Sandpaper

nine

"Enough," Liam stands up scolding the two with his eyes. Zayn takes the seat on the opposite side of Niall, hands crossed over his chest and eyebrows slopping together. The therapist swallows hard when he makes eye contact with Charlie because she's been missing for three days and she keeps him up at night and fuck—she's so, so broken. And Liam's beginning to think he can't do anything to fix her. Everyone's waiting for him to say something, so he taps his hands at his sides and says, "Alright, today we're going to be doing a partner activity."

Charlie rolls her eyes and leans over Niall whispering, "Can't you like, find another seat?" And Zayn really tries to ignore her but then she opens her mouth again and adds, "Yo asshole I'm talking to you. Don't fucking ignore me."

"Christ, I'm not even bothering you," he hisses back.

"You're making my friend Neil here uncomfortable."

"His name's not even Neil. It's Niall."

Charlie totally didn't know his name was Niall but she sure as shit isn't going to let Zayn know that. And Niall's not really sure how the hell someone like Zayn remembered his name. I mean, Zayn just screams cool, cool, cool and Niall's never been cool he's just always ever been scared, scared, scared.

"Fucking hell, it's a nickname Zayn. I have nicknames for my goddamn friends."

"Excuse me, am I interrupting something?" Liam butts in with that smug face and patronizing tone that makes Charlie want to smack him.

"Not at all Lima Bean. I was just telling Zayn here he needs to shut the fuck up and pay attention."

Zayn clenches his jaw impossibly tighter, sharp eyes narrowing at the dark haired girl. He can feel his blood boiling in his veins, heartbeat echoing around in her skull. But he looks at Liam, stiffens his back and pulls his lip into his teeth, eyes blazing with anger.

"As I was saying, everyone's going to draw a picture; it can be anything, but I want you to feel it and not think too much into it. After about ten minutes you're going to give it to your partner, and they're going to explain to you what they think it means." Truth be told, Charlie thinks that's the dumbest fucking thing she's ever heard. Why the fuck does she need someone to tell her what she's drawing? She can't even fucking draw in the first place.

Her hand is in the air before Liam's even done talking. "What now Charlie?"

The dark haired girl raises her eyebrow, "Yeah, no there's no fucking way I'm doing this." The seven year old girl winces and Charlie sticks her tongue out at her because like, who the fuck does she think she is?

She hears Zayn suck in a breath and mutter something about how "you're honestly like five years old y'know" and she just can't let it go

so she replies with an "Oh bite me—"

that's followed by a stern "Charlie—"

but then there's a "Don't start with me Liam—"

and a whiny protest of "He's bloody in charge—"

"So now you're sticking up for him—"

"No—I just—"

"Jesus fucking Christ."

"Thou shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain, for the Lord will not hold him guiltless who takes his name—"

"Charlie don't—"

"Fuck you Zayn—"

And it's all a big fucking mess.

The boy with all the tattoos that cares too much has her small fists beating on the hollow cavities of his chest. Everything hurts, hurts, hurts, and she can't fucking breathe because her sides are painted purple and his voice feels like comfort and they're all a little bit fucked up really. Everything's a blur of red and blue and that damn yellow forever tattooed on the back of her eyelids, her fists are splitting open and Zayn's just fucking standing there.

And she can feel the thunderstorms in her veins, lightning jolting through her entire body, wildfire spreading out from her fingertips. She closes her eyes and clenches her jaw and it's only a moment but she feels the memory burning in her chest, flames licking their way up her throat, smoke blinding her. She staggers and Zayn's there. He's fucking there to catch her and his hands shake more than earthquakes when he pulls her into his chest and smells the smoke pouring out from her lungs.

But Charlie can't feel his arms around her. All she feels are her bones rattling beneath flesh. And she remember how everything ached.

Everything ached and Harry didn't know what to do as Charlie slumped against the sink. There was blood on her hands, in her hair, and staining her cheeks and he wanted to cry. Harry wanted to breakdown in front of this broken girl, bury his head in her alcohol stained shirt and tell her he's sorry, that he can't help her. He wanted to beg her to wake the fuck up already, scream at her that he's so goddamn tired of being everyone's rock all the time. And Harry just wanted to cry really.

But he bit at his (raw) lips and sucked in a breath as he guided her (bleeding) hands under the faucet, watching the crimson wash down the drain. He told her that it would be okay, and she leaned over the sink and threw up all the poisons lingering in her belly, shirt riding up to reveal blackened sides. He swept her hair out of her face and made those soothing sounds his mum always used to make when he was sick. He saw her recoil from his touch, arms hugging the porcelain bowl like her life depended on it, bones straining to stay together each time her stomach heaved.

And Harry wanted to cry for the girl that can't seem to cry anymore. He told her that she deserves better and she knew she didn't. He said "it's okay, y'know. It's all going to be okay." And Charlie shook her head and said "m' sorry."

But Charlie's never really been one for apologies, so the words dissipate in the atmosphere leaving her lungs gasping for air. It's all too goddamn familiar really. The bruises, the alcohol, the soothing words. But Harry's hands are steady and Cole's always seemed to shake. His eyes are filled with forests and Cole's were filled with the sea. His hair isn't blonde and his smile isn't broken and Charlie doesn't love him.

And crying never solves anything, but for some goddamn reason Harry Styles can't stop the tears from rolling down his cheek one by one.