Chapter Text
The sky over London was a dull bruise, swollen and heavy with rain. Water traced down the stone walls of the church, gathered in the gutters, fell from umbrellas in streams that splattered on black shoes.
Outside the gates the crowd pulsed—a strange congregation of cameras and faces. Paparazzi hunched in black hoods, lenses ready, while behind them the fans stood pressed against the railings, soaked but unyielding. They held roses, hand-written letters in plastic sleeves, albums warped with water. Some sobbed, others whispered Liam’s name like they still expected him to step out and wave.
Niall pushed his way through it with his collar up, head down, sunglasses on though the light was dim. He had lost weight in the past weeks, his cheeks hollow, his suit hanging from his shoulders like borrowed fabric.
His steps faltered on the slick steps, but no one reached out to steady him. Inside, the hush was immediate, as though the stone walls swallowed the world whole.
The smell of lilies and wet coats pressed down. He paused halfway down the aisle, steadying himself. At the altar, Liam’s portrait sat in a golden frame—laughing, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut. A laugh you could hear just by looking. Niall’s stomach turned to glass.
He slid into a side pew. Louis sat across the aisle, back straight, jaw set, a muscle at the hinge working. His phone lit his thigh every few minutes; he glanced, then tucked it away as if guilt could be folded small. Zayn had taken the shadowed row near the back, cap pulled low, posture a question that no one here had earned the right to answer.
And then Harry—late, immaculate, carrying himself with the kind of armour only he could wear. His suit fit perfectly, his hair slicked down, his stride measured. Only his eyes betrayed him: rimmed red, heavy-lidded, carrying the rawness of nights without sleep. He lifted them, just once, and they landed on Niall.
Niall felt the look in his marrow. A sharp, unbearable flicker. Then it was gone.
The four of them stood together when called to, sat together when ordered to, the shape of a band for the eyes of strangers. To anyone else it might have looked like unity. To Niall it felt like standing in the ruins of something once holy.
When the priest said Liam’s name, Niall’s throat closed. He thought of late-night calls, of Liam’s steady voice talking him down when the panic hit. Of the messages—Proud of you, mate. Keep going. He thought of the last one, the one he never answered. Last night's show was incredible! I’ll stay a couple more days here tho, call me if you want to hang out.
But Niall was already on a plane to his next show.
I should’ve called back. I should’ve noticed. I should’ve done something.
His nails dug crescent moons into his palms until the sting gave him something real, something other than the guilt that was eating him alive. Then the coffin moved past him and the world tilted with it.
After, in the crowd spilling toward the doors, Harry brushed close. Niall caught the faint warmth of his cologne, the brush of his sleeve. Their eyes met, again, unbearably.
“You holding up?” Harry knew it was a stupid question, he asked anyway.
“Aye,” Niall said, the accent catching and breaking like ice. “Always.” He heard the lie in his own voice.
Harry gave the faintest nod and walked on, already claimed by another circle of people.
Niall stood there a moment longer, stomach hollow, before following the crowd out into the rain.
****
The wake was a blur of voices, unbearable. Glasses clinked, people leaned close, told him stories of Liam, stories he should’ve known himself, stories that now felt like accusations. He forced himself to calm down, letting the words slide past. His glass emptied and refilled without him noticing. He saw Harry once across the room, laughing politely, and it burned like acid.
By the time he stumbled into his flat, silence roared. He left the suit in a heap and sank into his armchair with his guitar across his knees. His fingers hovered, pressed once, and produced nothing. No melody, no chord. The silence in the strings matched the silence in his chest. He set it down carefully, as though it might shatter.
He reached for his phone and scrolled. Pictures flashed—tour buses, green rooms, laughter in hotel beds. His chest cracked open. He stopped on Liam first.
Liam’s smile. Liam’s arms thrown around his shoulders. Liam and him on a bus, Liam’s mouth open mid-story, his hand mid-gesture, the other lads already laughing because Liam took care to make the tale big enough to keep everyone warm. Both of them sweaty and stupid after a show. A short video: Liam off-screen saying, You eating today or am I going to have to wrestle you, and the camera shaking because Niall was laughing and saying, Come try me, man.
Just Liam steadying him in a thousand little ways. He heard his voice notes next—You’ve got this, Nialler. Don’t forget you’re brilliant. Remember to eat something. The guilt slammed into him so hard he had to bite down to stop himself from screaming.
Then Harry. Christ. Harry’s mouth near his ear in a grainy club photo, both of them collapsed in that laugh that leaves no room for breath. Harry asleep on a cheap hotel pillow, curls in his eyes, one arm flung over his head, the other hooked around Niall’s waist like it belonged there, both of them too young to notice anything but the heat. Harry mid-song, sweat on the point of his chin, all eyes on him.
There is a very fine line between memory and self-harm. He crossed it with his eyes open and stood there awhile.
The sobs came hard, started in his ribs and climbed like it had hands, tearing his chest open, breaking out of him before he could stop it. He pressed his palms into his eyes but the tears wouldn’t stop.
The body is practical about these things; when it needs to empty, it empties. He bent forward in the chair and the first sound that came out of him was not fit for a person to hear.
All of it was crushing him. Amelia broke up with him months ago because he couldn’t forget about brown curls and soft green eyes, even Mully, his best friend was busy trying to make float his new business. Lewis too, busy with his tour and new album.
Louis had is own problems too, trying to get back with Eleanor while also taking care of his son and his mother, Zayn was still unapproachable, I’m just a text away, he always said, a fucking liar, but Niall understood. He also had his own problems, like everybody else. And Harry was a thick wall Niall hasn’t been able to climb. His last texts were still on read, still unanswered, and it burn Niall deeply. And now Liam was gone.
The only one who would call Niall and talk about his boring week, who would tell him excitedly how Bear was crushing his math tests and seemed to really like basketball, he wouldn’t talk about anything else. Niall would always call him too, at ridiculous hours because he knew Payno would always answer anyways. He would tell him about his club and the next golf season, he would share his tunes and ask about his and they both would spend hours just humming melodies with no lyrics, trying to make them come alive.
Liam was Niall’s anchor and Niall’s whole existence since Zayn left and the band split up and Harry wouldn’t talk to him and he just loves him so much and misses him so deeply it makes him sick.
And so the thought slid in, quiet and cold without really surprising him. Would it matter if I wasn’t here anymore? Maybe it’d be easier—for me, for everyone. Then I could be with him instead, and just rest.
His hand shook as he reached for the whiskey. Liquid spilled down his wrist.
Then the phone buzzed and he almost didn’t look. Then he saw the name. Da.
“Da—” His voice cracked as he answered.
“Niall, son,” Bobby’s voice came thick, rough with panic. “Talk to yer old man, yeah?”
“I can’t… I can’t do this anymore,” Niall whispered, and the note in it scared him. He sounded fourteen and thirty one at once, “I don’t see the point.” His voice splintered. “I’m so tired, Da. I’m done.”
On the other end, silence. Then his father’s voice sharpened like steel. “Don’t ya talk like that. Don’t ya dare. Ya hear me, Niall James? You won’t put yourself in the ground before yer time.”
Niall folded forward, one hand on the table like he might push himself through it. The sobs came back and he didn’t fight, then tried to speak through them, which is stupid and brave and human. “I tried. I did. But I can’t. I can’t anymore. I’m done.”
“You can, and yer not done” Bobby said, voice breaking now too but still fierce. “Yer broken down, aye, but not done. Yer my son. You don’t get to quit livin’ on me. Not while I'm breathing. Don’t ya let me bury ya.” He took a breath that sounded like it hurt. “You think Liam’d want this? You think any of us could stand to lose ya? I couldn’t survive it, lad. Not you.”
The sob ripped out of Niall, raw. “I’m sorry, Da. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just come home. Come home to me. I’ll put the kettle on. We’ll get ya sorted. Come home an’ rest. Music can wait. The world can rot for all I care. But not you. Not my boy. Yer not alone, Niall. Not now, not ever.”
Niall’s body shook with the force of it, but his voice steadied enough to whisper, “A-Aye, Da.”
“Say it properly. Promise me you’ll get on a flight. Tomorrow, the next day, I don’t care. Promise me.”
“I promise. I’ll come home.”
“Good lad.”
They missed each other for a little while after they hung up because phones don’t have enough space for what they had to carry between them. The silence when it returned didn’t roar this time. It settled. He set the whisky aside and watched the way the light made the liquid look like a thing separate from its use. He got up very slowly and went to the sink and poured it away and rinsed the glass and left it on the rack with its mouth down.
The sound of his father’s voice stayed in the room like a whisper. He wasn’t dying that night after all.
****
In the days after, he moved like a ghost. Called his manager, his label, his company.
He called his accountant because you have to call someone when you’re going to light a part of your career on fire and you want to make sure you don’t burn the wrong building.
“My contract’s up,” he said, voice flat in the way it needs to be when people are going to try to put fingers in it and make shapes. “I’m not renewing.”
On the other end of various lines, men and women who had invested expertise in keeping him profitable expressed the proper proportion of concern.
They tried to argue, coaxed, threatened but he didn’t budge.
The language changed with the caller. Take time, not forever. Think about the fans’ expectations. Think about the team. Think about the tour you promised. Think about your legacy. They said we’re family when it suited them and you’re making a mistake when it didn’t.
He insisted every band member, every crew member, every tech, every driver, every unseen worker, every person who depended on him was taking care of. He made sure the checks were sent. Made sure they were paid in full. Severance, bonuses, the whole lot. He had the money. He didn’t need it.
He made sure Cheryl and Bear would have what they needed too—trusts, funds, protection, everything his lawyer recommended. He did that quietly, without any spectacle.
After everything was done he looked at his calendar and found it blank in a way that would’ve terrified a younger version of him and calmed this one.
It was so much easier to breath already.
Then came the gifts.
For Louis and Freddie he filled boxes with things that made noise, on purpose: a small drum, a toy guitar, a flute and a colorful xylophone because why not? He also put a football and some Madrid kits.
For Zayn, he walked the aisles of a shop that smelled like paper, and started buying tons and tons of color because that’s always what’s he wishes for Zayn’s life to look like. He also added some books for him to read and a couple of empty journals for him to just vent out his thoughts and fears. For Khai he added a packet of fat crayons and an even fatter picture book filled with more colors and dreams; he sneaked a tiny microphone too.
And for Harry, the hardest one. He pulled the navy hoodie from an old box, sleeves thin with wear, still heavy with memory. That hoodie has been a part of Harry he’s been selfishly holding on to for far too long because he didn’t want to let go. But he knew it was time.
He paired it with one of Bobby’s vinyls he took with him after The X Factor, a record they’d once played in a Milan hotel room, laughing and singing until their voices gave out. He folded it carefully and put it in the box. He did wrote something, but it hurt him too much to remember it.
The sound of the tape gun was horribly loud in the flat and then it was done. He stood in the kitchen and put both hands on the counter and let his forehead follow and stayed there until the counter gave him back a small portion of his shape.
He also made sure to call Mully and explained everything to him. He assured him he could stay at the house, since it was his home too and promised to call once he landed.
****
It's been a couple of days since he sent the gifts, a couple of days since he wanted to die.
And then, one night in the silence, he sat at his desk and wrote.
To my lovers,
I don’t know how to say this without breaking your hearts, and I’m sorry if I do. I’ve loved music since I was four and went to that Eagles concert with my Da, and I’ve loved sharing it with you more than anything. But I’m in a bad place right now. I’ve been in a bad place for a long time, and I can’t keep pretending I’m fine while I drag myself through an album or a tour just because the world expects it. Liam’s passing make me realize some things about myself that I didn’t like, and to change them I need time.
I don’t want to give you half of myself. You’ve given me everything. You’ve lifted me up more times than I can count. I’ll never stop being grateful for that, never stop loving you for it.
But I can’t do this anymore. Not now. Not like this. I need to rest my mind and my body.
I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you. Thank you for standing by me all these years. Thank you for making me believe I was worth listening to.
Always mind yourselves. Take care of each other.
With love, always,
Niall
He stared at the letter until the words blurred, then sent it to his team to release with his retirement announcement.
The world’s response was immediate—hashtags, tribute threads, fans recording themselves crying. Headlines screamed of collapse, of shock. Some sneered he hadn’t the spine to compete, but most begged him not to go, told him he’d saved them once and they’d wait forever if he needed time.
Niall turned it all off. He packed one bag, booked a one way ticket to Dublin, and let the city disappear behind him.
****
In another flat, Harry read the letter twice, then three times, his tea cold and untouched. The box from Niall sat open on the table, the hoodie folded, the vinyl gleaming faintly in the low light. He touched the sleeve with careful fingers.
He thought of Niall at the funeral, lying with that shaking smile—Aye. Always.
He had believed him because he needed to. He had believed him because he didn’t know what to do if he didn’t. Now he looked at the hoodie and the vinyl and the words I need to rest and understood that he had not been paying attention.
“Fuck,” he cursed to the empty room, voice trembling. His fist closed tight. “I’m not letting you go. Not anymore.”
Even if it meant Ireland. Even if it meant tearing open wounds he’d never dared touch.
Harry was going to stop him.