Glitch [Larry Stylinson AU]

Part IX: Truth be told

"EVERY STORY MUST GROW OLD"

Below Liam's jersey and muscle top, his arms shone with scratches. Those at his wrists commemorated with hunting joggers in thorns and saplings. The wayward one splitting his bicep did not.

Doniya nursed them best she could when he exposed it in the canteen. At home, she had mentioned to Zayn that they must have been hidden all week, for raw skin replaced clotted blood in breaching his spray-tan. It had that bumpy texture, as if someone had tried erasing filthy text from the muscle and ended up with just the faded letters and crumpled paper.

Louis and Zayn ate quickly that day. On the way out, Zayn rustled half his meal from the plate and left Louis to apologetically scoop squashed potatoes from the tiles.

Cut-outs from Mr Horan's article on the Run were passed around in the schoolyard. Kids about Lottie's age animatedly kindled speculations about movie adaptions and TV-opportunities based in the events. Younger and older students both discussed it solemnly between periods, if at all. Among others gathered over recent months, the article had been enlarged and taped to the student council's board.

In a clique of jocks, Harry and his head of sagging curls poked up. They sat by the tables on the other side of the schoolyard with a herd of non-athletes around them. In spite of the distance, Louis perceived inquiries about the weekend. The herd had started out a trio consisting of Moss' girlfriend and her friends. Over the course of the week, it had grown into something uncontrollable. While Harry and Liam would have taken turns leading the flock, both had stepped down for the Chief's son.

As Zayn kept marching, Louis allowed himself to stare as Harry flicked dirt from his sullen jersey and looked back up at him.

Though Louis had kept texting, his messages remained unanswered and when he quit last period, Harry had already gone home or left for practice.

They stared at each other. But before Louis lost track of Zayn somewhere there in front of him, he turned away. Harry pretended to listen to something irrelevant Moss gestured about.

"You have to check the rucksack today."

They sat in the outskirts, on a bench with soggy cigarette stashes molten into the asphalt and carved confessions in the wood. Its previous juvenile occupant biked off through a puddle, twirling on the back tyre. The jock clique leniently disbanded at the prospect of storm in the horizon.

Louis said, "I'm not ready."

"I'm sick of seeing you like this. Frankly, I'll open the bloody thing if you don't."

"I'm not ready." He picked his head up, stretched his frozen fingers. "Look, we talked about Gemma all night. And I gave him head. So I just don't feel like dealing with anything of this right now."

Zayn didn't say anything for a long while. Then, "You could have told me."

"I know, I— Okay, I'm realising this is becoming a recurring theme between us. So that's what happened. And you already know about the mannequin."

"And I already know about the mannequin."

"But I can't tell you what he told me. I don't know what to make of it yet."

For once, Zayn didn't rebut. His attention rested elsewhere.

Liam Payne made way for them across the asphalt.

With a fist full of leaves and ash, Zayn watched him come. A conglomeration of wry perfumes and an ever-sustaining gleam of sweat flowed around him when he swayed to a stop a little too close to them. Louis subtly shuffled across the bench.