Fine line (Larry Stylinson)

Chapter Three

As I shut the door of the cab and make my way to the stairs of my LA apartment guilt hangs heavy over my head. Well guilt, confusion, anxiety and something else i can't quite put my finger on. Embarassment, maybe? Whatever the hell it is its not exactly enjoyable.

I unlock my door and shut it again behind me, lingering in the hallway for a moment. It felt different, somehow. Unwelcoming, almost. James's words had truly done a number on me. Not only had he dropped the mother of all bombshells, but he'd made me question things. Remember things.

It wasn't his fault, of course. He was only trying to be a good mate, and, let's face it, he couldn't have known. No body knows.

But still. It was hard rehashing old issues, digging up the gult I was so sure I'd pushed so far down. Sure, I'd been asked about the boys before, but never in such an intimate, genuine way. Never by someone who knew what a business like this was right. It was both punishing and clarifying.

Mostly punishing.

It didn't occur to me how many people would be curious about the contact we kept with eachother. Although, in reality it shouldn't - we did have half the world's eyes on us at some point. Still, it surprises me how much faith so many had in our friendships.

And then there was the guilt. I feel it every day, if not every hour. The undying feeling that I've let down the people who once meant the whole world. The person who once meant the whole world. It was agonizing.

Sighing, I drag myself away from the hallway and into the kitchen. apparently, James's Vodka Tonic wasn't enough for my guilty conscience. When i'm wallowing, I like to wallow in style, preferably aged.

I pour a glass of scotch - probably a bit too much - and slump onto the couch, a routine I've done one too many times before. And no, it doesn't get old.

I take a swig and laugh almost sarcastically. This, ladies and gentelmen, is Harry fucking Styles. The real harry styles. If only they could see me now.

Pathetic.

As my thoughts turn into a haze, I let myself dwell on the night, going over each phrase in my head, each word hitting a new nerve. The engagement, the questions, the advice. It was all too much, and at some points still not enough. And, as intruisive as it was, our conversation did have some truth about it.

We were close. We were a family. WE went our separate ways, and now, you can catch two of us in the same room once in a blue moon. That wasn't the way it was supposed to be, right? It wasn't what we promised it would be.

So what changed?

I dread the day someone asks that question. How could I answer? How could i be honest when the truth was something I've spent almost a decade protecting? I hate lying, but I was simply granted no other option on that matter.

I'd just slip into my old ways, I suppose. Smile and nod. Put on a show for the people, just as I've been taught all my life to do. It was exhausting, but not nearly as dangerous as the truth.