ocean sequence: it's bad religion, to be in love with someone (1/3)
ocean sequence
title: it’s bad religion, to be in love with someone
pairing: liam/zayn, harry/louis
rating: r
warning: au, language, drug abuse, infidelity, angst
word count: 13,091
a/n: this entire series will be split into five parts, each in the perspective of one of the boys, and in it’s entirety will compose the ‘ocean sequence’ as each part’s title will be named after a frank ocean song. there are topics discussed i am unfamiliar with such as chemistry, boxing, and of course olympic trials but i did do research (pinky promise!) but correct me if you catch any fatal mistakes. credit to pieces that inspired me: alan lightman’s ‘a brief version of time’ and t.s. eliot’s ‘the hollow men’ also poetry by e.e. cummings, neruda, and tyler knott and the film 'the closer' also contributed to lines and scenes in this sequence. and i highly recommend you listen to the classical pieces mentioned as you read: debussy’s clair de lune, mozart’s symphony 40, and chopin’s nocturne op. 9 no. 2. and finally unspeakable thanks to kendall (my beta essentially), katy, ashley, gem, erin, and many lovely ladies for encouraging me to write this and share it.
--
you’re my religion. you’re all i’ve got.
- a farewell to arms, ernest hemingway
--
suppose that people live forever.
the population of the world splits into two, interestingly: the laters and the nows.
the laters rationalize that there’s no hurry to enroll in university, to learn a second language, to read newton or dostoevsky, to seek promotions in their jobs, to fall in love, to raise a family.
in endless time, all things can be accomplished; thus, all things can wait. time is sweet in infinite amounts, slow and soft and continuously expanding like a galaxy.
after all, hasty actions breed mistakes and good things come to those who wait.
the laters can be recognized strolling in shops and down city promenades. they walk an easy swagger and wear loose-fitting clothes. they talk slow, the letters heavy, and their skin smells like permanent ink.
they take pleasure in reading whatever magazines are open or rearranging the furniture in their homes or slipping into conversations the way a leaf falls from a tree.
the laters sit in cafes sipping coffee or in bars throwing back tequila and discusses the possibilities of life - their eyes are full and filled with stars.
on the other hand, the nows note that with infinite lives, they can do all they can imagine. they will have an infinite number of careers, they will acquire an infinite amount of education, they will change their politics infinitely.
each person will be a lawyer, a carpenter, an accountant, a journalist, a physician, a farmer. the nows are constantly reading new books, studying new trades, new languages.
in order to taste the infinities of life, they begin early and never go slowly.
the nows are easily spotted. they are the owner of cafes, the college professors, the doctors and nurses, the politicians, the people who rock their legs constantly whenever they sit down. they move through a succession of lives tirelessly, eager to miss nothing.
when two nows chance to meet at the hexagonal construct of trafalgar square, they compare the lives they have mastered, exchange information, and glance at their watches.
when two laters meet at the same location, they ponder the future and follow the parabola of the fountain with their nebulous gaze.
liam payne is now. harry styles comes later.
it is important to understand this in the progression of this story.
--
the track disappears from beneath liam’s feet as he rounds the last corner and picks up pace to the finish point. his calves tighten, his shoulders lock, and his lungs move to the count in his head.
in - one, two - out - one, two -
the soles of his feet tingled with heat and air swooped to fill the expanded space in his ribcage, and when he stops the watch, it says he’s two seconds ahead but liam already knew that. he finishes with a leisure lap around the track to relax his muscles and when he finally stills, he checks his pulse and drinks half his gatorade.
in - one, two - out - one, two -
“could barely spot you,” a teasing voice hollers from under the bleachers. “you were a blur out there.”
and for a moment, all liam could see were dancing tendrils of white smoke and the gold filter of sobranies. then were lashes that reached to infinity, inconsolable eyes, and red copper skin stretched over lovely white bones.
“hey.” his neck prickles with heat and he’s breathless but not in the way one is after a hundred meter sprint.
“hey yourself.” zayn’s smile is kind and a bit shy as he swayed onto the field. zayn had outgrown his gawky phase for years, what with cheekbones that break hearts and slim roguish shoulders, but he’s always half-retained a masked hesitancy in the way he shuffles his feet and in his habit of peeking through his lashes.
zayn’s eyes are all sorts of lovely; electric and dreamy.
“what’re you doing out here?” liam asks instead of ‘aren’t you suppose to be in maths’ because zayn skips class all the time - usually (in ascending order of likeliness) hiding out in the art room or annoying niall in the gym or lighting a bowl with eddie sheeran and the burnouts behind the administrative building or home - but zayn rarely comes out to the track just to watch him do his laps.
not that zayn isn’t supportive of liam; he wears liam’s varsity jacket like it’s melded with his skin. it’s just that zayn sees running as liam’s thing and saw his own presence there as a distraction.
that and zayn doesn’t really do ‘outside’, it suits his quiff ill.
“was just on my way home.” he replies, scuffling up some dirt with his trainers, imperceptibly moving closer and liam closes the rest of the distance like adjusting to a shift in orbit until he can smell zayn’s gucci cologne and english cigarettes. “thought i’d come watch you run for a bit. there’s a meet this weekend, yeah?”
liam smiles and tries to untangle zayn’s hands from the hem of his t-shirt because he’s sweaty and they’re in school and liam’s self-discipline isn’t that good, “yeah. it’s the qualifier. before they rank me for nationals.”
“right.” zayn’s fingers close around liam’s wrists - zayn’s got the longest fingers liam’s ever seen - pressing lightly into the pulse points and when it thrums, zayn breathes. “d’you reckon you’ll place?”
he laughs, turning his palms upward so that zayn can trace through the fortune lines (love and fate and life), “zayn, i haven’t - ”
“ - you will, won’t you?” zayn’s voice is heavy and soft like a sigh and when he smiles, it looks tired but the edges are frayed with affection. liam stares down at the way their hands fit together and compares his ivory complexion against zayn’s russet and while liam’s arms are freckled and sun-spotted and dusted with blonde hairs, zayn doesn’t even have callouses. “lee?” zayn prompts, “say you will. for me.”
“yeah.” liam is counting the space between zayn’s lashes and the crinkles in his brows when he gets emotional and how many teeth he shows when he smiles and how many inhales until they’re inhaling the same air and, “yeah.”
“good.” zayn looks relieved and he reaches up to curl his hand around the nape of liam’s neck, ghosting over the grooves of his spine and liam has to press down hard into the ground with his heels to stop from shivering but then zayn touches their forehead together and liam does shiver. zayn’s eyes are dark, dark, dark and deep, deep, deep (liam sees himself in them; swimming) but they wing up on the side and the grin he pulls is so light and lazy (and liam is floating), “i’ll go now. you’re being distracted and i need a kip.”
liam frowns, reaching over the bench to unzip the side of his duffle, “take my gloves for the walk home, it’s chilly.”
zayn kisses his brow and laughs quietly, “always the considerate one, you are.” he stays there for a few beats, long enough for liam to sense his reluctance, slipping the wooly mittens into his pockets, he confesses, “doniya dropped by.”
doniya. the name is sticky like toffee caught in liam’s throat, the letters thick and rich and expensive, and liam thinks zayn’s older sister is nothing short of polite, kind, and responsible but out of all zayn’s siblings, doniya is the only one to live with their mother, tricia, while she’s studying in university.
so maybe it is just coincidence and convenience that doniya’s presence means zayn will take an inevitable limo-trip into london to see his mercurial socialite mum.
‘you know she won’t give my old man a break until i go’ zayn had said the first time she sent for him when he was fifteen and he’d turned into all angles; hipbones cheekbones and jawbone. and liam had replied ‘i know’ because mr. malik is mild-mannered and sympathetic and it’s awful when he’s upset. and zayn had went on angrily ‘she just wants to parade me around like her little bitch to all her rich filthy friends’ because, perhaps to her surprise, zayn is sprouting like an armani billboard waiting to happen.
nonetheless, zayn always goes and he’s always back by the week’s end, smelling of glass and bourbon and cold city rain, his smile too sharp like it could slice. but then niall will take him to the lake behind his house and they’ll row and smoke until it gets cold (or they start getting pecked at by geese). and then later that night maybe zayn will undress liam and press him into the mattress and wrap his long fingers around liam’s cock until liam begs and shouts.
maybe then zayn will start to smell more like green grass, irish cream, and boy; and when his lips curve, the expression is tender and lazy and very, very soft. liam counts zayn’s heartbeats on those nights and in zayn’s chest he hears footsteps against a tartan track and he thinks to himself: okay.
“the meet won’t start until the afternoon, i’ll be back with time to spare, alright?”
liam wishes zayn wouldn’t talk about impossible things because he’ll only hurt himself in the end when he can’t make them come true (beneath the leather, the ink, the smoke, zayn is a dreamer) but he doesn’t want to make zayn upset before he leaves so he agrees, nods, says, “yeah. maybe.”
the way zayn grins almost makes liam believe it and his brows look happier, “will you come over after class? boris misses you.”
liam laughs, “boris saw me this morning, zayn.”
the way zayn is looking at him makes liam think 11 years-old, a pout that wasn’t as pronounced and tender butterscotch eyes. the first time liam’s been kissed after swim practice under a yellow sun; liam had tasted bubblegum lips, cherry tongue. now when zayn kisses liam, it’s usually electricity, fireworks, sleek hot hunger, and liam sometimes forgets zayn can still kiss like this (forgets that zayn remembers too), but he is glad to be reminded. despite zayn’s quiet smolder, dark shyness, he can be very very sweet. and there’s an overcast in the skies today but when zayn licks softly into liam’s mouth, he can swear there’s sun blazing on his skin.
“boris misses you whenever you aren’t there. as do i.”
--
liam was 8 when he moved into bradford for prep school.
the town of bradford is rich. estates stretched for acres, all the greenery is well-manicured, the weather is less dreary. and at first, liam had felt painfully out of place, being one of the few kids that had to stay on board at campus because his parents worked steady jobs back in his hometown to afford the steep tuition. so of course the occasional taunt thrown his way couldn’t be avoided but mostly the elitist kids gave him sneers from a good safe distance.
then along came niall. irish, brunette, and his arms ladled with a welcome basket of warm muffins from his jovial mum. he’d hug liam at first sight and offered him a tour of the neighborhood standing off the back of his bike. niall was also on the school junior footie team and invited liam to come watch them practice, which is where liam saw zayn for the first time, who was skinny, brooding, and pretending to have pulled a calf muscle so he could sit out.
(zayn tells him years later that it was just an excuse to be next to him).
things get easier from there. the school offers him a scholarship because they see potential. they must be right because liam is never late for anything, gets ‘a’s on his coursework, captains the track team and the swim team (he also cycles and rows and liam is a proper prince on the polo field), and once the science lab caught on fire and liam got to the extinguisher before it could spread into full-blown danger.
so yeah, liam is well-liked in the community; he’s nice and athletic and never holds grudges. and so yeah, he likes bradford - and when zayn’s with him, he fancies it ‘home’.
zayn’s house is 1.6 miles from campus. liam runs there every morning to take boris out for his walk. he knows the code to get through the gate, he has a copy of the key, and he’s got his own seat in zayn’s towncar (it’s liam’s seat because he’s got a cupholder for his wheatgrass and it’s right next to zayn’s) when the driver drops zayn and his sisters off for school.
liam knows to leave his shoes at the door and his book bag on the bench in the foyer when he arrives. boris scrambles up to meet him with great enthusiasm, tail swatting like a metronome, tongue lolled to the side as liam gives him an affectionate scratch behind the ears, ruffling the short fur, “hey mate, how’s it going? have you been behaving today? where’s - ”
“hey liam.”
“doniya.” liam controls his surprise, “hello.”
doniya is leaning against the arch of the entryway, holding a steaming mug that must be as warm as her smile. she looks older than liam remembers; there are more lines on her face, less color. “how’ve you been?”
“good. it’s been good. thanks.”
“you still running for the school?” liam nods, very carefully. doniya’s lips quirk, “and niall? does he still play on the footie team with zayn?”
“no. erm. i mean, niall still runs for the school. and he was on the footie team this year but the season just switched over to lacrosse. but zayn hasn’t been on football since year 11.” he responds slowly.
doniya blinks; she doesn’t pick her eyes back up, just keeps them down where her lashes sweep her cheeks and it startles liam - how similar they look in that moment. when she speaks, her voice splits, like the spine of an old book, “we don’t…talk…as we used to. it’s harder now…because of tricia. he blames me. for leaving him, leaving dad, the girls. and for making him leave you.”
liam understands in a way; gets that zayn with all of his angles can cut and carve and cleave because zayn is delicate, easily hurt (shatter, liam thinks, zayn shatters, and leaves your hands bloody) if he’s not handled just right.
only liam disarms zayn.
“don’t dwell on it.” liam moves past her towards the stairs, touching her arm for a brief moment. he looks into her eyes and smiles very very calmly, in the way zayn likes for him to smile when he’s nervous, “i’ll always be here.”
then he bounds up, two at a time, goes to the bedroom at the end of the hall, knocks twice, waits until the other side huffs ‘get in here, lee’ before he enters. inside, it’s spacey; the floors are beige wood, the bed is low, the walls are white but colorful canvases are everywhere, some patiently leaning, others already hung.
“you don’t have to knock. you never do.” zayn is standing at the center of the room, barefoot in paint-splattered chinos and a tattered track shirt with the sleeves rolled. his eyes are squint all silly because of the grin he’s pulling and liam feels he’s melting (he thinks he could sink through the floors if not for zayn’s hands and zayn’s lightness and zayn’s gravity keeping him afloat).
liam crosses the room for him. it’s colder the closer he gets. he sees that the window is open, the cigarette between zayn’s teeth is burning, and clair de lune is playing quietly on the stereo because zayn’s sentimental and romantic and gay.
“it’s polite.” liam defends without any real conviction.
zayn’s eyes are sparkling, his mouth is inviting, “i like it when you’re rude.”
he looks away in a blush as zayn goes to stub out his fag on the windowsill, instead focusing on a stack of his clothes that’s been neatly folded on top of zayn’s drawer. liam’s socks are rolled into little donuts - and the fabrics smell like lavender - and liam reaches out to trace along the collar of his uniform shirt. “you did the washing up?”
he remembers the second button on the shirt had fallen off when he changed for swim -
“mhm.” he hears zayn’s footsteps coming up behind him. his presence shadowing a low warmth radiating against liam’s back, “i took one off mine to replace it. i know how you like to be all buttoned-up to your throat.”
the strike of affection that hits liam in that moment is simply breathtaking. it feels nothing short of a thunderclap spilling on his chest because when he turns, zayn’s smiling crookedly, eyes alight in lightening gold. their noses touch. liam smells lavender, and zayn tilts his head, “alright?”
instead of responding, he kisses zayn slow and searing, reveling in the languid flutter of zayn’s lashes against his cheek, tanned arms wounding around liam’s neck, the sinking noise in the back of zayn’s throat. he licks into zayn’s soft mouth, pulling on his bottom lip every time he draws away, and zayn makes an urgent gesture, scrambling to dig his fingers into liam’s bicep.
liam catches his hand, intertwining their fingers, and steadies zayn’s rutting hip until they’re just swaying and rubbing occasionally even though liam is already hard in his trousers, he doesn’t want it to end so fast.
zayn is laughing breathlessly against the crook of his neck, “are we going to dance now?”
he realizes belatedly that clair de lune is still twinkling sweetly in the background. there’s also a paintbrush behind zayn’s ear. a varsity jacket lying in an open suitcase. crumpled pack of cigarettes next to wooly gloves. imprint of warm bodies on the bed from the night before.
and he opens his mouth to say ‘no, i don’t want to dance anymore’ but zayn’s already shoved his hand down liam’s pants so what liam does say is: zaynyesgodyespleaseyes.
--
when liam gets out of school, he thinks he’ll study physical therapy because liam is a healer; likes to find out what hurts then love it until it’s better. liam thinks bodies are fascinating, how people all start out the same until they aren’t anymore (because bodies deteriorate; sometimes when you’re 90, sometimes before you’re born) - there’s a story within every body.
liam loves zayn’s body; loves it when it moves in tandem with his. it is quite so romantic and exciting a thing.
liam learns the story of zayn’s body through:
the lithe, agile length of zayn’s muscles in lean cords twisted under bronze satin. zayn’s firm-smooth skin, equal parts red and gold and lavender ink. his ears are stamped with little stars, they match the nebula, the supernova, the constellation of stardust in zayn’s wide wild eyes.
he loves zayn’s body; his tendons, his pulse, his veins that run in analog. he likes what it does: bends, flexes, arches, writhes, folds, melds; the thrill of zayn under him; likes the hows and the shock of zayn’s electric fur.
he loves every part of zayn down to his bones. he marvels that these are the structures that build up zayn and hold him together. he wonders if him and zayn’s bones are made from the same matrix, or if zayn’s composed from something else entirely like diamonds or planetary rings.
he likes to feel zayn’s spine (its dips), zayn’s clavicle (its hollows), zayn’s wrists. he thinks zayn’s bones are very delicate. they certainly feel slender and bird-like; almost flighty in its lightness, grounded only by zayn’s heartbeat, which are always heavy in echo of the rhythm of liam’s runs.
zayn sleeps with his head on liam’s chest and his hand cupping liam’s shoulder like liam’s something precious he never grew out of. and liam’ll very gently caress over the elegant joints, neat knuckles, metacarpal discs finely slotted into one another.
there are 27 bones in a human hand; an eighth of all the bones in a body. liam counts to 27 every night before he sleeps, zayn’s hand in his.
--
in the morning, zayn goes to london and liam walks boris. he calls his mum because it’s saturday and she has weekends off. he tells her he’s well, he’s fast, he’s happy. she says she’s glad. they talk a little about his sister ruth’s baby shower until he has to get to the gym. in training, he sharpens his turns then runs two practice trials (he beats his personal best both times) so his coach lets him get off early with a clap on the back.
he goes to niall’s house, walking up the driveway just in time to see a leggy brunette being escorted out. she stumbles past liam, carrying her high heels, and turns to wave, giggling still, “bye niall! give me a ring when you decide on that movie, yeah?”
“take care, cher.” niall is all careless laughter, waving back.
liam’s up the patio now and niall brightens further, “mate, you alright?” opening his arms enthusiastically wide and liam can’t help but fall into niall’s warm hug even though niall has epic bedhead and smells like stale pints.
niall feels solid, broad, flat like oars; like maybe he’s forged from willow trees and rugged cobblestone. niall is tough in the way that underarmour is, fused tight against your body, damn near impenetrable.
“hey. yeah. i was just gonna see if you wanted to go for a row.”
“sure. breakfast first though.”
niall ushers him inside the house, making a beeline towards the kitchen where maura horan is still in her bathrobe talking recipes to the housemaid. liam is worried he’s imposing but she kisses him, fusses with his hair, and asks about track so he doesn’t think she minds.
they go out the back door and liam thinks it’s ridiculous that the horans have a whole lake (pond, corrects niall, but still). they take out a rowboat instead of a racing shell because it’s spacier, their legs sprawled on the wooden hull.
“m’like rowing with you better. zayn doesn’t row worth a shit. just broods there. pissin’ about his hair and his nails and his gay.” niall’s holding a donut in his mouth while he steers, words spitting out along with flecks of glaze and liam wrinkles his nose in disapproval.
“you listen to justin bieber.”
“justin bieber is a fucking artist,” his accent curls reverently around the word, “piss off.” niall looks only slightly indignant, mostly fond, so they spend the next moment in silence. liam focuses on his breathing (in - one, two - out - one, two -) while niall finishes chewing, fishing a cigarette out of his pocket to light. niall smokes hand-rolled cigarettes that smell more herbal, more natural than the ones zayn smokes. niall claims he smokes for the taste, zayn smokes for the addiction. in his sleeveless, it is easy to see niall’s limber arms work each stroke as they move towards the center of the pond, his muscles pulled tight in stripes. through a puff of white, he inquires off-handedly, “where is your boyfriend anyway? is he prancing around with eddie or have you got him ironing pleats into your trousers?”
“he’s in london.”
“oh. shit.” niall falls out of rhythm, which causes the blade of their oars to clank together. it takes them a minute or two to regroup, finding the beat of their catch. once they start back up, niall is staring at him cautiously, “well when’s he coming back? he’s going to be at the meet, right?”
liam stares his hands, which feel a little raw, loosening his grip on the wood. he thinks he’s a little out of practice. “he says he’ll try to make it.”
“you and i both know what that means.” niall tosses his unfinished cigarette into the water more forcibly than necessary, huffing with great irritation, “honestly liam, he gives you so much bullshit and you just let him get away with it. he does understand that we get ranked nationally based on this, yeah? you might make the front runners list and fuck, lee, he should be here, misting your face and dabbing at your sweat with his fucking gucci hankie.”
“he doesn’t have a - that’s not….you know zayn’s mum - ”
“ - i know. i know.” niall exhales sharply and some of the red leaves his cheeks. they’ve stopped rowing at this point, the little boat just spinning in loose circles with the breeze. niall’s eyes are startlingly blue, enhanced by the pale pinkness of his skin. when he directs them on liam, he looks wistful, “i just. liam. i wish…you would tell him how important this is to you, how much it would mean if he were here. i don’t think he knows. i think he would’ve stayed if you told him. zayn would do anything for you, liam, don’t you get it?”
liam shifts, his skin feels too tight under niall’s scrutiny, “of course i do.”
niall sighs, “i wish you’d let him.”
--
part two