He understood exactly how something like that could happen. Liam had always been bad at saying no and always hated feeling out of his depth. He'd wanted to please people, to feel capable, responsible—like an adult. Which was ridiculous, really. Because even at the grand old age of 32, the oldest of the boys, with grey starting to creep into his hair at his temples, Louis didn't feel like an adult half the time.

The irony wasn't lost on him either: saying no would have been the more responsible, mature thing to do. But he wasn't about to point that out. Liam had likely already come to the same conclusion and was beating himself up over it.

"It was dumb. I know it was," Liam muttered, confirming Louis's suspicion. "So, Kate finished them both, and I just had the table water. Then we had coffee with dessert so we wouldn't have to order another glass. But after, we talked about it, and she suggested… y'know… maybe it'd help me loosen up a bit. Just one or two, at dinner, on holiday."

His voice dropped, thick with guilt. "And like… it made sense at the time. I was moody, a bit of a pain to be around those first few days of our hols. So, yeah. I agreed. And then it became a thing we did."

He shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling in a tense, jerky motion. "Only on holiday, we said. I'd stop when we got back. And it was never more than two. Like, that's the legal driving limit, so… yeah. Not that I drove or anything. I didn't. It was just… a little wine."

His voice cracked as he pleaded for Louis to understand. "I know it's stupid, Lou. I know I'm a fucking idiot. But it helped. For a while, it helped. And we had so much fun, and… and I didn't think people could tell. I didn't think I even noticed…"

"I, uhm—I wanted to check in with you, but like…" Niall hesitated, a finger absentmindedly tracing the lines of one of Liam's tattoos. "I support you, mate. I do. But I know feck all about addiction. And like… if you thought it was fine, and Kate thought it was fine, I didn't want to… y'know… stick my nose in." He glanced at Louis, then back at Liam. "I didn't want you to feel judged. Didn't want to be that prick who would run to Louis to tattle on you."

Niall's voice then softened, guilt creeping in. "But I was wrong. And so, I have actually been a terrible friend by not saying anything to anyone. And I'm sorry, Liam. I'm sorry, Louis. I promise—I'll do better."

Louis caught the way Liam's shoulders hunched further at Niall's words, breaking his eye contact with Louis to stare down in his cup.

Which was why Louis shook his head minutely, flicking his hand in a subtle aborted motion to stop Niall from taking it any further. Because, like… he appreciated it. He did. But if Niall kept going, it would only be more ammunition for Liam's perpetual woe-is-me spiral. That self-flagellating bullshit where he convinced himself he was the worst friend ever for making people worry—as if worrying about someone you loved wasn't the most human, most normal thing in the world.

Thankfully, Niall got the hint. His mouth snapping shut so fast Louis actually heard his teeth click together. Allowing Louis to dig into the root cause of it.  "Cool, yeah, no—that's shit, Liam, about Teardrops," Louis said bluntly. "And I assume by people, you mean the ones who work for you?"

Liam gave a slight nod, barely looking up, and Louis pressed on. "Well, I fucking liked the song. Your fans liked the song. And Niall did too, because I know he can play the acoustic version on his guitar. Right, Niall?" He shot a look at Niall, who nodded vehemently. "Right," Louis repeated with a self-satisfied grin, tight at the edges and uncomfortable, but hoping that it would ease Liam's worries some.

"I know it's hard—because they're sorta in charge of your career and all that—but we always had to fight for our songs in the band too, didn't we? They don't see the art, Li. They just see the money. Greedy cunts, the lot of them."

Louis leaned back slightly, letting his words sink into Liam's stubborn donkey brain. "And yeah, it sucks when a song doesn't get as big as you hoped. But let's be real—we were spoiled rotten in the band. Everything charted. Everything was massive. And now…" He shrugged. "It's a bit harder for labels and management teams to wrap their heads around the fact that the hordes of fans we had are usually divided by five now. They're grown up. They don't have a hive mind anymore. They've got different lives, different tastes."

He sighed, softening his tone. "So, yeah. I get it. I get how that pressure makes you want to relax a bit and blow off some steam. And while I'm not exactly thrilled about the wine thing, I can see how it happened. It's an easy hole to fall into." Louis looked at Liam intently, waiting until Liam finally raised his eyes to meet his. "It sucks, mate, but it's okay. No real harm done, yeah? We'll sort it."

"And the numbers? Well, they don't really say anything, do they?" Louis said with a shrug, gesturing toward Niall.

"Some people like our Nialler here being a folksy country hillbilly with his little guitar. Some like watching me lob everything they throw on stage back into the crowd while making some indie Britrock racket. Then there's Harry, prancing around in his sequins and suits like he owns the world—which, let's be honest, he does. And some just want to light a blunt or, y'know, shag to Zayn's music. They're also currently too busy losing their minds because that recluse finally decided to crawl out of the woodwork to do the bare minimum of a tour— just because his daughter asked him why he didn't."

"And your label? Well, they didn't bother to put enough promo on your single drop. So yeah, some people probably didn't even know it existed. That's not on you, mate. That's on those pricks who are supposed to actually do their job and promote your career." Louis gave Liam a pointed look, it was something he had been harping on for a while now. He had never been very impressed with the team the label had put together for Liam.

Louis then couldn't help but grin a little, gesturing to Niall. "Unfortunately, Niall doesn't have the entire fandom tagged in his 'congratulate my mate and remind my other mates to congratulate my mate' calendar. But if he did, maybe things would've been a little different, eh?" He’d always been a bit in awe of Niall’s memory—or maybe just his ridiculously well-kept planner. Somehow, Niall never forgot the important stuff. Every year, like clockwork, flowers arrived on the anniversary of Louis’ mum’s passing, complete with a handwritten note in Niall’s unmistakable scrawl. On Louis’ birthday, there’d be a case of beer if Niall couldn’t make it in person. He wasn’t the only one. Liam, Zayn—anyone who had spent time with Niall—had experienced the same. It was just how Niall was.

He turned back to Liam. "And yes, Liam, plenty of people love hearing your dulcet tones, ogling your six-pack, and swooning over your puppy-dog smile. You just—you haven't had three albums to figure your sound out, like Zee, Nialler, and Haz. You're a bit in limbo. Like me." Before lightening the mood with a joke. "Lilo in Limbo. Maybe we should tour that, yeah?"

The corner of Liam's mouth quirked upward, and the heaviness in Louis's chest lightened at the sight of it.

"So yeah, we're gonna have to work on surrounding you with better people. People who care a bit less about money—or who at least put in a bit more effort so you're not just left relying on your social media following. Or maybe both, actually. Yeah, definitely both." Louis nodded firmly, as though solidifying the plan in his own mind.

"And we're going to start having regular talks about this shit. Because I need to know in order to help. I'm all for cutting toxic people out of your life, Li. I'll do it for you if you want. Or, y'know, I'll tell you when they're just being a big bunch of absolute fucking wankers—or when there's maybe some truth to it, and something needs to change. Because I'm honest, aren't I, Li?" Louis finally paused for breath, his tirade winding to a halt as Niall chimed in with an enthusiastic, "Hear, hear."

But it didn't have quite the desired effect. At some point during Louis's rant, Liam had hunched his shoulders again, his gaze dropping back to the cup cradled in his hands. Louis hadn't even noticed when it happened, but now, the sight of him staring so intently into his tea, avoiding eye contact, worried Louis. There was more. He should have known that there would be.

"Liam, c'mon, mate. Spill," Louis urged, leaning forward in the stupid little chair, balancing on the edge of the seat. He cocked his head, trying to catch Liam's eye, but the other man stubbornly refused to look up.

Instead, Liam mumbled something, so quiet it was nearly inaudible. Whatever it was, though, made Niall gasp, his head snapping up. "They did not!" Niall exclaimed, affronted, his tone sharp with disbelief.

"What? Li, what?" Louis wheedled, his worry kicking into overdrive. His tone was insistent now, demanding, because whatever Liam had said clearly wasn't good.

"They dropped me," Liam barked, his voice brittle and cutting. "The label. Said as much in an email. LP2 isn't happening, Lou. No need to go all up in arms against the establishment. Because I don't have one to fight anymore." And then, just as quickly, Liam drew back into himself, retreating like a snail pulling into its shell, shoulders hunched and jaw tight.

And oh. Oh, yeah. That made sense, didn't it? Because two glasses of wine at dinner wasn't great, sure—but it wasn't this . It wasn't enough to have Niall gasping over the phone that Liam might die. It wasn't enough to explain the videos of Liam being practically dragged through the lobby by security.

It definitely wasn't enough to smash a TV screen or to prompt Liam to concoct whatever weird, chaotic human Molotov cocktail he had managed to produce with the drugs Louis had spotted on the coffee table.

For a moment, Louis was at a loss for words. But not for long.

The anger came quickly, bubbling up like boiling water in a too-full kettle. Steam pouring from his ears and words whistling out of him in sharp bursts. "You've got to be fucking kidding me," Louis spat, his voice low and furious. "They dropped you? Just like that? What, no meeting? No fucking phone call? Just a bloody email?"

He leaned forward, gesturing sharply as the anger bubbled up unchecked. Only just catching himself from flinging tea all over the carpet. "Like… what even is the problem? The whole album's done, isn't it? Fully produced, ready to go. They've been doing fuck-all for promo anyway—why not just chuck it out into the world? Worked for Beyoncé, didn't it?"

Louis barely paused to breathe, his words picking up steam. "And I'd promo the shit out of it for you! We all would! Fucking pricks. What, they think that's how you treat an artist? Dropping them over a fucking email ?" His voice rose, his frustration nearly tipping into a shout. "Do they not know the first thing about safeguarding? Mental health? Anything?"

He sucked in a sharp breath, forcing himself to dial it back, though his words remained tight with fury. "Liam, we sat down with them when you got out of rehab. They know everything. You didn't hide any of it. This…” He trailed off, meeting Niall's wide-eyed gaze as disbelief settled into something heavier.

Louis shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "We've seen it before, yeah? Bad management, bad decisions. It was shitty with the band—Zayn probably had it the worst—but at least back then, they didn't technically know . But this?" His voice dropped, hard with incredulity. "You're proper diagnosed. Treated. They had plans, didn't they? Contingency strategies? Step-by-step plans in bloody folders for every kind of shit situation. But not for this ? Not for gently and safely dropping their artist in recovery?"

He sat back, letting the weight of it settle over him. "Christ, they're worse than I thought."

Louis could almost— almost —understand the decision to drop Liam. The business was cutthroat, and some faceless suits in an office somewhere had probably weighed the risks against the profits and made the call without a second thought. He disagreed with it, hated it with every fibre of his being, but he could see how it might happen.

What he couldn't understand—what burned him to his core—was how they'd done it. Knowing everything they did about Liam, why hadn't there been a meeting? Someone to hold his hand through it, to fight his corner, to at least make sure he got home, went to bed, and woke up the next morning?

Why did it always come back to them ? To only them, having to pick up the pieces, to take care of their own?

It wasn't that Louis minded—of course he didn't. Liam was family. But it pained him to realise, so starkly, that seemingly no one else cared. Not the way they did. The industry? They were vultures. Every last one of them.

What—what if Niall hadn't been there?

The thought hit Louis like a lorry. Suddenly, he understood.

The spiralling Liam had done, especially out here in a foreign country, on his own, without a support network. Not that Liam would ever want to burden anyone else with his shit. But he'd been alone here. A bit more anonymous than back home, with more money than sense—and he'd spiralled. Spiralled all the way down to rock-fucking-bottom.

And Niall—somehow, Niall had known.

Not about the label dropping him—he'd looked far too shocked for that just now—But something had tickled Niall's spidey senses, hadn't it? Enough for him to show up here, to walk right into the immediate aftermath. To talk Liam off the ledge.

And oh. Louis got it now.

He got the balcony.

Liam hadn't, surely he hadn't… right?

But Liam got reckless when high. Said stupid shit, did stupid shit, scared the living daylight out of Niall yesterday, apparently. And it was like the final pieces of a puzzle finally slotting into place in Louis's head. Exactly at the same time as they seemed to click for Niall.

As Niall gently pried the mug from Liam's trembling hand, setting both of their cups aside, Louis was already abandoning his on the desk. Without hesitation, he climbed onto the bed with them.

"You stupid boy," Louis muttered, his voice soft but steady. "You beautifully stupid boy. This is not on you. You didn't fail. You just… you got dealt a bad hand. But we're fixing this, yeah? I promise you, this is not the end. Not of anything."

He wrestled to get Liam into the middle of the bed, ignoring the way Liam half-heartedly resisted for all of two seconds before crumpling. Louis felt the hot, damp trail of Liam's tears soak through his t-shirt as Niall curled around their Lima Bean from behind. Louis tightened his grip, pressing his cheek to the top of Liam's head, his heart breaking at Liam's quiet gasping sobs. "We've got you," he whispered. "We always will."

Chapter Text

Hours later, the hotel room sat in near darkness, lit only by by the glow of Niall’s laptop, propped open on the nightstand. Niall had turned it on earlier, hoping the background noise might drag him under. It hadn’t. Instead, he drifted in and out of sleep, mind too restless to settle. The figures moved across the screen, faces and voices blurring together. He stared unseeingly, eyes gritty and burning from exhaustion. Everything shifted in jerky flashes of colours and shadows, too bright and too distant all at once. His head ached, heavy and fogged, but he couldn’t look away. Couldn’t close his eyes. He lay pressed against Liam. It helped, having a reminder that Liam was here, alive. But it was not enough. His mind refused to let go of the nagging dread that this was all some elaborate nightmare. That he would wake back in London, the bed cold and empty, and Liam gone.

He wanted to sleep, God, he wanted to sleep, but he couldn't. Not when this fragile peace felt borrowed, temporary. Instead, he focused on cataloguing every detail: the warmth of Liam's skin, the cadence of his breaths, the comforting rhythm of his heartbeat beneath Niall's palm, the way his dark lashes fanned over his cheeks. He catalogued it all, imprinting it in his mind.

On Liam's other side, Louis had dropped off soon after Liam cried himself into a restless sleep. The long flight and the emotional toll of the subsequent conversation had knocked him out. But now, hours later, he stirred. Niall watched through heavy-lidded eyes as Louis blinked awake with a little grunt, his movements sluggish and groggy.

Niall heard rather than saw how Louis shifted carefully, pulling himself away from Liam with practised ease. Niall then watched him move toward his backpack, digging through its contents in the semi-darkness. When he pulled out a pack of cigarettes, Niall wasn't surprised. Neither was he when Louis glanced up and found his eyes on him. He always seemed to know.

"Nialler, mate," Louis whispered, his voice low and soft as he rounded the bed and crouched by Niall's side. "You should try to get some sleep."

Niall swallowed, the lump in his throat thick and unmoving, his fingers curling into the blanket. "Yeah," he mumbled, though neither of them believed it. "Can't, I think," Niall added, almost as an afterthought. "M'just… What…” He trailed off, struggling to explain himself. He hadn't told them exactly what had prompted him to fly out here. Wasn't sure if he wanted to—it sounded more than a little insane. But how else could he explain his sudden bout of insomnia?

"I keep being afraid," he admitted after a moment. "Afraid of waking up and finding out this didn't happen. That I was too late." He swallowed hard. "And I keep worryin'… I can't just follow'm around forever. What do we do, Lou? Where do we go from here?" His voice cracked. He glanced over his shoulder, where Liam was still sound asleep.

"We take it one day at a time, lad," Louis said, sounding more certain than Niall had felt about anything in days. "We look after him, and we don't leave him on his own until we're both absolutely certain we can."

He paused, glancing toward Liam, then back at Niall. "But first order of business is getting him out of here. You too. Because staying here? It's driving you a bit mental, I think. Maybe you'll sleep better somewhere else, somewhere without balconies."

Niall blinked at him, Louis's words settling in. Maybe he was right. Maybe it wouldn't feel so much like a dream if they got away from here. Away from Liam's vices, away from Niall's bad memories, from the nightmares he couldn't quite shake.

"Yeah," Niall murmured, his voice hoarse. "Yeah, maybe."

His fingers reached up to pluck at his bottom lip. He winced slightly as he snagged onto a bit of loose skin. It hadn't yet recovered from his earlier fretting, and his fingers were immediately specked with blood. "But where? And can we really do this alone?" Niall asked. 

They weren't professionals. They didn't have the training or the tools to fix this, to fix Liam. But then again, who understood Liam's woes better than them? And what would a professional do that hadn't already been done the last time Liam went to rehab?

"Well," Louis began, "I was thinking I might call Zee. I know he's going on tour soon, so, like—it's really unfair to even ask him, but..." He sighed, heavy and uncertain. "I dunno. Might be the right call."

Niall nodded slowly, letting the thought settle in his overtired brain. It wasn't just about Zayn's tour, though that alone was enough to make him hesitate. It had taken Zayn years to get to this point, to feel steady enough to step back into the spotlight and even consider touring again. Disrupting that felt wrong.

But beyond that, there was also the fact that this… whatever they had now, this tentative reconnection between Louis and Zayn, was still new. It had taken Niall ages to convince them both to reach out, to sit in the same room again, to talk properly. And even now, they weren't where they should be—not yet. Whilst Zayn and Liam had never even gotten past texting. So yeah, Niall understood the hesitation.

But even so, even with all of that, he couldn't deny that he'd rather have it this way, than what it had been like in the other… when Zayn thought Liam was dead.

"But… the farm is in buttfuck nowhere," Louis continued, ploughing through Niall's thoughts. "He doesn't have neighbours around for miles—no need to keep Li cooped up inside to avoid prying eyes. Zayn's flown under the radar there for years. We've both been there, and we've never been papped. And we could… I don't know. Petsit for Zee, maybe. Play make-believe farmers for a bit."

Louis hesitated, his face going a bit pinched like it always tended to do whenever he was exceptionally worried. "It would help, wouldn't it? For Li to know Zee's in his corner. And it might be good for you too. To get some fresh air."

Niall let the idea roll around in his head, his thoughts sluggish and muddled. "Yeah," he said eventually, his voice barely audible over the low murmur of the telly. "Yeah, maybe. The only reason they don't do anything but text is 'cause they're both so feckin' socially awkward."

Louis huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Well, something about many birds, one stone, maybe?" To which Niall could only hum in agreement. "Li's like a vampire who needs explicit permission to be invited inside," Niall observed in agreement, "While Zee's too anxious, or too cool, or maybe a bit of both, to actually outright ask someone to come over. And he sure as hell doesn't leave that bloody place unless you drag him out kicking and screaming."

Louis's grin widened, and Niall couldn't stop the faint chuckle that escaped him, even as his chest tightened.

"Him sending you a pic of his fruit trees blossoming with a 'check this out' is apparently a fucking invite. You and I know this, so we just take him up on it and invite ourselves over. But Harry's too thick, or too busy, or a bit of both. And Liam's too self-deprecating and insecure or whatever to ever show up anywhere unannounced." Niall trailed off, his thoughts drifting unbidden to Zayn in the dream... or whatever it was, where Liam had died.

Zayn, who had looked heartbroken and guilty. Who had carried the weight of unspoken regrets. Who maybe wished he had been a bit more forward, had pushed Liam a little harder, been more explicit in his invitations, and less hesitant in extending his hand in friendship.

Zayn, who had postponed the first leg of his tour to grieve.

And wouldn't it be poetic justice, Niall thought, for him and Louis to push the two of them together now? For Zayn to be a part of the solution.

Zayn would perhaps understand Liam better than either of them ever could. Because, alright, he wasn't necessarily staying sober, but he'd struggled with depression and anxiety as much as Liam did. He, too, had hung out with questionable people, made some regrettable choices, and said some less-than-stellar things about the rest of them after he left the band.

Things that had never really been meant but which had stung nonetheless. Things that had driven a wedge between them, a rift that still hadn't fully mended, even now. Niall never held grudges, and Louis had gotten over his a while back, but Zayn, Liam and Harry were all still a bit weird about each other.

But maybe, because of all that, whatever Zayn had to say on the topic would carry more weight. It might come across as more meaningful, eloquent, and sincere than anything Niall or Louis could offer.

"Yeah, I think…" Niall hesitated, licking his lips nervously before continuing. "I think you should call him. At least, to see if we can stay at the house. But maybe also… if he wants to stay a little?"

Louis nodded decisively, mind made up.

Niall watched him stand, pulling a cigarette from the packet as he walked toward the balcony. Louis placed it between his lips and lit it, his other hand already fiddling with his phone.

How many nights had Niall witnessed a similar scene before, back in the band? When Niall and Louis would occasionally share rooms or just hang out with each other. When Louis would call his mother, Ollie, or Stan. To starve off the homesickness with his phone trapped between his ear and his shoulder whilst having a smoke.

"Zayn, hey. It's me… Listen, mate. Have you seen the video? We kind of need your help…" Niall watched Louis slide the door shut behind him, muffling the sound.

Louis stood there, half-shrouded in darkness, brow furrowed, tipping ash from his cigarette before scratching at his temple. He nodded along to whatever Zayn was saying on the other end of the line, his lips moving again as he replied. Niall listened to Liam snuffle in his sleep behind him as he kept watching Louis. So glad, so relieved that he didn't have to do this alone.

He must have dozed off, because Louis was carefully sliding the balcony door shut again the next time he blinked his eyes open. Their eyes met, and Louis pulled a somewhat apologetic face when he realised Niall was awake.

"Sorry, lad," Louis whispered. Niall shrugged. He doubted that he would've lasted much longer anyway. "What did Zee say?" he asked, voice hoarse with fatigue.

Louis crouched beside the bed again, the lingering scent of cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes and skin, tickling Niall's nose. It was an all-too-familiar smell. Niall never minded when Louis, Zayn, or even Liam (during that brief stint) smoked. He didn't care for it himself, never craved it, but it smelled like them to him. Like home.

"He was glad I called," Louis said, his voice low. "Said he'd been worried when he saw the video. We can come by, course we can. Told him a bit about how bad it was... He's looking into postponing the start of his tour. So he can stick around a bit longer."

Niall sighed in relief. He knew Zayn would pull through, and he liked having a plan, liked knowing what came next. Louis had been right; the thought of getting out of here already made him feel loads better.

"I'll call my PA," Niall said, reaching for his phone on the nightstand. "Get her to sort us some cars and a flight. Private, if she can. Don't want to get papped or spotted if we can help it."

Having three-fifths of One Direction together was bound to set the rumour mill alight. Anyone who hadn't yet seen the grainy photos and videos of Liam being dragged through the lobby by security, or of Niall in the lobby later, fists clenched and face tight with worry, would see it soon enough if TMZ got hold of them all in the same place. They'd twist it, scapegoat Louis as a bad influence, or spin it in a way that would only make Liam feel guiltier. Niall couldn't let that happen.

"Should I... Should I also send Harry a text? Seems fair, yeah?" Niall glanced up, watching Louis's face twist into an expression that was half consideration, half resignation, before he nodded.

"Yeah," Louis said. "Yeah, I think this is a band thing. Li will probably kick off and complain about everyone dropping everything for him. But he'll love it, us all in the same place. He's been a bit unsubtle with his hints lately, hasn't he?"

Niall let out a quiet laugh, still sounding quite brittle. "Yeah, alright. I'll text him, see if he can come around. Get the travel sorted too. You…" Niall paused, his gaze flicking back to the bed where Liam slept, curled in on himself. "You stay with Li for a bit, yeah? I really don't want him on his own. Like, at all."

Louis nodded, but there was a flicker of concern in his eyes. He wasn't looking at Liam anymore; he was looking at Niall, in a way that made the Irishman squirm. " Maybe we should talk about that some more sometime, lad," Louis said, his tone gentle but persistent. But yeah, I get it. I'll stay right here."

"Yeah, okay," Niall muttered, his words quiet, his gaze dropping back to his phone. "Thanks, Lou."

Chapter Text

Liam woke to Niall gently shaking him awake, the Irishman's touch light but insistent. Liam's head throbbed, his temples feeling tight and tender with the beginnings of a headache, and his nose was stuffed—unsurprising, given how he'd fallen asleep crying. His eyes felt gritty, heavy.

Maybe he would've felt embarrassed about it under different circumstances. But not now. Not with Niall and Louis. They'd been just as emotional last night, and they all had seen each other in far worse states over the years.

Louis's outburst, if anything, had been vindicating.

Liam had been caught in this spiral, projecting everything inward, convinced he was a failure. But Louis was right. The label had been lean on promoting his work. They hadn't cared to hear his vision. And yeah, maybe he'd let himself get pushed in directions he didn't always want to go, agree even when he didn't really think he should—but that didn't make what they did okay.

It was a dick move—scrapping an artist's album and dropping them altogether—with nothing more than an email. No meeting. No phone call. Just a cold, clinical dismissal. Dumped into his inbox like it was nothing.

Like he was nothing.

And that was bad enough on its own. But considering his history, the risks that came with it? It was downright negligent. Irresponsible. Cruel, even.

It would've been a shit thing to do, no matter what,. If it had been Niall, Louis, Harry, or Zayn, Liam would've been angry on their behalf. Furious, even. So why had he just… lain down and taken it when it came to himself? How had he not seen how utterly ridiculous and irresponsible it had been of them to drop him the way they did?

In hindsight, he didn't feel embarrassed about being dropped, not when Niall and Louis insisted it wasn't something to be ashamed of. But stupid? Yeah, a bit. For how he'd handled it. For letting it get to him like this. And he felt embarrassed about becoming a cliché: the popstar who wrecked his hotel room. The popstar who relapsed.

And he was afraid, afraid of himself, of what he'd done. He still didn't remember what had happened before Niall arrived, or even much of what followed. But it couldn't have been good. He must have been out of it. Must have said things, done things, endangered himself.

Judging by how Niall acted now, it had been a near miss.

Guilt gnawed at him. For scaring Niall so badly, for turning the Irishman into a shadow of himself with one reckless action. For forcing Louis to drop everything and fly across the world. For making them feel responsible for him. For not having thought about Bear, who was sitting at home now. None the wiser.

That? That was worth feeling ashamed of: relapsing, burdening his friends, coming so close to causing his son immeasurable pain. 

The public fallout was something he dreaded as well. Something like this couldn't stay a secret. The relapse, maybe, if he was lucky. But even that felt too much like lying. Fans would want to congratulate him on years of sobriety he hadn't adhered to. The truth would come out eventually—it had to. Keeping it hidden would only make the shame fester inside of him. And being dropped by his label? That wasn't something he could avoid or put off sharing. The album was supposed to come out soon. People would notice when it didn't. They'd demand answers.

The backlash would be inevitable, but he clung to one thing: some of the people who mattered most, whose opinion he valued most—Louis and Niall—hadn't been disappointed in him. They hadn't laughed. They hadn't agreed it was the right call.

He had known that they wouldn't be cruel. But he also knew them well enough to see that their shock and anger on his behalf were real. They weren't just saying what they thought he wanted to hear. They weren't lying to protect his feelings. They were genuinely upset for him.

And somehow, that mattered more than he could put into words.

This mainly left him with guilt, which weighed even heavier when Liam noticed just how exhausted Niall looked, leaving him to swallow and look away.

Louis, stirring beside him, still had pillow creases on his cheek. He groaned as he blinked himself awake, bleary-eyed but generally well-rested. But Niall? Niall looked like he hadn't slept a single wink—again.

Liam's chest ached at the thought. He wanted to reach up, tug Niall down beside him, and hold him there until he finally nodded off. But since Liam had woken up yesterday, Niall had been… different. Cagey. Not like the Niall Liam knew, the one he loved. And that hesitation, so unfamiliar and unwelcome, held him back.

"C'mon, lads. The car'll be here soon. Best have some brekky first," Niall said, cutting straight through Liam's thoughts. "Just another minute," Louis groused, turning onto his side and pulling the pillow over his head.

"Alright for some," Niall laughed, though the sound was hollow and fell flat almost immediately.

Liam sat up, taking the plate Niall held out to him, keen to distract him. "Thanks, mate," he murmured, glancing down at the food before his gaze flicked back to Niall. "But… where are we going? Should I pack first?" He trailed off as his eyes landed on their bags and suitcases lined up neatly beside the door. Clearly, Niall had kept himself busy while they'd been asleep.

Liam wondered how long Niall had actually tried to sleep, squeezed into the bed next to him and Louis. It had been tight, even for a king-size, elbows digging and knees knocking, but Liam had slept decently. Certainly better than he had ever since Kate had left. He hated sleeping alone.

Niall ignored the question, biting into a piece of bacon with exaggerated focus, chewing slowly and deliberately as if it might buy him enough time to avoid answering entirely. Or perhaps, in his exhaustion, Niall simply didn't have the brainpower to process what he had asked him. 

Liam hesitated, watching him for a moment before deciding not to press, swallowing back the question on the tip of his tongue. He reached for the toast instead, buttering it before slathering it in raspberry jam. He suspected the answer was one he wasn't ready to hear— he was probably being shipped back off to rehab.

It wasn't as if the place he'd gone last time had been horrendous. Louis had helped him pick it. It was discreet, upscale, almost like a holiday resort, except for the therapy sessions and the constant testing.

But Liam had been so sure he wouldn't need to go back. So convinced he'd be able to make it stick. The thought of it, of having to go back and start all over again, left a bitter taste in his mouth, one which couldn't be chased away with raspberry jam. So he refused to acknowledge it, couldn't, not yet. Not when Niall looked so damn pitiful.

Liam didn't want to pile anything else on him—not when they were heading out so soon. Who knew how long Liam had with Niall before he'd be cut off again, thrust back into another rehabilitation program, severed from family and friends. Cut off from the world until he had proven that he was in the right kind of mindset to be able to deal with it all by himself. 

Breakfast passed mostly in silence. Louis eventually reappeared from under the pillow, his hair mussed, gratefully accepting the cup of tea Niall handed him. But Liam didn't fail to notice the way Louis's sharp blue eyes kept lingering on Niall. The way he catalogued every detail: the constant tremor in Niall's hands, the bruised-looking shadows under his eyes, the way he barely touched his food. Only really picking at the bacon.

Niall's lack of appetite was striking. Liam could only remember him being like this a few times before—when his new braces had made chewing unbearable, and after his knee surgery, when the anaesthetics had left him nauseous and miserable.

But Louis didn't say anything, and neither did Liam. And Liam couldn't help but wonder—was the silence for Niall's benefit? Or his? Were they tiptoeing around him, trying to shield him from overthinking or worrying? Well, tough fucking luck if that was the case. He was already overthinking everything.

The thought made Liam want to shove his plate away and give up on breakfast entirely. But he didn't. He forced himself to bite, chew, and swallow until his plate was clean, knowing that leaving it unfinished would only worry them more. The last thing he wanted was to be an even bigger burden.

After breakfast, which seemed to stretch on forever, things suddenly moved quickly. They were ushered out through a staff entrance and into a waiting car, unseen.

It made sense, really. Three-fifths of One Direction—or three-fourths, if you only counted the band post-Zayn. (Liam didn't. None of them did. Zayn was always counted. They only ever stopped at four when they counted the boys and forgot themselves.)

No, being spotted together like this, dishevelled and out of place, would cause pandemonium.

From the car, they were whisked into a private lounge at the airport and then onto a private plane. It all happened with the kind of efficiency Liam was used to—it was exactly like the kind of tightly orchestrated operation he remembered from his time in the band. But back then, he'd always known where they were going, what they were doing. Now, as they were ushered onto a private plane without a single explanation, the nagging curiosity gnawed at him. Where were they taking him? And what exactly was the plan?

Still, he didn't ask. He let himself be shuffled into a window seat, with Niall beside him and Louis opposite.

At least, he didn't ask until Niall—seemingly satisfied now that Liam was boxed in between himself and the side of the plane, held in his seat by the little table, safely away from anything potentially harmful—nodded off into a fitful nap. It looked far from comfortable, head lolling awkwardly against the headrest, mouth half open as he snored lightly, but it was more rest than Niall had managed in days. So Liam wasn't about to risk waking him to insist he grab a pillow or recline his seat.

Louis seemed to have thoughts along the same vein, watching Niall pensively for a moment. "So," Liam ventured softly, lowering his voice to avoid disturbing Niall. "Where are we heading?"

Louis looked away, suddenly invested in perfectly evening out the strings of his hoodie, see-sawing them back and forth. "Pennsylvania."

Liam knitted his brows together in puzzlement. "Pennsylvania? What's in Pennsylvania?" He pondered. It dawned on him almost immediately, and his eyes widened. "Zayn," he blurted, louder than intended. Louis winced in response, shushing him sharply whilst glancing at Niall to make sure he hadn't woken. Liam lowered his voice to a harsh whisper, still incredulous. "Zayn? But, Lou… He's going on tour soon. I can't—no, I won't —drag him into my mess right before that."

"You're not dragging him into anything," Louis retorted sharply. "Christ, Li. He saw the video. I didn't even have to ask when I called—he suggested it himself. Said it was no problem. He's already postponed the first leg. He's getting new dates sorted for January."

Louis shrugged as if it was nothing, seemingly unbothered or perhaps unsurprised by Zayn's actions, but then his eyes widened like he'd just let slip something he shouldn't have. Liam, too caught up in the latter half of his words, didn't catch on immediately. "Postponing the first leg of the tour?" he repeated, voice thick with disbelief. "No, that's not—wait—"

It then hit him like a blow to the face. His stomach sank as he took in Louis's wide eyes. "Louis. What-What video?" he demanded, his voice high-pitched, edged with panic.

"Shh!" Louis hissed sharply, casting a furtive glance toward Niall. Liam immediately lowered his voice but pressed on. "What video, Lou? What did they see? Is that how Niall knew? Is that why he's been so worried? God, what did I do?" His palms were clammy, his heart hammering in his chest as his mind raced, desperate to remember but dreading the answer.

Louis exhaled heavily, running a hand through his hair, his lips pressed into a tight line. He seemed to weigh his words carefully before speaking, his tone softer but no less serious.

"I don't think so," Louis said finally. "Niall must have arrived minutes after that video went up. He called me that same night—he was already with you by then. There are pictures of him arriving. They were tweeted not long after the video was. He must've already been in the city before the video even went up."

Louis didn't continue right away. Liam could see the cogs turning in his head, the way he carefully considered Liam's other question, weighting up his answer as his gaze flickering over Liam's face. Liam felt like he was about to burst. The anger, the desperation, the need to know—it was boiling just beneath his skin, threatening to spill over.

Louis must've been calculating the pros and cons of telling him, but eventually, telling him must have won out just as Liam was about to speak again. "There was a video," Louis explained, his voice cautious, deliberate. "Circulating on socials. Of you being escorted into the elevator. You looked… pretty out of it." His words were careful, so careful, but even softened like that, they punched all the air out of his lungs. Liam froze, cold shame washing over him in waves, spreading through his limbs and rooting him to the spot. If that was the gentlest version Louis could give, he didn't want to know what the video actually showed.

God, he was such a fucking fuck-up.

He averted his eyes, refusing to meet Louis's gaze, ignoring how Louis reached across the table to take his hand or touch his arm. Comfort him. He didn't deserve any bloody comfort.

"Li, mate, c'mon," Louis tried, his voice low and urgent. "Don't—don't do this to yourself."

Liam shook his head stubbornly, keeping his gaze fixed on the cloudless sky outside the plane window. He sank deeper into his seat, his voice low and brittle. "I'm a fuck-up, Lou. Always holding everyone back. Dragging you and Niall out here, dragging Zayn into this." His throat tightened, but he forced the words out. "I don't—I don't deserve any of it. I don't know why… Why you guys won't just give up on me. You should. I'm only going to let you down again. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, maybe next year. It's not doing you any good, knowing me, being associated with me. I'll just drag you guys down with me."

The words dripped from his lips like poison. They felt like a truth he'd been avoiding, now delivered straight to his doorstep—a most unwelcome, unavoidable package. He swallowed hard.. "I just… I don't remember what happened, but maybe…"

"No." Louis's voice cut through, sharp and forceful, silencing Liam mid-thought.

The force of it startled Niall awake with a sharp gasp. He flailed blindly, disoriented, hand scrabbling across the seat, grazing over Liam’s shirt until fingers clamped tight around his arm. The second the contact registered, the panic bled out of him fast, leaving him pale and shaking. "What? Leemo, mate—what?" Niall's voice thick with exhaustion.

Louis, though clearly regretful for waking Niall, didn't let the interruption derail him. "Does that," he said, gesturing sharply at Niall, "look like someone who could just… stop worrying about you? Stop caring?"

Louis leaned forward, his expression hard. "Lad, you're family. And you're a right idiot for thinking we'd ever just stop. Would you? If it was me? Or Niall? Or any of us?"

Liam blinked, caught off guard by the force of Louis's words. His gaze flicked to Niall, who was still clutching his arm as if letting go would mean losing him. It was almost too much to bear.

He considered Lou's question. He knew he wouldn't give up on them—he never could—but he wasn't sure if he would have involved himself so completely as Niall, Louis, and now apparently Zayn were willing to do.

His thoughts drifted to Zayn, back in the day. The way he had withdrawn into himself, his words few and far between, often cutting, sarcastic, and self-deprecating. The way he had stopped trying, stopped pushing to get his songs heard, stopped fighting to have them approved. He had begun to fade, except when he was on stage. Off it, he was slipping away, piece by piece. Zayn had checked out of the band long before he had actually left.

Louis had been relentless in his quest to get Zayn back on board, nicking hotel key cards from security to get into Zayn's room, refusing to give up even when Zayn wouldn't let him in. Niall had filled the silences and kept talking to Zayn as though his constant chatter could somehow anchor him and keep him from disappearing entirely. As if Zayn couldn't leave if the conversation hadn't ended, no matter how one-sided. Even Harry had tried, seeking out things Zayn might like in every city they visited. He went out of his way to spot and take photos of street art, trying to coax him along whenever he did, to show him there was still plenty worth staying for.

And Liam? Liam had been useless. He hadn't known what to say, what to do. He had just been there, watching helplessly as Zayn slipped further away. Pleading silently with his eyes, going to meetings in Zayn's place in some desperate attempt to ease the burden. But he hadn't really tried to help him, had he? Not in the ways that mattered.

Liam had voiced those thoughts once to Louis. Louis had said that Liam had been helping in his own way. But Liam couldn't shake the thought that it hadn't been enough. That he hadn't been enough, still wasn't, and never would be.

"I just... thought it'd be better, for you," Liam mumbled, his voice trailing off, small and uncertain.

Niall's expression hardened, half-caught in the haze of sleep but still determined to argue. His fingers dug into Liam's arm, hard enough to bruise, making him wince. His eyes, bloodshot with exhaustion and glassy with unshed tears, locked onto Liam's, refusing to let him look away. It was unnerving.

"Leemo," Niall rasped, his voice thick and shaking. He swallowed hard, visibly struggling to gather his words. When he spoke again, his voice cracked, raw and unsteady. "Don't you dare. Don't you fucking dare."

Liam flinched, startled by the ferocity in Niall's tone. But Niall didn't let up. If anything, his grip tightened, his knuckles white, and his nails biting into his skin.

"You think this is bad?" Niall pressed on, his voice trembling but resolute. He was clearly piecing things together, filling in the blanks from what little he'd heard since waking. And, of course, he'd come to the correct conclusion. Because evidently, Liam was just that transparent.

"You think you're a burden? Maybe. Maybe you're right. But I'd take it, Liam, I'll gladly deal with it. I'd take every single one of your fucking awful, shit days—every single one of them—if it means you're still here. If it means Bear still has his dad. If it means…" He broke off, his breath hitching. His free hand scrubbed roughly at his face, trying and failing to hide the tremor in his voice as he heaved a breath, fighting to keep himself together.

"I'll take it," Niall continued, his voice quieter now but no less intense. "If it means One Direction is still five out of five. Do you hear me, Li? Five. Not four. Five. Even if it's shit, even if you're hurting, even if you think you're dragging us down—you're not. You're bloody not. But even if you were—fuck, I don't care. I'll take it. We'll take it. Because you're still here, and that's what matters."

Liam sat frozen, staring at Niall with wide, disbelieving eyes. His mouth opened as he wanted to argue. But no words came. None would come. Completely taken aback by the brutal honesty in Niall's tone.  

Louis let out a sharp exhale. "What he said," he muttered. "Exactly that."

Niall sniffed, his fingers finally loosening on Liam's arm, though they lingered, as if reluctant to let go entirely. His eyes, still wet, bore into Liam's. "So don't you—don't you fucking sit there and tell me I'd be better off if you weren't here," he said hoarsely. "Because I wouldn't. None of us would."

They fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the low rumble of the plane's engine and the uneven rhythm of Liam's shaky breaths. His head bowed, shoulders sagging under the weight of Niall's words. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the sheer intensity of it all.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible, rough and raw. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his hands curling into tight fists in his lap. "I'm so fucking sorry."

"You don't need to apologise," Niall shot back, his tone softer now, gentle. He leaned forward, closing the space between them, his forehead almost brushing Liam's. "You just—you need to stay. That's it. Okay? Just stay. We'll figure out the rest. Together."

Chapter Text

Zayn stood with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his wax-coated jacket, squinting against the low-hanging sun as he smoked. His fingers fidgeted restlessly, betraying the nervous energy coursing through him. Three dogs tumbled around his feet, barking and nipping at each other as they played. They always mirrored his energy, attuned to him in a way that was both comforting and unnerving at times.

He barely noticed them, though. Ever since Louis had texted to say the plane had landed, Zayn hadn't been able to settle. An itch under his skin, sharp and relentless, ran through him like an electric current. He exhaled a slow, shaky stream of smoke, his gaze drifting unfocused toward the horizon. Even the sharp bark of one of the dogs, spurred by the sudden flurry of a duck taking flight, barely drew him back to the present.

He couldn't help it. He was worried.

Worried about Liam, mostly. Ever since seeing the video—Liam being dragged through the hotel lobby, limp and nearly unconscious—it gnawed at him. That kind of sight stuck with you.

Zayn hadn't been there for most of it. The brunt of Liam's addiction. Not like the other boys had been. Back when he had still been a part of the band, Liam had taken things too far once or twice, but so had they all. They had been experimenting, curious, reckless. Back then, Zayn hadn't thought much of it. It felt normal, almost expected. Part of the whirlwind they were caught up in. Not like something which needed a label.

But apparently, it had. Or maybe the need for a label had come later. Zayn wasn't sure.

Sometimes, when his mind lingered on the thought too long, he wondered if him leaving the band had been one of the catalysts. A drop in the bucket, maybe, but a drop nonetheless. Other times, he dismissed it as conceited—self-important. Who was he, to think that he mattered enough to push Liam over the edge?

He drew another long drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke curl lazily out of his mouth whilst dropping the cigarette bud, grinding it out under his boot as his thoughts lingered on Liam.

What Zayn knew about Liam's situation had mostly come piecemeal. Fragments casually mentioned by Niall over the years, throwaway comments that didn't invite questions, or things Louis had let slip whenever he had been particularly concerned. He had only started sharing this with Zayn recently, after they had patched things up and talked shit through, after Zayn had earned back enough of Louis's trust to be some sort of confidant again.

Even now, Zayn thought their friendship was too brittle to test. It had taken years to get back to this—to talk again, actually to hang out—and he still wasn’t sure it could bear the weight of prying questions about Liam. Louis was fiercely protective of him. He always had been. He’d take the piss out of Liam for hours, then bite anyone else’s head off for trying to do the same. It was funny, really. Zayn had clocked it early, the way Louis fussed over Liam like he was his little brother, but it had taken Liam a good while past the X Factor house to see it for what it was. And with Louis still guarding him like that,more now than ever, probably... Zayn hadn’t dared push. He hadn’t tried to dig into what Liam had really gone through or what Zayn could do to help. It wasn't Louis's or Niall's story to tell anyway. 

So he'd tried to listen, to react the way he thought he should, nodding at Louis's updates, humming along and offering advice. But it left him feeling disconnected, unsure how much space he was meant to occupy in Liam's life anymore.

Then there were the scathing comments Liam would throw out in public, sharp and cutting in a way that made Zayn's chest tighten. The others always brushed them off, unbothered, forgiving. So Zayn followed their lead, laughed it off or ignored it entirely when asked about it in interviews. But in private, those barbs stuck with him. Made him hesitant to reach out.

They hadn't called, hadn't actually spoken, since Zayn left. Most of their communication came through severely stilted, severely delayed text conversations. All the kinds of things you could just as easily share with a stranger. Pictures of meals, a funny meme, and an occasional "hope you're well." He'd tried to extend an olive branch in his own awkward way. A picture of the orchard in bloom. A boast about his latest batch of apple juice, with a casual "You should come try it sometime." Roundabout invitations that always seemed to go unanswered.

He couldn't tell if Liam genuinely didn't understand or if he did and was intentionally ignoring it. Whether Liam was perhaps too unsure to take the step, or if he simply didn't want to see Zayn at all, but didn't want to risk upsetting the balance between them. Whatever it was, Zayn had learned not to push.

It was the same with Harry, really. He never seemed to bite when Zayn tried to invite him round. But Zayn had never worried much about Harry or the polite friendship they shared nowadays. Harry seemed content, settled in his career and his life. Happy, for the most part. He flitted here and there, keeping in touch but maintaining a deliberate distance. Zayn didn't mind, or perhaps not as much as people thought he would. It made him wistful sometimes, but it was alright. From what he'd gathered from Niall, that was just how Harry was. He was as loving as ever, but his scope had broadened—through his projects, his natural charisma, and the sheer magnetism that had always drawn people to him.

Once, Zayn had been one of four sharing Harry's direct attentions. Now, he was one of hundreds, if not thousands. Harry seemed to be doing a million things at once, meeting someone new every day, his energy endless.

So no, Harry never really came round when Zayn extended an invite, but they kept in touch regardless. Zayn would send him jars of his homemade hot sauce, and Harry would respond in kind, with a bar of lavender soap or Anne's recipe for apple pie. Or Khai would receive an oversized teddy bear, and Zayn would send back a stack of her drawings, a vintage ring from a yard sale, and one particularly glittery card. It wasn't much, but it worked for them. And Zayn wasn't worried about Harry or their friendship, mainly just nostalgic about what had once been. Liam, though? Liam was a different story entirely. He hoped he had made the right decision by inviting them here and postponing his tour. He hoped that he could actually be of help to Liam. Louis seemed to think so. But Zayn still worried he might not be.

It had seemed like a good idea when Louis called, especially because seeing Liam might ease some of the fears and concerns that had been gnawing at Zayn since he'd seen that video. But it wasn't just that. Zayn wanted to be that kind of person, the kind who could offer his friends sanctuary, a safe haven away from the noise and chaos of the world. Because Zayn knew all too well what it felt like to be overwhelmed, alienated, not quite right. And here on the farm, he had carved out his own little slice of peace, a quiet corner of the world where he didn't constantly feel judged or on edge. He wanted to share that with others, to give them the same sense of solace he'd found.

But could he do that for Liam? That was what he worried about. Not because he doubted his ability to be supportive, but because of the distance that had grown between them, had opened up like a great big chasm, or a canyon perhaps, with each standing on different sides. Perhaps their strained relationship would prevent Liam from feeling at ease. To open up. To let Zayn, Louis, and Niall help him. Harry too, if Niall had managed to get in touch with him.

So Zayn stood there, worrying, wondering, restless—waiting for his boys to arrive. Hoping he'd made the right call by inviting them here, by pushing back the first leg of his tour. Did they need him, or just the quiet refuge his home could provide? It was probably him, right? At least, he hoped so. Typical, he thought wryly, to get impostor syndrome in his own bloody house.

Zayn closed his eyes, drawing in a long, deliberate breath. He counted silently—three, four, five—whilst holding it, then exhaling slowly through his nose. He repeated the process, the rhythm steadying the restless churn of anxiety in his chest. When the tight knot of worry in his stomach loosened, he opened his eyes again.

In the distance, a car was making its way toward him, the low rumble of the engine growing steadily louder. Zayn pressed his lips together and whistled sharply, catching the attention of the three dogs still tumbling over each other in their half-hearted pursuit of a scattering of ducks.

They paused, heads tilting curiously in his direction. Another whistle sent them bounding toward him, tails wagging, until they settled at his feet, panting and alert.

The car trundled down the gravel drive before crunching to a stop in front of him. Before the engine even cut out, the passenger door flew open. "Hi, mate. Aren't you a sight for sore eyes," Louis greeted brightly, his grin wide and familiar. Zayn couldn't help but smile in return, the corners of his mouth pulling up. "Alright, Lou?" he replied easily.

Before he could say more, Louis was already wrapping him in a quick, firm hug. Zayn let himself lean into Louis's hug briefly, sighing. Now that they were sound again, he couldn’t help noticing how much Louis had stayed the same. Some people grew up and changed beyond recognition; Louis just settled deeper into being himself. There was a bit of grey at his temples now, confident in ways he hadn’t been back then, but otherwise, he was the same lad Zayn had known since he was seventeen. Smelt like smoke and aftershave, same as always. His eyes sharp, but his grin sharper. You always knew where you stood with him. He could be sarcastic, cutting even, but loyal to the bone. He picked his people and he stuck to them.

When they broke apart, Niall was already stepping forward. But even in those brief milliseconds before Zayn wrapped him up, he caught the exhaustion etched into Niall's face—the dark shadows under his eyes, the faint droop of his shoulders.

Zayn's smile faltered slightly as he glanced over Niall's shoulder, catching Louis's eye and raising an eyebrow in silent question. Louis only shrugged helplessly in response.

Zayn gave Niall a quick reassuring squeeze before stepping back. "Alright, Ni?" he asked softly, his voice gentle. Niall just rolled his eyes, nodding with a huff. Clearly, Louis had been doing a bit of mothering already.

"C'mon, Leeyum!" Louis called over his shoulder, his thick Yorkshire accent exaggerating every syllable. "You're not a fookin' vampire, you don't need permission t'get out of the bloody car! Besides, Zayn's already invited you in."

The familiar banter pulled a small chuckle from Zayn, though it was laced with nerves. His focus drifted to the final unopened car door, his heart tugging as Liam emerged.

Liam stood there awkwardly, toes turned inward, shoulders hunched, his gaze fixed on the ground. The sight of him like that... so small, so diminished, stirred a deep ache in Zayn's chest. "Hey, Li," Zayn greeted, keeping his tone soft and gentle. He took a tentative step closer. "Hug?"

Liam finally looked up, meeting Zayn's eyes. For a split second, Zayn worried he might refuse, but then Liam practically fell into his arms. It caught Zayn off guard, but he didn't hesitate to hold him close, his hands firm and steady on Liam's back. "Good to see you, mate," Zayn murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. And he meant it. Decisively keeping his grip tight until he felt Liam pull away himself, not wanting to end it prematurely.

When they pulled apart, the bags had been unloaded onto the driveway by the driver, and the car was rumbling away. The largest of Zayn's dogs had taken it upon himself to thoroughly inspect the luggage, sniffing intently, while a yappy dachshund wriggled enthusiastically in Niall's arms, its little tongue darting out in an eager attempt to lick his face. Niall turned his head away with a quiet laugh, determinedly avoiding the wet onslaught.

"C'mon, let's get this stuff inside," Zayn suggested, reaching for the nearest bag. Suddenly feeling a bit awkward and not knowing where to look. "I've already done some dinner prep. Could whip something up if you're hungry?" He glanced at the group, expecting Niall to be the first to nod, but it was Louis who perked up instead.

"Not had any real food since breakfast," Louis admitted.

Zayn's eyes flicked to Liam, whose shoulders were still a bit hunched, like he wasn't entirely sure he belonged here. Like he hadn't quite convinced himself that this wasn't a mistake.

Perhaps it was something Zayn should get at later, once Liam had settled in a bit. Maybe when it was just the two of them, he could take the chance to slip past Liam's defences, poke and prod in the way he knew how from way back when, until Liam finally saw what was already apparent to the rest of them. That he was wanted. That he belonged. That Zayn had missed him. 

That he had not judged him, not resented him, not hated him for what had or hadn't been said, for what had or hadn't been done. Just missed him.

Maybe he should try to have the same conversation he'd already had with Niall and Louis when they reconnected. Do a bit of grovelling. Admit that whilst leaving the band had been the right choice for him, the way he'd gone about it had been wrong. That he'd hurt them, left them in the lurch, cut himself off not just from the band but from his friends. That there had been a better way to go about things.

He still stood by his decision. He knew he wouldn't have lasted much longer, and his therapist had made it clear that there was no point in lingering on the past, no point in agonising over what couldn't be changed. But maybe Liam needed to hear it anyway. That none of it had been because of him.

For now, Liam shrugged on a rucksack and grabbed one of the suitcases. "Depends," he said, aiming for lightness, though it wavered slightly. "You making it white-boy friendly? I'm sure I still can't keep up with your spice levels." Zayn's lips twitched. He knew Liam well enough—even after all these years—to recognise when he was trying, when he was testing the waters. "I'll go easy on the chillies," he replied, a teasing lilt in his voice, "but no promises."

Chapter Text

After putting his things away, Liam lingered in the guest room, fingers tracing absent patterns over the quilt spread across the bed. It was handmade—that much was obvious. The stitching was uneven, the fabric soft and worn in places, but it was soft under his touch, clearly well-loved.

Zayn's house didn't feel polished. It wasn't cold or curated like the places Liam had lived in over the years, places that looked nice but never quite felt like home. No, this was lived-in. This was Zayn's home. And even though they'd only been texting recently, Liam just recognised Zayn's touch in everything, which certainly helped him feel settled. Perhaps Zayn hadn't changed as much, wasn't as distant as he had assumed him to be.

He was the first of the guests to step out into the hall. Louis' voice drifted from behind a closed door at the end of the corridor, low and steady, mid-call with someone Liam couldn't immediately place. Probably best to leave him to it, not sure if he was supposed or even wanted to know. 

He paused outside Niall's room, hesitating momentarily. The door was slightly ajar. Peeking inside, he found Niall curled awkwardly on top of the covers, one arm tucked beneath his head. Out cold. Liam watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way his face was smushed into his hand, the muscles in his face still not completely relaxed, leaving the normally so smiley Irishman frowning even in his sleep.

He wasn't sure Niall had managed a proper night's sleep since this all started. Probably not, because every time he had woken, Niall had already been awake, and the few times he did see him sleep were short, sporadic and restless. Careful not to wake him, Liam crept past the door and made his way downstairs, the worn wooden steps groaning under his weight.

He already knew where Zayn was. The smell of food had thickened as he descended the stairs and neared the kitchen; something rich and spiced was wafting through the corridor. Still, he didn't quite dare to enter the kitchen just yet. Nerves fluttered in his stomach, making him feel a bit ill.

Maybe he was nervous that Zayn would want to get straight into it—to ask outright what had happened. Or maybe it was something else. Maybe he was scared that Zayn had been less than impressed by some of the shit Liam had let himself be goaded into saying over the years, despite the hug he'd given him just now. Or maybe—fuck, maybe Liam just really wanted to be Zayn's friend again. Wanted things to feel easy, like they used to be. But even though they were physically in the same place, the distance still felt vast, and he had no clue as to how to bridge it, as to what to say to make it all better. 

Liam had never been great at putting that kind of stuff into words. Not unless he could put it in a song. And even then… well. He hadn't been much good at that lately either, had he? 

So he lingered in the hallway, stalling, his eyes drifting over the pictures on the wall. The frames were hung haphazardly in various frames—old photos mixed in with new ones. He took a closer look at one of Khai, Zayn's little girl, all big eyes and soft curls. Zayn had sent him the odd photo here and there, usually in response to one of Liam's of Bear, but looking at these pictures now, Liam realised how little he really knew about her. He'd thought he was private about Bear, but Zayn was even more so about his kid. Was Zayn just generally private about her? Or did he simply not trust Liam with that information any longer? Thinking about that made Liam's chest feel tight, making it hard for him to breathe for a second or two. Leaving him to keenly look at what else hung on the wall in an attempt to distract himself.

There were other photos, too. Some from the band, some from after. One of Zayn with Louis. Another of him and Niall—recent, not just some old press shot. They must've set a camera or a phone propped up somewhere with a timer, although they didn't quite seem to have made it to the end of the countdown unscathed. Both of them were holding a hen each, Zayn had a brown one tucked into his arms, she looked quite serene, whilst Zayn was clearly laughing. Niall, on the other hand, seemed rather panicked, trying to keep hold of a white hen who was fluttering and flapping so hard that she had practically become a blur. Seeing it made Liam smile somewhat fondly, even though he felt a little odd about it. 

Niall had reconciled with Zayn first, Liam knew. He'd mentioned it to him back then, casually but carefully, like he was testing the waters, curious as to how Liam would take the news. He'd met Zayn at an award show just after the release of Flicker, deciding to shake his hand and put him on the spot in front of the world. But then Zayn followed it up. A few days later, he had reached out properly and asked Niall to meet while they were still in the same city. From then on, the two rekindled, and Niall became Liam's primary source of Zayn-related news.

He was happy for them. Of course he was. He wanted them all to be okay, wanted them to be mates again. But looking at those photos, at the timeline they painted, he couldn't help but feel a little outside of it all. Like maybe he'd been the last one to show up to something important. Like maybe, even though he was here now, he was already too late.

Liam sat with the heavy feeling for a moment, pulling his eyes away from Niall and Zayn to let his eye fall on a picture of Louis and Zayn instead. Louis' temples were greying in the picture—he'd only started going silver in the last year or so—so it must have been relatively recent, with the two of them huddled close together in the dusk, each with a cigarette in hand, faces mushed together to fit in a rather close-proximity selfie. 

He debated moving on. No point standing here, winding himself up. Standing there torturing himself wasn’t helping, and he didn’t exactly fancy stumbling on a photo of Zayn and Harry, confirming what he already feared, that he was the last one. The last to come here. The last to be invited. The last to still be considered a mate, and only because of everything that had happened. If not for that, Liam wouldn't have been here at all, probably... Zayn wouldn't have wanted him to, surely. But then something else caught his eye. A different photo. One he hadn't seen before, but one he recognised instantly.

It was from the band days, taken backstage. He and Zayn were huddled together over a sketchbook. Someone... maybe one of the stylists, maybe one of the boys? Someone must have snapped it without them realising.

Liam knew exactly when it must have been. Around the time he'd first started drawing. Messy little sketches in the margins of notebooks, doodles on scrap paper, nothing like what Zayn could do, but certainly inspired by him. Zayn had always been the artist. Always had a sketchbook tucked under his arm or hidden away in his bunk on the bus, pages filled with intricate designs and fluid lines that came to life under his hand.

Liam had admired him for it. Had spent ages flicking through his sketchbooks, watching as Zayn worked, asking questions, trying to learn, wanting to do something he didn't have to be perfect at. Zayn had gifted him his first proper sketchbook, encouraging him to give it a go.

It was strange, looking at this picture now. Odd, because for so long, Liam had convinced himself that Zayn had left all of it behind. That he'd buried their time in the band, never looked back, never thought about them. But here it was, tangible proof that he hadn't forgotten them, hadn't forgotten him. Zayn had kept this. Chosen to frame it, put it up alongside the others, chosen to include Liam in his wall of pictures.

Liam swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. Maybe Zayn had never been as distant as he thought. Maybe Liam had just convinced himself otherwise. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn't a mistake. Liam exhaled, slowly, expelling all the air out of his lungs as he steeled himself, before finally pulling his eyes away and taking those last few steps into the kitchen.

Like the rest of the house, the kitchen was well cared for but certainly not new. It felt pieced together and curated. Not in the way a designer would do it, but like Zayn had been decorating it over time, selecting each item because he liked it. Like he'd scoured vintage stores, yard sales, and charity shops to find things that spoke to him and made the space feel his. It was cluttered, lived-in, comfortable. Anywhere else, for anyone else, the grey-ish plaid-like wallpaper would look strange and out of place, but for Zayn's kitchen, it felt... suitable?  Meanwhile, the stove was dinged up and scratched, but it was clearly still doing its job. It looked like the kind of stove that would keep feeding Maliks for generations to come.

It was so different from Liam's way of living. He flitted from house to house, always getting talked into buying something bigger, newer, more modern. Something which was an investment, something which some suit would label as a 'property' or an 'asset' or worse an 'investment'. His furniture came in matching sets, sterile and coordinated, because at least that way, he was sure everything went together. But eventually, he'd find himself barely living there, and before long, he'd sell up and move again. Another house, another upgrade, another empty space that never really felt like home. Clearly, Zayn couldn't relate.

Liam barely had time to sit with that thought before Zayn, having noticed him lingering in the doorway, shot him a small smile. He was standing at the stove, surrounded by three dogs and a cat, all four were staring up at him with hopeful, pleading eyes. Eager for a scrap of whatever ended up on the floor. Zayn, however, was paying them no mind, his focus on the food in front of him. He was effortlessly flipping naan in the pan with just his fingers, not even flinching at the heat. Liam watched, eyebrows raising slightly, and when Zayn caught his look, he let out a quiet chuckle. It sounded a bit forced, uncertain, like he wasn’t sure how to fill the silence between them.

"Never thought I'd be able to do it," he admitted. "Like Mum and my nan—but… yeah. Guess it comes with the years." He added with a shrug. “Khai’s always dead impressed when I do,” he added, voice softer now, the edge of a grin curling at his mouth, warm and proud when he spoke about her.

Liam hummed, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He wasn't sure where to put his hands or what to do with himself. "It's fun to realise how the most mundane shit impresses your kids," he murmured, voice a touch too casual, his fingers worrying at the hem of his jumper.

The silence stretched after that, thick and uncertain. Liam hated it. It made him twitchy, needing to move, to do something. He cleared his throat. "Can I help?" he blurted, already half-stepping forward. Eager to do something, to ease the awkwardness hanging between them. "Set the table or something?"

Zayn, who had been just as visibly awkward, looked almost relieved by the offer and nodded quickly. "Yeah, sure. Plates are in the top right cabinet, cutlery is in the drawer beneath it." Liam nodded in response, head bobbing a bit overeager, relieved to have a task, something to keep his hands busy.

He set to work, moving around Zayn as he cooked, careful not to get in the way. Every now and then, he caught himself hesitating before stepping closer. He wasn't sure of the boundaries between them anymore. It felt both too familiar and like he was hanging out with a total stranger.

He flitted in and out of the kitchen, carrying plates and cutlery to the dining room. The dining room, like the rest of the house, was a charming mismatch of things that shouldn't work together but somehow did. Chairs that didn't quite match, a sturdy wooden table with years of scratches and scuffs, a mismatch of placemats that fit together only in the way that none of them did.

On the adjacent buffet, arts and crafts materials had been hastily cleared away, but unfinished pieces still sat drying—small, colourful, glittery creations that must have been Khai's.

The sight made Liam pause mid-step, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. He hadn't even thought about it, about whether Khai had been meant to be here these last few days before Zayn was set to kick off his tour. Whether this was another thing Zayn had to rearrange, another plan he'd upended to accommodate him. The thought lodged in his chest, a thick knot of guilt pressing at his ribs.

Still, he didn't bring it up when he stepped back into the kitchen. Didn't quite know how. He wasn't sure how to talk to Zayn now, not really. Not sure what kind of friends they were supposed to be after all these years.

And maybe Zayn noticed. Or maybe he'd been thinking along the same lines. Maybe he had his own doubts and uncertainties about what they were now. Because once Liam had finished setting the table, Zayn turned the fire on the hob low and shifted, leaning back against the counter, arms loosely folded, meeting Liam's gaze head-on.

"I, uh… Well, this is the third time I've done this," he started, sounding painfully uncomfortable but determined, hand coming up as he scratched the back of his neck. His dark eyes were unreadable, and Liam furrowed his brow, trying to piece together what Zayn was getting at.

"I, uh… Y'know." Zayn huffed out a breath, shaking his head at himself before pressing on. "I wanted to say sorry. For back then. Not for leaving—I think… Well, I know I needed to do that. To be alright. The band, the way things were—" He trailed off, waving a hand around in a vague kind of gesture, before refocusing. Liam got it. He remembered how hollow-boned Zayn had been towards the end, how sometimes it felt like he was disappearing before their eyes. Not just in the way he got quieter and more withdrawn. But in a way that had scared Liam, made him feel hopeless and helpless.

How when they’d been told Zayn wouldn’t be joining the interview, and then later that he’d lef, left the band, wasn’t coming back, Liam had felt a strange kind of grief settle over him. It felt final,  like Zayn had died rather than just walked away. And then, after that initial bound of grief, came relief. Because he hadn’t gone-gone. He was still out there somewhere, still existing in the same world. It mattered, that. Because sometimes, before Zee left, Liam had worried about him. Properly worried. There’d been days when Zayn’s face would close off, his eyes unreadable, and thoughts crossed Liam's mind, concerns he had, of Zayn not making it out the other end. So it was a relief, for Zayn to leave and be alright. 

But the relief didn’t last. It couldn’t. They all felt it soon enough; that Zayn hadn’t only left the band, he’d left them. That was the part that stung. It hit hardest on stage, when instinct had them glance to the side, expecting him there, and he wasn’t. Then came the aftermath. The interviews, the snide headlines, the sound bites turned against them. Things Zayn had said that didn’t land easily. The press swooped in, circling like vultures, hungry for tension. And all they could do was hold the line, smile, deflect, pretend they weren’t angry, weren’t hurt.

"Anyway. What I mean is; that I'm sorry for how I went about it. For how I acted after. For not reaching out, and not reciprocating when you guys did. And for the unfair shit I said, about the band, about you lot, about everything."Zayn visibly hesitated, shifting his weight, then sighed. "It's not… It's not like I don't miss it; I do, actually. The idea of it, I mean. Not the schedule, not fighting to get my songs on an album, not how fucking bad my head was back then. But I miss you guys. My brothers. I miss making music with you, miss having someone to turn to in interviews. Living through all of it with you."

Liam stood frozen, not sure what to say or how to react. His brain stuttered, scrambling for anything to say, but all he could do was stare at Zayn like an idiot. Because what was he supposed to say? That it was alright? That he understood? That he'd forgiven Zayn long before now, even if a part of him had carried the hurt around for years? Because that much was true, he thought so at least. On a good day he could honestly say that he had forgiven him for it, had forgiven him a long time ago, but on the bad days it tended to float back up to the surface. On the bad days, when someone could ask the right questions or poked him in the wrong way, or the right way, depending on their perception of it, Liam had aired some of his grievances regarding Zayn and the way he had left.

He shifted awkwardly, his hands twitching at his sides before forcing them into his joggers' pockets, suddenly aware of how stiff he'd gone. The silence stretched a little too long, but he still couldn't quite find the right words.

"I know Lou probably jumped this on you," Zayn continued, voice quieter now, a little rougher. "I know you didn't really get a choice in coming here, in any of it. But… I'm glad you're here—and I dunno, mate. I just—" He swallowed, a nervous flicker crossing his face before he pushed through it. "I hope we can be mates again. Properly."

Liam swallowed thickly. Maybe it was something he needed to hear, but that didn't make it any easier. If anything, it made him feel worse. Because here Zayn was, being mature, apologising, and owning up to things—when, really, in recent years, Zayn hadn't done anything wrong. All of it was old hurt. Lately, Zayn had been reaching out, checking in every now and then, and yeah, Liam had reciprocated, but he'd also been a bit shit. He'd said stupid things, implied worse. Not to Zayn directly, but in interviews, laughing along when he shouldn't have, agreeing to things that didn't sit right in his gut. Things he didn't actually believe.

He shifted on his feet, fingers tightening around the hem of his jumper.

"Uhm, well, I'm not sure you really need to apologise," he mumbled, voice uneven. "I mean, I appreciate it, I just... I've been worse, haven't I? Said stupid shit. And I'm sorry for that too."

He hesitated, swallowing past the lump in his throat. "And… and like, I am happy to see you, I just—" His voice wavered. "I hate that it's only because I fucked up, right? That I'm here now? You probably feel obligated." Liam trailed off into a whisper, eyes fixed firmly on the tiled floor beneath his feet.

Zayn huffed, the sound sharp and a little incredulous. "Leeyum…" He drew his name out, frowning, tilting his head slightly as if trying to make sense of him. "I've been trying to invite you here for ages," Zayn said, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. "I'm just… not very good at it. At asking outright. I was never sure if you wanted to, and when you never really responded to my, like… roundabout invites in any tangible way, so I kinda just figured you didn't."

Liam blinked, caught off guard. "Oh. Oh, I mean…" He trailed off, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as he briefly glanced at him, only to break eye contact again. "I thought it was just… y'know, like when people say, 'You should come by sometime,' but that 'sometime' actually means never." His voice wavered slightly, uncertain. Zayn let out another humourless chuckle, looking a little guilty now. "Well, I didn't mean it like that. But yeah, I can see how it might've sounded that way. Niall's already told me... multiple times, actually, that I should've been more upfront about it. But I kinda thought you were just… maybe politely avoiding me?" Zayn sighed heavily. "Sorry. I really did want you here."

Liam nodded, but it was unsure, hesitant. He didn't doubt Zayn's sincerity, but he didn't quite know what to do with it either. How he was supposed to feel about it. It was strange. Good, but strange.

"I'd like us to be mates again too," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "Y'know, I kinda… even though we didn't really hang out like that anymore, I still assumed we were?" Which he actually felt a little stupid for, for not realising that apparently they hadn't been friends anymore, not according to Zayn.

"But yeah, sorry. I should have realised, I mean… I dunno. It's alright. It's fine," Liam muttered. "I get, well-... anyway. It's cool. I mean, I'm not doing well, which, clearly, is very obvious." He let out a laugh, self-deprecating, awkward. "So I'm not sure… like… yeah." He trailed off, words fumbling, because whilst he hated the idea of letting a silence stretch between them, he couldn't quite put his feelings into words. Couldn't quite explain how he wanted to be mates again, but how—fuck—he'd been a prick. And probably would be again, because hadn't he already proven that? To everyone. To himself. That he couldn't do this. That he was… not a good person. That he couldn't stay clean. That deep inside, there was something wrong with him. Something mean, and spiteful, and selfish, and destructive. Something dangerous, probably, considering how Niall had nothing but sleepless nights since seeing him like that.

Zayn shifted, stepping closer, reaching for Liam before aborting the movement halfway through. "Li… I didn't mean it like that. You're my bro, yeah?" His voice was steady, and the way he kept looking at him made Liam squirm a little. Made him want to hide, but Zayn continued on. "I just… I want us to be the best of mates and things to be like they used to be. Not just now but in the future as well. Because I miss you, not because I feel obligated or whatever." He sighed, which generally would've panicked Liam, but this wasn't his disappointed sigh. This was his; Why won't you just listen to me? Why won't you believe me? Sigh. Liam knew the difference, and he was glad that he knew; at least that much hadn't changed.

"You—please stop thinking that you're unworthy of that," Zayn said, sounding as if having been able to read his mind earlier, and this time he didn't hesitate. He reached out, warm fingers curling gently around Liam's arm. "C'mon, Li. You're fine. We're fine. Yeah?"

Liam flinched ever so slightly, but he didn't pull away. And after a beat, he let himself lean into Zayn's touch, exhaling shakily. "Yeah," he mumbled, voice uneven. Then, quieter, like he wasn't sure whether he should even ask, "You sure?"

Zayn didn't respond straight away. He just looked at Liam, weighing something, considering. Liam's stomach twisted. Fuck, what if he wasn't sure? What if he'd just said it to be nice? What if just asking that inspired him to rescind what he said? But then Zayn gave a single, decisive nod. "Yeah. I'm sure." Liam exhaled, some of the tension unspooling from his shoulders. He nodded back. "Alright."

Zayn stepped back and turned to check on the food. "Now," he said, glancing at Liam over his shoulder, "you wanna keep having an existential crisis in my kitchen, or do you wanna make yourself useful and stir this while I feed the cats and dogs so they stop pestering us?"

It was said in the kind of soft, teasing tone Zayn had always used with him. Had learned to use after one misjudged comment during X Factor which had made Liam cry. Zayn had realised then, really realised, that Liam hadn't always had people in his life who teased him in a way that felt safe. That he wasn't always sure how to tell the difference between joking and cruelty. And now? After everything? Zayn still did it without thinking. His brown eyes warm and sparkling. That familiar tongue-pressed-behind-his-teeth smile out full blast. Christ, Liam really wanted to give him another hug.  

He let out a slightly wobbly laugh instead, not quite confident enough to reach for him. "Yeah, okay. I can do that." He took the wooden spoon from Zayn and started stirring the curry.

By the time Louis and a bleary-eyed but nervous-looking Niall entered the kitchen, the last of the tension had melted away. Liam was leaning against the counter, asking Zayn about the raw diet he fed his dogs, half in disbelief. "Wait, wait—so you're telling me it's not just a TikTok thing?" Liam asked, brows furrowed. "Like, you're feeding them proper raw chicken hearts and spirulina yoghurt or whatever?"

Zayn huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he began plating up dinner. "Bro, they eat better than I do."