ocean sequence: it's bad religion, to be in love with someone (2/3)
a half-life is the period of time it takes for a substance undergoing exponential decay to decrease by half. the name was originally used to describe a characteristic of unstable atoms.
biologically, it is the time taken for a substance (radioactive nuclide, drugs, blood) to lose half of its radiological, pharmacologic, or physiologic activity.
everything organic has a half-life; an inevitable breakdown. love is no different.
--
when liam was warming up to get onto the field for his meet, he’d put his hands in his pocket and uncovered a neatly folded paper heart. there were no words in it but liam didn’t need any because they’ve long mastered how to read into each other’s silence.
liam advances into the next round of qualifiers.
zayn comes back from london.
zayn comes back and he’s different but liam can’t figure out how. this frightens him because liam knows everything about zayn; he knows zayn’s favorite flower (lavender), he knows zayn’s voice (knows the hundreds of shadows and shades zayn can express with his voice), he knows all 27 bones in zayn’s hand (he knows them all by name).
“zayn?” he’s sitting on the steps that lead up to liam’s dorm, smoking a joint. liam had just finished with swim, his hair damp still and a towel hanging around his neck. liam’s eyes dart all around nervously because at any moment a teacher could walk by and since when is zayn reckless?
“zayn?” liam repeats because he didn’t answer the first time.
zayn says nothing at first. he just pulls liam down next to him - his hair is floppy today, his smile very tired. he’s curving to fit tight against liam’s side and he’s wearing liam’s hoodie and liam’s joggers, fingertips digging into liam’s shoulder as if he’s trying to crawl and disappear inside liam’s skin and it’s all very surprising, “zayn, what is it?”
he mumbles against liam’s neck, his confession tender, “missed you, s’all.”
liam doesn’t think zayn is telling him what he needs to know but what zayn said didn’t sound like a lie so maybe it’s okay to think it’s the truth. he smiles because even though zayn can’t see it, he knows he can hear it, “i missed you more.” it’s true. and zayn laughs out ‘you big sap’ or he tries to until his voice chokes halfway and he’s forced to trail off.
liam frowns. he pulls zayn’s face back, his thumb tracing zayn’s brow, “hey. you alright?”
zayn’s eyes are big and young and topaz like jupiter; liam wonders what zayn’s seen with those eyes while he was in london. he almost asks but then zayn’s speaking and his voice is sweetsweetsweet, “congratulations on your race” and “sorry i wasn’t there” and he kisses liam sticky with the acrid scent of pot, his body lax in liam’s arms, his pulse thrumming very very slow and he answers liam’s silence, “darling, i’m just fine”.
--
life resumes as it’s always been for a short while and it’s almost familiar except not because liam can sense the gravity around him and zayn splitting like tectonic plates deep beneath the earth and he still doesn’t know why.
he does catch zayn dazing more these days, as if wishing he were some place else: during lunch when him and niall talk about sports, while they’re watching a movie with boris in their lap, or staring at a canvas, his paintbrush caught in midstroke.
he also knows when doniya visits again two weeks later, zayn packs his bag without a fuss. he kisses liam goodbye and liam watches him go and he can’t remember rather he didn’t tell zayn or zayn has forgotten about his rowing match.
--
liam thinks: drugs.
because zayn is thinner, colder, and everything about zayn gets sharper like a digitally enhanced photograph and liam isn’t sure rather he’s really seeing zayn or seeing ‘enhanced’ parts of zayn that aren’t really there.
first, it was little yellow pills rattling in zayn’s monogrammed silver cigarette case when liam knocks it over (when zayn sees liam holding it when he gets out of the shower, he takes it gently out of liam’s hand, kisses him with a hand on the back of his neck and velvet tongue).
but then it was a hollowed out fountain pen; rolled up bank-notes; white powder on zayn’s leather jacket (zayn corners liam against the bedroom door, tugs down liam’s boxers with his teeth, he mouths, licks, and sucks liam’s cock and zayn keeps his eyes on liam the whole time even as liam comes, hot to his core; and liam thinks zayn’s eyes burn - as bright as a dying star).
eventually, there will be a thin elastic band knotted into a tiny circle that seems just the right size for zayn’s slender arms sitting in the bottom of zayn’s duffle and liam will feel so helpless all he wants to do is lay down on the floor and beg zayn to tell him what could possibly be wrong - but zayn will be standing behind him, whispering wistfully, “oh lee” although his voice sounds downright electric (everything about zayn seems charged these days) right before he does indeed lay liam down on the floor and makes love to him, slow and intimate and aching.
liam bites zayn when he refuses to move faster. he’s pretty sure he breaks skin, his mouth tastes of metal, salt, cologne. zayn doesn’t seem to mind. his face is manic, cracked almost, as he beams down at liam and his smile is wicked, teeth gleaming whitely.
liam thinks he shouldn’t be allured by cheekbones that look more like glass chips and collarbones that jut out obscenely but the starved way zayn looks at him, even if his hands can’t stop trembling sometimes when he’s undoing liam’s shirt, it makes it hard to resist him because maybe part of liam wants to pretend that zayn is hungry for him and not syringes or prescriptions.
(and it turns out zayn isn’t hungry for syringes or prescriptions but rather the person he’s associated it with as liam will come to find out)
--
it’s like this: zayn secretly loves glamour. he loves glamour as certain dark things are to be loved - silently, trapped between the shadow and the soul.
zayn likes shiny things; things that sparkle. things like champagne, chandeliers, mirrors; zayn likes things that are reflective.
zayn is drawn to them and they are drawn to him (reflective); the way glamour always seem to love razor jawlines, brooding stares, and obscure country boys it can corrupt with all of its champagnes and chandeliers and mirrors; and secretly zayn loves to be chased.
liam, as far as he’s concerned, has never been shiny or sparkly.
he is not a glamorous person. he is neither a friday sunset nor a saturday night. he is wednesday at 4pm, feet planted firm on the ground or arms shredding through a chlorine pool. his joints need daily stretching, his skin is weathered down from sports and being outside, especially on his soles where he has chased too much.
when zayn starts going to london by himself, liam thinks - he should chase, zayn would like that; but then zayn starts coming back with bites on his neck, red grooves scratched down his back, hands harsher than liam’s bruised on his ribs and liam feels as if he’s tripped in the middle of a race and gotten disoriented about which direction to head towards.
but just like zayn’s weight loss and tremors and now-steady trips into the city, they both pretend not to notice. and the leviathan gap between them just continues to grow with everything that they don’t say to each other.
it’s painful. like an infected injection site they’re letting fester beneath a scab (if they don’t look at it, it’s not there) and it feels dangerous (in a controlled way, which is why he allows it) but liam still prefers this to the possible amputation they might face if they ever were to try to fix it.
and it is not a real thing until they acknowledge it so they don’t.
timeline: a month after the cocaine.
the first time liam tries, it’s late one evening, zayn is sitting on the floor painting up a frenzy, pupils huge, buzz beneath his skin. liam’s already showered and coddled in bed, concentrating on a chapter in his text. mozart’s symphony 40 molto allegro is accompanying them both in void of the silence. they’ve kept the window open even though it’s cold. outside, it’s drizzling steadily as if it will last all night.
some time later, an hour, maybe a little more, zayn has tired himself out (he tires very easily these days), rocking back on his heel, points with his chin, “what’s that you’re reading?”
liam peers at him over his page, at nebulous irises and muted lids, answering dutifully, “french. i’ve got an exam friday.”
“french.” zayn repeats, mouth curved coy. his lashes are fluttering delicately when he asks liam, one bit breathy two bits roguish three bits shy, “voulez-vous…coucher…avec moi ce soir?”
“bien sur.” liam replies easily, closing the book and chafing his palms together for warmth. zayn’s brows come together in a quizzical little furrow so he pulls a small smile and nods, “oui.”
zayn leaves his painting behind (liam is glad he throws a cloth over it because the colors were too bright; it hurt liam’s eyes) to move onto the bed, lazily cat-crawling over him, his body a slender reed of lovely blood and bones. he slides icy hands under zayn’s loose vest and zayn shudders, digging his toes up the leg of liam’s pajama pants to seek heat.
zayn sucks teasingly on his birthmark, making liam squirm and whine until he flips them over, pinning zayn by slotting a knee between zayn’s slim thighs. he combs into zayn’s half-fallen coif, nosing the nape of his neck.
along the gold column of zayn’s spine, there’s an unmistakable love-bite the size of liam’s thumb that is obviously not bitten or loved by liam, burgundy red, as if somebody had pressed zayn facedown and…and…it looks so raw, so careless, pulsing until liam squeezes his eyes shut. he sits up, leaving zayn dazed at the abrupt motion, setting his feet on the floor and gripping the edge of the bed while he tries to remember how to count.
in - one, two - out - one, two -
“lee?” zayn touches his shoulder but he drops it when liam flinches; zayn’s stereo’s stopped by now and the silence is smoldering.
“are you unhappy?” liam finally asks, because he had never given much thought to it before. he’s never asked zayn and maybe he should’ve, should’ve been more considerate -
“ - no. no, don’t do that.” zayn is speaking sadly and too soft. it makes liam’s chest ache because it’s too honeyed and zayn’s voice didn’t used to be like this; so lush and vivid and convincing. it scares liam but zayn continues, “don’t think like that.”
liam shakes his head, something akin to acute panic gripping his throat with black fingers, croaking, “d’you love him? is that it? is that why?”
“no! no. s’not...” zayn’s fingers cup his face, long and bony like skeleton keys, splotched with bright green paint (liam doesn’t know what green means; not yet). his tender voice like ink, staining liam’s waking conscience, “you know i don’t love anyone but you.” zayn’s eyes are endless when liam searches them for the truth. zayn says, “you shouldn’t mind because someone else loves me.”
liam swallows. he feels discomposed, as if somebody had broke something crucial deep inside then pieced him back together all wrong and that it’s only a matter of time before he rips a stitch and comes apart. he thinks he should let go, of his uncertainties, and just press on the problem until he finds a resolution, but zayn’s eyes are butterscotch and his skin is warm so liam just holds onto zayn’s hand and counts to 27 (recalls the name of the bones like a chant) and he thinks: okay.
zayn lets liam hold onto his hips that night and make marks of his own and liam comes undone when zayn rasps, “murmur me something french, yeah lee?”
the flannel sheets know the shape of their bodies, pooled snugly around their hips, and zayn’s already half-gone, his lungs working slow and deep. liam takes in the small comfort that the few broken noises zayn makes are lost syllables of his name and that zayn still clutches at liam insistently, still too bound by fears to let go.
“may i stay?” asks zayn even though they’re in his house, his room.
“which way?” said liam.
“like this.” said zayn.
liam doesn’t answer, just intertwines their fingers and brushes back zayn’s fringe. he murmurs against zayn’s temple, “personne ne m’aime et j’ai les mains froides.”
nobody loves me and my hands are cold.
in his sleep, zayn hums and makes a move to curl closer to liam’s chest. that night, rest escapes liam as he lies alert, listening to zayn’s heartbeat, but the sound is foreign and all he can make out is a thumping bass line and static white noise.
--
when liam boxes, he is fancy footwork and slippery feints. liam is fast, sticks to the combinations he’s learned, and his strikes are dense like his gloves are packed with sand.
in comparison, niall boxes slugger-style; with powerful single punches and illusive hooks. niall is sturdy in his platform stance and has bad reaction time in the ring (because niall’s instincts don’t tell him to strike when he sees a fist coming, his reflexes tell him to absorb) but he more than makes up for it in finesse and accuracy. by definition, liam is a better boxer in regards both to technique and strength but niall is wily. he likes to play dirty.
(niall is not so innocent beneath the braces, the easy cackles, the glaring brightness; he’s all wrapped up in smoke and women and secrets.)
liam doesn’t mind though because niall is good company, keeps him on his toes, and when niall cheats (such as clocking him in the balls), the match is usually resolved by liam clinching his arm tight around his neck (once liam locks, he doesn’t let go) until the irishman coughs and tap out.
on a good day, liam’s got niall purple-faced by the hour mark, trapped against the corner, ribs at him until he throws in the towel. on a bad day, niall breaks his groove with a vile uppercut, swarms him then does something wildly prohibited like sit on his back.
on a really, really bad day (such as today), liam can barely keep his form - he’s exhausted from holding zayn at night and holding himself together in light - but liam is a creature of habit and on saturdays he alternately rows, cycles, and boxes with niall.
(even though they’re both on the track team, they never run together because running is and always has been liam’s thing.)
he grits his teeth, holding his crouch even as his knee twinges while niall jabs at him wildly, knocking his gloves at every hole liam exposes at his torso.
“c’mon, mate.” niall pants, caught between annoyance and confusion. “what’s with ya? haven’t got a single proper hit in today, damn it payne, don’t be a prat.”
“m’not.” liam protests before he breaks from defense into a weak bob-and-weave but niall sees the right cross coming and ducks around to liam’s back, rabbit-punching him in the kidneys. liam turns to swing but niall blocks him jab for jab until liam’s knuckles feel numb.
“yes. you. are.” niall punctuates with small but meaningful taps around liam’s flank. his blue eyes are tight in concentration, “your head’s not in this and your body’s not either.” he very nearly socks him in the chin but liam reels back in the last second. niall squints, “you’re getting slow. d’you want to stop?”
his muscles are straining to agree but he shakes his head woodenly, his skin damp with sweat, “sorry. i just. no. i mean. let’s keep going.”
“well then quit arse-ing around. stop daydreaming about zayn for a bloody minute and fucking hit me.”
and suddenly liam’s angry. angry at everything. angry at niall’s remarks, then on a deeper level, angry at niall’s easiness with everything that liam has to work so hard to achieve. angry at zayn for his drugs, his unfaithfulness, his manipulations. angry at himself because he’s tired and he’s jealous and he’s been slow on his runs and zayn’s slipped off into the city again like a receding tide called away by gravity. and all liam can do is watch from the shores and wait for its return to sweep him up once more.
until then it feels as if there are cracks in liam’s body (his armour), not so gaping that he would break, but just enough that he can feel the aches and the wind and saltwater ooze through and sting his wounds.
but for now, it’s easy enough to confuse pain with anger, so liam wounds his muscles, feels them coiling alongside his tendons like steel springs, crowds into niall’s space. he breaks niall’s counters quickly, slips, feints, finds an open gap, and dealt him a blunt cross under his jaw.
niall’s head snaps back. he swears (“motherfucker”), whips off his glove and touches his chin gingerly with wrapped fingers. he waves liam away when he rushes forward (“christ, niall, i’m sorry, you alright? god i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m so sorry”). he stumbles over to his corner of the ring and slides down to the floor, his mouth turning and liam winces as he hears the little clicks and crack before niall spits out a wad of blood and holds a cold water bottle to his jaw.
“alright.” niall grunts wobbly. “now that you’ve got a hit in, you want to talk about zayn? or do i have to take another cross before you’re feeling guilty enough?”
liam stares at his hands, slowly undoing the bandages keeping his bones in place, as if all that’s keeping him together these days are a few flimsy pieces of gauze. he hears his own voice unravel when he mumbles hollowly, “nothing to talk about.”
“okay then. i’ll talk. you listen.” niall’s tone is firm but his mouth is pressed in concern. “look, i don’t want to get into whatever’s happening between you and zayn because getting into it means picking a side so the less i know the better. but he’s been missing a lot of school and he’s just…god he’s -so thin.” niall’s eyes are milky blue, gazing at liam but seeing zayn’s shoulder blades, sharp as fins. “i don’t know if you’re just pretending not to notice or you’re too full of shit to believe it but there’s something wrong with him and you need to get him to talk about it.”
niall puts down the water bottle. his jaw is swollen but niall will be fine because he’s carved from wood. he looks off to the side of the ring, pensive. sometimes niall gets small and quiet and liam’s stomach clench with bitter guilt because niall is so empathetic; he feels everything. he sounds very sad when he continues, “you both live so much inside your heads. you both expect too much, you forget how important words can be. it makes it so easy to hurt each other. and you two really know how to break each other’s hearts, don’t you?”
--
hearts are a wondrous thing. they’re strong.
highly-resistant to fatigue, restless in its work. it symbolizes life more than any other anatomy (the brain or the lungs) because it’s blood and tissue and valve and because just like life: it goes on.
makes sense that we would love with it as well. for once you start loving someone, parts of them start to replace the role of your vital organs. you stop thinking about it in terms of ventricular and aortic and your heart stops pumping hemoglobin; it pumps lavender, ink, and a voice (it pumps a name).
heartbreak does not occur easily; in fact, it’s safe to say it doesn’t occur at all. the heart is a muscle trained to withstand enormous amounts of pressure, fortified by a cage of bones. a heart can strain or murmur or drown, it can become infected or lose it’s beat. it’s fickle; sometimes it’s too small or sometimes too large; it can explode. but a heart does not break.
it corrodes.
in ancient aztec culture, hearts were istli, a fragment of the sun’s heat (“round, hot, pulsating”) and was entrapped by the body and its desires. heart-extraction was viewed as a means of liberating the istli and reuniting it with the sun.
the victim is placed on a sacrificial stone. the priest would cut through the abdomen with an obsidian blade then the heart would be torn out still beating and held towards the sky.
in modern times, they use turtles.
most people were heartless about turtles because a turtle’s heart will beat for days after it has been cut up and butchered.
liam’s got two turtles (achilles and patroclus), both rescued by zayn. he looks to them and he thinks: i have such a heart too.
--
part three