Drown [z.m.]

20.

Strobe lights blind. Smoke drifts through the air. Gyrating bodies shove.

Harry Styles only wants to drink. He wants to drink, and he wants to swallow down that fire of life, let it burn his throat as it travels down, and then blaze an inferno is his empty insides until they are not-so-empty any more, and just hurting, hurting, hurting.

There's really just too much to look at, because spots dance across Harry's vision and he needs to blink several times to see the dancing figures, all clad in leather, spikes, or showing far too much skin.

He didn't want to come to the club in the first place. His heart decided that for him, and he went with it because that is what Harry Styles does -- listen to the bray of his heart and let it consume him and spit him out, bruised and unfixable.

He is so very drunk, so much so that he can see strange glimpses of greens and reds and blues when he shuts his eyes, so he feels how delicate it all is just by reaching out and running his fingers through the air, and then laughing softly because he is so, so insignificant and so, so small and why does he matter anyway?

And Harry Styles wants to hurt himself bad that night. He wants to be able to feel the pain, because that will be so much better than letting numbness hold him prisoner. It will be so much better than being empty.

He prances, stumbles, trips over to the nearest girl he finds and runs his large hands over her velvety-skinned arms, whispering things like 'You're beautiful,' and 'I think you're gorgeous, love,' when they all sound like lies to his ears. They sting like lies do, but Harry Styles has an abandoned house for a heart, with feelings like overgrown weeds and dust in every corner for the people he has lost, and cloudy grey skies and gnarled trees and absolute emptiness.

He is so caught up in his reverie, he doesn't notice someone stride on over to him. So he grins at the boy - no, he's not a boy. He is so much more than just a boy. He's art, and he is Zayn.

"Are you drunk already, Harry?" Zayn asks, and so Harry gives a little hiccough of laughter.

"M'plastered as fuck, mate," Harry responds, slinging an arm across Zayn's neck and lightly swaying to the music. "It's good, yeah? You want a sip?" He holds out his cup, but Zayn shakes his head.

"No, I'm driving us home, remember?" Zayn mumbles, but he can't resist taking a small swig. "That's all, no more," he mutters with a small smirk, then tugs on Harry's hand. "C'mon, we should get back home. Your dad'll be livid."

Harry just laughs. And laughs some more. "To hell with him," he says, running the back of his hand over his wet lips. "Live tonight, Z."

But Zayn is already weaving his way through the maze of grinding, dancing bodies, over to the back door.

"Fuckin' hell Z," Harry complains. "I don't wanna go home," he mutters as they pass through the door and into a narrow, deserted alleyway. "Let's get drunk, okay? Like, more drunk. It's gon' be great, I swear."

It's not the cleanest possible place, and graffiti covers the brick walls, but Harry (being drunk, and just Harry) falls to the floor on his backside. "Dammit, m'not going anywhere."

Zayn looks back. He looks at his friend, and under all the layers of confidence he's built up, he finds some concealed loneliness. And it's familiar, so Zayn plops down right next to Harry and stretches his legs out in front of him.

"The stars." Harry whispers in awe, his green eyes turned up to the sky. "They're burning my eyes," he says softly, and then he's suddenly lying down on the hard, cold ground below him. His hands are cupping the back of his neck, and he appears at peace with himself.

Zayn glances over his shoulder at his best friend and says in a flat tone, "They're dead. You know that, right? All the stars are dead because of some physics-space-time shit."

"But then they wouldn't exist, yeah? Without the dark. It's a graveyard up there, Zayn. So why's it so fucking beautiful?"

Harry falls silent, and Zayn positively think he's passed out, but then he pipes up once more in his hoarse, raspy voice. "I want to fly."

"Yeah?" Zayn says noncommittally, since he's not in the mood for entertaining Harry when he sounds like a five-year-old.

"Really. I want to see the world from far far away so I don't have to see the, like, the nasty parts of it. You can come with," He tugs on Zayn's sleeve, and Zayn hesitantly lies down next to him.

"We can fly, Zayn. Look." Harry's eyes are wide open, and he's letting the monochromatic illusion of depth lure him up and up. He reaches his arms out, shutting his eyes. "I'm flying, Z, it's so so beautiful, mate."

And that night, two boys fall asleep with an entire sky of stars watching over them.

--

just to clear up confusion, harry/liam/zayn are like, best friends c:

srry for the weird timing for updating ?? i just didnt get a chance earlier<3 xx