No One Does It Better

Chapter 11

The next morning finds Harry awake and sat on his kitchen floor, still half-drunk and with blood-shot eyes, clenched teeth, and two missed calls. There are three broken glass bottles littering the floor, the stench of alcohol saturating air and his pant leg. One tequila, one whiskey, one half-empty vodka bottle lie broken and scattered in toxic understanding - thrown from their spot with an animalistic growl that ripped with equally broken shards of sound from his throat.

He imagines he would feel confused and angry. This is all he's wanted, what he's spent the past two years of his life chasing. He's hoped and dreamed of the bleak, suffocating aura of nothingness that would wrap in soft grey tendrils in his eyes and around his throat. Now, he's not so sure he ever wanted it at all.

Suddenly, he's all too aware of the sunlight pressing gently to his cheek from the crack in his broken blinds and the dampness around his right leg, and he can't tolerate it another second. He stumbles to his feet too quickly, having to grab the tiled countertop, digging his fingernails into the grout almost painfully. He inhales deeply, lifting his head and letting it out, letting all of it go. He walks with a slight limp, his left leg having fallen asleep feeling distant and prickly. He makes it to his shower and steps in, in all his clothes. He turns the nozzle all the way around to the limit of the red sticker that adorns it and dares it to take him.

He closes his eyes, tilting his head to the spout, and only winces slightly when the scolding hot water hits his face and chest in powerful streams. The water soaks his plain white t-shirt and jeans and socks, making him feel even heavier than usual. His skin burns white hot, and he lets out a small whimper at first. He lets himself feel it, makes himself feel his skin turn patchy and pink in protest. He stands as long as he can bear, and then, suddenly, his world isn't covered in soft grey and medium blue hues.

He reaches through the scolding hot water and slams the nozzle around to center, 'off,' and feels the steam radiate off his body. He breathes through his nose, welcoming all his pain - his swollen skin and heart - and stares at the black marble walls of the shower with determination. He puffs his chest out and raises his head before stepping back out of the shower, dripping from every thread that clothes him, and looks directly into the mirror in front of him.

For the first time in two years, he meets his own eyes, and he doesn't recognize the man staring back at him. His eyes are molten mixed emerald and pale gold, framed by dark and drooping bags beneath them. Tension is pulling every one of his muscles tight, made even more evident by the way his, now translucent, t-shirt clings to him. His hair is frizzy and disheveled, and in desperate need of a trim. He looks older, more worn, but not wiser. He can almost see the air that surrounds him being drenched in all his misery, but his eyes are unrecognizable, and, as he looks closer, he makes out the faintest hint of soft grey at the edges.

He's frozen, and then, like a gunshot in the still of the night, he's swinging his closed fist forward, snapping against the glass that cracks of sharp ripples before shattering completely, falling abruptly to the sink and the floor around Harry's feet, and he wants to feel satisfaction as he stares at the white wrecked wall in front of him, but he doesn't. He only feels pathetic.

---

Harry is sat on his couch, staring at his blank TV in the same clothes he showered in, feeling chilled to his core, but unwilling to move. His hands are shaking, aching to wrap around just anything to calm him. He hasn't eaten or slept in over 24 hours, can't find the strength to stomach anything, his head beating to a rapid, insistent pain that starts at the back of his head and ends beneath his eyebrows. He's tapping his foot to no particular rhythm, mentally willing the cars outside to stop fucking honking, inconsiderate pricks.

He hasn't cleaned up his kitchen, can still smell the drinks, and his skin crawls in two directions - to and from it. He won't, though. He doesn't want it. He doesn't want the numbness. He doesn't. He needs it, though. He needs the way it burns him, reminds him, promises a better tomorrow that's may or may not come. He needs it and it's so pathetic. He feels so fucking pathetic, because he is so in love. He's so in love and not loved in return, and it's so lonely, and so he has to romanticize alcohol to make himself carry on. So he sits, tapping his foot, staring at nothing, gritting his teeth and ignoring the niggling thought that echoes "withdrawal," because he sunk low, yes, but he's not physically dependent on it, he's proving that now.

---

It's half past seven when Liam shows up at Harry's, knocking on the door with one hand as he texts Zayn with the other. He stops shortly, though, when he finds the door pushing back under the force of his knock. He freezes before shoving his phone in his back pocket and pushing on the door a little more. It opens that bit more and Liam's heart is beating far too quickly.

"Harry?" he calls out, finally pushing the door completely open with an outstretched hand, still standing behind the step. The strong stench of alcohol hits him with shocking force and he quickly covers his nose and mouth with the hand not holding the door back, scrunching his eyebrows together.

"Harry?" he calls out again, taking a tentative step inside. "Harry where are you?" He looks to his right and sees Harry's keys sat on the entry hall table, brown boots shoved beneath them. "Harry?" He looks to his right, seeing smashed bottles and pooled alcohol covering the floor. Panic rises in his chest, his voice becoming more and more strained. "Harry? Come on, mate. Where are you?" He goes to step to the hall that leads to Harry's bedroom, but stops short when he sees a very Harry shaped mass on the floor of the living room. He steps closer with quivering knees before catching a glimpse of Harry's closed eyes and barely moving chest in a mixed ray of moon and streetlight coming through the cracks in his curtains.

Liam flips the light switch next to him and sees him lying on the floor between his couch and coffee table, right arm curled beneath him, left raised high above him. His white shirt is rucked up beneath his armpits, outlining just how slowly his breaths are coming. Liam pauses for only a second before running to his side, pushing the coffee table out of the way and carefully avoiding the spot on the floor where Harry had been sick. "Harry!" it's such a wrecked, inconsolable sounds, and Liam's had nightmares about this very moment. He was always half-expecting it, but never prepared.

"God, Harry! Harry, look at me. Harry, Harry open your eyes. Come on, mate," he pleads with the younger boy, grabbing his face, petting his hair, ignoring the way his own eyes fill with stinging worry. He rips his phone from his back pocket, dialing 999 with shaky hands.

"I need an ambulance," he breathes quickly before the operator can finish her reception.