** MAJOR EDITING**
Niall realises he likes Harry, his best friend. But Harry's already drowning deep in a toxic relationship with Liam, his companion.
A story of love, lust, friendship, and abandonment between five friends during their last year of...
chapter three. "I want no part in the fashion world."
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ABOUT ONE WEEK LATER I and my mother are sat across from each other in a nearly empty posh -- like my mother --restaurant with a French theme. We're attempting to catch up with one another after her two weeks worth of fashionable escapades in London. Filled with probably nothing more but sewing and designing and scouting and maybe, just maybe, some shouting at the newer inexperienced interns joining the fashion world.
And I. I want no fellow part in this so called translucent fashion world. No matter the many persuasions or recommendations nor connection I have within it.
I don't feel so moved, convinced to just drop everything -- my schooling, my job at Punk Rock, my free time with my friends -- to mature, be an adult, and work alongside my mother. The thought doesn't console me. Even if she's away from home more than she's here.
But now, she is here. That's the only thing that matters — she's here with her graceful presence. Sitting across from me at a dinner table.
My mum smiles amiably at me before her matte burgundy lips wrap around the black straw of her ordered liqueur, as sweet as her but stronger than our continuous conversation: spaced out and broken apart just like the transition of our family when it downsized the day my father took off.
But this isn't about my dad, it's about my mother. And now she's hissing because the perfervid liquid burns her throat. All the same she's smiling then combing her thin fingers through the platinum-ish colour of her hair. It's been recently coloured because the day my mother departed, the strands on her head were a brighter blond. Nonetheless she's pulls it off. My mum has always been beautiful, she'll always be beautiful. And I'll always be her son that's attached to her petite hip.
Just like the little mummy's boy I am that Cara always pissed around with me about. And Zayn always admired me for while I clearly remember Harry's amusement when Cara and I'd bicker back-and-forth habitually about it. Between the immaturely childish counters of 'are not, are to' that burned lungs and erupted combustion until my mum extinguished the flames with nothing but a reflection of our kiddish behaviour and--
"Have you've spoken to your father lately?"
With expectant resentment I shake my head. There's a brief look of disappointment that flashes upon my mother's wrinkle free face, but she immediately replaces it with a forceful smile that I unhesitatingly return before picking at my macaroons again. A deliberate intention to avoid knowing words when my mother sips at her tainted liquid again. She heaves an on the verge sigh.
"Y'know Nilly," it's a soft sound. An introduction to more reflexive words, that always to me, arises a bit of guilt. Even if I haven't done anything in the slightest wrong. With my childhood memories and history, I'd ought to be on the defensive side. "I'm hardly around when I'm doing work, and I'd like you to have a connection with your father when I'm away."
