ocean sequence: it's not just money, it's happiness (1/3)
ocean sequence
title: it’s not just money, it’s happiness
pairing: harry/louis, liam/zayn
rating: r
warning: au, language, drug abuse, angst, infidelity, religion,
word count: 15,686
note: this is the fourth segment. please read the first, second, and third before proceeding.
a/n: wow okay so this is the long-awaited fourth sequence and it’s taken me over a year to write! this is probably the most work i’ve spent on a piece and i’m really, really proud of how it’s turned out. it’s taken a lot of work mostly because there’s already a lot of established themes and reoccurring motifs that i have to be careful to incorporate but also be careful to not step out of any pre-existing events that i’ve already set up. but it is here now and i’m so excited to be able to share it all with you guys. thank you all for your continuing support on tumblr, twitter, and in my personal life, really pushing me on even on really tough periods where it seemed impossible for me to even finish one scene. so therefore, unspeakable thanks to my loveliest kendall (who had to listen to my 4am whatsapp rambles and crazy ideas), also all the lovely ladies who’d encourage me ash, tayla, niela, ashley, elle, ainslie, genevieve, dominique and so so many more!
a couple small updates on what’s coming up as well: the fifth and final part of the sequence has a hesitantly set released date of sometime during this summer. i will also be simultaneously working on a playlist for ocean sequence (and i encourage you all to submit me a playlist i think they’re so amazing!). i will also be making a timeline (since ocean has many jumps and flashbacks) of how and where all the events fit on a common timeline and it will most probably be posted with the final part. if you would like to see my inspiration i do have an /ocean-sequence tag on my tumblr (wildestagram) and that’s also where you can reach me.
finally, credits to pieces that inspired me. dialogue snatches from the film ‘the closer’, a lot of scientific interlude from alan lightman’s ‘einstein’s dreams’, nayirrah waheed, pablo neruda, e.e. cummings, fitzgerald, hemingway, ‘how to prepare a heart for eating’ by sincerelyjohanna, bukowski. there's a lot of science facts in here (majority are true) but some had to be twisted just a bit and a lot of greek/aztec mythology. i did do my research but i apologize for any sort of mistaken information. i cannot thank you all enough for joining me for this journey. thank you and welcome back.
“my skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel.” - a storm of swords, george r. r. martin
--
titanium.
a chemical element with the symbol ti and the atomic number 22. it has a low density and is a strong, lustrous, corrosion-resistant (including chlorine and sea water) transition metal.
it’s named for the titans (the olden gods before gods) of greek mythology. the element occurs within a number of mineral deposits, principally rutile and ilmenite, which are widely distributed in the earth’s crust and lithosphere.
the two most useful properties of the metal form are corrosion resistance (virtually no organic breakdown) and it has the highest strength-to-weight ratio of any metal. in its unalloyed condition, titanium is as strong as steel, but 45% lighter.
it is found in almost all living things.
it is present in most igneous rocks, sediments, and soil. it is present in all natural waters. titanium is contained in meteorites and has been detected in the sun and in m-type stars; the coolest type of star with a surface temperature of 3,200 celsius. rocks brought back from the moon during the apollo 17 mission are composed of 12.1% titanium dioxide. it is also found in coal ash, plants, and even the human body.
because of these properties and its biocompatibility (non-toxic and not rejected by the body), titanium is used in a variety of medical applications including surgical implements and implants.
titanium has the inherent power to osseointegrate, fusing tight with matrix and forge into bone.
harry styles is made of titanium - right down to the bone.
--
very early in harry’s life, it was too late.
he’s eleven years-old and he’s leaving chesire, a duffle of clothes on his back, a wad of cash in his coat pocket, gemma’s excited whisper of we’re free there, harry, and no one can tame us echoing in his ear as the train conductor ask for their tickets. his hand is steady.
he’s twelve years-old and he’s in london. gemma finds a boyfriend named simon. simon’s older; he’s a very successful businessman so harry knows he must be wicked. but now there’s a gold-gilded roof over their heads and a door with a wind chime, which strangers rattle at night, sliding padded envelopes under the door…like a cage. but gemma tells him every bird needs a cage. harry wonders which one he is.
he’s thirteen years-old and out in the streets, his dignity on his back, three grams of crystal in his coat pocket. simon’s sour whisper of be a good boy, harry and don’t come home empty-handed. he doesn’t have a home, he wants to tell simon, but his lungs are warmer when he keeps quiet. and when he passes a gram to a stranger under the neon strobe of the london lights, his hand is steady still.
he’s fourteen years-old and he watches louis tomlinson over a throng of gyrating bodies and empty vodka bottles and he reminded harry of a honeydew flame or a sheet of alabaster or whatever it is that sharpened steel. when louis asks to buy a gram, harry discovered a voice as bubbly and smoldering as champagne. and with a sense of drunkenness, harry’s fingers shook with a thrilling quiver as they made first touch - he was overcome with a sense of excitement; he couldn’t wait to lie down and be forged.
harry styles is fourteen years-old and he meets louis tomlinson and right away, it was too late.
--
it’s sunday.
and london is blushing in the presence of spring rain. the peonies are in full bloom this season so harry picks up a bouquet of them in fluctuating high colors and a bag of chocolate croissants before cabbing across town to have tea with gemma.
there is a world of difference between gemma-then and gemma-now. gemma-then had ocean salted curls, gemma-now has shoreline waves. gemma-then moved in jerky, agitated fits like a roaring storm, gemma-now is as whimsically restless as the changing tides.
gemma, both then and now, has always reminded harry of the sea, something that is melded and cannot be broken, and while gemma is not broken, she has most certainly been melded.
we’re wild here, harry, and no one can tame us. gemma’s promise rings in his head like church bells; a reminder of what has been lost, harry wonders how someone as good at leaving as gemma has managed to stay, though harry does not blame her for it.
it makes harry very sad to see her like this, even if he knows she’s happy.
“i’m happy.” she reassures him as she’s putting on the kettle then flounces over to the sink to fill a vase with water. her short little kimono, printed with satin magnolias, sways on her hips as she plucks a peony to tuck in her hair and when she turns to smile at harry, she looks happy.
of course, harry does not doubt this. gemma would not lie to him.
“you’re happy.” he echoes instead, eyes lazily following her strong tigress silhouette. he tilts his head, musing aloud, “why would you want that?”
“everybody wants to be happy.” her laugh is fond and loud and rueful. she sets down a cuppa in front of him, porcelain with vines of roses, and curls her long legs into the wicker chair next to him. then she looks to him with very gentle eyes, “are you happy, harry?”
gemma’s hands are kind of scarred and raw but feminine and feel warm on his moonbeam wrist - harry thinks of wrists and he thinks of zayn running up mount olympus on his hands for the boy of his dreams and he wonders how there could be so much tragedy in goodness.
but those are thoughts of another life.
“i don’t care for happiness, gem.” because harry’s known from a young age that if two people love each other there can be no happy end to it - stains of lavender ink on his fingertips from a petite mariposa can attest to that.
“what do you care for?”
harry blinks because he doesn’t know how to voice - the name burns bright in his mouth - what’s between the words and molecules that encompasses all of louis’s light and darkness. he’s not even sure if he wants to put a voice to it; he doesn’t think he wants anyone to know. he lets his sentence meander off without much of an end or a purpose but gemma doesn’t press because she is accustomed to his wandering speech. it’s a long time later before he can remember to finish, “the truth.”
and the truth is that it’s going to be him and louis for the rest of forever.
“i am frightened for you, harry.” she shakes her head, “for when you realize that the truth will not set you free.”
and the truth about gemma is that she had once sang forever to a titan named simon, hoping to drag him into the deep as is the way the ocean makes her claim, and maybe simon would’ve let her if he were mortal. but he isn’t and he can’t be with all the power that he possesses (simon’s wife is someone that- some words come back to harry verbatim - keeps him in check, makes him shine).
but gemma’s just a siren; formed from the sea and built to be loved, and the sea knows not of responsibility or sacrifice, nor do you expect the sea to. she is a moody but forgiving creature and she revolves quietly around simon like a pacific isle.
“i know that i am in chains, gemma.” harry agrees while he stares at their unknowingly interlinked fingers for a long while. he traces his eyes over their minute scars and mis-slotted bones and different phases of lunar skin. they are carved from the same stone, but not shaped by the same element - gemma by the moon tide and harry by solar flare. “but don’t touch my chains.”
gemma only sighs in the way she does when she thinks of all the iron inside harry’s lungs. her voice is grounded and soft like tortoise sand on a green beach and her irises are sparkling, “be soft, harry. people are not built to be as strong as you.”
“they aren’t.” harry remembers regrettably. but he knows from even early childhood that bodies are battlefields from the moment they’re born until they die, marked by fear and courage and betrayal, and he adds: “but maybe they ought to be.”
“people are built for happiness.” gemma repeats and her voice reminds him of gemma-then, like she could break the ocean in half - colossus - “even louis.”
suddenly, harry is reminded of how all the loveliest, wildest people he’s ever known have tamed their hearts in order to fit into the ribs of another. he thinks of gemma-now who faithfully wears a ring for a never-to-happen engagement. and zayn’s delicate wrists, clipped to his side by inked promises. and he wonders if he is the same -
a cage, seeking a bird.
“and maybe you only think you don’t want happiness, little brother.” gemma presses a kiss into the misshapen slope of his knuckles because gemma knows all the places in harry that’s been broken and burned, “maybe it’s because you’ve never truly been happy.”
--
timeline: louis is in london.
“good evening, darling.” louis’s airy voice chirps at him when he steps in the door. he’s in the kitchenette. louis likes to sit there and write until the sun goes down.
“hello.” harry greets back, toeing off his boots. he finds louis sitting at the breakfast bar reading the post, cigarette in hand. he’s got his hair all done-up today in a feathery swoop and he looks as bronze as a nymph. harry crosses the room for louis. he wonders if louis would smell like spray tan or champagne or burberry brit.
he can’t wait to find out.
“good evening, lou.” he leans in and - spray tan and champagne and burberry brit - inhales deeply before he kisses louis. because kissing louis is like diving into an icy lake or putting your head inside a crocodile’s jaw; it’s something you have to hold your breath for.
louis’s mouth is a halo. and harry loves how it burns.
“you taste like rain.” louis hums, blinking quickly. louis’s lashes are sunflower petals framing his bleached blue eyes and he’s looking at harry like there’s poetry etched in his veins.
you taste like rainfall; like me for you.
“you taste like louis.” harry returns.
louis laughs, it’s loud and musical, accompanied by a puff of smoke. his chin sharpens and it makes him look charmingly wicked. louis’s laugh is made from stars like a constellation (leo, harry thinks because louis’s got a lion heart).
“you’re lovely.” louis murmurs then with a pretty grin. he sounds slightly wistful, as if he’s sorry to think so, but most people are with harry.
for a brief moment, something fleeting bleeds into harry’s mind: are you happy here?
a whistle breaks through the air as the kettle steams and the thought evaporates as quickly as it appeared. he reluctantly steps away from louis, grunting, “i’ll get it.”
“cheers, darling.” louis fires up another cigarette, keeps it between his teeth, goes back to the post. harry wonders if they’ve put on a new show at the opera house since louis took him to carmen a few months ago. harry loves the opera house, he loves all things dark and fine.
(there’s still butterfly dust on his fingers and his wrist is light of a platinum watch).
“have you eaten?” he puts louis’s polished mug next to the ashtray, carefully sliding a coaster beneath. as he moves away, he’s caught by the cover story of england’s shooting star blazes through qualifiers.
louis senses his lingering gaze, flipping back to the front before his lips curl into a knowing smirk, “i hate to say i told you so but i did, didn’t i? you shouldn’t have teased him.”
“why, louis?”
“because he’s gone and broke zayn malik’s pretty glass heart.” zayn was inconsolable after that. “and now you’re stuck here playing pretend-liam to him, aren’t you, hazza?”
harry bristles at the mere idea, “oh you know i’m not a liam.”
the thing is this: liam payne is harry styles in another life. like, if he hadn’t ran away with gemma or gotten mixed up with simon or fallen in love with louis tomlinson, he would probably be just as golden and moral and zayn-prepossessing as liam payne.
but harry styles being harry styles and not liam payne is an evolutionary alteration that cannot be reversed so, to harry, the prospect of losing his bravery and his scars and louis is so preposterous, he refuses to even entertain the idea.
“maybe i’d like you better as a liam.” louis lifts his chin in a defiant gesture, “ever think ‘bout that?”
“you wouldn’t.” harry responds simply. there’s a fruit basket on the counter from louis’s manager. he moves there to search for some bananas, drawling, “he would bore you, lou.”
there’re only two bananas left in the basket, both bruised, and if zayn were here he would be quietly brooding ‘like us’, but harry’s not zayn and he’s certainly not liam. he picks up a pomegranate, splits it in half.
“maybe i ought to have a liam in my life.” he waves his cigarette-lit hand, but his voice is bright, his eyes are starlight. “give me stability.”
“oh, but would a liam want you?”
“would he -”
louis falters. it’s so rare, harry barely caught it, “no, he wouldn’t. because you’d ruin him. and he’d leave.”
“but you won’t.” if that was a question, louis didn’t phrase it that way. he tilts his head prettily and his lips curl into a strong, coy smile. he looks pleased and it’s tempting; harry could kiss him like this.
“no.” harry thinks of the small divinities of louis’s wrists, the early radiance in louis’s eyes that reminds him of morning, the weight of the universe on their backs, and how once the greek god of the underworld tricked his lover into eating six pomegranate seeds so he can bind her soul to his realm and keep her for six moons every year while the earth and seas mourned.
he thinks of the unbearable: i don’t love you anymore, goodbye.
“no. i won’t.” harry repeats and he wonders if anybody asked if persephone had wanted to be the queen of darkness and the pomegranate tastes sweet on his tongue.
and - here is the repeated image of lovers destroyed, it is both early and too late, just like everything else in harry’s life: are you happy here?
louis smiles with the universe in his eyes and louis’s hands are like a thousand suns and louis’s mouth could be a supernova.
(harry styles is later).
he’s here; what more does he require.
harry closes his eyes, holds his breath, and plunges into the lion’s den.
--
when harry was born, he was a month overdue and anne’s been on bed rest for triple that time because of the pressure in her spine but she was in no rush because she knows the time will come when the planets align for him.
then, harry awoke as anne read, one spring morning, first of february, in a hospital by the sea. the book in her hand is the odyssey, the story of a greek hero trying to find his way home.
and as she clenched her teeth and screamed, she remembers ‘of all creatures that breathe and move upon the earth, nothing is bred that is weaker than man’ and she thinks no, not him; he shall be a warrior.
but even anne knows that tragedies give birth to legends.
exactly one summer into harry’s awakening, it seems like the titan prometheus himself, who brought fire to mankind, lit up the quiet house on holmes chapel.
the official report mentions faulty electrical wires but they forgot the wild panic of des pounding on the front door and the quiet determination of anne as she walked back into the flames for the crib and the sharp relief that mischievous gemma had snuck away moments ago with a neighbor.
ashes to ashes; dust to dust.
the firefighters find harry, the lone surviving cub in a pack, hidden away in the fireplace surrounded by cool coals, shivering against the wet shirt he’s swaddled in. he is weak but alive and his eyes gleamed with a fresh brightness.
so this - this is the strength in harry’s backbone, the slow burn in his blood, the defiant jut of revolution in his jaw. this is how harry is made; raised from a sacrifice of fire and blood.
but this is not an act of cruelty or vengeance and although harry sorely misses what he thinks is the phantom touch of his mum’s hand on his cheek, he has learned to see that everything is more beautiful because he is doomed.
and the gods must envy him for it.
--
timeline: louis is in ibiza.
which means harry is getting drunk and high in a lair with nick grimshaw. harry thinks ‘lair’ is a good word to go with grimmy’s dramatic hair and the sleazy pull of his smile.
grimmy’s not so much a villain though, even if he looks the part. mostly harry likes grimmy because he’s very clever and obnoxious in a way that harry thinks is hilarious. they met through a long lineage of mutual friends, none of which’s company they enjoy more than each other’s and so here they are - 1 a.m. in some sneaky dive that plays smoky hipster covers of top 50.
“what d’you reckon he even does on that godforsaken island?” grimmy is reclining in a booth with a diluted glass of jack and coke on his knee. he’s staring at the ceiling dazedly with jigsaw eyes.
“mm.” harry appeases, fingers flying across his mobile. nick waits patiently because harry is constantly in orbit, he could be a crescent or a full-moon. after a couple blink of cattish eyes, harry shrugs, “s’ppose he writes.”
grimmy’s quiff slumps as he tilts his head towards harry, peacock-like, “why?”
“why not?”
“well, he’s much too pretty to be working.” nick’s got a bit of a crush on louis, which harry finds sweet. also, grimmy is trapped in an unrequited eclipse with a greg james, who prefers skirts and gloss to nick’s scruff and cock. it’s the type of bond where every touch and glance must hurt like a phantom vice but grimmy doesn’t seem to mind and harry doesn’t pretend to understand.
love is so hard, and it can go so wrong.
“he’s not working. just likes it.”
grimmy frowns, “and you’re alright with it?”
“why not?” harry repeats.
“say you’re fine with him dragging the skeletons out of your closet and shaking it in front of the world. and say you’re fine with every secret you and him share immortalized in ink. and let’s also say you’re fine that he sold these secrets for money.” grimmy has a very obnoxious way of arriving at a clever point. he squints in scrutiny, “but which are you fine with: him being a selfish bastard that exploits you for his work? or him being a sacrificing romantic who just likes you as a book of ruined poetry, darling?”
harry thinks ‘you’re like death: you take everything’ and ‘we needed the money’ and how louis exists in two places; here and there.
“louis dedicated the book to me.” nick starts a little when he speaks so perhaps some time has passed since. he blinks at the scars on his knuckles he got from touching the sun, and why does it matter how many lovers one has, if none of them gives you the universe. he looks to grimmy, “i’m pleased.”
“okay.” grimmy nods. his expression is solemn for a change. “be careful of all the things you lose in someone’s mouth when you love them.”
with grimmy’s warning in mind and a cotton mouth from the oxy, harry slinks his way to the bar, orders the house punch. he cut the queue so there’s a bit of a moody sigh coming from the boy next to him.
harry blinks twice.
when harry’s drink arrives, he slides it towards the boy who’s too-broad varsity jacket reads payne. he is really quite gorgeous with slender bones, hair as raven as soft dark birds, and eyes like drenched violets.
harry has always been charmed by fine, broken things.
“you’re sad.” he notes with a curious tilt of head. he’s never seen anyone wear an emotion so well.
“yes. well, life.” the boy explains, draining the glass in one gulp. harry follows the elegant line of his throat with an amused gaze.
he smirks, he’s perfected long-ago the expression from watching louis, “what’s that about then?”
the boy’s got a laugh like smoke, like maybe he only exists where harry can touch. and when he finally looks over, it is a flowery gaze peered through devastating lashes. he is an exquisite creature with expressive eyebrows. his voice is breathless like a sigh, “a multitude of people, yet solitude.”
stunning, harry is charmed. he asks, “can i buy you another drink?”
“i’ve got a boyfriend.” the boy answers matter-of-factly.
“would you like my class ring instead?” harry quips, green gaze lingering on the worn engravings of the jacket. it’s all so domestic. harry is curious since louis was home-schooled and harry was, well, street-schooled. “what’s it mean?”
“track.” there is a worn fondness in his words like waves breaking upon a shore, “they say he might run in the olympics.”
“but what’s it mean? wearing someone’s name on your back?” he presses. harry thinks he knows; he’s doing the same, but harry keeps his chains where they were built - in his lungs. the boys says nothing, just looks surprised, as if no one’s ever seen the bleeding heart on his sleeve.
harry flags down the bartender for two more drinks.
“i think i’ve loved him before i knew his name. i think maybe i’ve always known it.” fingers brushing gently over the still-tender tattoo, explaining, “liam.” followed by a synonym, “i’m zayn.”
“harry styles. cheers.” the cups are sticky with punch as he slides one over, remarks, “always is a long time.”
zayn hums, “it’ll be ten years in ten days.”
“the romans have a saying…that every ten years leaves a mark on a man. every ten years, you get a new skeleton. you’re a brand-new man. you are not wearing the same bones you were when you fell in love the first time.” harry considers this, the punch is cherry flavored on his tongue and he knows he’s smiling obscenely, “but you know this already, don’t you? that’s why you have the jacket - trying to wear your new bones back to their old self against the sand of his name. you’re clever; what’re you so afraid of?”
zayn’s eyes are very sad but harry can sense the storm brewing within, it’s heavy enough that it vibrates his atoms, “you’re right. we’re not the same. i know this.”
“but he doesn’t. and you’re worried he won’t love you as before, now that you’ve got different skin.”
“no. i’m worried that he will.” harry thinks zayn is the stuff of legends, he could have the world in his palm if only he would open his hand. zayn’s lashes are shadow petals, “i’m worried that he will love me like he always has. like when we were kids and everything can be forgiven and forgotten with ‘forever’s. i’m afraid that it’s not enough. i think i want ‘forever’ and i think i want it now. do you think i’m greedy?”
yes, harry thinks, but something inherently tender about zayn, maybe a hyper-sense of self-awareness or the fine vitality alive in his slender bones, makes harry careful, “i think that you’ve been waiting and you want what you’ve been promised. i think that you’ve been starved. but it is alright to want and it is alright to give. it’s how the heart stays alive.”
zayn’s eyes, a silk screen of tenuous darkness around the iris, are bright with understanding, “your heart is not like the others.”
so maybe zayn can see harry has given just as much as zayn has wanted.
“nothing about me is like the others.”
distantly, someone is calling for zayn. he blinks languidly, eyes fluttering as if waking a cluster of sleeping butterflies and he’s unsteady underneath all that leather, swaying like waves breaking upon a shore. he checks his watch jerkily, counts up the diamonds in its big stone face, and sighs, “it’s late.”
“does it matter?”
zayn wavers hazily, “does what? the time?”
“yes. time.” harry thinks zayn is very preoccupied with time. he can see it weighing on him like a second shadow, “days, years, always. it doesn’t suit you.”
zayn’s gaze is smudged soft. he looks too, too sad and his voice too gentle, “i should go.”
harry could detect the longing in his voice. it makes harry think of saying the unspeakable things like you have never been or will ever be as lovely as you are now and that day and night breaks just like humans do and there is a seaport in my ribs for you to lay anchor.
but harry has scars on his knuckles for saying the unspeakable before, and words are probably the last thing zayn needs.
so he writes out his number on the side of a cigarette, tucks it carefully behind the raven’s hair. he supposes what he’s saying with the gestures is:
my bones are an empty birdcage; come in, i’ll take your chains.
part two
title: it’s not just money, it’s happiness
pairing: harry/louis, liam/zayn
rating: r
warning: au, language, drug abuse, angst, infidelity, religion,
word count: 15,686
note: this is the fourth segment. please read the first, second, and third before proceeding.
a/n: wow okay so this is the long-awaited fourth sequence and it’s taken me over a year to write! this is probably the most work i’ve spent on a piece and i’m really, really proud of how it’s turned out. it’s taken a lot of work mostly because there’s already a lot of established themes and reoccurring motifs that i have to be careful to incorporate but also be careful to not step out of any pre-existing events that i’ve already set up. but it is here now and i’m so excited to be able to share it all with you guys. thank you all for your continuing support on tumblr, twitter, and in my personal life, really pushing me on even on really tough periods where it seemed impossible for me to even finish one scene. so therefore, unspeakable thanks to my loveliest kendall (who had to listen to my 4am whatsapp rambles and crazy ideas), also all the lovely ladies who’d encourage me ash, tayla, niela, ashley, elle, ainslie, genevieve, dominique and so so many more!
a couple small updates on what’s coming up as well: the fifth and final part of the sequence has a hesitantly set released date of sometime during this summer. i will also be simultaneously working on a playlist for ocean sequence (and i encourage you all to submit me a playlist i think they’re so amazing!). i will also be making a timeline (since ocean has many jumps and flashbacks) of how and where all the events fit on a common timeline and it will most probably be posted with the final part. if you would like to see my inspiration i do have an /ocean-sequence tag on my tumblr (wildestagram) and that’s also where you can reach me.
finally, credits to pieces that inspired me. dialogue snatches from the film ‘the closer’, a lot of scientific interlude from alan lightman’s ‘einstein’s dreams’, nayirrah waheed, pablo neruda, e.e. cummings, fitzgerald, hemingway, ‘how to prepare a heart for eating’ by sincerelyjohanna, bukowski. there's a lot of science facts in here (majority are true) but some had to be twisted just a bit and a lot of greek/aztec mythology. i did do my research but i apologize for any sort of mistaken information. i cannot thank you all enough for joining me for this journey. thank you and welcome back.
“my skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel.” - a storm of swords, george r. r. martin
--
titanium.
a chemical element with the symbol ti and the atomic number 22. it has a low density and is a strong, lustrous, corrosion-resistant (including chlorine and sea water) transition metal.
it’s named for the titans (the olden gods before gods) of greek mythology. the element occurs within a number of mineral deposits, principally rutile and ilmenite, which are widely distributed in the earth’s crust and lithosphere.
the two most useful properties of the metal form are corrosion resistance (virtually no organic breakdown) and it has the highest strength-to-weight ratio of any metal. in its unalloyed condition, titanium is as strong as steel, but 45% lighter.
it is found in almost all living things.
it is present in most igneous rocks, sediments, and soil. it is present in all natural waters. titanium is contained in meteorites and has been detected in the sun and in m-type stars; the coolest type of star with a surface temperature of 3,200 celsius. rocks brought back from the moon during the apollo 17 mission are composed of 12.1% titanium dioxide. it is also found in coal ash, plants, and even the human body.
because of these properties and its biocompatibility (non-toxic and not rejected by the body), titanium is used in a variety of medical applications including surgical implements and implants.
titanium has the inherent power to osseointegrate, fusing tight with matrix and forge into bone.
harry styles is made of titanium - right down to the bone.
--
very early in harry’s life, it was too late.
he’s eleven years-old and he’s leaving chesire, a duffle of clothes on his back, a wad of cash in his coat pocket, gemma’s excited whisper of we’re free there, harry, and no one can tame us echoing in his ear as the train conductor ask for their tickets. his hand is steady.
he’s twelve years-old and he’s in london. gemma finds a boyfriend named simon. simon’s older; he’s a very successful businessman so harry knows he must be wicked. but now there’s a gold-gilded roof over their heads and a door with a wind chime, which strangers rattle at night, sliding padded envelopes under the door…like a cage. but gemma tells him every bird needs a cage. harry wonders which one he is.
he’s thirteen years-old and out in the streets, his dignity on his back, three grams of crystal in his coat pocket. simon’s sour whisper of be a good boy, harry and don’t come home empty-handed. he doesn’t have a home, he wants to tell simon, but his lungs are warmer when he keeps quiet. and when he passes a gram to a stranger under the neon strobe of the london lights, his hand is steady still.
he’s fourteen years-old and he watches louis tomlinson over a throng of gyrating bodies and empty vodka bottles and he reminded harry of a honeydew flame or a sheet of alabaster or whatever it is that sharpened steel. when louis asks to buy a gram, harry discovered a voice as bubbly and smoldering as champagne. and with a sense of drunkenness, harry’s fingers shook with a thrilling quiver as they made first touch - he was overcome with a sense of excitement; he couldn’t wait to lie down and be forged.
harry styles is fourteen years-old and he meets louis tomlinson and right away, it was too late.
--
it’s sunday.
and london is blushing in the presence of spring rain. the peonies are in full bloom this season so harry picks up a bouquet of them in fluctuating high colors and a bag of chocolate croissants before cabbing across town to have tea with gemma.
there is a world of difference between gemma-then and gemma-now. gemma-then had ocean salted curls, gemma-now has shoreline waves. gemma-then moved in jerky, agitated fits like a roaring storm, gemma-now is as whimsically restless as the changing tides.
gemma, both then and now, has always reminded harry of the sea, something that is melded and cannot be broken, and while gemma is not broken, she has most certainly been melded.
we’re wild here, harry, and no one can tame us. gemma’s promise rings in his head like church bells; a reminder of what has been lost, harry wonders how someone as good at leaving as gemma has managed to stay, though harry does not blame her for it.
it makes harry very sad to see her like this, even if he knows she’s happy.
“i’m happy.” she reassures him as she’s putting on the kettle then flounces over to the sink to fill a vase with water. her short little kimono, printed with satin magnolias, sways on her hips as she plucks a peony to tuck in her hair and when she turns to smile at harry, she looks happy.
of course, harry does not doubt this. gemma would not lie to him.
“you’re happy.” he echoes instead, eyes lazily following her strong tigress silhouette. he tilts his head, musing aloud, “why would you want that?”
“everybody wants to be happy.” her laugh is fond and loud and rueful. she sets down a cuppa in front of him, porcelain with vines of roses, and curls her long legs into the wicker chair next to him. then she looks to him with very gentle eyes, “are you happy, harry?”
gemma’s hands are kind of scarred and raw but feminine and feel warm on his moonbeam wrist - harry thinks of wrists and he thinks of zayn running up mount olympus on his hands for the boy of his dreams and he wonders how there could be so much tragedy in goodness.
but those are thoughts of another life.
“i don’t care for happiness, gem.” because harry’s known from a young age that if two people love each other there can be no happy end to it - stains of lavender ink on his fingertips from a petite mariposa can attest to that.
“what do you care for?”
harry blinks because he doesn’t know how to voice - the name burns bright in his mouth - what’s between the words and molecules that encompasses all of louis’s light and darkness. he’s not even sure if he wants to put a voice to it; he doesn’t think he wants anyone to know. he lets his sentence meander off without much of an end or a purpose but gemma doesn’t press because she is accustomed to his wandering speech. it’s a long time later before he can remember to finish, “the truth.”
and the truth is that it’s going to be him and louis for the rest of forever.
“i am frightened for you, harry.” she shakes her head, “for when you realize that the truth will not set you free.”
and the truth about gemma is that she had once sang forever to a titan named simon, hoping to drag him into the deep as is the way the ocean makes her claim, and maybe simon would’ve let her if he were mortal. but he isn’t and he can’t be with all the power that he possesses (simon’s wife is someone that- some words come back to harry verbatim - keeps him in check, makes him shine).
but gemma’s just a siren; formed from the sea and built to be loved, and the sea knows not of responsibility or sacrifice, nor do you expect the sea to. she is a moody but forgiving creature and she revolves quietly around simon like a pacific isle.
“i know that i am in chains, gemma.” harry agrees while he stares at their unknowingly interlinked fingers for a long while. he traces his eyes over their minute scars and mis-slotted bones and different phases of lunar skin. they are carved from the same stone, but not shaped by the same element - gemma by the moon tide and harry by solar flare. “but don’t touch my chains.”
gemma only sighs in the way she does when she thinks of all the iron inside harry’s lungs. her voice is grounded and soft like tortoise sand on a green beach and her irises are sparkling, “be soft, harry. people are not built to be as strong as you.”
“they aren’t.” harry remembers regrettably. but he knows from even early childhood that bodies are battlefields from the moment they’re born until they die, marked by fear and courage and betrayal, and he adds: “but maybe they ought to be.”
“people are built for happiness.” gemma repeats and her voice reminds him of gemma-then, like she could break the ocean in half - colossus - “even louis.”
suddenly, harry is reminded of how all the loveliest, wildest people he’s ever known have tamed their hearts in order to fit into the ribs of another. he thinks of gemma-now who faithfully wears a ring for a never-to-happen engagement. and zayn’s delicate wrists, clipped to his side by inked promises. and he wonders if he is the same -
a cage, seeking a bird.
“and maybe you only think you don’t want happiness, little brother.” gemma presses a kiss into the misshapen slope of his knuckles because gemma knows all the places in harry that’s been broken and burned, “maybe it’s because you’ve never truly been happy.”
--
timeline: louis is in london.
“good evening, darling.” louis’s airy voice chirps at him when he steps in the door. he’s in the kitchenette. louis likes to sit there and write until the sun goes down.
“hello.” harry greets back, toeing off his boots. he finds louis sitting at the breakfast bar reading the post, cigarette in hand. he’s got his hair all done-up today in a feathery swoop and he looks as bronze as a nymph. harry crosses the room for louis. he wonders if louis would smell like spray tan or champagne or burberry brit.
he can’t wait to find out.
“good evening, lou.” he leans in and - spray tan and champagne and burberry brit - inhales deeply before he kisses louis. because kissing louis is like diving into an icy lake or putting your head inside a crocodile’s jaw; it’s something you have to hold your breath for.
louis’s mouth is a halo. and harry loves how it burns.
“you taste like rain.” louis hums, blinking quickly. louis’s lashes are sunflower petals framing his bleached blue eyes and he’s looking at harry like there’s poetry etched in his veins.
you taste like rainfall; like me for you.
“you taste like louis.” harry returns.
louis laughs, it’s loud and musical, accompanied by a puff of smoke. his chin sharpens and it makes him look charmingly wicked. louis’s laugh is made from stars like a constellation (leo, harry thinks because louis’s got a lion heart).
“you’re lovely.” louis murmurs then with a pretty grin. he sounds slightly wistful, as if he’s sorry to think so, but most people are with harry.
for a brief moment, something fleeting bleeds into harry’s mind: are you happy here?
a whistle breaks through the air as the kettle steams and the thought evaporates as quickly as it appeared. he reluctantly steps away from louis, grunting, “i’ll get it.”
“cheers, darling.” louis fires up another cigarette, keeps it between his teeth, goes back to the post. harry wonders if they’ve put on a new show at the opera house since louis took him to carmen a few months ago. harry loves the opera house, he loves all things dark and fine.
(there’s still butterfly dust on his fingers and his wrist is light of a platinum watch).
“have you eaten?” he puts louis’s polished mug next to the ashtray, carefully sliding a coaster beneath. as he moves away, he’s caught by the cover story of england’s shooting star blazes through qualifiers.
louis senses his lingering gaze, flipping back to the front before his lips curl into a knowing smirk, “i hate to say i told you so but i did, didn’t i? you shouldn’t have teased him.”
“why, louis?”
“because he’s gone and broke zayn malik’s pretty glass heart.” zayn was inconsolable after that. “and now you’re stuck here playing pretend-liam to him, aren’t you, hazza?”
harry bristles at the mere idea, “oh you know i’m not a liam.”
the thing is this: liam payne is harry styles in another life. like, if he hadn’t ran away with gemma or gotten mixed up with simon or fallen in love with louis tomlinson, he would probably be just as golden and moral and zayn-prepossessing as liam payne.
but harry styles being harry styles and not liam payne is an evolutionary alteration that cannot be reversed so, to harry, the prospect of losing his bravery and his scars and louis is so preposterous, he refuses to even entertain the idea.
“maybe i’d like you better as a liam.” louis lifts his chin in a defiant gesture, “ever think ‘bout that?”
“you wouldn’t.” harry responds simply. there’s a fruit basket on the counter from louis’s manager. he moves there to search for some bananas, drawling, “he would bore you, lou.”
there’re only two bananas left in the basket, both bruised, and if zayn were here he would be quietly brooding ‘like us’, but harry’s not zayn and he’s certainly not liam. he picks up a pomegranate, splits it in half.
“maybe i ought to have a liam in my life.” he waves his cigarette-lit hand, but his voice is bright, his eyes are starlight. “give me stability.”
“oh, but would a liam want you?”
“would he -”
louis falters. it’s so rare, harry barely caught it, “no, he wouldn’t. because you’d ruin him. and he’d leave.”
“but you won’t.” if that was a question, louis didn’t phrase it that way. he tilts his head prettily and his lips curl into a strong, coy smile. he looks pleased and it’s tempting; harry could kiss him like this.
“no.” harry thinks of the small divinities of louis’s wrists, the early radiance in louis’s eyes that reminds him of morning, the weight of the universe on their backs, and how once the greek god of the underworld tricked his lover into eating six pomegranate seeds so he can bind her soul to his realm and keep her for six moons every year while the earth and seas mourned.
he thinks of the unbearable: i don’t love you anymore, goodbye.
“no. i won’t.” harry repeats and he wonders if anybody asked if persephone had wanted to be the queen of darkness and the pomegranate tastes sweet on his tongue.
and - here is the repeated image of lovers destroyed, it is both early and too late, just like everything else in harry’s life: are you happy here?
louis smiles with the universe in his eyes and louis’s hands are like a thousand suns and louis’s mouth could be a supernova.
(harry styles is later).
he’s here; what more does he require.
harry closes his eyes, holds his breath, and plunges into the lion’s den.
--
when harry was born, he was a month overdue and anne’s been on bed rest for triple that time because of the pressure in her spine but she was in no rush because she knows the time will come when the planets align for him.
then, harry awoke as anne read, one spring morning, first of february, in a hospital by the sea. the book in her hand is the odyssey, the story of a greek hero trying to find his way home.
and as she clenched her teeth and screamed, she remembers ‘of all creatures that breathe and move upon the earth, nothing is bred that is weaker than man’ and she thinks no, not him; he shall be a warrior.
but even anne knows that tragedies give birth to legends.
exactly one summer into harry’s awakening, it seems like the titan prometheus himself, who brought fire to mankind, lit up the quiet house on holmes chapel.
the official report mentions faulty electrical wires but they forgot the wild panic of des pounding on the front door and the quiet determination of anne as she walked back into the flames for the crib and the sharp relief that mischievous gemma had snuck away moments ago with a neighbor.
ashes to ashes; dust to dust.
the firefighters find harry, the lone surviving cub in a pack, hidden away in the fireplace surrounded by cool coals, shivering against the wet shirt he’s swaddled in. he is weak but alive and his eyes gleamed with a fresh brightness.
so this - this is the strength in harry’s backbone, the slow burn in his blood, the defiant jut of revolution in his jaw. this is how harry is made; raised from a sacrifice of fire and blood.
but this is not an act of cruelty or vengeance and although harry sorely misses what he thinks is the phantom touch of his mum’s hand on his cheek, he has learned to see that everything is more beautiful because he is doomed.
and the gods must envy him for it.
--
timeline: louis is in ibiza.
which means harry is getting drunk and high in a lair with nick grimshaw. harry thinks ‘lair’ is a good word to go with grimmy’s dramatic hair and the sleazy pull of his smile.
grimmy’s not so much a villain though, even if he looks the part. mostly harry likes grimmy because he’s very clever and obnoxious in a way that harry thinks is hilarious. they met through a long lineage of mutual friends, none of which’s company they enjoy more than each other’s and so here they are - 1 a.m. in some sneaky dive that plays smoky hipster covers of top 50.
“what d’you reckon he even does on that godforsaken island?” grimmy is reclining in a booth with a diluted glass of jack and coke on his knee. he’s staring at the ceiling dazedly with jigsaw eyes.
“mm.” harry appeases, fingers flying across his mobile. nick waits patiently because harry is constantly in orbit, he could be a crescent or a full-moon. after a couple blink of cattish eyes, harry shrugs, “s’ppose he writes.”
grimmy’s quiff slumps as he tilts his head towards harry, peacock-like, “why?”
“why not?”
“well, he’s much too pretty to be working.” nick’s got a bit of a crush on louis, which harry finds sweet. also, grimmy is trapped in an unrequited eclipse with a greg james, who prefers skirts and gloss to nick’s scruff and cock. it’s the type of bond where every touch and glance must hurt like a phantom vice but grimmy doesn’t seem to mind and harry doesn’t pretend to understand.
love is so hard, and it can go so wrong.
“he’s not working. just likes it.”
grimmy frowns, “and you’re alright with it?”
“why not?” harry repeats.
“say you’re fine with him dragging the skeletons out of your closet and shaking it in front of the world. and say you’re fine with every secret you and him share immortalized in ink. and let’s also say you’re fine that he sold these secrets for money.” grimmy has a very obnoxious way of arriving at a clever point. he squints in scrutiny, “but which are you fine with: him being a selfish bastard that exploits you for his work? or him being a sacrificing romantic who just likes you as a book of ruined poetry, darling?”
harry thinks ‘you’re like death: you take everything’ and ‘we needed the money’ and how louis exists in two places; here and there.
“louis dedicated the book to me.” nick starts a little when he speaks so perhaps some time has passed since. he blinks at the scars on his knuckles he got from touching the sun, and why does it matter how many lovers one has, if none of them gives you the universe. he looks to grimmy, “i’m pleased.”
“okay.” grimmy nods. his expression is solemn for a change. “be careful of all the things you lose in someone’s mouth when you love them.”
with grimmy’s warning in mind and a cotton mouth from the oxy, harry slinks his way to the bar, orders the house punch. he cut the queue so there’s a bit of a moody sigh coming from the boy next to him.
harry blinks twice.
when harry’s drink arrives, he slides it towards the boy who’s too-broad varsity jacket reads payne. he is really quite gorgeous with slender bones, hair as raven as soft dark birds, and eyes like drenched violets.
harry has always been charmed by fine, broken things.
“you’re sad.” he notes with a curious tilt of head. he’s never seen anyone wear an emotion so well.
“yes. well, life.” the boy explains, draining the glass in one gulp. harry follows the elegant line of his throat with an amused gaze.
he smirks, he’s perfected long-ago the expression from watching louis, “what’s that about then?”
the boy’s got a laugh like smoke, like maybe he only exists where harry can touch. and when he finally looks over, it is a flowery gaze peered through devastating lashes. he is an exquisite creature with expressive eyebrows. his voice is breathless like a sigh, “a multitude of people, yet solitude.”
stunning, harry is charmed. he asks, “can i buy you another drink?”
“i’ve got a boyfriend.” the boy answers matter-of-factly.
“would you like my class ring instead?” harry quips, green gaze lingering on the worn engravings of the jacket. it’s all so domestic. harry is curious since louis was home-schooled and harry was, well, street-schooled. “what’s it mean?”
“track.” there is a worn fondness in his words like waves breaking upon a shore, “they say he might run in the olympics.”
“but what’s it mean? wearing someone’s name on your back?” he presses. harry thinks he knows; he’s doing the same, but harry keeps his chains where they were built - in his lungs. the boys says nothing, just looks surprised, as if no one’s ever seen the bleeding heart on his sleeve.
harry flags down the bartender for two more drinks.
“i think i’ve loved him before i knew his name. i think maybe i’ve always known it.” fingers brushing gently over the still-tender tattoo, explaining, “liam.” followed by a synonym, “i’m zayn.”
“harry styles. cheers.” the cups are sticky with punch as he slides one over, remarks, “always is a long time.”
zayn hums, “it’ll be ten years in ten days.”
“the romans have a saying…that every ten years leaves a mark on a man. every ten years, you get a new skeleton. you’re a brand-new man. you are not wearing the same bones you were when you fell in love the first time.” harry considers this, the punch is cherry flavored on his tongue and he knows he’s smiling obscenely, “but you know this already, don’t you? that’s why you have the jacket - trying to wear your new bones back to their old self against the sand of his name. you’re clever; what’re you so afraid of?”
zayn’s eyes are very sad but harry can sense the storm brewing within, it’s heavy enough that it vibrates his atoms, “you’re right. we’re not the same. i know this.”
“but he doesn’t. and you’re worried he won’t love you as before, now that you’ve got different skin.”
“no. i’m worried that he will.” harry thinks zayn is the stuff of legends, he could have the world in his palm if only he would open his hand. zayn’s lashes are shadow petals, “i’m worried that he will love me like he always has. like when we were kids and everything can be forgiven and forgotten with ‘forever’s. i’m afraid that it’s not enough. i think i want ‘forever’ and i think i want it now. do you think i’m greedy?”
yes, harry thinks, but something inherently tender about zayn, maybe a hyper-sense of self-awareness or the fine vitality alive in his slender bones, makes harry careful, “i think that you’ve been waiting and you want what you’ve been promised. i think that you’ve been starved. but it is alright to want and it is alright to give. it’s how the heart stays alive.”
zayn’s eyes, a silk screen of tenuous darkness around the iris, are bright with understanding, “your heart is not like the others.”
so maybe zayn can see harry has given just as much as zayn has wanted.
“nothing about me is like the others.”
distantly, someone is calling for zayn. he blinks languidly, eyes fluttering as if waking a cluster of sleeping butterflies and he’s unsteady underneath all that leather, swaying like waves breaking upon a shore. he checks his watch jerkily, counts up the diamonds in its big stone face, and sighs, “it’s late.”
“does it matter?”
zayn wavers hazily, “does what? the time?”
“yes. time.” harry thinks zayn is very preoccupied with time. he can see it weighing on him like a second shadow, “days, years, always. it doesn’t suit you.”
zayn’s gaze is smudged soft. he looks too, too sad and his voice too gentle, “i should go.”
harry could detect the longing in his voice. it makes harry think of saying the unspeakable things like you have never been or will ever be as lovely as you are now and that day and night breaks just like humans do and there is a seaport in my ribs for you to lay anchor.
but harry has scars on his knuckles for saying the unspeakable before, and words are probably the last thing zayn needs.
so he writes out his number on the side of a cigarette, tucks it carefully behind the raven’s hair. he supposes what he’s saying with the gestures is:
my bones are an empty birdcage; come in, i’ll take your chains.
part two