Chapter 1: The Fall
The Italian countryside unfolded endlessly before Harry, a serene mosaic of gold and green fields stitched together by narrow dirt roads. The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a soft amber glow across the hills, but Harry barely noticed. He sat in a weathered chair on the terrace of his rented villa, legs stretched out, head tilted back against the wicker. His fingers idly traced the grooves of the wooden table in front of him, a rhythmic motion that matched the dull ache in his chest. His eyes, heavy-lidded from nights of restless sleep, stared out at the horizon without truly seeing it.
The last notes of his world tour had faded days ago. The roar of the crowd still echoed faintly in his mind—the blinding stage lights, the rhythmic pounding of the bass, the electricity of performing. All of it felt like a distant dream now. He had expected the emptiness that came after the final bow, the post-tour blues every artist warned about, but this… this was something else entirely.
He picked up the untouched cup of espresso on the table, its heat long gone, and took a bitter sip. The liquid sat heavy on his tongue, much like the silence that had consumed his villa over the past three days. He'd rented the place with the intention of decompressing, finding solace in solitude. Instead, the quiet felt oppressive, amplifying the chaotic storm of thoughts swirling in his head.
His phone buzzed on the table, its sharp vibration breaking the stillness. He glanced at the screen, his heart lifting slightly, but the hope flickered and died just as quickly.
No texts from Louis.
Just a junk email and a missed call from his manager. With a sigh, he turned the device face down and leaned back in his chair, letting the breeze play with the loose curls that had fallen over his forehead.
He couldn't stop thinking about their last conversation. Louis's voice echoed in his mind—casual on the surface, but carrying an undercurrent of tension that neither of them had dared to address.
"You good?" Louis had asked. Simple words, yet heavy with unspoken meaning.
"Yeah," Harry had replied, the lie bitter on his tongue. He'd always been a terrible liar, and Louis had always seen through him. Still, they'd let the conversation fizzle out, both unwilling to confront the truths simmering between them.
The memory left a sour taste in his mouth. He couldn't pinpoint exactly when things had shifted between them, but he felt the distance like an ache in his chest. It had been years since they'd laughed together with the easy camaraderie they once shared. And though they'd grown apart, there was still something that tethered them. Something unresolved.
The cobblestone path leading away from the terrace called to him, offering a reprieve from his thoughts. He stood abruptly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his linen trousers. The villa, beautiful as it was, felt suffocating, its serene walls mocking the chaos inside him.
Harry wandered aimlessly, the crunch of his footsteps on the stones the only sound. Rows of olive trees lined the path, their silver-green leaves glinting in the soft afternoon light. Here, away from the noise of the world, he should have felt at peace. Instead, he felt like a stranger in his own skin, caught between who he was and who the world expected him to be.
The memories came unbidden, as they often did. Nights at Princess Park Manor, laughter echoing through the halls, and Louis's smirk lighting up the room like a beacon. They'd been just kids then, navigating fame with reckless abandon. Louis had always been the bold one, the anchor that kept Harry from floating too far adrift.
"Anywhere but here," Louis had whispered once, his voice low and conspiratorial as they snuck out into the London night.
Harry stopped walking, the memory cutting through him like a blade. He'd spent years chasing that "anywhere but here," traveling the world, performing for millions, yet he'd never found it. The truth was simple and brutal: there was no "anywhere" without Louis.
His footsteps slowed as he turned back toward the villa, the ache in his chest deepening with every step. The phone lay where he'd left it, still facedown on the table. He reached for it, hesitating before unlocking the screen. His thumb hovered over Louis's name in his contacts, the familiar pang of longing twisting in his stomach.
The silence pressed against him, loud and accusing. He dropped the phone back onto the table and walked inside, the weight of his indecision settling over him like a heavy blanket.
The kitchen was bright, sunlight streaming through wide windows that overlooked the countryside. Harry busied himself with making tea, the ritual grounding him even as his thoughts spiraled. He'd barely set the kettle on when the other phone buzzed—a backup he rarely used.
He ignored it at first, but the buzzing persisted, insistent. With a sigh, he picked it up.
"Harry." His manager's voice was brisk, professional, and carrying an edge of urgency. "Are you sitting down?"
Harry's heart skipped a beat. "What's happened?"
There was a pause, just long enough to twist his stomach into knots.
"It's Liam," the voice continued, quieter now. "He's… Harry, he's passed away."
The words hit like a physical blow. The phone slipped from Harry's hand, clattering onto the counter as the world tilted beneath him.
No.
The kettle began to whistle, its sharp cry piercing the silence, but Harry couldn't move. His breath came in shallow gasps as he braced himself against the counter, his knuckles turning white. The sound of the kettle faded into the background, drowned out by the pounding of his heartbeat.
Liam. Gone.
The words refused to settle in his mind, as if by rejecting them, he could somehow undo them. Memories of Liam flooded his thoughts—his quiet strength, the easy way he brought calm to their chaos, the bond they'd shared even when life had scattered them in different directions.
Harry's knees buckled, and he sank onto the tiled floor, his back against the cabinets. Tears blurred his vision as he stared blankly at the phone lying a few feet away. A part of him wanted to call Louis immediately, but another part—a darker, heavier part—held him back.
What could he say?
He wasn't sure Louis would even answer.
For years, their connection had felt like walking a tightrope, the balance delicate and the stakes high. And now this—their unspoken distance, their unresolved tension—it all felt trivial in the face of Liam's death.
The villa felt unbearably still, the silence pressing against him. He pushed himself to his feet, his movements mechanical, and turned off the kettle. The tea didn't matter anymore.
He paced the length of the kitchen, the walls closing in on him with every step. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, he grabbed his phone and scrolled to Louis's name. He hesitated for a long moment before tapping the call button.
It rang once. Twice. Then Louis's voice came through, soft and hesitant.
"Harry?"
Harry's breath caught. It had been months since he'd heard that voice, and yet it felt like no time had passed at all.
"Louis…" Harry's voice broke, and he swallowed hard, trying to steady himself. "Did you… did you hear?"
The silence on the other end of the line was deafening, and for a moment, Harry wondered if Louis had hung up. But then he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Yeah. I heard."
The weight of those three words settled over Harry like a heavy blanket, suffocating and inescapable. He closed his eyes, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead as tears slipped down his cheeks.
"I don't…" Harry started, but the words failed him. He didn't know what to say, how to make sense of the gaping hole that Liam's absence had left.
"Me neither," Louis admitted. His voice was thick with emotion, and Harry could picture him—jaw clenched, eyes red, doing everything he could to hold it together.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence between them wasn't awkward or strained, but heavy with shared grief.
Finally, Louis broke the silence.
"You're in Italy, yeah?"
"Yeah," Harry said, his voice hoarse.
"I'll come," Louis said simply, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Harry felt a glimmer of something he couldn't quite name.
Relief. Hope.
He nodded, even though Louis couldn't see him. "Okay."
The crunch of gravel under tires snapped Harry out of his haze. He stood at the terrace railing, watching as a black car rolled up the winding driveway toward the villa. His heart hammered in his chest, each beat a tangled mess of relief and dread.
The car came to a stop, and Louis stepped out, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He looked up toward the villa, his eyes meeting Harry's from across the distance. For a moment, neither of them moved, the weight of unspoken words holding them in place.
Harry descended the stone steps to meet him. As Louis drew closer, Harry took in the lines on his face—the exhaustion, the anger, and something deeper, something Harry couldn't name.
"Hey," Harry said softly when they were finally face-to-face.
Louis dropped his bag on the ground. "Hey."
The silence between them stretched, heavy and suffocating. Harry wanted to say something—anything—but the words wouldn't come. Instead, he reached for Louis, pulling him into a hug. Louis stiffened at first, his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides, but then he melted into the embrace, his hands gripping the back of Harry's shirt.
They stayed like that for a long moment, neither of them willing to let go. When they finally pulled apart, Louis's eyes were bright with unshed tears.
"We should go inside," Harry said, his voice hoarse.
Louis nodded and followed him into the villa.
The villa's warmth did little to ease the tension in the room. Louis paced the length of the living area, his hands shoved into his pockets, while Harry sat on the edge of the sofa, watching him with a mixture of caution and frustration.
"So, what now?" Louis said finally, his voice sharp. "We sit here and wait for someone to tell us how to fix this?"
"I don't know, Louis," Harry snapped. "What do you want me to say?"
Louis turned on him, his blue eyes blazing. "I want you to say something! Anything! For once in your life, stop shutting me out."
Harry stood abruptly, his frustration boiling over. "I'm not shutting you out! I'm trying to figure out what the hell to do. Do you think I have all the answers?"
"You never want to deal with anything real," Louis shot back. "You run away from it. You hide behind your charm and your stupid bloody walls, and I'm sick of it."
Harry's jaw tightened. "That's rich coming from you. The king of bottling everything up until it explodes."
"Oh, don't you dare turn this around on me," Louis growled, stepping closer. "This isn't about me. This is about you always acting like you're fine when you're not. Liam's fighting for his life, and you're—"
"And you're what? Perfect?" Harry interrupted, his voice rising. "You act like you've got it all together, but you're just as lost as I am."
The words hung between them, sharp and cutting. Louis's chest heaved, his fists clenching at his sides as he stared at Harry. For a moment, Harry thought he might walk away.
But then Louis stepped forward, closing the distance between them in two quick strides. "You infuriate me," he muttered, his voice low and trembling with emotion.
Harry opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, Louis grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him into a kiss. It was rough and desperate, their teeth clashing as they poured weeks—no, years—of anger and longing into the kiss.
Harry responded just as fiercely, his hands tangling in Louis's hair as he backed them toward the wall. Louis let out a soft, frustrated sound, his grip on Harry's shirt tightening as their bodies pressed together. The heat between them was electric, their breaths mingling as they kissed like they were trying to drown out the world.
When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads pressed together, both of them breathing heavily. Louis's hands slid down to rest on Harry's chest, his fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
"I hate you sometimes," Louis whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
Harry let out a breathless laugh. "You're not exactly my favorite person either."
Louis chuckled softly, the sound tinged with relief. "We're a mess, aren't we?"
Harry nodded, his lips brushing against Louis's as he spoke. "The messiest."
For the first time in days, the tension between them eased. The weight of their shared grief didn't disappear, but for a brief moment, it felt bearable.
–
Zayn sat cross-legged on the plush carpet of his daughter's playroom, watching Khai concentrate on stacking her blocks with a seriousness only a toddler could manage. The colorful wooden pieces teetered slightly, and she let out a tiny huff, adjusting them carefully with the delicate precision of small fingers.
"Look, Baba!" she chirped, pointing to her wobbly tower. "It's so big!"
Zayn managed a smile, though his chest felt tight. "It's perfect, princess." His voice was gentle, steady—far steadier than he actually felt.
His phone vibrated on the couch nearby. He ignored it at first. Probably a notification, an email—nothing urgent. But then it buzzed again. And again.
Something in his gut twisted.
He reached for the device, lifting it from the cushions, already dreading what he would see. He barely had time to register the missed calls before his eyes locked onto the words flashing across his screen.
Liam Payne reported dead.
Zayn's entire body went cold. His breath caught in his throat.
No.
His thumb moved instinctively, refreshing the page, but the headline didn't change. His heart pounded so hard he thought it might shake his ribs apart. He blinked, as if maybe, if he looked again, the words would disappear.
They didn't.
His grip on the phone tightened, his hands trembling as a numb sort of disbelief washed over him. His vision blurred, his chest constricting so painfully he thought for a second he might not be able to breathe.
No. It couldn't be true.
"Baba?"
A tiny voice pulled him back.
Khai, still sitting on the carpet, looked up at him with wide, curious eyes. She held out a small stuffed bunny toward him, as if offering comfort. "Why are you sad?"
Zayn's throat closed up. He forced himself to blink, to swallow down the lump rising there. He couldn't break. Not now. Not in front of her.
He shifted quickly, setting the phone facedown on the couch. "I'm not sad, love," he lied, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just… thinking."
Khai tilted her head, studying him in the way children did—uncaring of politeness, just pure observation. "Like a big think?" she asked.
Zayn nodded tightly. "Yeah. A big think."
Her tiny hands patted his knee, as if that alone could fix whatever was wrong. "You can have my bunny if it helps."
His breath hitched.
Khai, so pure, so trusting, had no idea that his entire world had just shifted off its axis. That the very foundation of his past, his regrets, his unspoken words—*Liam*—had just been ripped away.
He curled his fingers around hers, squeezing gently. "Thank you, princess."
For the next few minutes, Zayn did everything in his power to hold himself together. He nodded when she spoke, praised her tower when she finally got the last block in place, let her hand him stuffed animals as if they were sacred offerings.
But his mind was spiraling.
Was it real? Could it be real?
And if it *was*—he had never called. Never texted. Never apologized.
He had let too much time slip away.
The sound of the front door opening snapped him back to the present.
Gigi.
Zayn stood abruptly, his legs unsteady beneath him as he lifted Khai into his arms. He clutched her tighter than usual, his fingers pressing into her small back as if grounding himself in something real.
Gigi's voice carried softly from the entryway. "Zayn?"
He swallowed, forcing his breath to even out before stepping into the hall.
She took one look at him—at his pale face, his red-rimmed eyes, the way his arms curled protectively around their daughter—and her expression immediately shifted.
"What's wrong?" she asked, stepping closer.
Zayn opened his mouth, but the words didn't come. His jaw clenched, his throat burning, his entire body trembling with the effort to hold himself together.
Gigi's eyes darted over his shoulder, to the phone he had left on the couch. He didn't need to say it.
She knew.
Her face fell.
"Oh, Zayn…"
His breath left him in a sharp exhale, and suddenly, everything inside him collapsed.
Zayn barely made it back to the couch before his knees buckled. His body trembled as he collapsed onto the cushions, his breath coming in sharp, erratic gasps. His phone slipped from his grasp, landing on the floor with a dull thud. He couldn't bring himself to pick it up. The weight of the news pressed down on him like an avalanche, crushing the air from his lungs.
Gigi, having just settled Khai in the other room, walked back in cautiously. She stopped when she saw him—his head in his hands, his entire frame shaking. Her heart clenched. She had seen Zayn vulnerable before, but never like this.
"Zayn…" she whispered, kneeling beside him.
He didn't look up. His fingers curled into his hair, pulling at the strands as if the pain could somehow keep him grounded. His breaths were ragged, uneven. "I never called him," he choked out. "Not once. Not after I left. Not after everything. I—" His voice faltered, thick with emotion.
Gigi's throat tightened. She reached out, covering his hands with hers, stilling them. "Zayn, don't do this to yourself."
His eyes lifted, burning with unshed tears. "I was a coward," he rasped. "I should've called. I should've—" He shook his head violently, his nails digging into his palms. "He always tried. He never gave up on me, G. And I just—I fucking ignored it. Ignored him."
Gigi squeezed his hands, steadying him. "You were both hurting, Z. That doesn't mean—"
"I never told him I was sorry," Zayn cut in, voice cracking. "I never told him I—" He stopped himself too late, the words catching in his throat.
Gigi's breath hitched. Her lips parted slightly, realization dawning in her expression. "You never told him…" she echoed softly.
Zayn clenched his jaw, looking away. He couldn't say it. He couldn't admit that Liam had been the love of his life—that he had spent years convincing himself it wasn't true, only to be faced with the possibility that he would never get the chance to tell him at all.
Gigi's eyes filled with something deep and aching—grief, pity, understanding. She didn't say anything for a long moment, but her fingers remained wrapped around his, grounding him. Finally, she exhaled shakily. "Oh, Zayn…"
He flinched. He couldn't take the look she was giving him. The heartbreak, the sympathy—it was too much.
Gigi seemed to realize it because she steeled herself, her grip tightening. "Listen to me," she said firmly. "You need to talk to the boys."
Zayn let out a bitter laugh, wiping furiously at his face. "Why? They don't—"
"Yes, they do," Gigi interrupted. "Zayn, you need them. And they need you. This—this thing between all of you? The fights, the silence—it doesn't matter anymore. None of it matters."
Zayn looked up at her, his dark eyes wet and glassy. "What if they hate me?" he whispered, voice small, vulnerable.
Gigi softened, brushing a thumb over his knuckles. "They don't. And even if they did, they wouldn't now. Not with this." She swallowed, her voice growing urgent. "You don't have to do this alone, Zayn. Call them. Call Louis. Call Harry. Talk to them before it's too late."
Zayn exhaled shakily, closing his eyes for a long moment. He didn't want to, didn't know if he could. But Gigi was right. And for once, he couldn't let fear win.
With trembling fingers, he reached for his phone.
Zayn's hands still trembled as he reached for his phone. His breathing was uneven, his thoughts a tangled mess of guilt, grief, and disbelief. He had spent years avoiding calls like this—calls that forced him to face the people he had walked away from.
But this wasn't about the past.
This was Liam.
He found Harry's name in his contacts, his thumb hesitating only for a second before pressing call. The dial tone rang, echoing in his ears. Each passing second felt unbearable, his heart pounding so violently he thought it might break him apart.
"Zee?"
Harry's voice came through, strained and raw.
Zayn's breath hitched.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, the sound of movement—fabric shifting, a muffled voice in the background.
"Wait, is that—"
Before Zayn could finish, a second voice cut in.
"Zayn?"
Louis.
Zayn inhaled sharply.
Louis had been with Harry.
Zayn closed his eyes, exhaling shakily as something inside him twisted. He had called Harry instinctively, but of course, Louis was there. Of course, he had been the first person Harry turned to. It made sense. It always had.
But Zayn had been the one who left. And now, sitting in his house, feeling the weight of an entire lifetime's worth of regret, he suddenly had no idea how to speak.
Louis was the first to break the silence. "You saw it too." His voice was quieter than Zayn remembered, the usual sharp edge missing.
Zayn swallowed hard. "Yeah."
Another pause. Then, Louis let out a shaky breath. "Fuck, Zayn."
Zayn's throat closed up.
There was so much packed into those two words—years of tension, of anger, of things left unsaid. But underneath it all, there was something else. Something raw. Something real.
"I'm sorry," Zayn said hoarsely before he could stop himself.
Louis let out a breath, almost like a laugh, but it was wet, broken. "Me too."
And just like that, the distance between them began to crack.
Zayn pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to keep himself together. "I don't—I don't even know what's real right now. Have you heard from anyone? Liam's family? Paul?"
"No," Harry answered this time. His voice was rough, frayed at the edges. "That's the thing, Z. It's been hours, and no one's called us. Just the news. Just fucking—headlines and rumors."
Zayn's stomach twisted. "That doesn't make sense."
"No, it doesn't," Louis muttered. "Paul would've called. Ruth, Nicola—someone would've said something before the press."
Silence settled over them, heavy and thick.
Then, Harry took a sharp breath. "We need to call Niall."
Niall picked up almost immediately. "Lads?" His voice was hoarse, like he'd been crying. "Tell me it's not true."
"We don't know," Louis said quickly. "Paul hasn't called. None of the family has. Just the press."
The line went quiet.
Then, Niall exhaled, and his voice cracked. "Jesus Christ."
Zayn closed his eyes, the sheer weight of it all crashing down. "Niall, mate…" He hesitated, feeling the words heavy in his throat. "I'm sorry."
Another silence.
Then, a soft chuckle—small, broken. "You picked a shite time to apologize, Malik," Niall murmured. "But yeah. Me too."
Zayn let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Louis sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Look, none of us were perfect. But we're not doing this again. We're not letting this—this fucking cycle—happen again."
Harry hummed his agreement. "No more walking away. No more waiting until it's too late."
"Liam always tried," Niall whispered. "Always held onto all of us, even when we were pulling away."
The unspoken regret sat between them, a quiet, devastating thing.
Zayn wiped at his face, staring at his shaking hands. "We won't let it happen again," he swore. "Not to him. Not to any of us."
A promise.
A vow.
One they prayed they weren't already too late to keep.
After a few beats of silence, Zayn spoke up again, his voice lower, steadier. "Lads… I don't think this is what it looks like."
Louis frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"None of Liam's family has spoken up. Not a single statement. No word from Paul. The only source is the media."
Harry's brows furrowed. "You're saying it's not true?"
"I'm saying we don't know if it's true," Zayn clarified. "And until we do, we're not believing a fucking word of it."
The others stayed quiet, considering it.
Then, Niall let out a slow breath. "So we wait. We don't jump to conclusions."
"We wait for Paul," Louis agreed. "Because if there's anyone who actually knows what's happening, it's him."
Zayn sat back, staring at the ceiling. His chest ached, his eyes burned, but he forced himself to breathe.
"This is worse than I ever thought it'd be," he admitted. "Not knowing."
Harry hummed in agreement. "Feels like we're waiting for the ground to give out beneath us."
Niall sniffled, the weight of it pressing into every syllable. "I don't think I've ever been this scared."
Zayn hesitated, then finally let the truth slip past his lips. "I didn't even tell him I was sorry."
The words landed heavily.
Louis inhaled sharply. "You still can."
Zayn swallowed hard. "What if I can't?"
Another silence.
Then, Niall whispered, "We won't let it come to that."
And in that moment, they all made a silent promise.
No more pride. No more silence. No more waiting until it was too late.
No matter what happened next, they weren't letting go of each other ever again.
Not Liam.
Not any of them.
Zayn hesitated. The words were there, clawing at his throat, but he wasn't sure if he could say them. Not to them. Not now.
But if he didn't say them now, would he ever?
His grip on the phone tightened, his knuckles white as his breath shuddered out. "I—I never told him," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
The line stayed quiet. Waiting.
Zayn swallowed hard, staring at the floor as if the answer were hidden in the fibers of the carpet. His next words trembled. "I never told him how much I loved him."
Silence stretched.
Harry inhaled sharply on the other end, and for a moment, no one spoke.
Then, Louis—always the one to break the tension—spoke first, his voice softer than Zayn had ever heard it. "Z, mate… you think he didn't know?"
Zayn squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't know," he admitted. "I was always too much of a coward to say it. To just… say it." He let out a broken chuckle, though there was no humor in it. "Fuck, I wasted so much time."
Niall, his voice thick with emotion, cut in, "Zayn, every single person with eyes knew. Every single one of us saw it."
Zayn's lips parted slightly, his breath hitching.
Harry exhaled, his voice gentle but firm. "Liam knew."
Louis hummed in agreement. "He always did. Even when things got bad, even when you weren't speaking, he knew. He's always known."
Zayn exhaled shakily, rubbing a hand over his face. "But I never—"
"Doesn't matter," Louis said, his voice weighted with certainty. "He knew. And if you get the chance, you tell him. You say every single thing you've ever wanted to say."
The raw finality in his words made Zayn's stomach twist.
Because what if he didn't get the chance?
What if it was already too late?
None of them spoke for a long moment.
Niall let out a slow, shaky exhale. "This is so fucked."
Harry's voice was distant. "Yeah."
Zayn closed his eyes, guilt settling into his bones. He hadn't expected their reassurances to make him feel worse, but somehow, they did.
Because if Liam had always known—if everyone had always known—then why had he run? Why had he wasted all those years pretending he could live without him?
Louis finally broke the silence. "I hate this." His voice was tight, almost brittle. "I hate that it took this for us to talk like this. To be honest like this."
Harry hummed, his voice hollow. "I hate that Z had to say that now, and not years ago when he should've felt safe enough to."
Zayn's throat ached, his fingers pressing against his temple. "You think I don't hate that too?"
Silence again.
And then, Niall sighed. "It's not just you, Zayn." His voice was heavy with something unspoken. "We all ran in different ways."
Zayn let the words sink in, but it didn't make it easier.
Louis sniffled, barely audible. "This is all just… unfair."
Harry let out a soft, bitter laugh. "Yeah. It is."
The weight of the moment hung over them like a storm cloud, thick and suffocating.
For the first time in years, they were together again—connected, unguarded, open.
And yet, it had taken the worst possible thing to get them here.
None of them said it out loud, but it lingered there, heavy in the spaces between their breaths.
If they got Liam back, if they really got him back—things would be different.
They had to be.
The call came while they were still on the line together.
Zayn had been staring blankly at his wall, Niall was gripping the edge of his desk in his London flat, and Louis was sitting beside Harry on the balcony of their rented villa in Italy, both of them tense, unmoving.
When Harry's phone lit up with Paul's name, everything else fell away.
"Paul," Harry rasped, answering immediately, putting the call on speaker. "Tell us."
Paul didn't waste time. "Listen to me—Liam is alive."
The air shifted.
Zayn felt his breath catch, his entire body rigid.
Louis let out a sharp exhale, gripping the edge of the table.
Niall's voice cracked. "Oh my God—"
Paul wasn't finished. "But it wasn't an accident." His voice was clipped, serious. "It looks like someone tried to kill him."
Silence.
A different kind of silence. Not the stunned kind from before. This one was dark. Heavy.
Louis' voice came first, low and shaking. "What the fuck are you saying?"
"I'm saying this wasn't some freak fall. This was a targeted attempt." Paul's voice carried the exhaustion of someone who had been working nonstop to get answers. "Right now, he's being moved to a secure medical facility. We don't want this leaking before we understand what's going on."
"Who?" Zayn's voice was eerily calm. "Who would do this?"
"We don't know yet," Paul admitted. "But whoever it was didn't want him to survive."
The weight of those words settled deep.
Harry ran a hand over his face, shaking his head. "Where is he now?"
"He's stable, but still critical," Paul answered. "He's sedated, and doctors are keeping a close eye on him. I'll send you the location when it's locked down. We're also arranging a jet to bring you all here safely. We're not taking risks with security."
Louis inhaled sharply, jaw clenched. "We're coming. Just tell us when."
Paul hesitated. "Keep your phones close. I'll update you soon."
The call ended.
No one spoke for a few seconds. The only sound was the wind rustling through Harry and Louis' balcony in Italy and the distant hum of a city outside Niall's window in London.
Then Zayn exploded.
"Someone tried to kill him?" His voice was like a blade, sharp and trembling. "And we were just sitting here, thinking he was gone?"
Louis exhaled heavily. "I—I don't even know what the fuck to do with this." His leg bounced anxiously, his hands flexing as if itching to punch something.
Harry let out a harsh breath, gripping his knees. "We shouldn't have let him be alone for so long." His voice was hoarse, his green eyes locked onto nothing. "We should've—"
"We should've what?" Louis snapped, the guilt eating at him. "We didn't know, Harry! None of us knew this was coming!"
"That's the fucking problem, Lou!" Harry shot back, his voice shaking. "We should've known! We should've been there. We should've—"
"STOP IT!"
Niall's voice cracked through the chaos, silencing them all.
They fell quiet, breathing hard, their emotions fraying at the edges.
Niall took a shaky breath, rubbing a hand over his face. "I get it, okay? We all have regrets. We all fucked up. But Liam is alive. And we're standing here fighting like we did back then."
Zayn let out a hollow, bitter laugh. "History fucking repeating itself."
Louis closed his eyes, the ache deep in his chest. "We fix this." His voice was quieter now, but full of something unshakable. "We fix us. And we don't leave him alone. Ever again."
Harry swallowed, his voice barely above a whisper. "We protect him."
Niall's voice was rough but steady. "And when we find out who did this…"
Zayn finished for him, his voice like steel. "They're done."
No one spoke for a long time after that.
Zayn leaned against his wall, exhaling shakily. Niall sat down on the edge of his bed, fingers clasped together. Louis stared at the view of the Italian countryside, but all he saw was a hospital bed in his mind. Harry pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, inhaling through his nose.
"We get on that jet," Zayn murmured. "And we don't let him go again."
Harry nodded slowly. "We hold on."
Louis' voice was low, but sure. "We get him back."
Niall, his voice thick with emotion, added the last vow. "And we pray to God we're not too late."
They sat in silence, waiting for the call that would tell them where to go.
Waiting for a second chance.
Waiting for Liam.
Coordinating with the Group
Harry sat at the kitchen table, staring at his phone as the screen glowed faintly in the dim light. He scrolled through a string of messages from Paul and the group, his thoughts scattered and heavy.
Paul: Private jet out of Florence. 9 p.m. local time. Niall and Zayn will meet you in Zurich.
Niall: Let me know when you're on your way. Amelia's helping me pack.
Paul: Keep a low profile. Media's already speculating. No unnecessary stops.
Louis leaned against the counter across the room, his arms crossed. His gaze was fixed on Harry, who had barely spoken since their earlier argument. The weight of everything left unsaid lingered between them like a storm cloud.
"Any updates?" Louis asked, his voice low but sharp.
Harry glanced up, his expression guarded. "Paul's got everything arranged. We'll take the jet to Zurich, meet Niall and Zayn there."
"And Liam?" Louis pressed.
Harry's throat tightened. He shook his head. "Still critical. Stable, but…"
"But not out of danger," Louis finished, his voice flat. He let out a sharp breath and ran a hand through his hair. "Right. Let's get moving, then."
The air between them crackled with tension as they gathered their bags and stepped outside into the cool evening air. The driver Paul had sent was already waiting, the car idling quietly at the edge of the driveway. Harry glanced at Louis as they slid into the backseat, but Louis kept his gaze fixed out the window, his jaw set.
As the car approached the private terminal in Florence, the driver's voice broke the tense silence. "We've got a problem," he said, nodding toward the entrance.
Harry leaned forward, his stomach sinking at the sight of the photographers clustered near the gates. Their camera flashes cut through the darkness like lightning, illuminating the silhouettes of security guards trying to hold them back.
"Bloody hell," Louis muttered, his fists clenching at his sides.
The driver pulled to a stop a few hundred meters from the terminal and turned to face them. "We'll go around back. There's a service entrance security can use to get you through."
Harry nodded, his heart pounding as the car began to move again. He turned to Louis, his voice low. "We stick together, yeah? No splitting up."
Louis met his gaze, his expression softening slightly. "Yeah. Together."
The car pulled to a stop near a gated side entrance. Security guards approached, their movements swift and purposeful. One opened the car door, gesturing for them to move quickly.
"Keep your heads down," the guard instructed. "We'll get you through."
Harry and Louis stepped out, their hats pulled low and sunglasses shielding their faces despite the dim light. They moved quickly, their shoulders brushing as they were ushered inside.
In the quiet of their Dublin flat, Niall sat slumped at the kitchen table, his phone clutched tightly in his hands. The faint glow of the screen illuminated his pale face, his tired blue eyes darting between messages that offered little solace. He had read and reread the texts from Harry, Louis, and Paul a dozen times, but none of it felt real. The words blurred together, heavy with implication but devoid of comfort.
Across the room, Amelia stood by the counter, her arms crossed as she watched him with a mixture of concern and helplessness. The weight of Niall's silence filled the room, pressing down on her chest like a physical force.
"Niall," she said softly, stepping toward him. "You've been sitting there for an hour. You need to—"
"I don't need to do anything," Niall snapped, his voice sharper than he intended. His head dropped into his hands, and his voice softened, trembling. "I don't know what to do, Amelia. I don't… I can't…"
Amelia froze, startled by the sudden crack in his voice. She moved to his side, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Talk to me," she urged. "Please."
Niall let out a shaky breath, his fingers tightening around his phone. "I keep thinking about the last time I saw him," he murmured. "It was like a week ago, at the stupid gig in Argentina. We barely had five minutes to talk. He told me he was proud of me, that he loved the new music I was working on. And I—I just, I was just so bloody high on the adrenaline, you know? I thought I'd see him again soon. I thought there'd be time."
His voice cracked on the last word, and he buried his face in his hands. Amelia crouched beside him, her heart aching as she listened to the words spill out.
"And now he's lying in a hospital bed," Niall continued, his shoulders shaking. "And I didn't even call him. Not once. I was so busy—so caught up in my own life. What kind of friend does that make me?"
"Niall," Amelia said gently, her hands moving to cup his face. She forced him to look at her, her own eyes glistening with tears. "You couldn't have known this would happen. None of you could. But sitting here, tearing yourself apart, isn't going to help him. He wouldn't want you to do this to yourself."
Niall shook his head, his voice breaking. "He was the glue, Amelia. He held us together. And now he's—" He couldn't finish the sentence. The words caught in his throat, and a choked sob escaped him.
Amelia pulled him into her arms, holding him tightly as his walls crumbled. Niall clung to her, his tears soaking into her shirt as he let out years of grief and guilt he hadn't even realized he'd been carrying.
"I'm scared," he whispered against her shoulder. "What if we lose him? What if… what if it's too late?"
Amelia pressed a kiss to his hair, her voice steady despite the tremor in it. "It's not too late," she said firmly. "And you won't lose him. Not if you fight for him. But first, you need to pull yourself together and get on that plane. He needs you, Niall. The others need you."
Niall nodded against her, his sobs gradually subsiding. When he finally pulled back, his face was streaked with tears, but there was a flicker of determination in his eyes.
"You're right," he said hoarsely. "I need to be there."
Amelia smiled softly, brushing his hair back from his forehead. "Good. Now, let's get you packed."
Amelia moved quickly, grabbing a suitcase from the closet and setting it on the bed. "Okay, essentials first," she said, her tone brisk but warm. "Clothes, toiletries, chargers. What else do you need?"
Niall followed her lead, though his movements were sluggish. "Warm stuff," he muttered. "Zurich's cold this time of year."
Amelia tossed a sweater into the suitcase before turning to him. "And you? How are you holding up?"
He paused, a bundle of socks in his hands. "I don't know," he admitted. "It's like… part of me wants to just sit here and pretend this isn't happening. But I can't do that. Not to Liam."
She crossed the room and cupped his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her gaze. "You're doing the right thing by going," she said softly. "And no matter what happens, you're going to be okay. All of you are."
Niall swallowed hard, nodding as tears threatened to spill again. "I just… I don't know if I can keep it together."
"You don't have to," Amelia said. "Not with me. Lean on me, Niall. That's what I'm here for."
Their car arrived just as the first hints of dawn began to streak the sky. Niall and Amelia climbed into the backseat, their bags tucked into the trunk. As the car pulled away from the flat, Niall stared out the window, his thoughts racing.
"You nervous?" Amelia asked, breaking the silence.
"Yeah," he admitted. "Not about the flight—just… what comes after."
Amelia reached over, lacing her fingers with his. "One step at a time," she said. "Right now, we're just getting to Zurich."
Niall gave her a faint smile, squeezing her hand. "Thanks for coming with me. I don't know how I'd do this without you."
"You won't have to find out," Amelia replied. "I've got you."
The flight was quiet, Niall spending most of it staring blankly out the window while Amelia dozed lightly beside him. When the plane began its descent, she stirred, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.
"We're here," Niall murmured, his voice tight.
As they stepped off the plane, the chill of the Zurich air hit them immediately. Paul was waiting near a private car, his expression grim but composed. He nodded as they approached.
"Glad you made it," he said. "We're heading straight to the hospital. The others are already there."
Niall and Amelia climbed into the car, the weight of what awaited them settling over their shoulders. The ride through Zurich was quiet, the city's lights casting long shadows on the streets. Niall leaned his head against the window, his hand gripping Amelia's tightly.
When they arrived, security ushered them through a back entrance to avoid the crowd of reporters camped outside. The stark white hallways and the faint smell of disinfectant made Niall's stomach churn.
Amelia walked beside him, her hand steady on his arm. "You're okay," she whispered. "You've got this."
They were led to a private waiting room, where Harry, Louis, and Zayn sat in tense silence. Harry stood as they entered, pulling Niall into a tight hug.
"Glad you're here," Harry murmured, his voice thick with emotion.
"Yeah," Niall replied, his voice trembling. "Me too."
Amelia hung back slightly, offering Harry and Louis a small smile. She didn't know them well, but her presence seemed to bring a quiet reassurance to the room.
The group sat together, the gravity of the situation settling over them. For the first time in years, they were all in the same place, bound by grief and the hope that they hadn't already lost the heart of their group.
The hum of the plane's engines still echoed in Zayn's ears as he stepped into the cold Zurich air. He adjusted the hood of his sweatshirt, pulling it lower over his face to shield against both the chill and the unwanted recognition. His fingers trembled slightly, clutching his small duffel bag as he scanned the tarmac.
Paul had arranged for a driver, a sleek black car idling a few feet away. The driver, a man in a crisp black coat, gestured for Zayn to approach.
"Straight to the hospital," the man said, his tone clipped as Zayn slid into the backseat.
Zayn nodded, leaning back against the cool leather seat. The car pulled away, its quiet hum blending with the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He turned to the window, his reflection barely visible in the dim city lights. He barely recognized himself. The tired, hollowed-out man staring back at him was a shadow of the boy he used to be.
The streets of Zurich blurred past, a kaleidoscope of muted lights and fleeting glimpses of passersby. The silence in the car was deafening, leaving Zayn alone with his thoughts. Memories of Liam surfaced, sharp and vivid, as if his mind had been waiting for this exact moment to confront him.
Flashback: Liam's Steady Hand
It had been a particularly rough night during their first world tour. Zayn had stormed off the stage after their encore, frustration bubbling over from weeks of relentless schedules, sleepless nights, and the crushing weight of expectation. He'd locked himself in a dressing room, ignoring the concerned knocks from the others.
"Zayn?" Liam's voice broke through the haze, not loud or insistent—steady, calm, and patient. Just like Liam always was.
"What?" Zayn snapped, his voice muffled through the door.
"Can I come in?" Liam asked gently.
Zayn hesitated, the weight of his anger and exhaustion beginning to dissolve under the familiarity of Liam's voice. With a reluctant sigh, he opened the door. Liam stepped inside, closing it softly behind him. His expression was a mix of concern and understanding as he sat on the edge of the sofa.
"I know it's hard," Liam said after a long pause. "But we're in this together. You don't have to carry it all on your own."
Zayn dropped onto the sofa beside him, burying his face in his hands. "Sometimes it feels like I do," he admitted quietly. "Like it's all too much."
Liam's hand rested on Zayn's shoulder, the pressure reassuring and grounding. "It's not just on you, mate. You've got us. We've got you."
The memory hit Zayn like a gut punch as the car pulled up to the hospital. His chest ached with the weight of it—how many times had Liam been the one to steady him, to hold them all together when the chaos threatened to tear them apart? And now, Liam was the one who needed saving.
Zayn clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms as he stepped out of the car. The driver opened the door without a word, gesturing toward the hospital entrance. The fluorescent lights of the lobby were harsh and unwelcoming, the faint smell of disinfectant stinging his nose.
Security escorted him through a back entrance, away from the reporters clustered near the main doors. The private waiting room they led him to was cold and empty, the silence pressing down on him like a physical weight. His bag slipped from his hand, landing with a dull thud on the floor. He sank into a chair, elbows resting on his knees as he stared blankly at the tiled floor.
For the first time in years, Zayn felt completely untethered. The walls he had built around himself—the ones that had kept him from his boys, from Liam—felt like they were crumbling around him.
Flashback: Safe in Each Other's Arms
It was one of those rare, blissful weeks off during their whirlwind tour schedule. They had rented a house in the countryside, a safe haven far from the screaming fans, prying cameras, and the unrelenting chaos of fame. The others were sprawled in the living room downstairs, their voices a mix of shouts and laughter as they battled it out in a heated game of FIFA.
But Zayn and Liam had retreated upstairs, to the quiet sanctuary of their shared room. The air was warm and heavy with the scent of them—sweat, cologne, and the faint sweetness of Liam's shampoo. The sheets were tangled around their legs, their bare skin flushed and glowing in the dim light of the bedside lamp.
Liam lay on his back, his chest rising and falling steadily. Zayn rested his head against Liam's shoulder, their fingers lazily intertwined. His heart felt too full, the warmth of it pressing against his ribcage until he thought he might burst. He pressed a soft kiss to Liam's collarbone, his lips lingering against the warm skin.
"That was…" Liam started, his voice rough and low, trailing off with a chuckle.
"Yeah," Zayn murmured, a lazy grin spreading across his lips. "You're not bad, Payne."
Liam let out a mock-offended gasp, turning his head to nudge Zayn with his nose. "Not bad? Mate, I'll have you know I'm bloody fantastic."
"Alright, alright," Zayn said, laughing softly. He leaned up to kiss Liam, slow and lingering. Their lips brushed in a way that made Zayn's chest tighten with something he didn't quite have the words for.
When they pulled apart, Liam's brown eyes searched Zayn's face, his expression softening. "You alright, Z?"
"Yeah," Zayn said, his voice quieter now. "Just… this. Us. Feels good, you know?"
Liam smiled, that easy, genuine smile that Zayn loved more than anything. "Yeah. Feels like home."
They lay there for a while, the sounds of laughter and friendly insults drifting up from downstairs. Harry's exaggerated groan of defeat was followed by Niall's triumphant shout, and Louis's voice cut through, teasing Niall about celebrating too soon.
Zayn smiled, his head tilting to rest against Liam's shoulder. "Reckon they'd kill us if we stayed up here all night?"
"Probably," Liam said, chuckling. "But let's give it a bit longer. You deserve a break."
Zayn's hand tightened slightly in Liam's, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You're good at this, you know."
"At what?" Liam asked, turning his head to look at him.
"This. Us," Zayn said simply. "Making me feel… safe."
Liam's hand came up to cup Zayn's cheek, his thumb brushing softly over his skin. "You're safe with me, Z. Always."
The memory felt like a knife to Zayn's chest, sharp and unforgiving. He could still feel the warmth of Liam's body, the way his steady presence had always made the chaos bearable. Liam had been his anchor, his safe harbor, and now Zayn felt adrift, lost in a sea of regret.
"You've got to come back to us," he whispered, his voice trembling. "You've got to come back to me."
Zayn's head tilted upward, his dark eyes filled with resolve. Whatever it took—whatever he had to do—he wouldn't lose Liam. He couldn't.
The waiting room felt smaller with every passing minute. Harry and Louis sat side by side, the silence between them heavy but not tense. Louis's foot tapped against the floor in a restless rhythm, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Harry stared at his hands, the lines of his palms a distraction from the hollow ache in his chest.
The sound of the door opening made both of them look up. Zayn stepped inside, his hood pulled low over his head. He looked exhausted, his eyes rimmed red and dark shadows beneath them. He glanced at Harry and Louis, his shoulders tense, before setting his bag down by the door.
"Hey," Harry said, his voice soft and tentative.
"Hey," Zayn replied, his voice rough. He didn't move closer, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie.
Louis stood, his gaze sharp as he studied Zayn. "You alright?" he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
Zayn shook his head. "Not really."
Louis nodded, his own mask of composure cracking for a moment. "Yeah. Same."
The door opened again, and Niall stepped in, Amelia close behind him. Niall's eyes were glassy, his shoulders hunched like he was trying to fold in on himself. Amelia placed a steadying hand on his arm, guiding him toward the group.
"Niall," Harry said, standing and crossing the room in a few quick strides. He pulled Niall into a hug, his grip tight and unyielding. Niall clung to him, his breath hitching as he fought back tears.
"It's bad, isn't it?" Niall whispered, his voice trembling.
Harry didn't answer, his own throat too tight to form words. He just held Niall, his hand rubbing soothing circles on his back. Louis stepped forward, clapping a hand on Niall's shoulder. Zayn lingered by the door, his expression unreadable.
Amelia shifted awkwardly near the entrance, her eyes scanning the group. She met Harry's gaze, offering a small, tentative smile. "Hi. I'm Amelia," she said softly, her voice carrying a quiet strength. "I'm with Niall."
Harry nodded, his expression grateful. "Thank you for coming."
She smiled faintly, then stepped back, giving the boys their space.
The group sat together, the silence between them charged with emotion. For the first time in years, they were all in the same place, bound by grief and the hope that they hadn't already lost the heart of their group.
Hours passed in a blur of hushed voices and fleeting updates from hospital staff. The waiting room grew colder with each passing minute, the sterile white walls closing in on them. Harry sat slumped in his chair, his head resting in his hands. Louis paced the room, his movements agitated. Niall sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, Amelia's hand resting gently on his shoulder. Zayn remained still, his eyes fixed on the door as if willing it to open.
When a nurse entered with another vague update—"He's stable, but still critical"—the group exchanged weary glances. The relief was fleeting, a thin veneer over the fear that still gripped them.
"We can't do this again," Zayn said suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence. Everyone turned to look at him. His hands were clenched into fists, his jaw tight. "We can't keep letting things get this bad before we come together. It's not right."
Louis stopped pacing, his gaze narrowing. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying we've let too much come between us," Zayn replied, his voice low but firm. "Management, the media, our own egos. We let it all pull us apart. And look where it's gotten us."
Niall shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "It's not like we wanted this."
"I know," Zayn said, his tone softening. "But we let it happen. And now Liam's… Liam's in there, and we're out here, wondering if we're too late."
Harry looked up, his green eyes shining with unshed tears. "We're not too late," he said quietly. "We can't be."
Zayn's gaze locked with Harry's, and for a moment, the weight of their shared history passed between them—years of laughter, fights, triumphs, and heartbreak. "Then we fix this," Zayn said. "For him. For us. We don't let anything—anyone—come between us again."
Louis exhaled sharply, his expression softening as he looked around the room. "He's right. We've been idiots, all of us. Letting stupid things get in the way of what really matters."
Niall nodded, his voice trembling as he spoke. "Liam would hate this. Us being apart, not talking. He always wanted us to stick together, no matter what."
Amelia squeezed Niall's shoulder, her gaze warm and encouraging. "Then do it," she said simply. "For him."
Harry straightened in his seat, his determination hardening. "We fight for him. For us. Whatever it takes."
The group exchanged solemn nods, the weight of their vow settling over them like a protective shield. For the first time in years, they felt like a team again—a family. And they weren't going to lose one of their own without a fight.
The Plan
The resolve that had settled over the group in the waiting room began to crystallize into action as the hours wore on. They knew that waiting and hoping weren't enough—they needed to prepare for the battles ahead, both for Liam's recovery and for the fractures within their group that still ached despite their renewed unity.
Harry glanced around at the others, his voice breaking the silence. "We need to figure out what's next. Liam's not just fighting for his life in there—when he wakes up, he's going to need us more than ever. And we need to be ready."
Louis nodded, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. "You're right. If we don't have a plan, we'll just be flailing around. And that's the last thing Liam would want."
Zayn leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His dark eyes flickered with a mixture of determination and regret. "We start with us. No more walls, no more excuses. We talk things out, no matter how hard it is."
Harry met his gaze, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. "And what if it's too hard? What if… we're not strong enough?"
"It doesn't matter if it's hard," Zayn said firmly. "We owe it to Liam—and to ourselves—to try."
Niall, who had been quiet for most of the discussion, finally spoke up. His voice was soft but steady. "We need to make sure we're here for him, all of us. Not just physically, but… really here. No distractions, no bullshit."
Amelia, sitting quietly beside Niall, chimed in. "You're stronger together than apart. You've always known that. Whatever it takes to support Liam, you can do it. But you have to let yourselves lean on each other, too."
Harry nodded slowly, his gaze moving to each of them in turn. "Alright. We do this. For Liam, and for us."
As the hours dragged on, the group fell into a tense, uneasy rhythm. They took turns checking for updates from the medical staff, pacing the sterile halls, and sitting in the waiting room, their conversations growing quieter but more intimate as time passed.
Niall and Zayn were huddled in a corner, sharing whispered memories of their early days in the band. Zayn's lips quirked into a rare smile as Niall recounted a particularly chaotic concert in Spain where Liam had managed to calm the crowd with a few soothing words.
"Liam always had that gift," Zayn said softly. "He could just… make everything feel okay, even when it wasn't."
Niall nodded, his voice thick with emotion. "He's still got it. He'll pull through this. He has to."
Across the room, Louis sat beside Harry, their earlier argument forgotten as they leaned on each other for support. Louis's fingers tapped against the armrest of his chair, his restless energy palpable. "You know," he began, his voice low, "Liam used to tell me that you were the glue that held us together."
Harry's brow furrowed, his eyes wide with surprise. "He said that about me?"
"Yeah," Louis said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Said you had this way of making everyone feel like they belonged, even when things were falling apart."
Harry looked down, his throat tightening. "Funny. I always thought he was the glue. He kept us grounded."
Louis reached over, his hand briefly squeezing Harry's shoulder. "Maybe we all were, in our own way."
The door to the waiting room opened, and a nurse stepped inside, her expression neutral but professional. The group tensed as one, their attention snapping to her.
"He's stable," she said, her voice calm but firm. "The doctors are optimistic, but it's still critical. He'll need time, and a lot of support, but there's hope."
The collective sigh of relief that swept through the room was almost palpable. Niall covered his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking as Amelia wrapped an arm around him. Harry leaned back in his chair, his head tilting upward as he exhaled slowly. Louis clenched his fists, his jaw tightening as if to hold back the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Zayn closed his eyes, a single tear slipping down his cheek.
"Can we see him?" Harry asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
The nurse hesitated. "Only two at a time for now. He's still very weak."
Harry glanced at the others, his expression conflicted. "Louis, you should go first."
Louis shook his head. "No. You and Zayn. You've got things you need to say."
Harry blinked, his throat tightening. "Are you sure?"
Louis nodded firmly. "Go."
The room was dimly lit, the hum of medical equipment filling the silence. Liam lay motionless in the bed, his face pale and still, tubes and wires snaking around him like fragile lifelines. Harry's breath caught as he stepped inside, Zayn close behind him.
"Liam…" Harry whispered, his voice breaking. He moved to the bedside, his fingers hovering over Liam's hand before finally clasping it gently. "We're here. We're all here."
Zayn stood at the foot of the bed, his jaw clenched as he struggled to keep his emotions in check. "You're a fighter, love," he said softly. "You've always been the strong one. Don't you dare give up,on me, on us now."
The silence stretched on, the weight of their words hanging in the air. Harry leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching Liam's. "We need you, Liam. We can't… we can't do this without you."
Zayn moved to the other side of the bed, his hand resting lightly on Liam's arm. "You've always been there for us, even when we didn't deserve it. Let us be here for you now."
The two of them stayed like that for a long moment, their presence a silent promise to the man who had always been the heart of their group.
As they stepped out of the room, their faces were streaked with tears, but their expressions were resolute. They returned to the waiting room, where the others looked up expectantly.
"How is he?" Niall asked, his voice trembling.
Harry and Zayn exchanged a glance, a shared understanding passing between them. "He's fighting," Harry said quietly. "And we'll be right here, every step of the way."