Chapter 3

Zayn snapped the blinds closed, and staggered to the dining room table with leaden feet. His legs were like thick, elongated bricks and his hair appeared to be that of a rodent's nest. His eyes were deep in thought; pupils dilated in the dimly lit kitchen area.

He thudded into the seat as he plopped down, oblivious to all around him. His new living space was nice—very nice—but at the time, was not conciliating or calming enough to his shaken and brandished soul. He reached his arm up and ran his fingers over the neck of the lamp that sat in the center of the table. He stroked the opaque surface, his hand gently maneuvering down its side.

His palm reached the bottom, and smoothly transitioned from the light to the extremity of the kitchen furniture. It glided across, nearer and nearer to the edge. The padding of his fingers caressed the rounded end, sliding with fluidity over the sleek border. It eventually slipped, Zayn's arm dangling to the side.

He let it hang as he watched it sway back and forth, fingers twitching only slightly, longing for the polished exterior of the wood. It was dyed and stained a deep amber color, small patches of light tinting and reflecting off its surface.

It was deathly silent, and Zayn's thoughts drifted from his mind and hovered in the ambient silence, suspended and draped in the artificial, recycled air of the city. His head leaned and slumped behind the back of the chair, neck set at an uncomfortable angle.

He gazed at the scattered, splashed patterns of contingent texture that stretched on the ceiling. He wished he could touch the rough surface; wished for the silky skin of his palms to run around the coarse splatters of paint. His arm absentmindedly rose, outstretched and reaching for the unattainable feeling. It wavered in the air, floating from side to side as it moved higher and higher.

Suddenly, the limb dropped, slamming against the table. His nerves fluttered and danced, sending tingling sensations through his veins as he distractedly began to rub his pained arm. His brain soon ignored the aching, returning to his percolating, viscid and sticky cognitive process. The lids of his eyes began to sag, and his lashes brushed against his cheek as he fought to stay awake.

He was exhausted and fatigued from the trip to the aquatic city. He had eaten dinner with five acquaintances (he wasn't sure if he could call them friends yet), and then gotten a tour of the city with Liam. They had traversed along the pathways of the empty marketplace, their footsteps echoing through the halls from their debilitated motions.

He enjoyed spending time with Liam, despite the distance—both physically and mentally—between the two of them. He had always strayed a foot or two out of Zayn's reach, either to his side or from behind. His hands never left his pockets and eye contact hadn't been made, though, Zayn had tried to do so on more than one occasion. Conversation was left at a minimum, and for the most part, he simply nodded in response. What had happened to him? Liam had seemed so open; so friendly, at dinner.

Zayn reached his arm up and flicked the switch on the lamp, and the room went dark. He struggled to ward off sleep, grappling with its reigns of nostalgia.

But what was the point?

If he was going to be love-struck and infatuated with someone, he may as well dream about them. For there was nothing better than a lustful, mind-numbing illusion of sheer bliss that such hallucinations could provide.

Except for… he thought. Except for…

His chest lurched forward and fell, synchronizing with the slow beat of his heart. He cautiously lowered his head and placed it against the soft of his skin, tufts of tangled hair drooping and folding, spreading and covering his forehead. His breathing became consistent and even, body gently heaving as an entirety as he lulled into a deep sleep.

"Zayn," Liam laughed, the vibration rumbling throughout his bones. It tingled in his finger tips and permeated through to Zayn, causing every fiber of his being to tremble with desire. As he stared up into his lover's eyes, he brushed away a lock of hair, smiling.

Liam's arms enveloped the man's torso below him, a hand placed up against his back. Their breathing was faltering and rough, the warm air tickling the chilled skin of their bare bodies. The two were lost in each other's rich, chiseled features and for a while, their hands simply glided across one another's arms, legs, and chest. Their gaze never broke, never pulled apart.

The blankets of the bed were soft beneath their muscly physiques and Zayn's feet dangled over the edge. Liam's hand stopped abruptly in its actions, fingers splayed over his companion's heart.

"I can feel your heart beat, Zayn" Liam said softly.

"I would imagine you can…" he replied, a bit sarcastically.

Liam sighed, and sat up. He moved his body off of the dark-skinned man and crossed his legs, facing away from him. Zayn shifted forwards, bringing his arms around Liam's waist, and their malleable figures soon became entangled.

Zayn set his chin on the other man's shoulder, resting his head in the crook of his neck.

"What's wrong, Li?" he asked, lovingly.

"It's just…"

His words halted, and his body began to fade away. It slowly dematerialized, vanishing into the air as a cloud of dust. It swirled in front of him in ever-changing colors, altered by the beams of light that filtered in through the window. They floated and collected, starting from the body up. It formed one tall, unrecognizable being made of pinks, greens, yellows and blues.

"What were you doing, mate?" Harry's voice asked.

"What?"

"With that guy. Liam something-or-other. That was sick, you two. You shouldn't be doing that, it's disgusting."

"I…you were watching?" Zayn replied, crestfallen and diffident.

"It's wrong," Harry said, "It's a sin."

"Harry please, don't say that."

"I never knew you were that way."

"Harry, please…" tears welled in Zayn's eyes.

"All this time and I never knew."

"Harry…"

"All this time…"

And then he was gone. Harry Styles disappeared as soon as he had come, leaving Zayn sobbing and clawing at his exposed legs. His toes curled and he rocked his naked body, broken and confused.

He could hear the delicate dripping of water, and he began to panic. He glanced to the window with puffy, red eyes, and noticed a tiny crack in its corner.

"No…" he whispered.

The fault in the material fanned out, branching in several different directions.

"Wake up, Zayn," it beckoned, as it sprayed through.

"No," he said.

"Zayn, wake up," it called.

"No!" he screamed, cupping his hands over his ears, and clenching his jaw.

"Wake up!" it wailed, bursting and shattering the window. It exploded inwards, washing towards him, throwing him against the wall. His body writhed in pain and the salty water filled his lungs.

Eleanor tugged the brush through her hair, watching the object carefully in the mirror as she ran her hand along the newly-untangled strands. Her head was tilted to the side, and she hummed and tapped her foot in beat with the Boogie Man, which played on the phonograph next to her vanity. The record spun, the stylus scratching over the dark disc as it moved in circles.

Louis strode into the bedroom, fingers twiddling with the last button of his double-breasted jacket. He met eyes with his wife in the mirror, and gave a dazzling smile.

"How do I look?" he asked, making his way to Eleanor across the room.

"You look so handsome," she replied, an angelic smile perched on her lips. "And I?"

"Gorgeous as always, my dear," he answered, pecking her cheek. "Now," he said, "I've got to head out and meet the lads. We're going to head down to the Farmer's Market. It opens today; I'll try and find something good, yeah?"

"Of course," she told him. "Get some wine. And not the cheap stuff."

"Do I ever?" he asked, cheekily.

"No," she smiled.

Louis laughed. "All right, well, I'll see you tonight dear." He gave her a kiss on the lips and stomped out of the room, giddy with excitement.

Eleanor waited until her husband was gone before stepping out of her seat and preparing for her day out. It was the first time in a long while that Louis had let her do anything by herself; the first time she wouldn't be under his supervision and watchful eye.

She skipped around her apartment with joy, giggling and bemused by her own frivolous antics.

The familiar Welcome Center surrounded Eleanor as she traveled to the Footlight Theater. It was a massive space with a fountain in the middle of the room, water pouring from a statue of Andrew Ryan, with benches and a waiting area for guests. There were several staircases, and the linoleum floor was covered with a black and white, checkered pattern. Her pumps clicked as she walked along, drowned out by the excited chatter of the Rapture newcomers.

As they passed her by, she received waves and smiles, and some even spoke to her. She was a bit taken aback at the friendliness of the unfamiliar families, but returned with actions of amicability, nonetheless. She too, nodded and smiled sweetly, just as Louis had taught her.

Although, these actions weren't forced; weren't pulled and formed out of fear of her abusive husband and the harm he would inflict on her. They were looks of genuine happiness, with an unmoving grin fixated on her lips. Her dress seemed to flow with joy as her hair formed a halo around her mellifluous, delicate features. Things in her life were picking up; Louis was kinder, and she had gained some freedom.

Disregarding the fact that that "freedom" involved catching a simple showing of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, she carried on, oozing optimism.

She came to a dark, metal door—which uplifted and allowed her passage—and stepped into a long, cylindrical aisle. It was like that of an aquarium; the material was transparent and admitted eyesight into the waters.

She was still unused to the strange corridors, and took each step cautiously. Aquatic creatures of all shapes and sizes skittered by, some incidentally striking the tube. Each time the noise echoed through the walkway Eleanor flinched, paused, and trembled as she glanced about. It took her what seemed like ages to reach the end, but she was greeted with festive music and boisterous conversations from those around her as another door slid open.

The lights bounced off the walls, moving in rhythm with the accompanied music of the Kashmir. She crossed the lavish room and hall of dining once more, this time heading for the entrance of the Footlight Theater. She showed the doorman her admittance ticket, and she was allowed access.

Her jaw dropped as her mind was taken to an entirely new level of elegance. The room contained stage lights and many rows of seating, the floor coated in soft, velvet carpeting. There were standing areas off to the sides for the less-fortunate, and in the balconies above, as well. The stage glistened in the vivid, bright beams of light, reflecting off of the wooden surface. It was covered in dark, crimson curtains that were made of the most beautiful material Eleanor had seen in her life.

Along with the graceful, ardent and grandiloquent styles of the theater, the carefree, yet regal atmosphere diffused with the moods of its patrons to form a blanket of appeased guests. Upon finding her seat in the first row, Eleanor was welcomed by a blonde-haired, blue-eyed and handsome man.

"Hello Niall," she replied, returning his smile.

"Well aren't we all dolled up for the day?" he asked, humorously.

"I suppose so," she answered shyly. "Did Mr. Ryan give you another day off to catch the show?"

"I wish I had the pleasure," he joked. Mr. Ryan poked his head around the large frame of Niall, and gave a small wave.

"Hello, darling, it's nice to meet you." He outstretched a hand, and she welcomed the embrace. "What might your name be?"

"I'm Eleanor, sir. Eleanor Tomlinson."

"Ah, no need for formal names!" he bellowed, chuckling to himself. "Call me Andrew, I insist! And make sure to enjoy the show, will you? Experience all that Rapture has to offer!"

She nodded, giggling to herself.

"I will, sir—Andrew." He winked and returned his attention to the stage.

"Sorry about that," Niall whispered, "he can be a bit of a nut-job."

"All's well, no need to apologize," she grinned.

It was evident to Andrew as the show passed on that the two were getting along well, and so he let them be. He pretended to ignore their hushed remarks and conversations throughout, laughing inwardly at their foolish banter. He thought of pressing their faces together a few times himself, just to end the flirtatious dance of words.

There were subtle compliments strewn about in every sentence spoken, polished over with provocative and teasing tones.

"We will do something like this again, yeah?" Niall questioned, eyebrows lifted.

"I think we can have something arranged," Eleanor replied. "Louis is always looking for new friends."

Niall's face fell a little at that. "All right, great. My room's over in the Olympic Suites if you ever want to catch up. Room 203."

"Perfect," she said, curling her fingers around her purse. "I've got to be heading back now." She shook both Niall's and Andrew's hands. "And once again, nice to meet you."

She strutted off down the aisle, dress flowing with every step.