A House Built Out of Stone

Part 8

They don’t sleep. Harry leaves just before sunrise, his eyes red from being up all night and his face slack with sleeplessness. He leaves his mug on Louis’ kitchen counter by accident, and Louis sets it in the sink for washing.

He tries reading, but his blood’s pumping too fast and his body’s set in anticipation for the sunrise. Louis watches from the window, watches the orange and pink and yellow all bleed together across the sky. It spurs him into awakeness, so he gives in and lumbers down the steps, mindful of the creaks and loose steps.

The shop is still asleep, it seems, the wood quiet and the walls echo when Louis knocks against them. So he sweeps up quiet. Wipes down the counters and the windows and straightens up the shelves until the books and the characters are awake too, waiting to share their stories and their worlds and the dedicated and loyal ink on their pages.

There’s another note on one of the chairs. Stuck to the old wood.

Harry’s chair it says. Louis throws that one away too, but he thinks not yet. Not yet, but eventually, maybe.

-----

Zayn meets him in the sandwich shop down the road. He’s dressed down, like Louis remembers him looking years ago. It’s been awhile since he’s seen Zayn without his hair slicked up, without him hiding under his leather and a haze of smoke.

He’s got a button-up on, some baggy, plaid thing that swallows him up and makes him look small. His hair’s soft and laid flat across his forehead, makes his eyes looks shadowed and big and he looks young, younger than either of them have felt in a long time, probably. He reaches for the cigarette tucked behind his ear and fiddles with it, full up on nervous energy and bad habits.

“Why are we here?” Louis asks. The place Zayn’s picked is small, quiet and cozy and it smells like fresh bread, like dough and butter and heat. “You could’ve made something at mine.”

Zayn laughs, quiet and not quite like Louis remembers, but they’ll get there. “When’s the last time you left that shop, Lou?” Zayn asks. “I think you’ve got ink imprinted in your skin now,” he says.

Louis shrugs. The shop is home. The shop is safe and quiet and consistent and Louis leaves when he needs to. He does miss going out with Zayn though, misses the thumping beat of music from the clubs and the swirl of smoke and alcohol and the warmth in his chest from being in the middle of so many warm bodies, all looking to have a good time for the night.

“We should go out soon,” he says.

Zayn looks taken aback at first, a bit shocked and a bit pleased, like he can’t choose one to settle on. “Yeah, Lou,” he manages. “Like old times?”

Old times consist of Louis and Zayn grinding slow and close in a seedy club somewhere. Sweat clinging to their foreheads and the dips of their spines, Zayn’s hands wrapped tight against Louis’ waist and both of them loose-tongued and glassy-eyed. Old times are the liquor on Zayn’s tongue, both of them stumbling up the steps to the flat, clothes flung off on the floor and the sofa and the backs of chairs. Waking up to eggs and pancakes in the morning, Zayn’s lips already curled around his morning cigarette when Louis shuffles into the kitchen.

Louis blinks.

“Something like that,” he says. Because their history is tangled up and tied together and Louis is determined to straighten it all out. Because they’d almost fucked it up once and Louis won’t do it again. “But, like, it’ll be different, you know?”

Zayn hums, thoughtful. “Still us though, right?”

“Still us,” Louis promises. “Always been me and you, Zayn.”

Zayn nudges him with his foot. They’re little out of place in here, a little too uneven and sewn together not just right. But Zayn nudges Louis with his boot and rolls his eyes a little and Louis knows they’ll be fine, eventually.

They eat and they people-watch. Louis has a habit of talking too loud and Zayn laughs at him regardless, his eyes all crinkled up and his cigarette tucked back behind his ear, untouched. Zayn leans back in his seat and tells Louis about the places he’s been in the past few months, the cities he’d spent searching through, looking for something more and something better and it had been here all along, apparently.

“I had to sing for them,” Zayn says. “Nervous as shit, right?” He shrugs. “I thought I’d blown it but they called me up like two days later and told me I had the gig.”

“Proper excited for you,” Louis tells him. “Is that what all this is about, then? Finally got a date for the first show?”

Zayn slides a flyer across the counter. “It’s all there. I’ve got, like, actual promo now. I’m not sure how to handle that.”

“Well done, Malik,” Louis says. “Will I even be able to get in or should I settle for listening to you croon from outside the door?”

“Don’t even joke,” Zayn says. He’s fiddling with his cigarette again, hands fumbling around the tip and he pats his trousers absently for his lighter. “You have to be there. I’ll make a total cock of myself otherwise, you know.”

It’s ridiculous, the fragile way Zayn looks at him, like there’s a chance Louis won’t show up. “I’ll be there,” he says. “Of course I’ll be there.”

-----

Zayn walks Louis back to the bookshop. He smells like smoke and bread and soap when he leans in and wraps his arms around Louis. Louis breathes in and holds the scent tight, lets it wrap around the spaces in between his bones and settle before they both pull away.