Split.

Half the world’s consciousness is in a state of dreamy surrealism right now, but Harry’s isn’t. He hasn’t tried herbal tea, a shot of rum or any of that shit because he knows there’s no point. It won’t work. Two-thirty in the morning, still awake and cutting straight to the point – he’s not going to get any sleep tonight.

They’d do this together, all seven of them. Month after month there’d be more rectangular blurs of colour to pile up, to slip into their files of sounds, light and feelings all trapped in pictures for them to revisit. It doesn’t matter whose stupidly sentimental idea it was to start this because even though he scoffed at the beginning, Harry can’t keep from dog-earing the pages and blurring up the plastic film with fingerprints now. He’s too involved to listen to the beeps that spill from his answering machine – when he has his mind set on something, he won’t let it slide from view or grip.

He’s wrapped up in a body bag with cemented zips, somewhere in the pit of guilt that he can’t escape from. He hates feeling like this because he has to lie constantly, slapping the gouache of cool glares and composed sighs on top of burning anxiety. At least in his lounge nobody can see the bare truth of his weighted brows, or the bleeding lip upon which his busy teeth lie. His feet suck ice from the floorboards and that hated strain on his eyelids that tell them to shut is just a fib, because he can’t sleep and he won’t sleep. He must finish.

Kneecaps clash with polished wood and he winces. The state of undress he’s in from previous attempts to be lost in dream doesn’t bother him – he feels more relaxed in just boxers, anyway. His skin’s a mountain range of goose bumps, alerting him that he should turn the heating on or at least put on a shirt, but he ignores it. Frantic fingers dig through a camera’s shiny offspring scattered all over the floor, searching for the next in his chronological collection, the one that fits right where it should. Sequence and order is key, always has been – maybe not for himself, but for him.

“What’re you doing?”

Carbon dioxide catches in his oesophagus and his vertebrae could rattle with the shiver that captures him. Harry doesn’t look round but he doesn’t need to – he can see the crinkle in the blonde’s nose now, the chasms that can be called pupils netted over with enough doubt that it stops Harry falling too deep into them. For once he cannot move his frame closer to the arrival, the mind that’s been as near to breaking point as he for the past few days. He doesn’t want to connect with the only other person of the band that knew exactly what was coming, who could hear it in every word but didn’t want to believe it - the only difference is that the youngest of them all was powerless in preventing it.

“Nothing, Pugs. Go back to bed.”

The cold imperative is ignored and footsteps lead a warm body to a freezing one; Harry’s hunched form shifts on the floor but he immediately regrets it. He can feel the hesitation coming from Dougie, who doesn’t touch him or even look at him, and hates it. Both pairs of blue eyes are scanning the memory-littered floor, until one hand darts out and plucks a picture from the sea of smiles. The reminder of a night on the town is slotted into place in one practised move, and before Harry’s fingers can find the next entry into this visual diary, Dougie’s palm covers it.

“Harry, please. Come back to bed. This isn’t helping.”

He’s wrong.

Each picture removed from the floor is a weight off the brunette’s mind, one step closer to finishing this project that one started and gave up on, and another will finish. He flips the page and a breeze pushes over Dougie’s feet, making his toes curl. He stands up, bare torso brushing Harry’s as he finds his balance, and plods through to the kitchen. Harry should care that Dougie’s not touching him, even though he needs human warmth as much as his friends do in the current circumstances, but right now he must find the rest of the pictures that correspond with the time period on these pages. He curses whoever jumbled these under his breath, but in all honesty he’s grateful for the chaos of images because it’s taking his mind off the events of the day.

The kettle clicks, and moments later Dougie is back. Blonde tips curl into his eyes, and Harry glances at the thick lashes that dust bronze cheeks as the youngest of the pair takes a cautious sip of tea. He sits on the sofa this time, just behind Harry so that every time the latter straightens, his spine touches Dougie’s right knee. The only sounds for minutes on end become the clock reminding them that it’s the early hours and the scrabble of fingernails against paper and wooden planks. Harry wishes that Dougie would go back to sleep and leave him in his state of insomnia, because he’s not going to be able to explain the course of action he will take once his current task has been completed.

“Where did all these photos come from?” Dougie whispers into the semi-darkness, reaching down and taking the nearest print into his free hand.

Harry shrugs, distracted. “The cupboard,”

“I had no idea we had so many loose ones… I thought they’d all gone into albums...”

Harry’s only reply is a mumble of acknowledgement, as for now he would rather keep quiet as to whom the pictures belong to. He attempts to fight back a yawn but eventually succumbs to it; his stubbly jaws are prised open by lethargy, yet his arms keep moving automatically over the film of glossy snaps on the rug, snatching and slipping and sliding the pictures into place. The album now balanced on his lap is nearly full; the pages are weighted down with memories so thick and vibrant that Harry almost doesn’t want to turn each page, discarding each set of pictures with but a mere glance and not taking the semantics in properly. He distantly feels Dougie’s palm on his shoulder, like snow landing on his icy skin, but doesn’t nestle into the contact as he might have done a few weeks ago. Instead, his palm is magnetised towards an image on the far side of the hearth rug and as he lurches forward to claim it, adding it to the compilation, the touch is gone. Dougie does not replace his hand when Harry sits up.

“Doug, what was that picture you picked up before?” Harry’s lips murmur, his electric eyes darting everywhere at once under shelter of pursed brows.

“Uh…” Dougie’s words seem to catch in his throat, and he looks down at the card his palm still clutches. “It’s one of you and Ch-Charlie at his house… I don’t recognise it –”

Before the sentence is finished, the picture is ripped out of Dougie’s worn fingers and slotted into the album, there to stay for evermore. Harry’s hands hover over the image as Dougie stares wide eyed at him, the former’s pupils paused as he takes in his photographic self, and his breathing almost stops. His glossy arms are wrapped round the shoulders of one of his best friends, and the picture is so full of joy that it’s hard for him to believe that it’s all now exploded and dispersed into space. Smiles decorate both of their faces, and Charlie’s hazel eyes aren’t laden with the bags that can be found there in recent times. But Harry quickly diverts his gaze to his own face in the photo, not staring at the camera, but poised so close to Charlie’s neck that he thinks he might vomit from fear, longing or remorse – he doesn’t know which one. In contrast to his stillness, he can hear the lungs of the boy behind him struggle to control his air flow normally, and slowly lets the album slide down his knees to hit the floor. Because after all, Dougie’s taking this just as hard as he is.

“I just want it to be like it was before…” the smaller boy chokes, naivety swimming in the tears that can’t be stopped by scrunched eyelids. Harry’s knees crack as he scrambles up and sits back on the sofa robotically, and the blonde crashes into his torso, feet curling up on the cushions. Harry rests his cheek on the familiar tousles of sandy hair and exhales deeply, placing an automatic kiss to Dougie’s head.

“Me too, Pugs,” he mumbles in response, clutching the shaking boy closer to the fist of guilt that’s pummelling his insides and trying to get out, only to spill boiling words of truth all over his companion. He closes his eyes and hugs Dougie tighter, trying to lose himself in the embrace that often captivates him so, but not tonight. This evening should have been a time when the whole band was united, when they all consoled together in their sadness and confrontation of reality, but instead it was spent in silence. Tom was brooding and on the phone to the other two members of the broken band all night; Danny sat and watched the football on low volume, but everyone could tell he wasn’t really paying attention; Harry didn’t move from the couch until everyone else had left for bed; and Dougie didn’t leave his lover’s side until he fell asleep at midnight and Harry carried his lighter frame up to their bedroom, before failing to sleep himself and digging out the incomplete photo album that Charlie had left in his possession by accident.

“Is that why you’re finishing your album?” Dougie whispers, his breath coating Harry’s collarbone as he speaks.

Harry shivers; the goose-bumps on his arms reappear, but not from the room temperature. He takes a deep breath and lifts his head from Dougie’s, knowing in the core of his heart that he can’t lie. Not now.

“It’s not my album, Doug. It’s Charlie’s.”

As Dougie pushes himself slowly from Harry’s chest, the latter knows he’s struck a nerve. He’s some kind of demon to reignite his partner’s fury and distress again, but there’s a bud in his chest that will fight against this cause. He looks over Dougie’s childish scowl that could melt teenage hearts across the nation, and suddenly feels nothing but ice crystallise in his ventricles.

“I’m doing it for him, seen as he never had time to finish it himself,” Harry explains before Dougie can cut across him.

“Yeah, because he was spending all of his time with Fightstar,” Dougie retorts, the last word pushed from his tongue like a sickening lump of salt.

“Don’t start this,” Harry sighs, returning to the floor and combing the ten remaining pictures together. “It’s late, and it doesn’t matter.”

“Don’t treat me like my opinions don’t count, Harry, or like I’m some child whose voice you can quash. Charlie fucked things up for Matt and James, and you can see what it’s doing to us -”

“Then don’t let it do this to us!” Harry spits, flipping a page in frustration. “You’re the one making a massive deal about it! You’re the one who’s turned so much against Charlie in a matter of minutes – do you see Tom and Danny cursing him in every breath?”

Dougie’s eyes darken as he glares at the crouched figure on the floor. Harry picks up the next picture in the compilation – coincidentally, another shot of he and Charlie - and shoves it roughly into place. His palm slaps across his face, dragging his cheek down. Why does Dougie take so much persuading? It wouldn’t be hard for him to put himself in Charlie’s shoes, to understand why he made the decision he did, but he’s determined not to.

“I don’t want to argue about this.”

“Oh, you don’t want to argue?” Dougie’s nostrils flare as he stands tall, but Harry doesn’t even acknowledge his defiant pose.

“No, Doug. Why do you think I’ve kept my mouth shut all day, huh? We knew what was coming but we never talked about it until the press conference today, when it was official. Why can’t you accept both sides of the story instead of acting all high and mighty about this? You heard Charlie say he didn’t want to hurt Matt and James –”

“Then why the fuck did he leave them for Fightstar?” Dougie hisses, the venom in his voice coming as naturally as from an innocent toddler. “His words won’t get him far when they don’t mean shit, Harry.”

A chill seizes the air, and Harry bites so hard on his lip that coppery fluid bursts forth from the skin and seeps slowly over his dry tongue. He says nothing, the drum of his cardiac muscle flooding his ears in an unbearable song of his conscience, but gazes over the last few pictures littered at his knees. It’s a cocktail of the last night they had in front of the TV together, armed with a camera – reminders of Danny and James pulling stupid faces, Tom and Matt fighting over the remote control, and Charlie attacking Harry with the flash of the camera. All of the prints slot neatly into the book together, Harry’s fingers guiding them in slowly, as though this will be the last time he ever sees the seven of them in harmony again. He can’t look away from Charlie’s smile, the broad grin hiding so much inner turmoil from his decision, and all he can think of are the words his friend spoke earlier that day, the ones ringing in the ears of fans up and down the country as well as people much closer to home.

’I am here to tell you… that I’ve quit Busted…’

“You talk about him not saving Matt and James’ happiness, but what about his own, huh?” Harry replies through jagged breaths as he shuts the album and stands, hugging the thick book to his chest. “He was torn between two commitments – and sure, Busted was bigger and his band mates were his best friends, but he was uncomfortable doing it. Can’t you understand?”

“He’s a coward,” Dougie retorts. “If he didn’t like what people were saying about him being in Busted, he should have told them where to stick it,”

“He wasn’t ashamed of what he did,” Harry breathes in a low voice, stepping closer to Dougie. “Charlie’s one of my best friends, and I know him inside out. He may have formed a heavier group now, but in no way is he embarrassed about what he achieved in his first band. You may be my boyfriend, but I won’t let you talk that shit about him. He’s already getting it from other people and he doesn’t need it from people he thought were his friends. He was in need of advice and he didn’t know what the hell to do – so I gave him a little push.”

Azure pupils widen and Dougie takes a step back. “You – you told him to end Busted?”

“If you want to see it that way, then yeah, I told him to end Busted,” Harry nods, his volume rising and the knot in his stomach unfurling. “Now you can call me the bad guy as well, because I was trying to help a friend out. I’m the most reliable person he has right now, and I won’t let you cut off his source of support.”

Dougie’s face crumples; Harry recognises he’s never sided with anyone over his boyfriend before like this, and even though he knows Dougie’s going to read dangerously far into it, he's past caring. His knuckles whiten around the book and he strides past the sofa, into the kitchen and to the ironing basket. He places the album carefully on the kitchen table and pulls on a shirt and a pair of Danny’s jeans, before slipping on some shoes and picking up the photographs again. He grabs a pencil from the table and opens it to the front blank page, pausing as he thinks carefully over what to write. He begins with Charlie’s name, but a vibration in his pocket distracts him and he looks at his phone screen instead.

“Wh-where are you going?” Dougie asks timidly from the doorway, his voice a broken imitation of what it was earlier, but from Harry’s face and his guess of who the caller ID is, he already knows.

“To let someone know that he’s not totally unappreciated and misunderstood.”

Harry doesn’t want to face Dougie’s hunched over frame and his fractured eyes, because he knows it will make it harder to walk out of the door instead of stripping right back off again and climbing into bed to whisper empty apologies into his ear. Dougie moves like a feather pushed by the breeze as Harry sweeps towards him and through the doorframe, and he hates him for it. He wants him to stop him getting into his car at three in the morning and driving to Charlie’s flat; moments ago he was sick of his defiance, but now he wishes he would put up another fight. The keys rattle in the door but no hand is on Harry’s shoulder, and no croak beckons him back.

He steps out into the icy wind with his arms curled protectively round the book of memories and turns to face Dougie, not knowing what will become of the rest of the night. All he can hear are Charlie’s words from the conference plying on a loop in his mind, and it’s recording over the image of Dougie’s torn face.

“Don’t wait up.”