The lines have been drawn.

No, they've been torn. Scratched ruthlessly in to the fabric of the band, the fabric of their life. Four pieces of cloth ripped apart and waiting to be sewn back together.

Danny, alcohol- stained and smelling of under- age cigarette smoke.

Harry, ironed and pristine but tarnished with smug arrogance.

Tom, frayed at the edges and stretched too far over holes too big to be sewn together.

Dougie, crumpled up and forgotten about as the drama unfolds between the other three.

Dougie sits at the kitchen table and picks at the elastic on too- high socks under too- long shorts. He rocks slightly as the bubble he holds around himself reflects the insults being thrown across the room like daggers.

Danny aims and fires, a jagged insult that Harry repels with a smirk and a smooth retort. He's better at this than Danny, because Danny is screaming and shoving and storming out and Harry is sarcasm and smiling and sneering.

Dougie is silence.

Tom is strained.

That's an understatement. Tom is near breaking point, a handle about to fall off a cracked jug. Dougie can see it in his eyes, brown eyes that all the fun went out of about two months back. The fun is now discarded in dusty corners with happy jamming sessions on his guitar, and replaced by stress and exhaustion. He doesn't deserve this. He bit off more than he could chew and now his teeth are eroding because of Harry's acidic insults and chipped from Danny's violent fits, but he can't spit it out because he's just too nice.

It's only a matter of time, Dougie thinks as he stretches his bubble out a little bit further. Rocks, picks, rocks, picks, watches Harry, watches Danny, watches Tom. Tom is about to crack.

It's only a matter of time.

Tom vomits all over the kitchen.

Tom bit off more than he could chew but he doesn't just spit it out, he vomits it in streams of swear words that don't fit together right and arms flailing. Danny and Harry stare in shocked silence as he yells. Toomucharguing/notenoughwork/indebt/needmoresongs/insensitivebastards/fuckshitbastardshitshitfuck.

Danny gives a nervous laugh and Harry's smile slides off his face and lands in a puddle of guilt on the floor. Dougie's bubble pops because Tom's pain is sharper than he anticipated and he finds himself staring with his mouth open.

Tom slides down on to the floor, hands over face, knees under chin. Danny joins him and Harry turns, puts on the kettle, says something vaguely comforting about the debt. Danny agrees and the holes begin to thread back together as a hesitant smile is shared. Tom's shaky laugh is the needle and it starts to fix up the broken seams. Slowly, the fabric is sewn up, not as good as new but good as it's going to get.

And Dougie is forgotten, on the kitchen stool with his too- high socks under too- long shorts and a bubble that's beginning to re- form. He's been scrunched up and thrown in the corner, mangled beyond repair, and even a sewing machine couldn't bring him back now.