This was written for the Nine in the Afternoon standalone competition

Verse:
Why did I let myself believe

Miracles could happen?

'Cause not I have to pretend

That I don't really care.

Prompts:
Basket Ball and a Beatles song of your choice

this is my first attempt at anything slash,
so bear with me please?

i don't own mcfly, but i own this standalone
r&r 'cause it's what the cool kids do.

important note: though i may portray the 'flyboys as a bunch of jerks to dougie, i am in no way accusing them of being bad people or suggesting that they actually treat him like this, nor am i suggesting this is how doug actually feels.

Mindless Recollection

I watch each of the guys answer the journalist's question with great promise, offering eloquent words that displayed their sense of drive. I feel completely useless.

Nothing is ever expected of me, I realized long ago, except the odd humorous or crude remark. I'm not even taken seriously by the people who are supposed to be my closest friends, those whom I've spent almost every minute of the past four years with. Even my latest attempt in being noticed, Ignorance, was taken by the lads as a fun, carbon-copy of a Blink song.

I don't think anyone realizes how much I have to say. I'm just quiet because I'm scared of what others will think, and when I fell into the safe routine of just cracking jokes I couldn't find the strength to climb out of it.

"And what about you, Dougie?" the girl asks, snapping me out of my reverie. Her face is plastered with way too much makeup. One manicured hand grips the pen tightly while another holds a tape recorder, and I know she's waiting for me to say something funny. "Where do you see yourself in ten years?"

I see a chance to speak my mind. I picture myself saying "I'll be fucking alone and miserable, wallowing in the fact that my only talent and dream has dissolved. I see the rest of the lads still getting together to do some reunion shows and giving up on inviting me along; I just drag them down." Then I picture all of them sitting their in shock, mouths gaping at me, and I see some sort of lecture coming from Tom on the way home from the interview.

But as I give a sideways glance to Harry, it looks as if he sees right through me, like he knows what I truly want. Even so, I can't bring myself to say how much I really worry about all of this. So I spit out some lame answer, something that isn't really funny but is laughed at anyways.

"I see myself being a bum, doing lame 'Hey Jude' covers in the subway and scraping up all the cash I can get. All in a ballerina costume whilst juggling basketballs with my feet," I state poetically, plastering a fake grin on my face. No one notices the difference anyways.

They all laugh, even Harry.

I feel my heart twinge a little.

We head over to Tom's house after the interview, and the guys are so chatty over the excitement of getting another number one single that they don't notice my silence.

I want to grab a bass out of Tom's stash and play until my fingers bleed—alone—but Danny insists that we celebrate. That's a fancy term for getting smashed and inviting their girlfriends over, leaving me to drink in the corner.

In the middle of the festivities, Tom comes up with the brilliant idea to watch old home videos of us at the start of the band. I think it's completely fucking useless, as all the lads even care about anymore is being the best.

I stay in the kitchen, hoping no one will notice and drag me to watch the videos. Grabbing another Guinness, I flick open the bottle and take a large gulp, the effects of alcohol starting to hit me.

To my surprise (and secret delight), Harry enters the room. I humor myself and think that maybe he came in to find me, but soon realize all he desired was more refreshments to bring out to his girlfriend.

I duck my head, pretending to ignore him when I'm really watching his every move. His lips are slightly swollen, probably from kissing Evangeline, and his hair is messy, lacking the usual styled gel. And still, I think he's absolutely perfect.

I fantasize what it'd be like to brush his lips with mine, what'd it'd be like to run my hands through his hair or hold him close to me.

He never talks to me anymore, I realize. Gone are the days of when we cuddle on the couch—him for a joke, me because I cared—and talk about everything we were thinking. He has Evvy for that now, and I'm being quickly left behind in the dust.

I stop thinking when I notice he's been calling my name, giving me a strange look.

"Oi, Doug, you alright? You seem kind of…out of it," he states, his voice resounding in the air—the same voice that haunts my dreams every night.

"I—I suppose," I stutter lamely, sounding completely unconvincing. That must have worked to my advantage, I think, because he walks over to where I'm sitting. For the first time in a while, the worry on his face is directed at me, and my heart beats faster as I notice he might really care.

"Dougie, what's up?" he says, his lips barely parting as he enunciates the words. His mouth is still slightly open, two soft and rosy lips not quite meeting. He looks confused as he notices I'm staring at his jaw, but doesn't say a word.

And suddenly, I give into the temptation that I've been housing for four years. I stand up quickly and he's slightly startled, but before he can do anything I reach for the back of his head and softly bring my lips to his.

He tastes better than I ever imagined, a slightly smoky taste like his last cigarette mixing with the remains of the liquor he's been drinking. His lips are soft like petals of a flower, and he slowly moves with the kiss, his tongue brushing mine as he opens his mouth. I nibble slightly at his bottom lip and let out a quiet moan, and he jerks away in response as if it brought him back to reality.

"What the fuck, Dougie?!" he says, his face confused and cheeks flushing red. He pulls a disgusted face that contradicts his actions in the kiss just seconds ago.

"I'm…I'm sorry, man," I manage to spit out, "I'm drunk, yeah?" And another mistake is blamed on drinking. But I know it wasn't a mistake.

"Erm," he says awkwardly, not meeting my eyes, "Yeah, let's forget about it then." He quickly grabs a few beers and leaves to the safety of the family room.

My heart aches more than it ever has, now that I've been able to experience what it feels like to have Harry close to me, and had it jerked away from me.

I lean my head against the wall and close my eyes, not understanding why I hang on to the small hope that he cares about me, or even begins to understand me.

I should know by now that it'll never be that way; I'm just entangling myself in a vicious cycle. I put on my perfected façade of not caring, but my eyes always hold a certain sadness, hoping that he'll one day focus into them—truly look at me—and notice something different.

I settle into a chair alone, joining them all in front of the telly, while they crowd onto the couches. Each of my friends has a pretty girl by his side, but I have nothing but cold air surrounding me. My gaze falls to Harry, hoping he'll look back, but all I see is the side of his head as he kisses the cheek of his beloved Evvy.

I realize at this moment that my prediction is correct. Ten years from now I'll be alone, forever waiting to find someone that truly cares for me.

I bite my lip hard and my hands ball up into fists, frustrated with my own cowardly self. I finally stand up and leave, running out of the house and headed in no particular direction.

And no one notices.