Ultraviolet

You stir to the sound of the shower motor, which is groaning desperately as if trying to wake you on purpose. Your own response is to moan back, the vibration of your vocal chords thrumming against your throat like tight guitar strings against bruised fingers. Spitting out a harsh cough, you know that it’s your own fault for being so damn stupid with the amount of vodka you threw down your neck the previous night, but still you resent whoever needs to use the shower in the room next door to yours. Couldn’t they have waited until you were up? Obviously not.

Neon lights throw the digits 13:37 across your face as you lean over the bed, scrabbling for anything to cover up your nudity beneath the damp, pathetic excuse for a duvet cover. Your head throbs too as blood races to your brain, trying to get you to wake up and to an extent, it works. Yawning, you now realise you can hear loud music past the droning and splashing coming from the other side of the wall – Blink-fucking-182. Doesn’t Dougie understand the concept of quiet when people are sleeping?

With half a mind to tell the bassist to develop hangovers in order to prevent outbursts of loud music in the morning, your feet hit the worn carpet and you tug on the only pair of boxers you have here and a shirt you vaguely recognise as the favourite you came over in last night. Swaying dangerously – probably still drunk – you hear the music amplify as the shower is turned off. Clutching your head seems to be the best thing to do in order for it not to fall off, though getting rid of such a painful part of your body doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. The door handle turns in your salty palm, the screech of it ringing in your ears as you step out into the hallway, and you blindly stumble on, in search of paracetamol, ibuprofen or any shit that will cure you. But before you’ve gone three paces, Tom’s appearing out of nowhere, and suddenly you’re damp as you collide outside the bathroom door.

“Sorry.” He mumbles, clutching a towel round his waist as he heads to Dougie’s other, shoddy and quickly assembled spare bedroom. You say nothing and don’t even pause to acknowledge the brush-off, the half-hearted apology, because it’s just a clone of what he’s been churning out for weeks now.

Danny is at the table when your feet make the transition from soft carpet to cold tiles.

“Happy Christmas Eve!”

Showing as much enthusiasm as you can without causing your head to burst open in pain, you nod, smile and roll your eyes, slightly amused at the sight of milk trickling from your friend’s mouth and back into his cereal bowl.

“Why didn’t you go home last night?” You ponder aloud, referring to the fact that Danny’s own flat is in the same building.

“I were conked out before I could find my keys,” he replies, in his distinctive northern dialect.

“Sleep well?”

“Like a log. That cider didn’t half help an’ all,”

“Cider, is that what you were drinking last night?” You poke teasingly, switching the kettle on. “The stuff we found in the cupboard was what, 4%?”

“Shut up, Judd,”

“At least we southerners can take our drink, Bolton…”

“You’re not talking about yourself, they way you seem to look this morning. I didn’t drink much because I didn’t particularly want the same kind of effects you’re suffering from.”

You give a mock scowl and your temples throb nastily as if on cue, before turning away to root for a mug. Even the clink of pots is unpleasant and you swiftly withdraw one before your head gets any worse, suddenly remembering your goal to find some pain killers. Walking over to the other side of the kitchen to find some ache-conquering drugs, the door creaks open again and enter Dougie: band-mate and best friend number two to show no sign of morning-after effects. How come everyone else seems to get let off so lightly?

Morning greeting grunts are exchanged and the youngest boy is reasonably cheerful as he tries to take a swig of Danny’s coffee. You close your eyes as you wait for the kettle to click, cursing this damned lack of self-control you seem to have when it comes to nights involving booze and wishing you could go back in time and refuse those last experimental shots that you and Dougie just had to have, if only for you both to test how his body reacted to them. This morning it is evident they had the same effect as water.

The house suddenly becomes silent; you’d forgotten the thumping punk backdrop of Blink, but now realise it’s only just been switched off. Dougie’s eyes connect with yours – Tom must’ve decided not to tolerate the unwanted noise, even in someone else’s house, now that Dougie is downstairs. There’s a spark of worry and uncertainty in those blue orbs, almost a pleading for you to prevent this being another bad day especially near Christmas, because you know Dougie won’t be able to hack it.

And you wonder, as the sound of another pair of feet on the stairs travels over your head, why it’s always down to you to make sure it never gets out of hand. It’s frustrating, the feeling that you’ve got to take the weight on your shoulders now that the most headstrong of the band is at his weakest. Because Danny’s not the mentoring type – that was always Tom’s job – and most of the time Dougie’s just the kid of the band, dragged along the current by whatever’s happening, never fighting the waves and too weak to pull everyone out of the water. So it’s down to you to keep everyone afloat; it’s your unofficial role that you seem to have taken on board. Not that you mind deep down, because it has to be done and all you want is for everything to go back to normal – but you hoped for that weeks and weeks ago and it still hasn’t happened. If anything, everyone’s sinking deeper - and one person is weighting the band down, even with you as a buoy.

“Alright, Tom?”

Tom nods at Danny as he makes his way to the kettle, dressed in an inside-out t-shirt and old jeans. He brushes past you, his skin hot from the shower, and you watch him prepare a cup of coffee out of the corner of your eye. He moves lethargically, huffing strands of hair that hasn’t seen a cut in weeks from his eyes, and keeps his eyes on his hands. Usually he’s up and chirpy by two o’clock in the afternoon, having been out for a run or to the shops, and either in the studio strumming out dribbles of tunes that may eventually be born into songs or walking round the house searching every nook and cranny for inspiration. But all his pacing within the last few weeks has been in despair, and the sounds that leak from the crack under the shared studio door are stifled sobs and frustrated sighs.

He catches you looking at him and you swiftly avert your eyes, somehow feeling as though you’re prying on Tom despite the fact you’ve spent years entirely in his company and have been through all his highs and lows. His gaze lingers on you before going back to his mug, which he takes with him as he walks lethargically from the room. You and Dougie sigh simultaneously, regretting the fact that this definitely isn’t an up day for Tom.

*

“I don’t care what you say. Princess Leia is not hot. In the slightest,” You yawn, as if this settles the matter.

“Shush, man. Stop ruining it for him,” Danny chips in, grinning. You follow Dougie’s eyes to Tom’s, which are still transfixed on the screen, as Alderaan is destroyed and he gives a little jerk, even after three hundred times of watching Leia’s home planet being blown up.

“He’ll get over it,” you say, and this somehow triggers a reaction in the lightest blonde. He jerks his head round to where you sit on his left, and swiftly looks down at his knees. Your eyebrows crease together slightly as a pink tinge appears in his cheeks, and he focuses his attention back to the film.

Danny makes a show out of yawning loudly, sprawled lazily over one armchair as Dougie slumps in the one adjacent to it, the flicker of movement and light on the television dancing over their faces. Your own knees are half-tucked under yourself, one sock-clad foot touching Tom’s and he’s mocking your position, only holding himself a little tighter and allowing you to take up more than your share of the sofa. His arm is clutched round his knees, almost in a foetal position as he tries to concentrate on the film he’s chosen to watch tonight, much to everyone else’s protest. But you fought the other two down with looks that could kill, sacrificing the cricket match you rather wanted to see in order to keep Tom happy and let him forget for an hour or two. But now the effort seems to have been wasted, as something in your last comment has set off a habit of fidgeting and sighing in him, and with a pang you wish you could take it back. Because Tom isn’t getting over it.

“Guys, shut up,” he mumbles, referring in an irritated tone to Danny and Dougie, who would be echoing the Star Wars dialogue almost perfectly if it weren’t for the mocking edge in their voices. Dougie falters at Tom’s annoyance, ever the willing peace keeper recently, but Danny still goes on, laughing to himself as he whispers the lines. Everyone can tell he’d rather be watching something he hasn’t seen over and over, too, and it seems to grate on Tom. He sighs and grasps his hair in his hands, scrunching his eyes up, and you suddenly itch to reach out and smooth his fair locks down, make it stop, because it hurts to see your best friend get so wound up about little things like this. Tom peeks up to see you watching again, and you smile tentatively, begging his bottom lip not to tremble – but it jerks anyway.

“Tom, mate, maybe you should go back to your flat. To bed,” you mutter, shifting over so you can whisper in his ear.

“It’s ten past nine, Harry,” he replies in an undertone, not looking at you. You extend a finger to turn his head to face yours and he shiftily avoids your eyes. “Besides, it’s Christmas, we should all be together before we go and meet our families tomorrow.”

“You’re tired,”

“I’m not,”

“Then you’re stressed.”

“Gee, y’think?” he bites back, his expression turning from nearly crumbling to hard as marble. He narrows his eyes and exhales deeply, his cool breath swimming over your face. You don’t find it necessary or comfortable to retreat from his personal space.

“I – I’m sorry,” you backtrack, trying to be careful with your words. “I just – I’m just worried, dude,”

“There’s no need. But I’m not going to bed, okay?”

You sigh and retreat a little, though not convinced of his excuse. “If you’re really not tired…”

“Wide awake.”

He glares at the television as if trying to prove his point, but his eyes are glazed over, not seeing the characters on the screen. You swivel your head to the left to see Danny and Dougie yawning loudly, sipping from beer bottles. When they start to make small talk, it’s blatantly obvious they care not for the film or Tom’s feelings, if aware of them at all, and you feel a hot ball of annoyance unfurl slowly in your stomach.

“Guys, will you knock it off?” Tom huffs loudly after another few minutes, and you glower in the same direction as he does. You manage to catch Danny’s eyes with yours, and he recognises the glint of warning in them – to him, unfounded and possibly exaggerated.

“Sorry, mate,” Danny replies, though still holding your gaze. “I – well, you’ve seen this film so many times, and I thought we should do something on Christmas Eve rather than…”

He trails off as Dougie kicks him, finally getting what you’ve been trying to communicate. There is silence as the three of you look at Tom, whose hand is shadowing his brow as he frowns at the floor near Dougie’s feet. The clock ticks resiliently above your head, and you let out a slow, jagged breath.

Something brushes against your leg and you jump, looking round. On the screen, Han Solo swiftly transforms into a set of white-clad people on a green backdrop, and Tom puts the remote back on the cushion.

“What did you do that for?”

“To keep everyone fucking happy,” Tom mumbles in response to your question, the utterance leaving his lips in an uncharacteristic snarl. He doesn’t even look at the screen but instead roots round on the other side of the couch for something – anything – to distract him. The two boys on the other side of the room exchange glances, and you hope the look you’re giving them is asking if they’re happy.

Enough is enough. You turn the cricket re-run off, seeing as nobody else will want to watch it, and get to your feet.

“I’m going out. Who’s coming?”

Two people gape at you, before grinning, stretching and heaving themselves off the sofa. They meander through to the hall, and you hear their faint groans and chatter as they don coats and shoes. You turn back to Tom, who suddenly has his nose in a thick book of Dougie’s that doesn’t look as if it’s ever been read. It takes him a few seconds to realise that you’re staring at him.

“Where’s going to be open on Christmas Eve, Harry?”

“I know a place. Come with us, mate,” You say, and it comes out as a desperate plea.

“Sorry, I don’t think I’m up to it,” he replies curtly, dismissing you and turning back to the novel. You sit back down, frustrated, taking the book forcefully from him and making him look your way. For the first time, you notice just how tired his eyes are – not tired from lethargy or fatigue, but tired from this pretence he puts on every day in front of his friends and family. Your brows sink, and you reach out and gently touch his leg, anything to get him to listen, get him to recognise your concern. If anything, you want his company because it won’t do you any good to only be with the depressingly happy other half of the band, as you suddenly find yourself infected with Tom’s melancholy.

“Tom, you haven’t been out with us in months,” you croak, voice stammering with anxiety. “Months! You’re not yourself, and you don’t realise how much we miss you. I realise you’re hurting but you’ve got to get on with your life! Please?”

“You know it’s not that simple,” He frowns, running a hand down the left side of his face. “I can’t just go out and get pissed, assuming everything will magically get better. Besides, alcohol’s a depressant,”

“Not in that way, you plank. And I’m not asking you to get drunk, I’m asking you to leave the house and leave behind this moping Tom that we’re all worried about,”

“I don’t see Danny being that worried.”

You snort, annoyed. “Don’t be a twat. That’s Danny just being Danny – happy-go-lucky, taking everything as a joke. You know deep down he wants you to move on as much as Dougie and I do. As much as you do.”

Tom averts your eyes. So he doesn’t want to get his life back?

“Tom, please don’t let Giovanna rule your life forever,” you tell him sternly, seeing him flinch when you mention her name. “Yes, I get that it takes time to deal with splitting up from somebody but this is stupid –”

Tom’s up off the couch before the next word can leave your mouth. He brushes past you, almost stumbling over your foot, and you know he’s only coming with you to prove a point. You follow his retreating back, watching his hair fall over his face as he bends down to roughly pull on a pair of shoes. He glares up at you through gaps in the longish blonde spikes he hasn’t bothered to tame, and you’re kicking yourself for opening your big fucking mouth about his ex. Couldn’t you have just left him be?

But the dig that hurt Tom to hear is sending him out of the door and you bite your lip, on the verge of apologising as Dougie ushers you out and locks up behind you. The last thing you want to do is hurt his feelings and you’ve been avoiding it for months, but now you’ve brought her up and it’s inevitably evoked something in him; it’s something bitter, something angry – but at least it’s something.

You take the wheel, being the only one not fuming and upset or having consumed alcohol, and with much more speed than necessary you swerve out of the parking space and fly out of the frosty gated community in which you all reside. Tom glances at you from the passenger seat, like you’re the one that needs to be fretted over, and your mouth can’t help but to twitch in a small smile; reassurance, that’s what it is. You’re hurtling down side-roads you know like the back of your hand, to that place open tonight that plays music loud enough to drown in and that will serve without asking for ID, because you know Dougie won’t be carrying it and can barely get in anywhere without it. Keeping one eye on the road and the other on the blonde next to you, you’re still debating whether to bring Gio up again - because a part of you agrees that the peace needs to be kept and a part doesn’t want him to stay mad at you, but another part, with a confusing jolt of the heart, realises that maybe you want to evoke that aberrant reaction in him again when he hears her name, because it stirred something in your stomach that you didn’t recognise – but it definitely had a hint of smugness in there.

Nearly two hours later and you’re still thinking about that feeling you had back in the house – and no matter how loud the music is, however much vodka you turn away because you know you’ve got to taxi everybody back home at 2am, it’s not getting off your brain. Irritated, you weave through the throng of people on the dance floor, tripping over moving feet and clashing with pulsating bodies as you try to relocate one of your friends. Tom has been in your sight for very little of the night but this is for the best, you grasp, because maybe if he’s still sad then you’ll be even lower and nothing you seem to do ever changes him. Sweat diffuses from the pores of your skin and your chequered shirt could be painted to every contour of your torso because it’s too damn hot in here, and you’ve only had one orange juice since you got in.

Navigating your way to the bar proves tricky. Every person you slide past seems to heighten your senses; the strobe lights blind you and the thumping bass ricochets through your brain and the feel of strangers’ bodies on your stomach as you gently push past them makes you tingle. You deduce that this is what being on some kind of pill might be like, if you’d care to try it, which you wouldn’t because the guys wouldn’t see it as a good thing and you know you’d feel guilty when you come down. It’s sickeningly euphoric – even though your head’s pounding, you’re sweating like crazy and your stomach jolts every time you think of Tom’s feelings towards his ex, each clammy breath you take tastes sweet as syrup as it lines your bronchi, and it’s addictive. Torn between enjoying being high on heat and claustrophobic conditions and trying to work out these new emotions, you begin to get somewhere in your quest and make your way towards a bar stool.

And then Dougie’s there, pushing a beer into your hand, youthfully ecstatic at being able to get served here without ID, even though he’s legal now. You notice he’s rat-arsed already, of course, and you assume that there’s only about half the amount of alcohol it takes to get you wasted in his system. You glance down at the bottle dripping cold condensation over your fingers, thoughts of Tom’s car parked fifty feet down the road in your head, but then some random girl collides with you; Dougie’s laughing as you nearly spill it over yourself and you decide that you’re not going to get too carried away and take a sip – and God, does it taste good. You take another swig as he pulls you into the heaving mass and you start to sway with them, not caring that you don’t know what crappy club tune this is because any rhythm right now feels too good hammering through your bones. He’s looking round for girls and you’re looking round for someone, too – not of the female variety, because you don’t feel like waking up with some 5’5” brunette tomorrow morning. No – you realise you’re hoping to spot Tom, to make sure he’s okay and not regretting coming out, and maybe you can persuade him to join you and Dougie.

But you don’t see Tom from any angle, and your companion’s being towed away by someone who looks as though they wouldn’t be allowed a glass of bubbly at a family wedding. So you’re alone again, and with a sigh you decide to venture in a new direction – because was that the back of Danny’s head you just saw? But no, it’s not, because that mop of hair possesses a far more compact style than Danny’s does when wet, sweaty or if it hasn’t been attacked by straightening irons. You frown and turn away, deciding not to dance alone and instead sit at a table, and so turn around to push yourself out of the throng.

“Holy fucking – Jesus!” You scream, as an excruciating pain and a grinding crunch spreads through your foot. What feels like a thin metal pole quickly removes itself from your shoe and you realise that somebody’s stiletto heel has just tried to connect with the floor via your flesh and bone.

The girl in question spins round, gasping as everyone round you responds to your yell – and your eyes widen at the sight of the soft, slightly exotic looking features of Giovanna.

Weeks of pondering how hard this girl has suddenly made Tom’s life could only make your features frown down at her in fury. Usually you would smile in greeting at the wide, welcoming brown eyes – but there is no kindness in them now. To your complete and utter surprise, she stops dancing and peers at you, before it clicks who you are and you see her expression turn blacker than you’ve ever witnessed it.

“Gio?” You ask through lips of stone, as if to make it concrete that she’s actually in front of you after weeks of not seeing her and trying to discuss her with an uncooperative Tom.

“Get out of my way, Harry.”

You manage to make out her spat utterance over the music and she pushes past you, breaking free from the dancers and out into the clear space. You’re too speechless to make your larynx function but twist round to follow her with your gaze – when the ultraviolet lights threaten to fizzle out your retinas. Blinking, you peer as the lilac strobe illuminates a lone blonde figure stood limply on the stairs, not too far away from you. Tom seems to sway in surprise as his blank expression surveys you, before flicking towards the small, furious figure who is storming in his direction. You watch him take a step back as she pauses, finally seeing him there, but it’s you that his eyes drift to as they widen. It’s as if he’s putting two numbers together to reach an answer – except you’re not quite sure which digits they are or what the product is.

Giovanna stops on the same step Tom is on. They stare at each other wordlessly, his lean posture tensed. He inclines forward, extending a hand to touch her arm, when she jerks away and uncharacteristically stomps up the rest of the stairs. He lurches forward but she rips her hand from his when he attempts to catch it – and without a look back, he half-drops his beer to the ground and runs after her. What is he doing?

With a pang, you realise that you naively thought Tom would glance back at you, ask you what was going on instead of the girl that has caused what seems like endless weeks of depression and song-writer’s block – but no, of course he wouldn’t. If she didn’t mean that much to him he wouldn’t be so cut up in the first place, and right now you’re guessing he’s going to try and talk her into reconciling. Your surroundings seem to blur as a red tint smudges your senses – this is only going to end in more pain. It’s up to you to stop him getting sucked into the trap.

“Harry - no, mate.”

You hadn’t noticed Danny stood by your side, clutching your arm as you try to walk towards the exit, towards Tom. You stare round at him and for the first time today he looks disheartened, concerned.

“Don’t you realise that she’s going to –”

“I know, Haz, but we gorra just lerrem be,” he slurs loudly, gripping your arm tighter and wobbling over to a booth. He pushes you into a seat, then sits opposite you and leans forward on his elbows. His flecked face is half hidden by damp, vivacious curls, and you can taste tequila on his breath. It’s strangely nauseating.

“Dan, c’mon!” You twine, just like a kid whose mother won’t take them to the swings. “She’s going to say something to cut him up, I just know –”

“You don’t know shit, Judd,” he cuts over you, before reaching over to take a can from the other end of the table; not even Danny’s desperate or skint enough to drink from a random can, but then you glance over to see that the Strongbow had been sat in front of a dormant-looking Dougie, strangely drained of energy in contrast to when you last saw him not so long ago. “You know as well as I do that Tom never told us anything ‘bout him and Gio splitting up. All I know is that his heart is broke and –”

“We need to stop it breaking apart completely!”

“- and if he needs to talk to ‘er, he needs to talk,” he gabbles in his twisted, inebriated dialect. “Stay put.”

You frown, at Danny and at yourself – when have you ever let him tell you what to do? The other brunette drops the empty lager can with a clatter and peers at your bottle – you’ve drunk most of it quicker than you thought. He grins broadly and takes this as a sign to get a round in, pushing himself up off the table with his large hands and swaggering off into the mass of indistinct bodies. You’re staring after him, watching until the pink shirt you bought him as a joke birthday present blurs into the resonating room, before you catch a flash of a star-shaped tattoo on somebody’s arm, much like the one below Tom’s left collarbone. You’re out of your seat before Danny’s words fade out of your memory.

You’re not drunk, you’re really not – yet when has climbing steps ever been this hard sober? Every time your thighs and calves push to lift your body up another few inches it’s a tug on your lungs and another flash of a light in your brain. What if you don’t want to hear their feud? What if your interruption makes the situation worse? What if – what if they are resolving things, and Tom doesn’t thank you for walking right into the situation?

For once, Danny appears to be making some sense to you.

You can hear your heart thudding out of sync with the soundtrack to everybody in the club’s plastered ecstasy, and the pulse reverbs right through your fingertips as you grasp the stair rail and take a swig of your beer. You pause at the doorway, earning a strange look off the bouncer as you ponder whether or not to leave or re-enter the club, but then cold, winter night air hits you and everything is suddenly clear. Your feet hit ground level and you inhale deeply, walking out into the grey surrealist place that town seems to become at night. There is nobody around – no drunks, no pedestrians, only tranquil monochrome cars illuminated by soft, orange streetlamps – and of course, the sound of heated quarrelling that carries over the tarmac desert.

“Fine, then. Why don’t you just go home, run away like you did before?” You hear Tom bellow, and you know thick tears are catching in his throat. You look to your left to see the pair standing in the middle of the dead road about five parked cars away, ten feet apart. Silently, you creep down and lean low between the fence and a Hyundai, knowing Tom will kill you if he finds you but not seeming to care much, because you don’t think anything could upset you more than the blazing look on his face right now.

“Why the hell should I?” Gio retorts, and although her back is turned to you your imagination conjures up the twisted, malevolent expression she so rarely wears. “It’s my best friend’s birthday and this is the only place open for miles on Christmas Eve –”

“And we had no idea you would be here, so stop –”

“This isn’t about Harry’s choice of venue, Tom,” she butts in, exasperated. “The point is you obviously don’t want to work things out and don’t feel as much remorse as you say you do if you’re out here with them –”

“They’re my fucking band, Gio!” He roars, seeming to snap, the sound of his voice going right through you; you’ve been on the end of Tom’s angry outbursts before but hell, this is something else. “It’s been three months and you’ve refused to talk, answer the phone, stop by – anything! You can’t fucking tell me not to go out with my best friends when you’re clearly having fun yourself. So what if Harry’s taken me out to try and do what – oh, don’t pull that face at me. You drag his name up in that way one more time and I swear to God I’ll –”

Tom’s voice is halted by the clink of glass on stone. You look down, disorientated, and realise that the beer has rolled out of your limp hand and is disappearing under the car.

You almost don’t want to face the questioning glances, the bewildered expressions, but you realise there’s no time to. Giovanna is staring at you with an unfathomably incredulous expression, eyes narrowed and lips pursed, before she storms back to the club. Tom gapes at you and reaches for her arm again hopelessly, not bothering to even take a step towards her because you both know how pointless it will be – before he crumples and lets his tears run over his palms.

“C’mon, mate.” You’re by his side before his knees hit the frosted tarmac, arms wrapped under his like a harness, and you know you’ve got to drag him in whichever way the car is. You can’t even process their argument in your head because his strangled sobs are filling your eardrums, a sound you can’t tolerate. The jerk of his ribcage against your arms, the choking wails of loss, the struggle of his mind versus his body to either stand strong and be a man or give in to comfort and a shoulder to cry on - they weigh far heavier on you than it does to support his body across the road.

“Where – what –”

“We’re going home, Tom,” you explain as you reach his car and open the passenger door. “I’ll take you back to your flat then come back for the other two.”

“But…” he begins, but he tails off and instead pushes gently away from you, getting into the car on his own and slamming the door. By the time you slide into the driver’s seat his forehead is pressed against the cool glass of the window, small clouds of condensation misting against the Perspex as he breathes unevenly. You can feel the embarrassment radiating from him, and almost roll your eyes at the fact that he feels shy about crying in front of you now.

“You okay?” A quick, pointless question you ask to let him know you care, even though you know what the answer is. He shuffles in his seat, scraping tears from his face with the back of his hand, and stares at his knees.

“Fine.” he mumbles. This will do for now; you can work on cheering him up later.

You slot the key in the ignition and rev the engine, pulling off the kerb as the small car speeds down the ghostly street. You look straight ahead as you pass the club entrance, pretending not to see Giovanna turn her head at the roar of the familiar engine. Tom’s breathing starts to represent hyperventilation less and less as the minutes tick by, but the car interior seems to get warmer to you. Out of the corner of your eye you check on him, and oh, how you long for him to unfurl himself and just smile, for once. You’re not naïve enough to believe that your own anger right now isn’t connected to Tom’s, because you consciously tell yourself each day that it’s depressing to have him moping over Giovanna like a lovesick puppy that’s been kicked, hard.

“Tom?”

He looks round at you now, red-rimmed eyes reflecting his shattered heart through the darkness. You cough – why are you so uneasy? – but can’t keep your eyes from flicking back to that face.

“Tom, I – I think you should talk,” you confess, gripping the steering wheel with more force than necessary.

“What do you mean?”

You sigh. “Well – to sound horribly cliché, I think bottling things up is making you worse. Like tonight – it was so blatantly obvious that you couldn’t move on, the way you looked at this woman who’s ripping your soul into shreds, who you just had a barney with in the street! And did you see the way she looked at me? I –”

“Yeah – I know, she shouldn’t have treated you like that, Harry, but it’s not her fault so –”

What is he talking about? “Tom, please. You just told her that she’s been uncooperative in trying to make you two work again, so from where I’m sitting, it damn well looks like her fault. And you need to let it go.”

“Well, you’ve got it wrong, alright?” He bites back at you to your chagrin, his voice quivering with – is that rage? You can’t decipher it, and he whips his head back to face the windscreen as the urban maze flies past either side of the car and tarmac is lost underneath the speeding tyres.

“Well why don’t you just fucking tell me what the matter is then, huh?” You retort, pushing your foot on the accelerator a little more as your muscles tense. “You’ve never been so reserved, so distant. It’s fucking strange, and kind of worrying, mate, because usually you tell us everything but now you’re bottling it all up and you didn’t tell us one thing about the break up! Not one single thing! No wonder I can’t get my head round why you’re acting like someone’s died –”

A flash of light automatically dilates your pupils and your chest expands as you try to draw air in panic; both of you feel the car slide across an icy patch, narrowly missing a Chevy hurtling in the other direction, its horn blaring in anger at your distraction from the road. You manage to collect yourself to pull on the handbrake as your heart pounds as if for release from your body, and Tom gapes at you with fear combined with hurt from your previous comment. As soon as the tyres lose all momentum at the side of the road he’s out of the car, going God-knows-where, and you crash your forehead to the steering wheel. You and your big mouth, Judd. Can’t you go one day without saying something tactless?

“Tom, come back.”

Your order goes ignored; the back of his white t-shirt is glowing grey as he walks away from you, but you have to stop him before he catches his death, get him to understand why you said what you said. You’re careful not to slip on the icy pavement as you jog after him, and he makes no effort to walk faster when you grab his arm.

“Get back in the car, Tom. I’m sorry, I am,”

You stop in front of him, holding both of his elbows tightly. His narrowed eyes project something reluctant at you, but all of a sudden he seems to deteriorate and slumps into your embrace, clutching your shoulder as fresh, salty tears dampen your neck. Your hand runs over his back in comforting circles, confused and saddened at your strongest best friend collapsing in front of your eyes. You can feel a tug at your chest as he looks up, and you grasp his frame as you drag him back to the car for the second time in ten minutes.

“No… l-leave the door open. Bad head, need fresh air,” he moans, clutching his head as if to exaggerate this as you slide him into the passenger seat again and stand by the door, opened widely as he’s asked. You crouch down on the ground, a hand on his knee, willing to do anything to stop this pitiful display. Because just as you know the band motivation is affected when the chief motivator is out of action, you can’t help but to feel torn up into little pieces when you watch Tom crumble into fragments like this. You wonder if Danny and Dougie feel close to tears themselves when they have heart to hearts with Tom these days – that is, if they ever get the chance.

He shifts his leg over so you can perch on the edge of the car seat. Repressing a shiver you hook your arm round his neck for balance and lean close, watching his chest heave deeply as he tries to relax. You know now you can’t force him to say anything, and for a moment you’re actually grateful of the silence, because it’s comforting to hear Tom’s heart-rate slow back to normal. You find yourself burrowing into his warm neck as his hand rests almost unconsciously on your lap, and he sighs as he closes his eyes.

“Promise you won’t tell Doug and Dan,”

“Sure, Tom, whatever you want,” you swear rashly, feeling too at ease and glad that he’s talking to care about keeping secrets from the other two.

“Well…” he clutches at his hair again, leaning his head back against the seat, face scrunched up but then relaxing his jaw, lips parted ever so slightly. “It started… when we were on the Wonderland tour.”

Though surprised at this you say nothing, learning from experience that you especially should keep your mouth shut when somebody’s finally talking to you. Your left hand rubs a nip of the fabric of his shirt together.

“It was then that she started getting… let’s just say, a little jealous of the fact I spent more time with you guys than with her. And it was understandable, at first, because she couldn’t come away with us because of work and stuff and it was hard on me, too. But then she started saying other stuff as well, and I didn’t know how to handle it so all we did to try and resolve it was argue… it worked for a little while, but then she started up again and I – oh, I don’t know, Harry…”

He drags his hand over his face, and you can genuinely feel his frustration and reluctance to tell you. His cheeks are turning pinker by the minute – one of his more adorable traits, you ponder – and he lifts his head a little, off yours.

“What things was she saying, Tom?” You dare to ask, wanting to hold your breath lest he either cries or hits you.

“She – she – well, she watched the Wonderland DVD, that should give you a clue.” He breathes all at once, and when you don’t say anything out of confusion, he elaborates. “Including the behind the scenes part. She thought – thinks – that there are things going on…between us guys…”

He trails off and you realise your mouth is hanging open, wide. “She thinks you’re gay?”

You know that you really shouldn’t find this funny, but for some reason as Tom agitatedly leans away from you and stares ahead into the night, you can’t let it sink in. Seriously, Giovanna thinks Tom’s having it off with one of you guys without solid proof? You always thought they were stronger than that, that she was less childish, more trusting…

“Pretty much. I mean, she understands we’re close and all but she can’t get it into her head that we’re not that close,” Tom continues – and why do you feel so cold at the sound of those words? “I mean, obviously we’re not secretly in love or anything, no matter how often Danny licks my face on stage or how many interviews we do with your arms wrapped round Doug’s neck… she just won’t let it drop.”

“But how could she have thought – I mean, from the DVD, why would she possibly –”

“Well, it may have had something to do with the fact that half of the documentary was you filming me with no pants on, or else trying to rid me of said pants.” Tom cuts across you sarcastically – and it’s too much to bear. Your lips peel back into a smile and a bark of laughter escapes them, the thought of Giovanna taking your practical jokes seriously highly amusing you. You take your head away from Tom’s neck and giggle, his teary eyes almost lightening at your laughter. The corner of his mouth jerks upwards in a tiny gesture of amusement, but he doesn’t find the idea nearly as hilarious as you do. Your laughter fades away as you both shiver due to cold, and you reach over to slam the open car door closed. The seat suddenly becomes smaller, and you have to push into Tom to fit into the space. He’s still looking at you.

“I realised tonight that I don’t want her back, Harry,” he whispers, his breath misting in the cold air between you, the mood becoming serious again. “She was the love of my life – and I say was, because even though I’m not good at being on my own, our tracks aren’t parallel anymore and we’re never going to work again without crashing, not when I’m still with you guys. Too much uncertainty, distrust… I can’t deal with it.”

You run a hand though his hair, frowning, pushing it back off his face. Shadows are cast over the right side of his head from the directed moonlight but the beams stay on his eyes, the brown orbs shining vulnerably at you. His breathing jerks and so does yours, and you realise you’re half sitting on his knee. You shouldn’t show pity because you know how he hates it, but all you want is for him to go back to normal, to be whole again.

“And I know that I’d rather have McFly because even though she was the only girl I ever loved, this band is my life. The fans, the music, you guys – I couldn’t live without it. But I think now that I can live without her, Harry, because I have you three to help me. I’m so sorry for being such a – a twat to you guys, when all you were trying to do was help…”

“It’s okay, Tom.” You reply, putting a hand on his shoulder and stroking his neck with your thumb. He reaches up and you only notice that you’re crying too when he takes his finger away from your face to reveal it glistening with your tears. But as you’re trying to figure out why you’re crying or why Tom’s breathing is so deep and why you’re now sat fully on his knee with faces two inches apart in the dark, your head reels so powerfully that you swear you’re going to go dizzy and faint. Because it clicks in your head that Tom said he doesn’t want Giovanna but he’s no good on his own, and he didn’t find the idea of her seeing things between you two so hilarious because maybe he could see them too, and now it’s making you doubt what’s really going in your own mind because all those incidences where you couldn’t stand to see him alone and crying are fitting together to explain why you can’t look away from his pupils and why you’re sliding further along his knee – and why his hand is now at your shoulder and it feels so damn relieving to touch his lips with yours.

Of course you know he’s scared. Of course you know he’s never done anything like this with a guy before, and that the entwining of your fingers and lips is a dangerous thing for the band and your friendship. But all that matters now is that it’s not dangerous for him because his muscles are loosening and it’s exactly what you want, to make him feel better. You feel his heart thud against yours but it’s not from stress or anger anymore, and the temperature in the car suddenly increases tenfold as Tom grips your salty lips in some blend of desperation, passion and release. Does it scare you that this might mean more to him than it does to you? Maybe tomorrow it might, but right now all that’s occupying your thoughts is that the soft moan that breaks from Tom’s throat when you shift your hips like that is possibly the hottest thing you’ve felt in a long time.

A quiet beep from your wrist interrupts your thoughts and without looking at your watch, you know it’s just turned midnight. You place a palm over Tom’s heart and break off ever so slightly, opening your eyes to see him in a new light. A sudden realisation of love? Of course not, neither of you are that naïve. But you can’t help but to smile and knot your fingers in his flaxen locks again as that dimple crops up on his left cheek.

“Merry Christmas, Tom,” you whisper.

“Merry Christmas, Harry,” he replies, slowly moving one hand to your neck.

“Here’s to a better next year, yeah?”

“January doesn’t come for another week yet, Harry.” He points out, and you roll your eyes, smiling.

“Oh, bollocks to that.” And as snowflakes begin to settle on the exterior of the chilled windows, you lean back into his body and wish him a happy new year with all the reassurance you have in your lips.