Remember That Time When

the flat has been cleaned for the fifth time that day, not counting the little bathroom fix-up zayn really just had to get out of bed at three in the morning to finish. liam's bookshelf that’s pressed up against the upper right corner of their shared bedroom has its novels arranged in dates -- not last names, not alphabetical order, but in chronological order of publishing, the spines sticking out and covered in plastic to prevent dust collection.

whenever liam wakes up, zayn's side of the bed is empty and cold, no indents of a body to be seen. tea is always prepared and ready by eight a.m., when liam is finished dressing and steps out into the living room, tilting his head to see zayn's broad back arched over the stove. the telly is on, sleepy, morning news on and going over the day's weather and traffic reports; liam finds his coat and shoes in the foyer room closet, lined up and smoothed down properly while awaiting his arrival.

breakfast is packed up in these little blue containers that zayn spent thirty minutes arranging, carbohydrates and meats placed side by side while fruits and vegetables are paired in another adjacent container. a mug of coffee is full and sits next to the packed breakfast, zayn knowing how liam needs an extra push to get him through rehearsals and screaming fans. when asked, zayn gives his bottom lip a little, fluttery lick and says, voice gruff from sleep, "i've already eaten mine, mate."

liam and zayn pile on the clean, floral-scented couch, watching the news while sipping their early morning tea, the palm of zayn's hand running over the shortly-cut hairs on top of liam's head and liam's legs entwined with his. through the smell of floral, tea, and carpet cleaner, liam can still find minty shaving cream and toothpaste clinging to zayn's deep-colored, soft skin; pressing his nose ever so gently to the top of zayn's hairdo, he takes a silent breath between sips of tea and fleeting smiles passed while commercials flicker by on the fluorescent screen ahead of them.

by nine a.m. they're in zayn's convertible, slipping onto the smooth, buttery leather seats and taking deep inhales of his pine car freshener, smokes mixed in somewhere in there. they drive through town, zayn in the driver's seat and going through stations until he's on the news again, and liam staring out at how the scenery passes by so fast that it turns into one big blob of greens and blues.

every once in awhile he'll look over at the profile of zayn's just shaved, sharp-angled face, taking in those deep honey-amber eyes festooned with long, dark lashes and, below, a pointed nose, lips wet with saliva. there's this spacy look on the bradford boy's visage, like he can't pay attention to the road closely enough because his mind is spinning with thoughts, all these thoughts of what to do, what to fix, what to wear, and what to say. and then, before liam can think about anything else, he slips a hand over to brush over zayn's chafed knuckles, giving him silent assurance, silent encouragement.

zayn's smile is brief, but it counts, god does it count. it's a little lost, a little distant, but it's still more focused than how he is more than half the time, and liam has to take it and keep it, tucking it somewhere where he can't lose it. he knows he'll need it to remind him of how far they've come, how far they're going, even if zayn doesn't.

rehearsals is a blur. liam has one arm around louis, one wrapped around harry, and niall's doing this weird little jig by the mirrors, easily bored and easily distracted when he's bored. zayn's there, involved, only less a few meters away, but he's staring at his bright, detailed reflection like he's meeting someone for the first time, feeling them out and deciding whether they're worth it or not. he'll tilt his head, twist his body, run a hand up his torso and down his pants, smoothing the fabric out, and then he'll mouth lyrics with the same look still glued to his face, doing the memorized dance moves at half the vigor it requires.

by twelve p.m. they're eating lunch, louis and harry returning to the studio with mcdonalds for three, since zayn and liam have their own packed containers to eat. they sit with their legs crossed in the middle of the wooden floors, chomping down, discussing their plans in short, brief words before they stuff their faces again. louis and harry are pressed together, practically draped over one another, while niall keeps a small, friendly distance from everyone with his hands full of tissues and fries.

zayn's knee is slightly touching liam's while he pries open containers and takes little mouthfuls from each one, head bowed like he's hiding himself from everything. long, square fingers knead into his lower back, pressing their thumbs over the dimples found there, and zayn has to look up and meet liam's stare, jaw clenched and dark, thick eyebrows furrowed in thought.

"gonna eat your wings?" liam asks,

and only then does zayn look down and notice that the mouthfuls were never actually consumed, just rearranged and filed into corners like it can disappear if he presses down hard enough.

xxxx

liam's eyes pry open in the middle of his dark flat, his muscles loose and weighing him down into the foam of the mattress. he can't see anything in all the blackness, but he can hear the scrubbing of a smooth surface from the bathroom, the door a crack open and light pouring into the bedroom from the open spaces. he's too exhausted to move even a bit, being a little less than half conscious and unable to form proper thought, but he's jammed in this ridge where he can't fall either way, just stuck listening to the sounds of a bathroom being scrubbed down over and over, and over and over again until liam's sure that'll be all he can dream about -- the monotonous, constant scrubbing.

an hour in and liam's more awake now, eyes halfway shut and muscle functions now available. the loo flushes several times during the course of the night; he looks over at his bedside dresser to find that it's now four in the morning, the sun only a couple of hours from rising. it's then that liam realizes, two and two coming slowly but surely together, that zayn hasn't slept for more than thirty minutes; they went to bed by midnight, and the cleaning's persisted for so long that liam knows zayn won't be able to give rehearsals his all by nine.

liam doesn't know when or if he ever returned, but he wakes up at eight to the sound of a teapot whistling in the kitchen.

xxxxx

there are spidery veins pulsing in zayn's hands and wrists and he's bent over on the couch, running cold, pale fingers through his dark hair and clenching his jaw so tightly liam can see his heartbeat pulsing. everything's running: every faucet, every tub, every electronic, the air conditioning, the microwave, the sink, the oven. liam returns to the flat to this, his gym bag slung over one broad shoulder and sweat long dried on his golden skin.

he looks around, the flat extremely noisy and bustling with inanimate objects, and then quickly crouches down by a still zayn to press a hand to his back, feeling a protruding spine with the palm of his hand. "what the bloody hell are you doing?" he asks, confused and exasperated.

and zayn finally removes his veiny, shivering hands to look into liam's face, honey brown eyes outlined with red and vessels in his cheeks broken, "filling the silence."

xxxxx

liam doesn't want to think zayn's gone mad -- only trapped somewhere, screaming for someone, anyone to save him, protect him, tell him he can be anything and do anything and no one will shame him for it. but there are times when even he can't reach him, kept at such a distance that it's impossible to touch zayn, to tell him not physically, but also mentally that there's a life outside cleans and re-cleans and re-re-cleans and packing lunches and counting things, counting things, counting everything.

zayn's easily frustrated; not at anything, but at himself. if he can't reach that high note it's the end of his life as he knows it; if he can't move fast enough it's the end of his life as he knows it; if he's incapable, overall just incapable, not smart enough or talented enough or charming enough, he'll get this tight look on his face and he'll just opt out -- just completely opt out.

on stage, liam will look over, through louis and harry and niall, and see zayn standing there, looking emptily out at the lights of cameras and screams and tears of overwhelmed fans, microphone loose in his grip and heart pulsing under skin that's been growing paler and paler, white enough to elicit concern.

"i can't do it, li, just leave me alone, yeah?" becomes zayn's favorite thing to say. unable, incapable, imperfect, flaws crawling between the cracks of his organs and pouring all his guts out for everyone to see. he's a cheater, a terrorist, the ugliest and meanest and rudest member, there just to fill in the space. he knows it, he just knows it, and no one can tell him otherwise if it's a fact.

so he's pressing chunks of meat and slices of baby carrots into the ninety-degree angles of his favorite blue containers, packing them so tightly together it’s like he's willing them to disappear. and everything else is pressed and packed and tucked: liam's bookshelf full of favorite novels, liam's shoes and gym bags and coats in the foyer room closet, all the cups and mugs and plates and bowls in the kitchen cabinets and drawers; and, first and foremost, zayn.

don't check up on him often enough and liam will often find him gone, cast off, folded into himself tight enough that if you're not looking for him you'll easily miss 'em behind harry's signature curls or louis' bright blues or niall's adored irish accent or liam's husky voice that's to die for.

"i don't really know what i'm best at," zayn whispers over light, packed dinner, in a packed living room, on a floral-scented couch. thinning, dark hair slicked back, blood vessel-broken cheeks, white skin, and red-outlined honey browns, his fingers are like spider legs dancing over uneaten mashed potatoes and unsipped, completely full glasses of wine. "i don't have much different to offer, then."

liam's lips press a careful kiss to his throbbing temple, his sqaure fingers brushing over the chafed, scabbed knuckles, and he whispers with a hot and heavy breath, "you offer so much, so much." then they're kissing, open-mouthed and somewhat uncertain on zayn's half, but what liam knows best is to guide, to lead, and he's showing zayn how to re-welcome affection into his closed, inverted life.

then that fleeting smile during short car rides crosses his mind, and he has to remind zayn what he saw, what he felt, and hopes that zayn will remember it and feel the same.

xxxxx

there's bleach in liam's nostrils and a porcelain loo that's been rubbed down to erase any remnants of midnight panics, midnight empties. the blood running down the edge's been wiped, chunks of swallowed chicken bites flushed, green, watery bile long down the pipes.

small, blue pills are found in leather jacket pockets, oval-shaped, tiny green pills hidden in unmarked bottles in the bathroom drawers. towels are constantly washing and drying in the washroom; running sneakers are beaten and worn within only a month.

dinner parties are missed, movie nights among the five lads 'forgotten', club meet-ups abandoned without as much as a sip of one glass of water, claiming the vodka that's left unconsumed made him a bit tipsy.

but the only thing that rings true, the only thing that's eaten and not regurgitated, is this simple thought, this easy, exasperating belief making liam deaf with the amount of times it's repeated:

"i don't have much different to offer, then."

xxxxx

when the world notices, zayn is suddenly diverse, snapping shots with a forkful of pasta halfway to his mouth, a cup of greek yogurt in hand in the backstage of a concert, lobster sitting on a plate at a fancy restaurant, a bag of fast food held in spidery, white hands while he crosses the street to his car. always consuming, always stuffing and purchasing and holding; never not, never not, because when the world notices zayn is suddenly diverse, dabbling in anything and everything europe has to offer.

"my favorite dessert has to be those fudge chocolate cakes," zayn tells the crowd during one of many interviews, smiling big with wide, red-outlined eyes and broken blood vessels hidden by pounds of foundation that seems to be lightening every couple of weeks. his bandmates share a laugh and a great discord of agreement, liam's hand slipping over to touch skinny jeans-covered thighs, the fabric loose and dangerously sagging from the growing empty space.

zayn malik is long and slender, skinny and tall, stick-like and can never stop eating, tabloids and headlines and interviews say. what's his secret? a fast metabolism, a healthy, growing body, a gift from his parents, or maybe even genetics. It runs in the family -- easily accessed perfection; zayn malik is gifted, lucky.

but liam can hear the deafening ringing in his ears. he can hear the scrubbing, scrubbing, wiping, blotching, cleaning, gagging, hacking, crying, pleading. he can hear the not good at anything and better off quitting the band, maybe and why do you even bother? he feels alone, isolated, like he's the only one on the face of the earth that knows its secrets, why it turns, how it tilts, why the currents pull back on beaches and why the ocean's rising more and more every year.

and liam can tell everyone, snatch them by their wrists and hiss it in their ears, but when he pulls back he'll realize that they're plastic, rigid, like mannequins and unable to listen no matter how many times he blurts the secrets in several different ways.

zayn is the secret of the earth: he's the turn, the tilt, the currents on the beach and the rising of the ocean. he's the reason why, the answer for because?, the question before someone replies. Those midnights crouched over the loo and knuckles chaffing as they push past straight, white teeth is the turn; forks pressing and smashing mashed potatoes and sliced baby carrots wherever and however is the tilt; miles and miles ran until legs are bucking and a vision is blurring is the current; passing out on studio floors and honey brown eyes rolling to the back of the head is the rising of the ocean.

and everything's now crashing down. too many lies have been told, too many questions have been avoided. "where's zayn?" liam's sure harry is asking, and, when the dressing room door is swung open, there is the answer to the unfortunate question:

crumpled up on the thin carpet and just barely breathing.

xxxxx

the question that is asked too many times by every member of the band and management hangs thick in the air as liam sits under a sea of expectations, blaming, and shame. he blinks up at a broken, faded sun overhead, voices seemingly many, many kilometers away, penetrating the surface of the water just barely to slip into his ears.

how did you not notice? he did. how did you not hear anything? he did. how did you not see anything? he did. why did you not do anything about it? he tried. but not hard enough, never hard enough. it's just liam wants to ask everyone asking so many seemingly easy questions, how about you imagine? how about you imagine being woken up at three in the morning, gags and the sounds of watery bile hitting the loo water ripping through the quiet of the night. would you go? would you swing open the bathroom door and reveal all of zayn's secrets, all of zayn's fears, all that zayn's been trying so hard to hide, to cover, to shield, to protect? imagine hungrily kissing those chapped lips, peeling off saggy, loose clothes and revealing a pale, sharp corpse underneath, ribs jutting out and collarbones like razorblades. would you jump back from him while he lies there, vulnerable and weak and exposed to you, and call the ambulance on him? could you really imagine doing that to somebody you loved so much that they made your heart sick?

liam knows it was wrong. he shouldn't have just let it all happen, he shouldn't have expected to dust it under the rug and pretend it doesn't exist so he wouldn't have to do the hard part of telling it to zayn straight. he should've done something, he should've gone to get help, but he didn't. and the worst part is that, even if everything slips behind them, he'll have to live with the guilt for the rest of his goddamn life. he'll have to look zayn in the eyes and tell him, softly, i betrayed you.

he'll have to admit to the world that he saw it, but didn't stop it. and how can he live like that? how can zayn live after this?

but then there's still this hope in liam's chest that, in a couple of years, he can look at zayn from across the flat dining table, smile carelessly, and say, laughing, "remember that time when?”

and zayn will still be alive to answer.