When she first met him, she was eight and he was nine.
She was hung upside-down on a tree branch in the backyard, fingers reaching for the ground, shirt riding up to reveal her stomach, hair blanketing her face. Her foster mother scolded her and plucked her from the branch before she could even protest ensuring that her feet were firmly on the ground before telling her that "ladies don't climb trees missy". The eight year old grumbled under her breath about how "ladies must be boring and she sure as heck didn't want to grow up to be one" before being silenced with the threat of more chores.
"Charlotte, this is your new foster brother, Cole, I want you to show him around and make him feel at him."
"Suuusan," the little girl drawled out in a whiney voice, arms folding across her chest, "how many times I gotta tell you my name's Charlie. My mom and dad gave me away for nothing if people like you keep calling me that name for Pete's sake. Do ya want the ninja assassins to find me or something? Huh, do ya?"
The middle aged woman rolled her eyes assuring her that she wouldn't do it again before giving the blonde-haired boy a squeeze of reassurance on the shoulder and leaving to go back into the house to finish dinner.
Charlie was all elbows and knees, missing teeth, and raised eyebrows as she examined her new foster brother cautiously before deeming him worthy of a smile. He was matted blonde hair, long legs, and furrowed eyebrows. And his eyes were blue. Not the ordinary sky blue or the color of the paint flaking off the old shed in the backyard, or even the little wild flowers that sprung up in the big field near school where she spent most of her recesses. No, his eyes were blue like the sea, crystal clear blue—shimmering, crashing churning. And looking at them she could hear the waves falling against the shore, see the foam flying into the air. His eyes were blue like the sky just before the sun dips behind the horizon—dark, rich, indigo, with specks of wild colors here and there. His eyes were blue like that warm wool sweater she put on when she felt the emptiness settle in the pit of her stomach and even the sunlight felt cold on her skin—comfortable, warm, familiar. His eyes were that kind of blue. And all she could do was stare.
When she finally said something, her words came out in a string of jumbled speech without any pauses for breaths, "Hi, I'm Charlie. I'm actually a princess from outer space but I'm under cover because some ninjas are after me. But one day my parents are gonna come find me and I'm gonna marry a prince and get to rule over a whole planet, and anyone I don't like is gonna have to serve me."
He scrunched his nose up and tilted his head to the side contemplating her story. "Aren't princesses supposed to wear pink poofy dresses and tiaras?"
He shrugged, deeming it a suitable explanation.
They spent the rest of the day playing in the backyard (because Charlie didn't much care for her other foster siblings who hung out inside). She crafted carefully thought-out story lines of their adventures always ending in some sort of tragedy which Cole found mildly disturbing.
They were on their fourth adventure when he finally asked her. They had just been shipwrecked on a deserted island filled with lots of dangerous monsters trying to kill them as they tried to hunt down the buried treasure.
"Hurry up ye scalawags," she cheered, stick held high in her hand like a sword as she motioned for him to follow close behind.
"Since when are we pirates?" he asked.
Her hand clamped down on his mouth pulling him behind a bush, "since I said so Coley-bop," she smirked.
A little while later, their adventure ended with Charlie getting speared in the heart by a savage. She assured Cole that "every little thing was gonna be alright" (to borrow epic words from Bob Marley) and encouraged him to "keep fighting the good fight". He just sat there with her head in his lap until one dark eye peeked open at him trying to figure out why the heck he hadn't moved yet.
"Uh, not to tell you what to do or anything but this is the part where you go avenge my death by turning Hulk on everyone and smashing them to pieces."
He frowned and took a deep breath. "How come all of these adventures end with either you or me dying?"
She sat up, pushing him away from her and looked at the ground pulling at the blades of grass to steady her shaking hands, and when she answered, he had to strain to hear her. "Because life doesn't ever end in rainbows and happy endings, and if anyone ever tells you otherwise, they're lying to ya."
After that there was no going back. The two had cemented their fate as best friends forever.
* * *
She was fourteen and he was fifteen when she told him the truth.
He was leaned against the window sill blowing smoke out of the side of his mouth into the cold night air, hands trembling ever so slightly at his side. She laid on his bed clothed in his sweats and oversized t-shirt observing how the soft glow of the moon masked his face in shadows, how the haze of the smoke made him seem so much further away than he actually was, how he looked so peaceful standing there inhaling the sweet tobacco like he depended on it to breathe (because he did).
She rolled off the side of the bed and shuffled to stand beside him. "Lemme take a drag." It wasn't a question really, but he shook his head, sucking on the cigarette once more before flicking it out the window.
"You should never smoke, Chaz, it's a nasty habit," he warned her, voice stern, but eyes playful. She rolled her eyes at the nickname he insisted on calling her (because surely if she had a nickname for her nickname then the ninja assassins would never find her) and went to punch him in the chest, but he caught her wrist and spun her around so his chest pressed against her back and his cherry lips met her ear.
"Promise me you won't smoke. Please."
And it was the first time she heard it, the dull thud of his pain like war drums sounding in the distance. Charlie pressed her palms to his to stop their shaking and tasted the words on her tongue before they fell out of her mouth, an overwhelming salty flavor that burned the back of her throat and made her eyes prickle with tears.
"They loved you, Cole." She swallowed hard and turned to look him in the eye, fingertips dancing lightly across his cheeks. "Your parents loved you, and I know what it feels like. That void in your chest. The numb feeling you get when everyone around you is complaining about how their parents suck because they won't let them go out or they always seem to get in the way. And all you want to do is scream at them and tell them to shut the hell up. But you have to remember that they loved you, that they wanted you because otherwise you'll go out of your damn mind I swear to god." He wrapped his arms around her clinging to her as if she was the only real thing in this strange world he found himself in, that she was the only thing that could ever matter (because maybe she was). And she let him hug her, let him bury his face into her hair and cry because she knew without him ever having to say anything. She always knew.
"We can go tomorrow if you'd like, to the cemetery. Maybe even get some flowers or something and you can just spend the day away from all this, yeah?" He nodded and pulled her even closer with one arm, fishing in the pocket of his jeans with the other for another cig.
"I'd like that. And maybe we can even find your parents too?" He asked innocently flipping his lighter absentmindedly. She froze.
Breathe.
It wasn't that she expected him to still believe that silly story she'd made up so many years ago. But he had always humored her, for her sake. Coming up with joke after joke about how one day she would be forced to leave everything behind and go live on Jupiter (to be more stupider, of course). Sometimes he even referred to her as "your highness" or told her she was a "royal pain in the ass." But now he had said it out loud, and he saw the look of panic in her dark eyes, felt her muscles tightening beneath his arms.
"I didn't mean—I just thought—shit, forget I said anything."
Just breathe.
"No, it's okay. Gotta face reality sooner or later y'know? I can't keep hoping that one day they're gonna just walk through the front door and wanna take me back. My parents are dead just like yours. Only difference is I don't know where they're even buried, the bastards." She cracked a small smile, but it didn't reach her eyes, and he hated himself for not having more of a filter on his goddamn mouth.
He took a long drag before finally handing it to her (because she sure as shit could use it more than he could). She took it between her bony fingers and gave him a hip bump as she wrapped her lips around the fag and sucked in the smoke. It was the foulest thing she had ever tasted and she coughed and gagged until her throat was on fire. He laughed.
They spent the rest of the night discussing plans to ditch school in the morning and the best kind of flowers that go on graves (he was in favor of roses while she said daffodils because they were the color of his name, and really he couldn't argue with that logic). They were both subdued in a hazy state of irrational thoughts and the sound of dead leaves falling slowly outside, and nothing had ever been more peaceful.
She had finally admitted to not being a princess, and it felt like a weight wasn't pressing down on her anymore. She had finally said it, but that didn't mean that he would stop treating her like one, ever.
* * *
She was seventeen and he was eighteen when he realized he loved her.
She was standing at the foot of his bed wearing nothing but an oversized shirt that wasn't his, hair matted to the sides of her head from the rain, head spinning from the drugs, chest heaving from the smoke. And he didn't say anything, couldn't find the words really, afraid he might scare her away, so he just laid there holding his breath because it hurt to breathe around her, made his chest ache to smell the stale scent of sex and cigarettes.
"Do you ever wonder why we're here Cole?" she asked him dark eyes fixed on the moon. Cole's eyes were stuck on her barely covered thighs. And when did they get so thin, he thought. His mouth opened, but his throat was so damn dry; his stomach clenched.
"Not like why we're here exactly. Like here. Existing. Dying. Y'know?"
He swallowed, "I dunno Chaz."
Her head snapped around to look at him, lips pressed together, eyebrows sloping into that familiar frown. Charlie didn't think her name had ever sounded so strange coming from his lips. Everything's bitter on her tongue and his voice hurt, scratched at her skin, split the scars wide open. And she knew he smelled safe, but she didn't feel safe.
And Cole felt so fucking lost. He wanted to scream at her, stick his fist through the drywall, pull his hair. Pull her hair. Kiss her. Love her. Hate her. Fuck her. Quick and dirty and good.
But she was a stranger standing in front of him in some other man's shirt wasting away. Drugs. Alcohol. Sex. Sleep. Repeat. Cole didn't know when it happened, didn't have any fucking clue how they got here, doesn't matter that he loves her—god, he fucking loves her. Thinks he always has. Afraid he always will.
And he knew what she did when reality crashed down around her, when everything slapped her in the face. He saw the cracks in her smile, shadows consuming her eyes, scars marring her wrists, thighs, stomach, hips. Knew how she clings to the razor for dear life, draws on her skin with silver, and sees the red. And Cole fucking knew she prayed every goddamn night for someone to grab her by the shoulders and shake her, tell her how fucked up she is, slap her in the face, fuck her harder than life has.
But she was just a stranger standing there in another man's shirt, cheeks hollow, bones aching, eyes sunken and he wants to help but she smells like stale sex and he can't. His stomach tied itself in knots and he loves her, hates her, loves her more. Screams, chokes, breathes. Fuck.
And his name was a sickly yellow, too bright, his voice hurts, hurts, hurts. Rough and scraping and strange. She still tasted the words bitter on her tongue and hunched over gagging, trying to puke up the overwhelming panic, but her stomach was empty—she was empty— so she stuck her fingers down her throat, and when that didn't work struck the wall with her fist. Then again. And again. Until the beating on the wall fell in rhythm with the sound of her pain, her skin split open, and the bones in her wrist snapped.
But he didn't recognize her because she was a stranger in some other man's shirt breaking down in front of him, and he couldn't breathe as he pulled her into his chest, choked on the smell of stale sex and those fucking cigarettes she smokes because of him. It's all because of him. Fuck.
And Charlie really hates herself, can't believe she's so goddamn weak. Hates him, needs him, cries until floods flow down her cheeks, stings his flesh. She knows it's pathetic, that he'll leave her eventually. They all do. She doesn't blame them. She would leave too if she could. But how the hell are you supposed to leave someone you love? What the fuck is love? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
And she was just a stranger.
...
A/n: I'm really sorry I've been delinquent with updates. School has been a bitch and I only have two weeks until my AP/IB exams and a lot of extra shit, so I'm not promising updates will be more regular. I'm not stopping this story because Zayn left the band in case any of you were worried or whatever. I was going to say more but I have a really bad headache, so I hope this was somewhat good because y'all waited a hell of a long time.