Work Text:
Sifting Through the Broken Glass
When Liam saw Harry’s name on his caller ID last Saturday afternoon, he could only imagine three reasons why his ex-boyfriend of two (going on three) months would be ringing him;
1) He meant to hit Louis Tomlinson on his contact list, but ended up tapping on Liam Payne (they were right next to each other in his list and they had very similar ID pictures). It had happened about a million times before (with both Louis and Liam on the receiving end of the calls; some of which had meant to be private) (if you catch my drift) which had led to some weird/awkward/genuinely interesting conversations for the three of them. (At least half of said conversations centered around Liam and Harry’s sex life, which Louis always seemed eager to learn about);
2) Harry was very, very drunk and had entered the depressed state of intoxication. The other eight times this had happened, Liam had answered the phone to hear Harry sobbing and groaning and begging “Please, Li. I looove you,” which is sort of fucked up because Harry was the one who dumped Liam’s ass in the first place;
or 3) Harry wanted Liam back. (This was, hands down, the most terrifying of the three scenarios, seeing as Liam wouldn’t be able to come up with an actual answer that didn’t entirely consist of “um”s and “what?”s.) (Additionally, it was the most improbable, so Liam was pretty sure he was safe.)
So when Liam grew some balls and pushed the phone to his ear, he definitely was not expecting to hear a less-than-manly voice shout, “OH MY GAWD LIAM. I HAVE A GIG. I HAVE A GIG.”
Which is why Liam is in a hipster-filled coffee shop on the outskirts of London this particular Saturday night (a week after that call), chewing at his nails and glaring down an untouched paper cup of black coffee. It’s 9:15 and Harry goes on in about ten minutes. Liam isn’t sure if he’s more worried about Harry putting on a good performance or seeing the boy without having an attack of some sort (heart attack, panic attack, et cetera).
He spends roughly ten minutes reading the label on his coffee cup several thousand times (CAUTION: very hot ATTENTION: très chaud!) and convincing himself to stay put and not bolt out the shop’s front door.
At 9:22, his eyes flick up to see Louis across the counters, glaring daggers into him. Liam physically flinches at the pure hatred that he can actually see flowing through the man. Zayn’s with him, a hand around the older man’s shoulder. He spots Liam and waves, smiling a little. Liam knows that there’s an impending confrontation and it’s heavy in the air. He also knows someone’s going home with a black eye or two.
Liam sort of shudders at the thought.
Suddenly, a tinny screech rips through the shop and Harry is on stage, grinning brilliantly in that lopsided way he always used to when he was really excited (like when he kissed Liam the first time or when they went to that live Coldplay show or every time Liam said he loved Harry). Niall -- his peculiar Irish friend who’s hair so wasn’t blond three months ago -- is there with him, acoustic guitar in hand.
“My name’s Harry,” he says and his voice doesn’t even shake. He sounds so sure of himself and confident, and Liam is so happy and so jealous at the same time. “Uh… This is Niall. If he starts being weird, just ignore him.” Louis’ laugh caries throughout the room, and that’s enough to get Harry’s eyes scanning the shop. He spots Liam quicker than he would’ve liked. Smiling a little wider, yet somehow sadder, he continues, “Anyway. The first song we’re gonna do is…”
Liam sort of tunes out after that, lets himself focus on Harry.
He hasn’t seen him since their fight/breakup and then they’d both been bloody, half-naked, and it had been pitch-black. Liam had been crying and Harry was choking back sobs, and that image certainly isn’t the best referral.
Harry impossibly looks better and worse since the last time Liam had seen him in a lit room without blood streaming through his fingers.
There are bags staining the skin under his eyes, all sunken in and ghostly. His hands twitch at his sides, beating out some erratic rhythm on his pant leg, his teeth gnaw on his quivering bottom lip, his hair is a bird’s nest of horror -- strands sticking up in every direction. But he’s beaming, his eyes are wide and bright, and he looks amazingly happy with an ear-to-ear grin and a spark in his eyes that says he’s having the time of his life.
Liam hasn’t seen that look on him in a long time.
They start with something by The Fray -- Louis not doubt suggested it -- and, yeah, Liam forgot how truly amazing Harry’s voice is.
It’s rough like gravel, but still manages to flow smoothly through the atmosphere. Liam remembers all the times he’s heard that same voice -- at one point it was daily -- and, suddenly, he’s smiling along with Harry maybe just as bright, maybe just as big.
It is a wonderful feeling, smiling with Harry like they used to. Even if they’re on opposite ends of the room. Even if they aren’t necessarily on the best terms. Even if Louis is still scowling at Liam from across the room. He off-handedly wishes they’d done more smiling when they were actually dating.
Maybe, if they’d shared moments like this (actually up-close and personal, actually together), things would’ve been better. They wouldn’t have ended on the key they did.
Perhaps, things wouldn’t have ended at all.
*
The last song Harry sings is not by The Fray or The Beatles or Ed Sheeran like the rest of his set has been. It’s by Liam.
He’d wrote the song a few months after they began dating, neck-deep in the sort-of-awkward stage of the relationship between I like you a lot and I love you. It wasn’t really about them, but maybe -- if you read into it enough -- it was.
Harry stares at Liam, looking straight into his eyes as he sings.
“I see you through this foggy window…”
He sees Niall’s fingers pressing hard into the strings, his eyes half-lidded with the ghost of a smile on his lips. Zayn murmurs along to the chorus from across the room (And I just have to know how this world keeps spinning around…); Louis still glances over every now and again to set Liam with a look of death, but he’s bobbing his head along to the beat of the song (and my feet stay firm on the ground…); the small crowd seems to be enjoying the song, some are tapping their feet, a few are dancing along, Liam even hears a muttered “he’s pretty good” (my mind keeps wandering off / how my heart still beats in my chest…); Harry’s eyes stay on Liam, who stares right back at him, a set gaze. Liam wants to look away, but Harry is too captivating, his eyes too deep, too green, to amazing to just turn his head in the other direction. He remembers how those eyes looked in the morning, just as they were fluttering open with sleep in the corners and the utter look of contentment he found in them when they locked eyes; he remembers how them late at night when Harry would whine out Liam’s name in a heavy breath, his eyes dark and blown-out as he hopelessly squirmed around on wrinkled sheets; he remembers them full of tears, pathetically grasping at shards of broken glass as his eyes shimmered and he whispered “we shouldn’t do this anymore, Liam.” He’d let a single tear go, and --
And it’s too much for Liam. He stopped grinning awhile ago, but his face drops even more as he looks away from the boy, glancing to his cup.
(and these waves crash against the shore / begging and pleading / caught in a cycle with life so fleeting)
He feels the urge to wrap his hands around the flimsy cardboard exterior of his cup and crush it between his fingers.
He doesn’t, though. It would remind him too much of that night, anyway, but with burning scalds from hot coffee instead of stinging cuts from a shattered window.
(can’t afford to lose / can’t afford to win / mind draws a blank, where’d this cycle begin?)
Liam still feels Harry’s eyes on him and, without looking up, he starts to sing along quietly. He hears their voices mingle and twist together. Songs were always better when the both of them were singing.
(and I just have to know / how this world keeps spinning around / and my feet stay firm on the ground / but my mind keeps wandering (mind keeps wandering) / how this heart still beats in my chest / and these birds keep leaving my nest / but my mind keeps wandering / off)
He finishes the song with a sad smile (not that Liam sees), wondering if he took it too far with the old song.
Liam thinks he might have.
*
Liam’s shrugging on his jacket and is about ready to duck out without speaking a word to Harry when a slender hand wraps around his bicep. He resists flinching. He knows it’s Louis.
“How fucking dare you,” Louis’ voice growls, low and deep in his throat. Liam turns to find himself eye-to-eye with the man who is still wearing that nasty glower of his. He looks ready to kill someone (Liam, probably).
“Louis, what are you -”
“Oh, don’t play dumb with me, Payne. It’s like you’re trying to fucking torture him. What’s wrong with you?” he snaps, incredulous and flaming mad. Liam wonders how much Harry actually told Louis about everything that’s transpired because he’s making Liam out to be the bad guy when he definitely isn’t.
At least he doesn’t think he is.
“Louis, seriously -”
“I oughta kill you, Payne. You’re lucky I haven’t yet.”
“I don’t -”
“And I will kill you, you know. I mean, who the fuck comes to their exes’ gigs? You must be a real prick to even think about showing up here!”
The next thing Liam knows, Louis’ hands are on his shoulders, shoving him back into the wall. It’s forceful and the interior brick isn’t faux. It ends up scraping the top of Liam’s neck and the back of his hand pretty badly. A coat hook grazes the far reaches of his hairline a little too-violently. He wants to react, but he’s dazed and he can’t because Harry is there within seconds and Zayn is, too. He feels large hands encircle his arms, restraining him even if he’s still too out of it to do anything. Blood trickles down the backs of his fingers, behind his ear, over his spine.
He struggles out of the grasp a moment later (it’s a lot of flailing and takes a bit of time because Harry’s always been pretty strong, even compared to Liam), and shoves his way outside, letting the cold winter air sting his cheeks and burn his lungs. He storms into the alleyway, kicks the side of the next-door bookstore. It’s not a smart idea and he knows he’s messed up a toe or two, but it makes him feel better so he does it again. And again. There’s still blood on his fingertips and he’s still not sure what happened exactly, and if he’s honest, he’s freaking out a little.
“Liam?” he hears. It’s soft and timid. He kicks the wall again.
“What?”
“Liam… Are… are you okay?” The blood runs onto the inside of his knuckles and he feels like punching something. He doesn’t get to, though, because Harry’s there again, like he always is/was. He sits down right were Liam had been kicking, pats the spot next to him, and waits to be joined.
Liam sits down farther away than he should. (Or is it too close? He can’t be sure because everything seems like its too much or too little tonight and it’s hard to differentiate the two. The lines are too blurry to see.)
“I’m sorry about Louis. He’s got the wrong impression; thinks you’re the jerk in the story. He didn’t know I invited you.” Harry’s words are unsure and hesitant, dancing around the big picture. Liam doesn’t respond, doesn’t know if he can. He stays silent and immobile for a long stretch of time, staring at the blood on his left hand. The opening is already scabbing over, most of the blood has stopped, but it still makes Liam squirm.
“I’ve missed you.”
No, Liam thinks. No, no, no. He does not get to do this. He doesn’t get to dump Liam then turn around and invite to his gig and say that he misses him nearly three months later. It just isn’t allowed.
Liam doesn’t respond.
“Are you okay, Liam?”
Nothing.
“Liam, say something.”
Silence.
“Please?”
“What the hell.” When Liam finally speaks, his voice is pure venom.
“Li -”
“Why did you think it would be a good idea to invite me along to your gig? Honestly. I want to know because it’s a pretty shitty thing to do if you ask me. Corner your ex into going only for him to end up getting shoved into a wall and -”
“Liam, your head’s bleeding. Are you -”
“having a panic attack or something and it’s just not fair and I wanna know -”
“Do you have a concussion? You sound like you might.”
“why you thought it was such a grand idea.”
“I’m taking you to the hospital.”
“No. I’m fine, okay? Just answer my damn question and I’ll be fine.” He’s angrier than he should be, eyes still locked on his blood-stained hands. He can see Harry’s worried expression in his peripheral, his ghostly pale skin and eyes that flick over every part of Liam, nervous, as if he’s a bomb that could go off at any second. Liam shrugs it off, focusing on the crimson between his fingers.
“I thought… Well, I don’t know what I thought. I suppose I just wanted to see you again… you know, since it’s been a while? And I… I wanted you to be here. For my first show, even though it’s just at a shitty coffee shop. Is- is that so bad?”
No, but it doesn’t make it okay, Liam wants to say.
“No,” is all that comes out.
“I’m sorry if this has, like, paused your healing process or whatever. I just wanted to see you. I understand if you want to leave now.” Liam nods. “Do you… do you need a lift? Niall has a -”
“No,” he repeats. “I can walk.”
“Liam, you live three miles away, I’m not letting you walk there in the dark and alone. No. It’s not happening.”
“I live a mile and a half away. I’ll manage a twenty minute walk.
“Liam.”
“I’ll be leaving now.”
He pushes himself up from the cold alley floor and if he’s light-headed, well… so what. He begins to trudge away, turning his back to Harry and trying to hide the stumble in his steps. He’s out of the alley and halfway down the block when Harry shouts after him.
“I still love you, you know. I was just being stupid that night. I really do still love you.”
Liam’s pace doesn’t do so much as stutter as he continues forward, focusing on not passing out and not yelling fuck you to Harry. He only succeeds with the second one.
Fin.