Chapter Text
Paradise is a hell-colored flame sky
Is it nice to feel free and wild?
Paradise is a game of do-or-die
I just ride.
He was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling his heartbeat throb in his temples; and he had to wonder when exactly he had come to feel this way. An emptiness in his chest, so hollow, that seemed to drop into his stomach like a stone cast in water, watching the ceiling and finding the bubbles in the paint, so minute that they were oblivious to others—and who would stare at a ceiling for so long that the imperfections stood out so stark against everything else? Zayn didn't know, just as he didn't know why he was lying here at all, feeling the way he felt. To call it sadness would be an understatement, or possibly, an overstatement, because it wasn't sadness he felt, but simply: emptiness. Nothing else at all.
His fingers curled toward his palms, loose fists that uncurled slowly as if he was testing his reflexes, stretching his joints; bone moving beneath skin so thin he could watch every shift of his veins; light blue, almost green, fluttering under brown skin. He watched the way his hands moved so he wouldn't watch the ceiling anymore, and wondering, wondering...
That was when the rock hit his window, soft little tap not hard enough to leave a mark; and a smile, so natural, curling the edges of his mouth. Louis. He checked his phone, and of course—of course—three messages all from Louis, asking where Zayn was, why was he ignoring his phone? And the last message: I'll be by in a minute. your ass better not still be in bed, and yet here he was: lifeless as a corpse, unmoving; and it was getting dark outside, dusk. The sun would set in less than a half hour and Zayn hadn't yet bothered to put pants on.
There was another tap, and Zayn sat up. He reached for his jeans at the foot of the bed, left in a heap like something cast away and dying, slipped them on and thought already he felt a little better. He'd read somewhere that lying in bed only worsened one's sadness, but that didn't make his pillows any less welcoming. He stood, and startled. His bedroom door, having been thrown open, hit the wall with a loud clatter and Zayn found himself falling back onto his bed with a breathless oof! as Louis first shoved him—not very kindly, but playful all the same—and straddled him with his hands on Zayn's shoulders.
'I've been at work all day,' Louis began, ignoring Zayn's affectionate smile, hands lingering at the hem of Louis's shirt, 'and you're still lying around like some house cat. What's up with that, Malik?' No malice in his voice, but a seriousness Zayn detected immediately. Louis hated his job. Everyone knew that.
'I'm tired,' was the only reply Zayn could think up.
'Well... stop.' He released Zayn's shoulders and sat with his spine straight, weight leaned on his knees—he'd perfected this over the years of straddling Zayn and Zayn complaining of being smashed under him (though light, Louis was bigger than him; and there were few things less comfortable than being sat on by someone bigger than you). He ran a hand through the top of his hair, sighed like he was bored, and maybe he was.
'I'm off tomorrow,' Louis said. 'Let's do something tonight, huh?'
'Yeah.' Zayn pulled himself up on his elbows. 'Like what?'
'I don't know. Does it matter?'
With a scoff, Zayn shook his head, and tipped his chin up. Silent way of asking for a kiss that Louis gave him without pause, hands cupping either side of Zayn's neck, nose nestled into Zayn's cheek as Louis opened his mouth, and kissed him deeply.
-
They'd met in primary school, nearly a decade ago, when Zayn was nine and Louis was ten; and though they hadn't gotten along very well at the beginning, it was easy being friends. Neither of them had had many friends of their own, none that could handle them in copious amounts—at least, not Louis—and so found themselves sat together during lunch, playing footie alone during recess and sometimes having sleepovers that ended with them bickering and not speaking to one another for the rest of the weekend. At eighteen and nineteen and both finished with high school, they could look back at the times they hated each other most with a fondness that wasn't short of admiration. Like the time Zayn not-so-accidentally spilled tomato soup on Louis's favorite shirt, or the time Louis accidentally—and it really was an accident—tore a cover on one of Zayn's comics. And though he'd apologized for days, Zayn hadn't spoken to him for well over a week; and why they had spoken again at all was beyond him. But now that he was older, he knew exactly what it was, and it was the simple fact that Zayn didn't like being without Louis. As hard-headed and irritable as he could be sometimes, Louis was as much a part of Zayn as Zayn was of him, and that was all.
Except now, with the impending ebb and flow of his emptiness like that of a tidal wave, Zayn could smile around Louis, he could feel a little better, and he liked himself a whole lot more with Louis's hand in his own, but he still had to go home each night and sleep alone; lost in his own head, staring at the ceiling with his eyes growing wet and never understanding why.
He tried not to think about it too much. But it was hard.
-
They were sat in the backseat of Louis's car, at the last operating drive-in in town; and the screen was dim and tilted too much to right. The parking lot, mostly empty, gave the feeling of abandonment, something forgotten and left behind, but that was alright. It gave the theater its charm; it was why they came here at all: to be alone. They never watched the movies, not really, since the only ones shown were from the 1940's and in black and white. The one that played now was called The Lost Weekend, and it was about an alcoholic writer—or something like that. Zayn couldn't remember.
The radio dial was turned low (old movies had a habit of having harsh and loud audio), something by The 1975 played from Zayn's phone as Louis rested his cheek to the sharp jut of Zayn's shoulder; a thinly rolled joint clasped between his fingers.
Louis tipped his face up, mouth brushing the lobe of Zayn's ear. He asked: 'What are you doing this weekend?'
Zayn, unaware of what day it was, shrugged. 'Dunno.'
'We should do something. Like, go somewhere? A hotel, maybe, huh?' He clicked his tongue, winked. Zayn laughed, but it was a little forced.
'Or not,' Louis said carefully. 'We can do something else. I work Friday, but I'm off Saturday and don't go in until late on Sunday. We'll basically have all weekend, so we can do whatever.' He was watching Zayn expectantly, in a way that Zayn had never particularly liked. He was waiting for an answer, and if Zayn didn't give the one he wanted to hear, he was apt to throw a fit. And though Zayn knew perfectly well how to deal with Louis when he got that way, he wasn't in the mood for it tonight.
So he shrugged again, and gave his best smile, said, 'A hotel is fine.'
'Not just a hotel,' Louis said. He was sitting up now, thick plumes of smoke curling from his parted mouth. He handed the joint to Zayn, exhaled loudly. 'I mean, we can do other shit too, y'know? But stay in a hotel overnight. Better than coming home pissed and tired.'
Noncommittal, 'Yeah,' as Zayn took a deep pull, felt his lungs swell, the tickle at the back of his throat. Don't cough, he thought, and coughed anyway. 'Whatever you want, Louis, I don't mind.' And wasn't that how it'd always been? Whatever you want, I don't mind.
-
After the movie, back at home, Louis crawled into Zayn's bed with no sign of leaving soon. Shoes kicked off, bare feet and his pants rolled up from his ankles; he laid with his arms pillowed behind his head as Zayn emptied his pockets on the night stand. Pack of cigarettes, pack of gum, a pocket knife dulled over years of using it recklessly (like carving their initials like a love struck child in the base of a tree) and a keyring that held both the key to his own house as well as Louis's. He stared at his belongings, so trifle and small, and felt the familiar pangs of discomfort rise from his belly and into his throat. He ran a hand over his face, and said he was tired when Louis asked what was wrong.
'You're always tired,' Louis said softly. 'Do you sleep at all? Or do you just lay here all night?' It was said as a joke, but Zayn didn't take it as one.
On the edge of the bed, shoulders rounded, he touched Louis's leg, let his hand rest there on his upper thigh. He said, 'I love you,' so quietly it could have been a whisper. And as if slapped, shocked right out of his own head, Louis sat up, alert. He crowded Zayn, shoving him lightly.
'Hey—' he laughed uneasily. 'You're okay.'
Zayn couldn't tell if it was a question or not, but he answered like it was. 'Yeah, I'm okay.'
'You're sure?'
'Sure enough.' A scrunch-nosed smile, the one Louis loved most, and Zayn watched, a little unsettled, as Louis relaxed—so easily. His whole body sagged with relief like he just dodged a bullet. He sort of had.
'You sleepin' here?' Zayn asked, pulling off his shirt. He threw it on the floor along with his pants, and without bothering to find clothes, crawled under the covers. Louis followed his lead, slipped out of his clothes, and muttered a soft, 'if that's alright with you.'
That night, Zayn lied awake, watching the ceiling. It was too dark to see any imperfections, but that didn't mean they weren't there. Shadows on the walls, on the bed; shadows everywhere, even on him; and it didn't seem to matter that Louis was pressed into his side, that his head lay right on Zayn's chest with his arms about his waist, because he wasn't awake, and therefore wasn't really there. Zayn was tempted to wake him, to see his eyes flutter open and find the recognition there; it'd make his heart swell and sink all at once, and how badly he wanted to kiss Louis awake and keep him awake. All night. So he wouldn't have to be alone with himself anymore. But instead, he kissed Louis's forehead, and nuzzled his face into the mess of hair Louis hardly brushed, and feigned sleep until it finally came, sometime after three that morning.
-
They'd decided to go to the neighboring city, just forty minutes away and five times more beautiful than their hometown. The buildings here loomed high near the clouds, transparent windows and white lacquer paneling that glistened like chrome. Zayn felt in awe, though he'd come here often when he was kid, and it didn't matter that he was nearly a man now; he still looked out the passenger window with all the excitement a child might feel. Mouth slightly parted, tongue coming out to wet his bottom lip, and in his chest: a fluttering of anticipation. He reached his hand over the middle console and rested it on Louis's leg, fingertips curled ever so slightly into the fleshy part of his thigh. He heard Louis laugh, soft little chuckle of affection, and felt Louis's hand close over his own.
'And tonight?' Louis said. 'What are we gonna do tonight?'
'Let's get to the room first.'
It wasn't a suite, and it wasn't as pretty as the city, but it was a nice hotel with a mini bar and a flat screen TV that showed channels from almost every continent. Zayn lingered on a French program, then switched to a soap opera; he laughed at the music, and the animated way the actor's widened their eyes, like something out of a cartoon. Louis, in the bathroom, taking a shower, his clothes thrown over the bed—a nice bed with four pillows and big, thick blanket Zayn was excited to sleep with. He curled himself beneath the covers, fully clothed with his socks on, and played a game on his phone until Louis joined him, some odd minutes later, wet headed and smelling like cherry blossoms.
'Get the green one,' Louis muttered, head on the same pillow Zayn used. He scoffed when Zayn didn't listen and lost the level he'd been playing. 'I told you. Green.'
Throwing the phone toward the foot of the bed, Zayn rolled on his side, wrapped his arm around Louis's middle and buried his face into his chest. Inhaling deeply, he was saddened not to be welcomed by the familiarity of Louis's cologne, but instead something foreign, something not Louis at all.
'What are you wearing?' he asked.
'You don't like it?' If he was offended, he didn't show it. 'It's a new perfume. Mum got it for me. I told her it smelt like an old man, but—' here, a shrug; or what could pass as one as he was now pinned under Zayn.
Looking up, bright eyes burning like embers, he looked beautiful. Zayn thought of all the times he'd stared into Louis's eyes and found nothing but love there. Now was no different.
'What is it?' Louis asked softly, as if he didn't want to ask at all; and did he look conflicted? Zayn thought he did. 'Something the matter?'
'No.' Zayn leaned in, kissed him full on the mouth. He took Louis's lower lip between his teeth, and bit down until Louis began to squirm. Shift of his hips, slight catch in his throat; Zayn crawled between Louis's legs, still peppered in water from his shower, hair still wet and hanging low in his eyes. Gentle pull of Louis's body, hands low on Zayn's hips; and Zayn, with his face buried in Louis's neck, teeth bared against the rising heat in the pit of his stomach. No matter how many times they'd done this, or how many more they would, Zayn found himself breathless by the feel of Louis's bare skin against his own; the curve of Louis's hips, the thickness of his thighs, the way he'd moan, sweetly high-pitched at the back of his throat, and so many more things that Zayn couldn't find the right words to describe. But when it was all over, when Louis had peeled himself away, complaining of having to wash up—again (and, “really, Zayn, you probably should too, you're all sweaty”), Zayn kept motionless in the middle of the bed, naked, with dried come on the front of his thighs, feeling oddly dirty with the emptiness returning as quickly as it had fled.
He took a shower after Louis was finished in the bathroom, but didn't feel any better, not even with fresh clothes and his hair done right. How long since the last time he'd cared enough to actually style his own hair? Too long. But even now, it didn't look right—he didn't look right.
He kissed Louis's temple before they left—something about lunch at the casino—and hoped he'd feel better before the weekend's end.
-
'It's nice here, innit?' Louis, with a beer in his hand and his plate empty. He'd eaten everything. Zayn, on the other hand, still picked at his fries.
'Yeah.'
'There's a bar, not far from here. Niall mentioned it before we left. I think we should check it later tonight. Maybe it'll be a good one?'
'Sure.'
Louis reached over the table, and Zayn thought he was reaching for his hand, but instead he took a fry off his plate and ate it in one bite. 'Are you gonna eat anything else?' he asked, to which Zayn shook his head and pushed his plate across the table.
'No,' Louis pushed it back. 'You gotta eat a little more. You're all bones.'
Zayn shoved four fries in his mouth, and thought he'd be sick.
-
The bar was dark—too dark for his liking—he could barely see the glass in his hand, and if it wasn't for the weight of it against his palm, Zayn wouldn't have thought he had a glass at all. He had to keep a hand on Louis's hip as not to lose him in the crowd; big crowd, lots of faces, all lost to shadow and hollowed out by poor lighting. The music was good though, played from a jukebox in the far corner. He'd gone to look at it a couple times, and was surprised to find the top forty on there as well as a bunch of old classics. Joy Division, and The Smiths, even a Fleetwood Mac song he had been tempted to play, knowing just how much Louis hated them. But the machine only took coins, and Zayn only had a card. He'd pointed to it, happily enough, to see the sneer on Louis's face. A small victory, somehow. But now, alone by the bar, Louis had filtered away, saying he had to use the loo. Zayn leaned his elbows on the bar top and stared hard at his half empty beer. The bartender offered a shot, and he thought, why not?
Twenty minutes past, or so it felt like it, and Louis was still gone. Zayn, having downed the shot plus another, and a new beer almost all at once, was light on his feet, head swimming with alcohol. He wound through the bar, bumping shoulders, mumbling apologies he wasn't sure were heard, until finally he was spat out by the billiards; and there, leaning on a pool cue, was Louis, smiling. But he wasn't smiling at Zayn, he was smiling at some guy who was tall with dark hair and dark eyes; bright teeth so white there was no way he smoked.
Had he been sober, Zayn thought he'd have been jealous, but as it was: his feet felt like rubber and there was a sour taste in his mouth. He made his way to Louis, hand on the small of his back, face pressed into his neck. Louis didn't startle, it was as if he had been waiting for Zayn—and maybe he had.
'There you are,' Louis said with a smile.
'Who's this?' Zayn slurred.
'Are you drunk?' grin widening his face, showing the top and bottom rows of his teeth. 'Is that what took you so long to come looking for me, eh? This is Danny—' he motioned to the tall boy, who couldn't have been any older than Louis.
'You know 'em?' Zayn asked, ignoring Danny completely.
'Just met him.' Louis tilted his head, expectantly, and muttered, 'say hi, Zayn—god.'
'Hello,' Zayn slurred passionately; and whether or not it was meant to be sarcastic, he didn't know. Danny laughed, offered his hand, and after a moment of staring at it—lean fingers, long and thin—Zayn took it. Firm grip too, skin the same deep brown as Zayn's own. He felt compelled by Danny in a way even he didn't understand, but that could have been because of the drinks.
'Wanna play a round?' Danny asked, motioning to the pool table. 'We can play teams.' It was then Zayn noticed a boy by the back wall, who looked an awful lot like Danny, though younger. Must be brothers, he thought.
'I'm, uh,' Zayn looked at Louis. 'I'm not very good..., at this game.'
Danny laughed. 'That's alright, bro, I'm not either. It's all for fun anyway, right?' And maybe it was the good natured way he smiled, or the lift of his eyes that made Zayn feel his own mouth curve upward, but he was reaching for a pool cue without thought, clumsy hands trying to pick up the chalk. Louis had to help him, laughing softly when Zayn dropped it—twice.
Danny bought a round of beers, chugged two in a row, and though he was drunk—Zayn could smell it on him—his hands were steady, and he sank every striped ball he aimed for.
'Not very good at it,' Zayn had scoffed, appreciatively, to which Danny gave him a wink that made Zayn's stomach feel queasy. And like a dog with its tail between its legs, he had sauntered back to Louis, hooked his chin over Louis's shoulder, and watched as Danny cleared the table. The brother, Anthony, was just as good at the game as Danny was, and the two of them were like a whirlwind, giving no space for Zayn or Louis to play at all. But it was alright. Something about the way they moved around the table, fluid and familiar with one another, was like watching any good athletes play a game: mesmerizing, and the two of them watched on like awe-struck bystanders at a footie match.
They played two rounds; Louis scratched twice, until finally boredom sank in. Another beer and the four of them were off, leaving the bar behind and its dull lights, loud music, its cluttered tables and dance floors for the open air of the city streets. Fast cars and taxicabs, neon reflected off windshields and empty shop windows. Danny and Anthony lead the way to another bar, this one much smaller, quieter; Zayn, with Louis's hand in his own, walked close behind Danny's heels like a puppy finding a new master; wanting to be close, but not understanding why. It was something about the way he carried himself, so likable that even Louis had a flare in his eyes when he looked at him.
'He's cute,' Louis said casually as the brothers left them at a booth to grab drinks from the bar. 'But, not cute? I don't know.' He was drunk, or at least getting there; a glossy sheen over his eyes and color high on his cheeks.
'I was kinda thinking that too,' Zayn said.
'Yeah? It's like he's a celebrity or something.'
'Maybe he is.'
Once back at the table, Danny sat heavily, unlit cigarette between his teeth. He saw Zayn staring at it, and offered the pack, but Zayn had his own. He shook one loose, gave it to Louis to light. And with the cigarettes fuming between them, set in a white plastic ashtray, Louis leaned over the table and asked, 'What is it you do?'
'Do?' Danny looked at Zayn as if for help. 'Uh, I don't do anything.'
'I mean, work.'
'Oh—' a shy smile like he'd gotten off the hook. 'I own a shop in London. Clothing, mostly. I style shirts and stuff.' He waved a modest hand. 'Nothing special.'
'You own a shop,' Louis began, 'and you're, like, what? Twenty? That's pretty impressive, mate.' He elbowed Zayn for back-up, but Zayn was too plastered to even look straight anymore. Beer in front of him, he didn't want it, but he drank it anyway. His cigarette had doubled—was he tired, or really this wasted?
'You alright?' he heard Louis ask.
'Well, it was my mum's before,' Danny continued, 'a while ago. She used to sell jewelry to old ladies, or something. Knock off brands. Kind of like a pawn shop. She got fed up with it after a while, so it wasn't like I made the place from scratch, y'know? It just sort'a fell into my hands.'
Anthony, who'd been strenuously quiet all night, was whispering something in the crook of Danny's neck, and was he pointing at Zayn? It seemed like it; but then he had a hand on Zayn's wrist, and his mouth was moving, but there was very little sound other than the rushing of blood from Zayn's head to his heart; and in his stomach: discomfort, like bile rising at the back of his throat.
'—kay?' Anthony said.
Zayn wobbled, nodded, but didn't know what he was nodding to. And all too soon the room was spinning as he was being dragged to his feet by hands too strong to be Louis's, but Louis was close, he could feel it, something utterly Louis and Louis only, thick and omnipresent like a smell, only stronger.
They were in a cab, or so Zayn could only assume. He flickered in and out of consciousness, head resting on Louis's bony shoulder. There were fingers in his hair—Louis's, and an arm around his shoulders—also Louis's; and from the front seat there was talking, someone with a deep accent, not English at all. He was too tired to check who it was, or where they were going, and so let his eyes shut and his brain turn off; and some minutes later—it could have been hours for all he knew—they were in a hotel room, much nicer than the one Louis had rented for the weekend. This one had a fireplace, though it wasn't lit, and a large kitchen and a bed twice the size of the one in Zayn's own bedroom. The floor was hardwood, scarred over the years of mistreatment; and the walls, off white, almost grey, with beautiful coral curtains over large, wide-set windows. They must have been high up, for the view was breathtaking; building tops and cars down below the size of toys. As drunk as he still was, Zayn was pleased to find he could still appreciate his surroundings.
Forehead, heated and sweaty, was leaned to the window, eyes downcast on the street below; and he, feeling nauseous, but embracing it. There was music playing somewhere, a familiar tune he couldn't quite identify, and then the brush of hands on his forearm, there and then gone like it hadn't happened at all.
'We came to visit our mum,' someone said. Was it Anthony? 'We're only here until tomorrow.'
Zayn, trying to speak, to ask a question, but all that came out was a garbled noise. He felt the hand again, Louis's, guiding him from the window and to the bed where he lay flat on his back, watching the ceiling fan until it made him dizzy.
He slept, but for how long he wasn't sure. When he woke, the room smelled of pot and incense, something underlying like bad air freshener. It made him sick to his stomach. So: up to his feet, walking in zigzags to the bathroom where he crouched by the toilet until all the booze from before came up in a bubbled mess of stomach acid and something brown. Beer. He gagged, made a face and flushed.
'Feelin' alright?' Danny asked when Zayn came back to the kitchen. There was an ashtray full of filters, and a small bong set beside it. Danny offered it, but Zayn declined. He didn't like how heavily bong's hit.
'Where's Louis?' he managed to ask.
'Outside. He said he needed air. You need to lie back down? I don't mind, bro, it's alright.'
'Why are you being so nice?' Zayn wasn't sure why he asked, but once spoken, he wished he hadn't. Danny made a face as if offended, and laughed softly.
'Is it bad to be nice? You look pretty rough, mate, that's all. You don't gotta sleep, m'not gonna make ya.'
Zayn sighed, took the seat across from Danny's and laid his head on his crossed arms. He muttered, 'We gotta get back home.'
'Home's kinda far, innit?'
'No, no—I mean the, uh, the hotel. We have to—' he yawned. 'It's fuckin' late.'
'Don't worry. I'll get you a cab.'
As Danny made his call to the taxi company, Louis came back from the balcony, smelling of fresh smoke with his eyes red-rimmed, but Zayn didn't think it was from exhaustion. He sat with a smile, goofy grin pulling at his mouth, making his eyes squint. And leaning into Zayn's side, Louis nuzzled into his arm, bit him playfully through the sleeve of his shirt.
'You good?' Zayn asked with a laugh; soft, subtle sound, but still there. Louis nodded. 'You ready to go back now?'
'In a minute.'
'When the taxi comes.'
Another nod, this one curt, before he lay his head on the table much the way Zayn had laid his own only minutes before. He let Louis sleep, slouched over with his shoulders forward, as Danny lit a fresh bowl and offered it. This time Zayn didn't refuse.
He let the smoke fill his lungs, allowed his body to tingle and relax; and it wasn't until the bowl was cashed that he asked where Anthony was.
'Sleeping. He likes separate rooms.' Danny said this with something like contempt, but his eyes were gentle, understanding. Brothers, Zayn thought again. He'd like to have a brother.
Cigarette in his mouth, clasped tightly between white teeth, Danny motioned between Zayn and Louis and asked, 'how long that been going on, then?'
'Wha?'
'You and...'
Zayn looked to Louis as if he would have an answer for him, then back to Danny who was watching him carefully. 'Ah—' he rubbed at his eyes— 'it's not what you think.'
'He's not your boy?'
'Huh? Well,' how could he explain something like his and Louis's relationship to someone who didn't even know them? It was hard enough explaining to Niall and he'd known them both since secondary school. 'He is, but he's not?' Face scrunched in conflict, head hanging over the back of his chair, Zayn tried again. 'It's like we're together, but we're not? We're not, like, dating or whatever. He's my lad, y'know, my best mate. But...'
Danny laughed, clapped Zayn on the shoulder. 'Don't have an aneurysm, man. It's cool. I get it.'
'Do you?'
'Sure. We've all had that friend that's, like, more, but not. It's cool,' he said again. 'Listen,' and he leaned on his elbows, cigarette spent but still between his fingers. 'He said something about ya. You don't have to talk about it if you don't wanna, I get it. But I'd like to ask.'
Zayn, apprehension boiling his blood, bit in his lower lip. 'He said something?'
'Don't give me that look,' Danny laughed. 'Said you were an artist is all. I'm wondering about that. Y'know, running a clothing store and shit, I make my own stuff sometimes. Was wondering what kind of art you do. Like, designs, or something?'
'Oh.' Zayn chuckled, lowly. 'Art, right. Uh, not really? I wouldn't call myself an, uh, artist. Like, I draw, but that's it.'
Danny's phone rang. He wasn't quick to answer, not after seeing it was the taxi company, but after the fourth ring, he had to. 'Yeah,' he said into the mouthpiece. 'There in a minute, mate.' Then to Zayn, 'If you ever wanna share your drawings, you can give me a shout.' He scribbled his number on a piece of hotel stationary, one with the name printed across the top in fine writing. 'Just text, or call. I won't mind. I'd like to see it if it's anything like he—' motioning to Louis— 'described.'
Zayn's face, warm with blood, felt that it'd burst in flames at any moment. He looked over the paper, folded it in two and put it in his wallet. With a hurried, 'Thanks,' he shook Louis lightly until he finally woke, groggy and cranky and wanting sleep in a real bed.
'Thanks,' Zayn said again at the door. Louis waved weakly from the hallway before disappearing down the steps in no particular hurry. 'For being nice and.. y'know.' He blushed again, hating himself a bit for it. 'Maybe I'll be in touch.'
-
In the hotel, in bed, with the television playing something in Korean, Zayn saw the time and wasn't the least bit surprised to see it was half three in the morning. Louis was restless by his side, fighting with the covers and fluffing the pillows aimlessly. Zayn watched him a moment, then rose to his feet. Soft patter to the bathroom where he washed his face and filled a glass with tap water, then back to bed, crawling beneath covers only to have Louis cling to his side, mercilessly.
'Love you,' Louis muttered in his sleep.
'Love you too, Lou,' but he was already snoring again. Eyes on the television, he wasn't watching so much as he was looking; eyes trained on one spot in the right corner until they started to cross and water, and only then did Zayn allow them to shut, to let himself sleep.
He dreamt of nothing he could remember in the morning.
/
He was fifteen, and a lot older than he had expected to be, when Louis had his first kiss. It had happened quickly, hardly lasting a moment, and by the time it was over, it was hard to believe it had happened at all. If it hadn't been for his heart, pounding in his throat, or the gulp of air left in his lungs (he had exhaled like a swimmer left underwater without any way of getting out), he would have thought he'd daydreamed the whole thing. There was nothing to savor when it was over, only the way the hairs on his arms stood; and despite the boiling heat there had been chills on his legs, and a tickle at the base of his spine.
It happened in his backyard. It had been summer, but class hadn't ended yet; and with the hot sun burning down, blindingly white on fresh cut grass, he and Zayn had been sat in the shade of Louis's back patio, boiling in their school clothes. There were sodas on the table, sweaty with condensation, leaving rings on the dark wood his mum would later hassle him over. And Louis, sweaty, red faced and miserable, had been mentioning a movie he'd watched the night before with his parents. It was something about long distance love, two people unable to see each other whenever they wanted, and he, unsure how that could be so terrible. If one had never touched someone before, how could one know what one was missing? Zayn, frustrated by his ignorance, had matter-of-factly stated that it wasn't the touching that meant so much, but the ability to touch whenever one needed it most.
That's why it hurts so much, Zayn had said as if he understood what a broken heart meant—and though, much later in life, he would know for fact what this feeling was like (Louis, too, for that matter) at fourteen, he knew absolutely jack shit about broken hearts.
Louis hadn't had the patience to explain that it wasn't really the movie that had made him say something in the first place—and for Zayn to please not take it so damn seriously—but the ending of the movie that struck his interest. The couple, miserable through most of the plot, had finally come together after years apart, and they had kissed in a way that left Louis a little breathless. It had been like a bond, sealing their fates to one another, and Louis, left wondering: what does it feel like to kiss the person you've loved for so long? and there was Zayn, right across from him, picking at the dirt beneath his nails, sweat collected in his hair, on his forehead, looking as disheveled and unkempt as Louis felt. Just a boy, to say the least, but Louis's boy all the same. And, oh, how he loved him.
It was simpler than he had imagined it'd be: standing on legs made of lead, feet shuffling forcefully from one seat to the other; and all the while, Zayn watching him cautiously, one eyebrow raised with a smirk already in place. It was like he had been expecting it. Louis, leaning down, leaning in, one hand touching the side of Zayn's face, his fingers trembling, face warm and sweaty. His blood boiled in his veins, lower lip quivering as he had pressed his mouth, so tentatively, to Zayn's slack lips, afraid and enthralled all at once.
As quickly as he had done it, he pulled away, only to have Zayn reel back. He stared at Louis like he'd grown an extra head; and maybe he had. Who knew?
'What was that for?' Zayn asked, fear deeply seated in dark eyes.
'Dunno,' Louis had said.
Zayn, crawling to his feet, had left his soda on the table, gone back inside and had gone home without saying goodbye. And that night, Louis had lied in bed, clutching his pillow and feeling sorry for himself. He was certain Zayn would never come around again, he'd never tell Louis hello or bump him with his shoulder like he did in the hallways at school. To say Louis cried would be a lie, but he had wanted to, badly. But, of course, Zayn had returned, and Louis realized all too soon how stupid he'd been to think he never would. The next morning, in fact, had been when Zayn kissed him back, behind the cafeteria before their first class of the morning. It had been slow and sweet with his tongue in Louis's mouth, a hand on his hip so low Louis had squeaked out a whine, embers burning deeply in his belly. And all the kisses thereafter had felt just like that: sweet, gentle; a spark between their mouths like a dying star, and Louis, burning with the force of it.
Except now, it wasn't that way at all.
-
It was January, and the snow—what little had fallen—was already beginning to melt. Browned grass, soggy and dead, peeking up from small mounds of ice dirtied with tire tracks. It was four months after their stay in the hotel, and Zayn no longer kissed with a spark anymore. He dawdled, let his mouth go slack before Louis pulled away. So much like the very first time when neither of them knew what they were doing: awkward, adolescent—unwelcoming.
Had Zayn stopped loving him? It was a question Louis hadn't the courage to ask; and so didn't.
-
Lead stained fingers and charcoal on the bed sheets; Zayn, with his back to the wall and his knees pulled to his body, was drawing something. His sketchbook was open in front of him, dirty fingers wrapped around a tiny pencil, nail beds bled white. At the foot of the bed, Louis made himself small; headphones in, no music on. He watched Zayn work, unnerved by the sense of dislocation he felt. He'd been watching Zayn draw for days, with his sleep swollen eyes and his too-long hair fallen in his face; hands that trembled from gripping his pens. Just the evening before and they'd been at the park, meant to be a date, but Zayn had had his sketchbook open, attention focused solely on what he was doing. Even the cigarette that had been propped between his fingers had grown long with ash, burnt out before he took a third drag. And Louis, much like now, had said nothing, had simply watched and felt terrible all over. He thought of all the papers that wound up in the trash bin, so many Zayn had thrown out, but many more he'd kept—and not a single one was shown to Louis. He was afraid to ask if he could see, for fear of Zayn telling him no. And maybe it was childish to take this so personally, but still, he did.
'Are you almost done?' Louis asked softly.
'Do you have somewhere to go?' Zayn hadn't said it unkindly, but it sounded harsh in his quiet room where not even the television was on.
'Well, no.'
Zayn looked up, brows together. He stared at Louis for what felt like a long time before his face changed, sharp edges softening; the crease in his brow smoothed. And just like that: the sketchbook was set aside and he was crowding Louis by the end of the bed.
'Is something the matter?' His hand was on Louis's thigh, face in the crook of his neck; and it was moments like these that Louis remembered how much he loved Zayn. But it hurt in a way he couldn't understand, to have him so close.
'No,' Louis lied. 'Tired of lying here though. Can't we do something?'
'Like what?'
'The boys mentioned going for dinner tonight. I—'
'Why didn't you tell me?' Gentle tone, spoken softly; Louis took it as an accusation, and he wasn't sure why.
And feeling uncomfortable, like he'd done something wrong—and hadn't he been feeling that way for weeks now?—Louis shrugged Zayn's hand off, said in a whispered tone, 'You've been busy.'
'We'll go.' He kissed Louis's jaw. 'Don't sulk about it.' Then to his feet, slipping on his shoes; Louis didn't miss the way Zayn's attention lingered on the sketchbook, debating whether he should take it or not, and before Louis could speak up, to say leave it behind, we won't be gone long anyway, Zayn had already scooped it into his arms, a pencil in the spiral spine, and a pen in his pocket. Louis sighed.
-
They met in a park, a quarter mile from Louis's house, and though they could have walked, he insisted on driving. The wind was harsh, cold; sidewalks slippery with old ice. They passed a house with a dog chained in the front yard, quietly lying with its head on its paws; not even did its ears perk when the car drove by, and Louis thought: what a sad way to spend your life, and for reasons unknown, felt pinpricks behind his eyes. Irritated with himself, he huffed, turned up the radio.
Niall, sat with his legs crossed and a soda in his hand, had his head leaned to Harry's shoulder and he was laughing about something. Louis felt the corners of his mouth twitch upward, small smile that he couldn't fight off; and Zayn, lingering behind, walking slowly with his hands bunched in his pockets, was smiling too.
'Hello, hello,' Louis called cheerfully. 'What's this, huh? Aren't you two a little close? This is a kid's park after all, innit?' His smile widened when Harry blushed; Niall, laughing, gently punched Louis's thigh.
'Fuck off,' he muttered. Then, looking past Louis toward Zayn—who was still walking, a good ways away—his eyebrows drew together. 'What's he doing all th'way back there? Ah,' and taking the cigarette Louis offered, 'thanks, mate.'
Now sat beside Niall, Louis wondered if Zayn would ask for the seat; it wasn't unusual for him to take Louis's spots (because he always pulled Louis to sit in his lap), but when he approached now, he lingered an arms length away—too far—with a freshly lit cigarette between stained fingers. Louis noted the small glance Zayn gave him, noted it, and felt cold all over.
Ignoring it, he looked to Harry. 'What are the plans for tonight, then?'
They decided on a burger joint three blocks from the park they'd met in. Harry, beside Niall, was leaned over the table, picking at Louis's plate and eating his fries; and Louis, staring harder at his food than at anything else, wished Zayn would put his arm around him like he always did. There was a hole forming in his gut and it made him nauseous.
'Love you,' he whispered in Zayn's neck.
Zayn, smiling—a real smile, whispered back, 'Love you too,' and nudged his nose against Louis's cheek.
'What's all this about?' Niall asked through a mouthful of food. He was flipping through Zayn's sketchbook, unaware of the discomfort on Zayn's face, the way his mouth was pinched shut.
'S'nothing, man,' and he took the book back, ignoring the questioning glance Niall gave him. 'Work.'
'Like, real work?' Harry asked too loudly. Zayn blushed a deep red. 'Putting together a portfolio or somethin'?'
A mumbled, 'Yeah, something like that,' and the sketchbook slipped under the table to lie in his lap, both hands clasped tightly around it. The tips of his ears were tinted pink, bottom lip between his teeth. Louis touched his hand and felt the flutter of nerves beneath his fingers, thought Zayn meant to move his hand away, but was pleased when their fingers were soon carded together, palm to palm. Small comforts, Louis was good at them.
'C'mon, Zayn,' Harry was saying. 'Can't we get a little look? I mean, if it's for work or something, then you already gotta show people. And we're, like, your friends.'
Niall, nodding, 'Yeah. We'll tell you if it's shit or not.'
Louis would have laughed had Zayn not looked so pained. He was tempted to tell him he didn't have to show anything if he didn't want to, but he was just as curious as the others. Zayn had canceled their last two dates to be able to sketch and had nothing to show for it; and though he was curling in on himself, hands protectively spread out over the cover of his book, Louis made a move for it. He was slow, timid, a fleeting touch to the back of Zayn's hand. To have Zayn do something he wasn't completely comfortable with was like approaching a small animal: one had to be quiet, gentle; don't raise your voice or press too hard; and even then, one could never tell what would set him off.
But he was willing enough, giving Louis the book as soon as his fingers had touched it. And maybe it was jealousy, or the need to be first, but as soon as he had it in his hands, Louis opened to the first page, then flipped to the second, the third. He made sure to look at every drawing before handing it over to Harry, who was waiting—impatiently. The nudge of a shoe against Louis's shin, a spoon tapping his iced tea glass. Louis would have told him to fuck off, some sharp remark meant to be affectionate, but he was staring intently at Zayn's drawings, the corners of his mouth pulled down.
'These—' He didn't know what to say.
Zayn's hands were quick, ready to snatch the book back and hide it beneath the table, probably sit on it if it guaranteed nobody would look. But Louis was quicker, slapping Zayn's fingers away. He nudged Zayn with his shoulder, shook his head. 'No, I meant these are, —they're really great.' And why was he suddenly upset? Feeling like someone had knocked the breath right out of him. Louis pushed the book over the table, heard Harry whine when Niall grabbed it first.
'Are you really making a portfolio?' Louis whispered.
Zayn, nodding, said nothing.
'Why didn't you tell me?'
'Are they good enough?' Zayn asked seriously. It was like he hadn't heard Louis at all.
Louis, eyes on the table, said quietly: 'They're more than good enough.' He could feel Zayn watching him, thought he might say something, but—
'Jesus, Harry—' Iced tea on the table, a lemon wedge on Louis's plate; of course, of course. Zayn made a strangled sound, adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard.
'Here, man,' Niall said; he had had Zayn's book in his hands and had inadvertently saved it from Harry's mess. He never noticed the sheer terror on Zayn's face or the way his shoulders had relaxed once the book was back in his lap. 'Fuckin' hell, Harry, you gonna make a mess everywhere we go?'
Idiots, Louis thought. The whole lot of 'em.
-
In the months that followed Zayn never mentioned the portfolio again, didn't answer the questions Louis asked—though they were vague and hardly questions at all—and one morning, he stopped taking his sketchbook everywhere he went. He still carried his pencil though, would draw on bar napkins and paper plates. He'd scribble in pen on the inside of Louis's wrist until he was squirming from the feel of it, then kiss the palm of Louis's hand, his fingertips. More affectionate now than he had been before, Louis was still unnerved—afraid of something, but he didn't yet know what.
-
Saturday night and Louis was riding shotgun in his own car. Zayn, behind the wheel, fingers tapping to a Joy Division song, chewed the inside of his cheek like he was stopping himself from singing along. Louis was leaned to the window, heated forehead pressed to cold glass; chilly spring nights and windless air; it wasn't cold, but still, his fingers felt numb. He pulled his shirtsleeves over his hands.
All evening Zayn had been quiet, checking his phone; it vibrated with a new text every ten minutes and it had annoyed Louis to see Zayn focusing on a conversation he wasn't a part of, but he had kept quiet—though it didn't change the way it had made him uneasy. And now: a block away from Louis's house, Zayn was slowing to a stop; parked on a curb unfamiliar and dark, the radio suddenly turned very low.
'Hey,' Zayn began slowly. He was fidgeting, picking listlessly at the sleeves of his coat. 'I have to tell you something.' The words flew from his mouth like rushing water, all mashed together to form one incoherent word. Louis stared hard, not wanting to ask Zayn to say it again.
'It's important,' he continued. 'Really, uh, really important.'
Louis angled from the window, pressed his back to the inside of the door. Seatbelt cutting into the skin of his neck and he never noticed the discomfort. He kept his hands in his lap, a cold sweat breaking out on the nape of his neck; a chill in his spine—something a lot like fear was bubbling at the back of his throat.
'Yeah?' Louis croaked. 'What is it.'
'Uhm,' a quiver in his voice, like he was going to cry, but his eyes were dry, his face only minutely pained.
Louis, double vision, strained hearing; Ian Curtis's voice droned indistinctly from the speakers, more noise than words; and in this silence, Louis's heart galloped into his throat. With a deep sense of unreality, he muttered, 'You're leaving me.'
Zayn gaped quietly. 'What? Leaving you—why would I leave you, Louis?'
'Feels like you are.'
'I—'
'You are, aren't you?'
'Louis.'
'You are.'
Faintly, 'I hate when you do that.' He inhaled sharply as if something had hurt him. Maybe something had. 'I'm not leaving. Not the, the way that you think I am.' Here, a pause. 'I'm not leaving you is what I mean. M'just... going away. To London.'
'What, now?'
'No, not right now. In a month? three weeks, maybe.' He'd taken to staring at his hands, unable to meet Louis's gaze. 'Danny's given me a really good offer, y'know. Place to stay, place to work, all that shit. I'd be mad to tell him no. I mean—' he laughed humorlessly— 'it's a really good opportunity. To, like, actually do something. I—'
Louis, so warped with confusion, was watching Zayn closely without really seeing him. His lips were parted, fingers trembling faintly in his lap. His voice was harsh when he asked, 'Who's Danny?'
'From the bar.'
'You still talk to him?' And when Zayn nodded: 'Why didn't you tell me?'
'What was there to tell?'
Suddenly tired—exhausted, with tears straining behind his eyes—Louis slumped back in his seat. He'd been expecting Zayn to go, had thought he'd leave sooner than now, but to imagine him farther than a street away, to be somewhere Louis couldn't reach, had never entered his mind. It was worse than all the bad dreams he'd ever had—dreams of waking without Zayn in bed beside him and knowing, in the way that one simply knows things in dreams, that he was never coming back. Dark interludes, not really nightmares, where the telephone rang and Louis was unable to move, to answer and hear what it was Zayn had to say. He'd sit up in bed with fresh sweat on his brow, a knot in his stomach, and wondering, wondering, where was Zayn? He'd realize too late that Zayn wasn't with him very often anymore. He slept more at home that at Louis's when before it was as if the two of them shared a house, never separate. The way he'd feel after reality swept in, to know that Zayn wasn't with him in his dreams or the real world, was how he felt now: infinitely lonely without any hope of feeling better.
He stared at the dashboard until everything went out of focus, and only then did Louis look over at Zayn who was sitting quiet, again. Louis couldn't hear his breathing, but could see the shallow rise of his shoulders. Outside, it began to rain.
'Why didn't you mention it at least?' Louis asked when the silence was too much. 'You could have said you were thinking about it. That you wanted to go. Why—' didn't you offer to take me with you? He let his voice die there.
It was a long time before Zayn muttered, 'I dunno. I wanted to know for sure I was going? Or something. In case, y'know, in case you got angry 'bout it.'
'You thought I wouldn't be angry now?'
A shrug. 'Are you?'
Louis didn't answer. He didn't know.
'Are we gonna talk about it, then?' Zayn asked.
'I don't wanna talk about anything. I wanna go home.' And when Zayn tried to interrupt, 'It's a lot to think on, innit? You're going away. I—' he hated himself for the break in his voice. 'I wanna go home, Zayn. Take me home.'
Zayn pulled away from the curb sooner than Louis expected him to, and startled—though, hiding it well—Louis gripped his seatbelt, tried to stay as still as he could as Zayn turned the corner; and only a moment later: at the end of Louis's drive, his seatbelt now unbuckled, he was crossing the lawn—too quickly to feign nonchalance. The grass, once green, was now painted black with night, wet and sticky beneath his feet, shirtsleeves soaked through with fresh rain.
'I have your keys,' Zayn called after him.
And back down the drive, feeling like an idiot, Louis took the keyring, didn't say goodbye. 'You can walk, can't you? It isn't far,' only a street over to be exact. Then: into his house, dark and cold; the garage had been empty, the porch light switched off. He had thought Zayn would come to the door, knock until Louis finally answered, maybe call him a name or two, tell him to grow up; but no such thing happened. So: alone, feeling awful, he climbed the stairs to his bedroom and lie facedown on the covers. He didn't cry, because he didn't think he could, even if he wanted to; and this was where he stayed for the next three days, miserable and unnerved, wondering if he tried hard enough, everything could all be made into a bad dream and nothing more.
-
With the exception of work, Louis hardly left his bed. He didn't bother with his phone, or the dozen missed calls, all from Zayn—and who else would it have been, anyway? He'd shower sitting down, sat under a chilled spray of water that only made him feel worse; and there, alone, unmoving, he'd will himself to cry, knowing the pressure of emotion in his throat would only choke him if it stayed there, but the tears never came, and he never felt any better. He was certain he'd explode before too long.
'Zayn keeps calling me,' Niall said one evening, his voice tinny and far away from dodgy reception. He worked in a warehouse and so was only granted a single service bar. It made it easy for Louis to pretend their calls were dropped. 'He said you aren't answering the phone and he's worried. You're fine, though, aren't you? You sound fine.'
'Tell him I'm dead,' Louis said humorlessly.
'M'not telling him that.'
'Then don't tell him anything.'
-
When Louis was twelve and Zayn eleven there was a community pool beside the old library. It was mostly granny's who'd go; laid out on lawn chairs with romance novels tucked inside their purses. No lifeguard, no other children; it was like their own private place. The adults never swam, it was like an unspoken rule; Louis was sure none of them knew how to anymore.
In summer, he'd practice his diving every morning, 9AM, they never missed a day; and as Louis swam laps around the pool, splashing away hornets as he went, Zayn would sit on the kiddie steps, watching him, clearing the dried leaves that'd fallen in the water. He never got in past his thighs, clinging to the railings and the side of the pool, and he'd never once gone in the deep end, not that he could swim anyway. Any time Louis came near him, whether to sit with him on the steps or the taunt him with a dead bug he'd found in the filter, Zayn would splash him away, huge heaps of water thrown in Louis's face; he'd laugh like it was a joke, and only laugh harder when Zayn's shouts became shrill, angry. It'd happened once, though, Louis: grabbing Zayn by the wrist and tugging him into the middle of the pool. It was only five feet deep, but even there, with his feet still on the ground, Zayn had panicked. He'd kicked his legs out frantically like a drowning dog, flailing so hard he never noticed when his knee connected with Louis's stomach; and gasping, clutching himself, Louis had gone under. Body full of pain and a mouthful of water, he'd gathered enough of his thoughts to reach the edge of the pool, hauling himself up as he spit out chemical water; chlorine up his nose, in his mouth, tasting foul. He puked bile onto the side of the pool, reeling so badly his head spun; and falling on his back, icy pain all over, cramps filling his stomach, he had laid there, blinking tears from his eyes. Somewhere, Zayn had been calling his name, and very suddenly he'd appeared beside Louis, asking quietly, 'Are you okay?'
'Fine,' Louis had said in a voice so ragged it had made Zayn laugh.
The way he had felt that afternoon, walking home sick to his stomach and afraid of passing out, was how he felt when he woke in the middle of the night. Four days and he hadn't spoken to Zayn, not once; and clinging to his pillow, the one Zayn used, still smelling faintly of aftershave and sweat, Louis clutched the pillow to his face, felt the pricks of tears at the corners of his eyes, and finally—finally--let himself cry. Gasping sobs so deep in his chest it hurt to let them out; cheeks wet, eyes swollen, he dialed Zayn's number without looking at his phone (his was the only number Louis ever bothered to memorize), and when he answered just two rings in, Louis felt a weight lift from his chest.
'Will you come over?' he choked out, emotion breaking his voice. Ten minutes, that was all it took for Zayn to reach Louis's house, and he didn't waste a single one. He crawled into bed like he always had, taking the spot between Louis and the wall, his arm about Louis's waist, pulling him close, letting Louis rest his face in the crook of his neck.
'I won't be gone forever,' Zayn said quietly. There was a catch in his tone and Louis didn't think he believed him very much, but for their sake, he pretended to. 'We'll figure everything out. We don't have to rush through it.'
'Right.'
'You don't hate me, do you?'
Louis nuzzled closer, wrapped a leg around Zayn's middle. 'No.'
Silence so thick it was something physical: blood rushed in Louis's ears, the thrum of Zayn's heart just beneath his hand. He moved his head onto his pillow, the tip of his nose brushing Zayn's own.
Zayn, whispering, 'What's on your mind?'
'Nothing—'
'Louis,' said with warning.
Will I never get another chance to say it? Louis wondered, and thought: maybe not. 'I dunno,' he started slowly. 'I guess I have a question.' Zayn kept quiet. 'Are you—' he cleared his throat. 'Aren't you happy? Here.' With me?
'I— no.' He sounded so empty Louis had a hard time believing it was Zayn who'd spoken at all. 'I haven't been happy for a while.'
And just like that: the world opened up, and swallowed Louis whole.
-
They made the most out of what time they had left, which wasn't much; 21 days, Louis only knew because he kept track by crossing out the dates on his calender. Large X's, bold and intimidating, made up most of March. But there, at the end, the very last week, wasn't a single X drawn on any date. And why would there be? Zayn had already gone by then.
It was confusing to wake curled up in Zayn's side; his hands, so familiar and gentle, pushed up the back of Louis's shirt. He kissed like he had before, Louis's lower lip between his teeth, breathing harshly through his nose; and it was like nothing had changed, though everything had. He seemed timid in a way, afraid of something unknown to Louis, but Louis had had a feeling it was of his own breakdown. Zayn wasn't good at handling emotions, whether they were his own or someone else's; and there were times when Louis would catch Zayn staring hard at him, flicker in his eye and a gentle pull at the corners of his mouth like he was stopping himself from smiling; and when he'd look away, color rising in his cheeks, he'd brush Louis's hands off in a fit of embarrassment.
He said I love you a lot more, whispering it in Louis's hair, against his mouth; kissing the backs of Louis's fingers as if to punctuate each syllable. And Louis, laughing, feeling empty and terribly alone, would smile and nuzzle his face against Zayn's cheek, tell him he loved him too. But late at night he'd lie awake, shadows thrown on the walls, on his arms, darkening him in a facade of bruises, and he, lying there with the weight of Zayn's arm around his stomach, wishing they could go back to the year before when Zayn was still in high school. He'd skipped class so often he wound up with a tutor, and Louis, having to pick him up late from the library, hearing him bitch about the boy who was teaching him, how his glasses were wonky and he always smelled like women's hand lotion. Or farther back still, to when Louis was seventeen with his hand down the front of Zayn's pants for the first time; Zayn whimpering against his mouth, telling him: I'm nervous—and Louis, now, terrified to know that one morning Zayn would lean over and kiss him full on the mouth, and it'd be for the last time.
He'd sleep with his fingers carded through the empty spaces of Zayn's own; too many dreams where he'd wake and find his bed empty. He hardly slept at all anymore.
-
(Zayn left on a Wednesday with an open mouthed kiss and water in his eyes. He laughed like he was going on vacation, suitcases packed tightly in the backseat of his father's car. He'd use the car a couple months until he could buy his own; at least that was what he'd told Louis. And with a wave, he slipped behind the wheel, cigarette tucked behind his ear, said I love you like he was going to the supermarket and he'd be back for dinner, but of course, he wouldn't be.
As Louis sat on the curb of his street, watching red taillights turn the corner, gone forever, he smoked his last menthol and couldn't help feeling that Zayn wasn't ever coming back. Never mind the promises of holiday visits, or the open invitation for Louis to come to London whenever he wanted to. He knew, just as he'd known at fourteen that he loved Zayn more than he probably should, that it'd be a long time before he ever saw him again, if at all.)
He stubbed out his cigarette, and puked on the sidewalk.