Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/977418/chapters/1923075?view_adult=true
Summary: Zayn’s always had Louis, and thought he always would. But, when high school starts and that all changes, he’s left with nothing but old memories and a damaged heart. (a growing up AU where Louis’ the boy next door, and Zayn’s hopelessly devoted)
~*~
Zayn was seven years old when he first met Louis. His parents had just bought a house on Popler Street, only a block away from his new elementary school. He didn’t like the house very much. The walls were a cheerful blue that made his eyes hurt, and the front yard was too small; the back too big. There was only one tree on the entire premise, and it was a short, sad little thing with weak branches. The only good thing that came with the move was the promise of his own bedroom. No longer would he have to share with his snot-nosed little sister, and his mom even told him that he could hang whatever he wanted on the walls.
He was stacking his books on his shelves when he heard a gentle tap on his door.
“Come in,” he called, already knowing who it was.
“Hey, champ,” said his dad, leaning against the door frame. “Looks good in here.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Sure, it does!” He smiled then, a smile that reached his eyes and made his face brighten up. Zayn could never be mad at his dad. “You know what will make it even better?” He picked up one of the many notebooks Zayn used to draw in. “If you hung a couple of these up on the walls. It would really pull the room together, don’t you think?”
“No.”
He sighed, heavily and long, sitting on the edge of Zayn’s bare mattress. The sheets and blankets were still packed away in the back of the moving van, waiting to be washed. Setting the notebook on the bed, Zayn’s dad took his hand and pulled him close. “You’re right,” he said, fixing Zayn’s shirt collar. “Not a good idea, huh? But you know what is? All of these—” he touched the notebook. “They’re old drawings from old places. Of old people, am I right?”
Zayn nodded. His dad was always right.
“What if you found something here that you like? Something new. Would that be something you’d want to do?”
Shrugging, Zayn kept his eyes on the floorboards.
His dad continued, “Tomorrow, you should go out and find something you like. Then draw it and put it up,” he mirrored Zayn’s shrug, making him laugh. “It’ll make the room look great.”
“Maybe.”
“That’s my guy. Don’t let this place scare you, okay? It’s good to make changes every once in a while. Think of all the new places you’ll see, and the new adventures you can go on. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
“Yeah,” Zayn said, his heart skipping a beat. The way his dad talked about the new neighborhood really did make it sound exciting. Maybe Zayn really could like it here.
“You’ll do good,” his father said, squeezing his shoulder. “I know you’ll be happy.”
The next morning, while his parents were moving the last of the boxes into the house, Zayn was out back, sitting under the small tree, watching ants crawl along the bark. When that proved to be too boring, he started kicking around the dirt, wondering to himself why there were patches of missing grass. Rock and dirt were what mostly lined his backyard, and it made it look bad. Stupid, even.
“Who are you?” came a voice with a slight lisp.
Zayn looked towards the intrusion to find a boy, no older than himself, hanging over the side of his wooden fence. The boy was missing a tooth, right in the front of his mouth, and when he spoke, Zayn could see his tongue move.
“Hey,” he called again, pointing an accusing finger at Zayn. “I’m talking to you.”
Heat rose in Zayn’s cheeks, making his face burn. He narrowed his eyes and shouted, “It’s rude to point!”
“So, you can talk.”
“Yeah! And so can you, but I’m not making a big deal out of it!”
“What’s your name?” he asked, as if Zayn had never said a thing.
“Zayn,” he spat out, annoyed and riled up.
“I’m Louis.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“My mom said that sometimes people don’t ask things because they’re too scared to.”
“I’m not scared!”
Louis frowned deeply at that, bunching his shoulders up and letting them fall. Jumping down from the fence, he disappeared. Zayn waited, eyes fixed on where Louis had been, expecting him to pop back up. When he didn’t, Zayn only shrugged, certain that Louis wouldn’t have made a good friend anyway.
*
His first day at his new school was more nerve-wracking than any other day of his life. His teacher, an old woman by the name of Mrs. McIntyre— who wore glasses that magnified her eyes and made her gaze terrifying— had made him stand in front of the room and tell the other kids where he had moved from, and if he was enjoying North Carolina. Zayn answered all their questions with head nods and single words. Mrs. McIntyre tried her best to coax a more elaborate telling of what Nevada was like and why he had moved out, but all she got was a shoulder shrug and a quiet, “I don’t know.”
“Now, class,” she said, clapping her hands together. “Let’s be very nice to Zayn today. A new school can be scary sometimes, and we don’t want him scared, do we?”
Zayn wished she hadn’t said scary, because he didn’t look at it that way. At least, not until she spoke the words. Looking out towards the other students, he thought of how their eyes seemed empty and narrowed, staring at him as if he were an animal in a zoo. He wanted to go home, and he wanted to cry, but he knew he was a big kid now. Big kids don’t cry at school, only babies do.
“You don’t have to do the math work today,” Mrs. McIntyre said as she walked him to the only vacant desk in the entire classroom. “You can just listen for now.” Going back to the front of the room, she asked the other students to take out their worksheets, and began writing math problems on the board that Zayn had already learned how to do.
Once he had his fill of listening to other kids answer problems wrong, Zayn took out his notebook and turned to a picture he had started the night before. It was a comic version of The Flash, and staring down at it, he smiled to himself. He liked it very much.
“What are doing?” asked a girl—Sarah, by the name tag on her desk—when she caught sight of Zayn’s drawing. “What is that?”
The other kids, having heard what Sarah asked, began to clamor around Zayn’s desk, wanting to see what he was doing. He covered his drawing with both his arms, wanting to hide from them and their questions.
“What is it?” asked one boy.
“I think it’s Spiderman,” said another.
“No,” Sarah said dignified. “Spiderman doesn’t look like that,” and to Zayn’s complete horror, they all started to laugh and giggle. He didn’t know what they found so funny about his drawing, but he was certain they were laughing at him, and the tears came back, forceful this time.
“That’s enough, children,” Mrs. McIntyre said as she walked down the aisles, putting kids back into their desks. She looked to Zayn with her too big eyes, a warning glance that told him that she didn’t want him drawing in class anymore. He was thankful she didn’t say it out loud, but it hurt his spirits nonetheless.
He put the notebook back in his backpack, too scared to draw anymore.
During lunch, he was careful not to show off his lunchbox. It was one that his mom got him for his birthday the year before, and it had the Green Lantern on the front. He didn’t want anyone to ask him about that, too. He sat in the far end of the cafeteria, away from all the kids, though they still stared at him with curious gazes and whispered amongst themselves, asking such things as, Who’s that? and, Where did he come from? They made his skin itch and his heart pound faster.
His lunch consisted of a crustless ham and cheese sandwich with a bag of chips and a fruit cup, all prepared by his mother. It made him miss her and home, made him miss Nevada and his old house with the white walls and the two floors. He didn’t cry then, just as he hadn’t in class, although he would have much liked to. Instead, he pulled back out his notebook and, ignoring his Flash drawing, turned to a page with a nearly finished Batman on it. It was his favorite drawing yet, and he knew if he started right then and there, he’d have it all done by the end of the hour.
“What are you drawing?”
Zayn started, arms splayed out protectively over his work. He looked over his shoulder and found Louis taking the spot next to him on the bench. Scared and confused, Zayn wondered where Louis had come from. Did he go to the same school? Was he following Zayn?
“Can I see?” asked Louis, pointing to the paper that Zayn was guarding with his life.
“Why? So you can laugh at it?”
Louis’ brow creased, his mouth pinched tight into a frown. “Why would I do that?”
“Everyone else did.”
“Oh,” he rubbed at his nose with the back of his sleeve. “I won’t laugh, I promise.”
Zayn stared at him for a long while, waiting for Louis to ask him what his problem was, or to make a comment on how people shouldn’t stare at others, but neither happened. He just sat there, spirits high and a dorky grin on his face.
“Fine.” Zayn uncovered his paper, sliding it in front of Louis. He wasn’t ready for the loud gasp and for Louis to shout,
“That’s so cool!”
“You really think so?”
“Yeah! It looks just like him.” He ran a finger over the lines of the drawing, his eyes wide and his mouth open. Zayn couldn’t help but smile, his heart racing. Someone actually thought his art was cool. “You could draw your own Batman comics,” Louis said, loudly and proud.
“No. I’m not that good yet.”
“It looks like you are. This is the best thing I’ve ever seen!”
Zayn snatched the paper back, hating the way his face felt so hot. “It’s just a drawing.” He watched as Louis took a straw and put it in his milk carton, taking a long drink from it.
“Do you have friends?” he asked, his mouth still around the straw.
“Why?”
“Nobody sits over here except for the teachers. Do you need somewhere to sit?”
“No. I like it here.”
“Then, can I sit with you?”
Zayn looked between Louis’ overeager face and his lunch tray, already half eaten. “Okay,” he whispered. He wanted to tell Louis no, but he liked Zayn’s drawing; he couldn’t be mean now. Besides, Louis seemed nice, unlike the other kids in his class.
“How old are you?” Louis asked, putting his drink down. He was crowded into Zayn’s space, arm constantly brushing against Zayn’s.
“Seven.”
“I’m eight.”
Zayn nodded to let Louis know that he had heard him, but that he also didn’t want to talk anymore. He ate his sandwich, one small bite at a time, chewing slowly, hoping that the lunch hour would go by quickly.
“Are you gonna live in that house for long?”
With his sandwich halfway to his mouth, Zayn nodded. “Yeah.”
“The last people who lived there didn’t stay very long. They were nice, though. And they had a dog. His name was Bruce.” Louis paused to eat an apple slice, his face scrunched up in thought. “Do you have a dog?”
“No.”
“Me neither. I have a cat. He isn’t as cool as a dog.”
Zayn chewed slowly, not understanding the significance of their conversation. He mumbled, “You talk too much.”
At first, Louis acted as if Zayn had said nothing, taking another drink of his milk. He waited a long time before whispering, “That’s what my mom says. That’s okay, though, isn’t it?”
“You answer questions nobody asks. That’s not okay.”
“But you won’t ask them.” Louis began playing with the cuffs of his sleeves. “And I wanna tell you stuff.”
Zayn’s heart did a funny thing, then, a thing that only happened when Louis was around. It fluttered in his chest and made his stomach twist into knots. He felt guilty for making Louis look sad, and for saying something mean. When Louis looked to him, his eyes radiating color, there was a hint of apology in them that Zayn liked even less than the sadness. He wondered absently where Louis’ friends were.
They continued their lunch in silence, Louis eating his macaroni and playing with a cup of jello he got from the lunch line, whilst Zayn stared idly down at his own food, no longer hungry. It wasn’t until Louis began throwing his trash onto his tray that Zayn felt the first real waves of panic. What if Louis left? Then who was he supposed to sit with?
“D’you wanna see my drawings?” he asked, lightly laying a hand on Louis’ elbow.
Louis’ face brightened up, his eyes going comically wide. “You have more?”
“Yeah. But don’t laugh at them.”
Louis made a motion of crossing his heart, and right at that moment, Zayn felt like things would be okay for him.
Louis proved to be a good friend that week, always showing up when Zayn happened to need him most. He didn’t like any of the other boys because they never liked to talk about the new movies, or the recent comics. They liked westerns and playing cowboys with fake guns. Zayn hated guns. He thought they were for cheaters who didn’t know how to fight. The girls were even worse than the boys, making kissy faces at Zayn and pestering him to play house with them. He gave in one day and quickly regretted it. He had to eat sand and pretend to drink out of an invisible cup, and if he drank too slowly, he’d get yelled at. It was terrible.
Two weeks after their first lunch together, Louis was in Zayn’s backyard, wearing an Iron Man shirt. It was the third time he’d worn it that week.
“Batman would totally kick Superman’s butt any day,” Zayn was saying. He had a stick in his hand that he found under the tree, and he waved it wildly to emphasize what he said.
“No way! Superman would annihilate Batman.”
“What does annihilate mean?”
Louis stopped. “I don’t know. But Superman would do it.”
Zayn scoffed, rolled his eyes. He threw the stick down and kicked at the dirt. The grass had started to grow in and it didn’t look as stupid anymore. “Superman is just a guy in a cape.”
“And Batman is just a guy in a suit! Superman was born that way. He’d kick anyone’s butt.”
“Capes are dumb.”
“You think everything’s dumb.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Zayn shouted, “I think you’re dumb!”
“You’re mean,” Louis whispered.
Zayn’s heart sank in his chest, but he refused to apologize. Sitting down with a huff, he started to pull the grass out of the ground, creating a small pile by his feet. When Louis sat down next to him, Zayn wasn’t the least bit surprised. It made his heart stop beating so quickly.
“Wanna look at comic books?” he asked, hoping Louis wouldn’t go home.
“Sure.”
Zayn’s room was a mess, clothes littered the floor and his bed, but Louis didn’t mention it—unlike Zayn’s mom who always told him to put his clothes in the laundry basket. Louis collapsed down on Zayn’s bed, kicking off his sneakers as he lay on the covers.
“I like your room,” he said. “What comics do you have?”
“The old Thor comics, mostly.”
“Thor’s pretty cool.”
“Yeah.”
Louis paused, staring up at the ceiling. “Thor would kick Batman’s butt,” he whispered.
Trying not to laugh, and failing horribly, Zayn took his comics off his shelf. He kicked his clothes out of the way, making a small clean spot on the floor where he laid his books out. His chest swelled with pride when Louis rolled off the bed and onto the floor to stare more closely at them.
“They’re nice, huh?” Zayn asked, wanting to hear Louis say it.
Louis merely nodded. “They’re even in their plastic wrappings,” he said, awe in his voice. He began running a finger across the covers. “They’re like brand new!”
“Do you like them?”
“Yeah,” he smiled. “Can I take one out?”
“Sure. But don’t bend the pages.”
Louis picked up a book at random, carefully tipping the bag upside down and letting the comic slide out. Zayn watched him with keen eyes as Louis turned the book over and over in his hands, whispering, “Wow,” under his breath. Convinced that Louis wouldn’t harm them, Zayn sat down at his desk—the one his father made him before they moved—and took out his heavy sketchbook. He only used his good paper for his most important drawings, and the one he thought up now seemed fit for the good paper.
He hummed tuneless sounds to himself as he took out his pencils, and he didn’t bother Louis, as Louis didn’t bother him. It was a comfortable silence that Zayn never knew before, and he liked it too much to break.
A knock came on his bedroom door an hour later, and it was his dad saying that Louis’ mom was looking for him.
“I gotta go,” Louis said, standing over Zayn’s shoulder. “Woah, what’s that?” he pointed at the drawing, knocking Zayn’s hand out of the way.
“It’s you,” he replied, sheepishly. “Can’t you tell? There’s a big L on the shirt.”
“L for Louis?”
“Yeah.”
They both looked at the drawing, Zayn admiring his work, Louis not saying anything for a long time. The drawing was of a boy in a superhero outfit, with shaggy hair covering his forehead just like Louis’, and he had a comic book in his hand.
“You should put a cape on me,” Louis said, smiling. “But I gotta go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Do you want it?” asked Zayn, holding up the paper.
“No, you keep it. You drew it,” and then he left, scampering out of the room and to the front door.
Watching from his window, Zayn’s eyes followed Louis as he ran down the sidewalk, disappearing behind their wooden fence. He felt lonely almost instantly, no longer having someone to talk to. He didn’t want to have to wait a whole day to see Louis again.
He stared down at his drawing, mumbling to himself, “Capes are dumb.”
With a roll of his eyes, he picked his pencil back up and drew a cape blowing out behind Louis. He hung it on his wall that night, and pretended not to notice when his dad tucked him in and tapped his finger against the picture.
“This is a good one,” he said, giving Zayn a knowing smile. “It’s good you’re making friends, buddy.”
Zayn only shrugged, hiding deeper under his blankets, and trying not to smile.
The weeks faded into months, the seasons changing. Zayn found that their tree looked nice with red and orange leaves, but when winter hit and the branches were left bare, they cast scary shadows over his window at night, creating horrible pictures on his walls. He stayed up most of the time, terrified of the shadows, and even more scared of the snowstorms. He often wondered if Louis was scared, too.
“My parents are making me go to my grandma’s house for Christmas again,” Louis said one night. They were in Zayn’s room, lying on the floor with his old action figures set up. Louis wasn’t paying attention to the game. “I don’t wanna go.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“She smells funny and her cooking always tastes bad.”
“You don’t have to eat it.”
“She gets mad when I don’t. But it’s just so gross.”
“Did you tell her that?”
“No. That’d be rude.”
Zayn leaned forward to set up a new scene for his toys. He was just about to create a barrier between his men and Louis’, ready to make them fight to the death, when Louis asked,
“What are you doing for Christmas?”
“Staying here, I guess. All my family’s back in Nevada, so it’s just us.”
“I bet that’s a lot of fun. It must be quiet here. You like quiet.”
“I guess so.”
“If you ever saw my family during Christmas—” he shook his head. “You would want to hide.”
“Are they scary?”
“No, but they’re loud. And they talk so much.”
“So do you.”
He gave Zayn a look that told him he was wrong. His eyes were dull, mouth pulled into a tight frown. “Maybe you think so, but they talk even more than me!”
Zayn shuddered at the thought, trying to imagine what a house full of Louis’ would be like. It was almost funny. He’d met Louis’ mom before, and she seemed nice to him, always giving him cookies when he’d come over after school, and telling him that his haircut looked good—even though it never did. He couldn’t picture her being loud like Louis, but maybe she was when Zayn wasn’t around.
“Do you have to go to your grandma’s?” Zayn asked, wishing Louis could spend Christmas with him. He already knew it was going to be a boring day now that he knew that Santa wasn’t real. What’s the point? He thought about asking if Louis still believed in Santa, but decided against it; if he did, Zayn didn’t want to ruin his imagination.
Louis’ reply was dull, monotone. “We go every year.” He took one of Zayn’s pillows from his bed and buried his face in it.
“Do you think you can come over before you leave?”
“We go really early.”
“But can you? Just for a minute.”
He nodded, eyes narrowed. “What for?”
“You’ll see.”
Zayn woke extra early on Christmas morning. Sneaking down on tiptoes and being careful as not to wake anyone else, he began making the only lunch he really knew how to. He took the peanut butter jar out of the cupboard, the jelly out of the fridge, and smeared them on two pieces of bread that he removed the crusts from and cut into two triangles. He waited, impatient and tired, in the living room, staring out the window pointed at his driveway. He saw Louis approach and opened the door before he could knock. Everyone else was still asleep.
It was snowing heavily that winter, and the top of Louis’ head looked white from the ice crystals that clung to his hair. When Zayn handed him the sandwich wrapped in cellophane and said, “Here,” Louis only stood on his front porch, examining it.
“Don’t let your grandma see it,” Zayn warned. “Or she might take it away.”
Louis moved then, as if snapped out of trance. He stuffed the sandwich in his pocket, making his side bulge out. “Thanks a lot,” he said, voice muffled by his scarf. He did something then, something that Zayn wasn’t prepared for: he thew his arms around Zayn’s middle, hugging him tightly. It was the first hug Zayn ever received from someone that wasn’t family, and it felt nice and warm; different from the way his mom hugged him. And because of all the layers Louis was wearing, it reminded him of holding a pillow.
“Merry Christmas, Zayn,” Louis said, releasing him. He ran down the driveway and back home where his parents were piling things into their minivan.
Zayn called back, “Merry Christmas, Lou!” unable to keep himself from smiling.
It became a sort of Christmas ritual after that. Zayn woke early every Christmas morning to make Louis a sandwich, and he did it for three years, until Louis told him that he didn’t like PB&J anymore, and that it would be okay if he ate his grandma’s cooking every once in a while. Zayn felt as if Louis had told him that he hated Zayn’s sandwiches and that he never wanted to eat another one again. He didn’t like taking Louis’ words to heart (his mother had said he was a sensitive boy, something he hated even more), but it was hard. Louis’ word had always meant more than anyone else’s, and if he didn’t want sandwiches anymore, then Zayn wouldn’t make them.
The year he stopped making them is the year Zayn’s dad allowed him to start doing chores around the house to earn money. He saved up all of his allowances for the entire year, keeping it all a secret from Louis. He wanted to be able to surprise him when the time came, and it was when he was shopping for new Christmas decorations with his mom that Zayn found exactly what Louis needed.
Hanging on a lonely rack was a black Iron Man shirt that was much nicer than the first one Louis had. The red of Iron Man’s suit was bright on the dark background, his canon drawn. Louis had stopped wearing his old Iron Man shirt when the stitching in the armpit developed a hole, and even though Zayn always poked his finger through it to tickle Louis when he was asleep, he didn’t think that Louis stopped wearing it because of him. It had just gotten old and too small in the shoulders.
“Can I get it?” he asked his mom, touching the sleeve. It felt soft.
“How much is it?”
He checked the price tag. “Fifteen.”
“And how much do you have?”
Counting in his head, Zayn answered, “Fifty.”
His mother froze, her attention having been set on the things in her cart. She turned to him with a strange look on her face, and asked, “Where did you get fifty dollars?”
“I saved it.”
Her face did something even stranger than before, and Zayn didn’t like it. He couldn’t tell if she was happy with him, or if she had to pee. It was all very weird.
“Oh, honey,” she exclaimed, touching his shoulder. “It’s good that you’re saving. Very good. Go ahead and get it, but get something for yourself, too.”
There wasn’t anything he really wanted, so he bought a chocolate bar for the sake of buying something and saved it for later so that he and Louis could share it.
His mom was always the one who did the wrapping, but she let him do it for Louis’ gift, and even though it looked more like Zayn had wrapped it in tape rather than actual paper, he thought it looked nice. And it was even better when Louis ripped it open on his doorstep, Christmas morning, before going to his grandma’s. When Louis saw what was inside of the paper, he gasped so loudly that Zayn’s heart did that funny thing again, where it skipped a beat as if it wanted out of his chest.
“This is great!” he yelled, clinging to Zayn.
He had gotten used to the hugs, Louis always seemed to find an excuse to hug, but never had Louis squeezed so hard, knocking all the air out of Zayn’s lungs.
“I got you something, too,” he said, releasing him.
“You did?”
“Well, I made it. It’s not an Iron Man shirt, but I think you’ll like it.” He took a small box out of his coat pocket and handed it over, his cheeks and nose turning a bright red from the cold air. “Open it.”
Zayn knew he wasn’t supposed to open presents before the rest of his family woke up, but he shrugged, sure that no one would ever find out. He said, “Alright,” as he tore open the box, shuffling through the small pieces of packing paper that Louis had stuffed in there. He stared as he found what was inside. Taking it out, he held it up and stared harder. It was a bracelet made of colorful beads on a stretchy string. Louis took it before he could try to put it on and demanded,
“Hold out your arm.”
Zayn did and watched transfixed on Louis’ fingers as he tied the bracelet around his wrist in a neat little knot.
“My sister was making these a couple days ago. She kept bothering me to make some with her, so I thought I’d make one for you. Look,” he turned the beads over to show two larger ones with their initials on them. “L for Louis, and Z for Zayn. It’s a friendship bracelet.”
With his breath caught in his throat, Zayn stared into Louis’ face and saw the sincerity of his words in his eyes. “Like, best friends?”
Louis nodded. “Do you like it?”
“Yeah,” Zayn touched their initial beads, feeling the small grooves in the plastic where the letters were. “It’s perfect.”
“Good! I’m gonna go put this on before we leave,” he waves the shirt around excitedly. “Thanks again, Zayn.” He hugged him again, but this time he did something that made everything else he’d ever done seem normal: Louis kissed his cheek and muttered, “Merry Christmas.” He ran down the drive then, dropping pieces of the wrapping paper behind him by accident, and disappeared for the day.
Zayn forgot to say thank you for the bracelet, and forgot to wish Louis a Merry Christmas. He rubbed at the spot where Louis’ mouth had touched his skin. When he thought about what had happened, he didn’t feel disgusted or grossed out by it. It made him happy, made his body tingle and his lips smile. It felt strange to him, being kissed. The girls at school had always tried to kiss him before and he felt then that he could never get away fast enough. It was even worse when his mom kissed him. She always left spit on his cheek. Thoughts of that grossed him out, but thoughts of Louis did the exact opposite.
He didn’t want to bring up the kissing, didn’t want to talk about it, except for with Louis. He tried his best to ignore it and to not mention a single thing. He lasted a month before the question began to eat him alive, but all Louis told him was a simple,
“You kiss people you love. Right?”
It sounded right, so Zayn nodded. His dad kissed his mom, and his mom kissed him, and he was positive they all loved each other.
“But isn’t it weird?” he asked.
“Why?”
“Two boys kissing? They don’t show that in the movies.”
“I think it’s as weird as a boy kissing a girl. And we’re not doing it on the mouth, so it’s different.”
“What are mouth kisses for?”
Louis thought a moment, chewing on his bottom lip. It would always irritate Zayn when Louis did that, because there would be teeth marks left in his skin, and it made his mouth look swollen, like someone had punched him in it.
“That’s a different kind of love, I think,” he said finally. “Parents do it and so do people who are dating. We’re not either of those, so…”
“No mouth kisses?”
“Right. No mouth kisses.”
Zayn accepted the answers given, and he liked to know that he meant enough to Louis for him to always kiss Zayn goodbye or goodnight when he stayed over on the weekends. Zayn wanted to kiss Louis, too, because he loved Louis just as much as Louis loved him, but it never seemed like the right time. Whenever he tried to move his mouth towards Louis’ cheek, Louis would be moving his mouth to Zayn’s, and he didn’t want to further his confusion by accidentally giving one of the other kinds of kisses. He settled for letting Louis do the kissing, and he did the hugging and told Louis every night that he’d see him in the morning.
*
The year of sixth grade (seventh for Louis) was the year Zayn found out what a true bully was. No one ever talked to him, except to ask if he knew how to talk, but Louis was always coming home with dirt on his pants and scrapes on his hands that he told Zayn were no big deal, even when the really bad ones were still bleeding.
It was Zayn’s first year of middle school, and his dad made a promise with him that he’d pick him up every day as long as he’d take the bus in the mornings. Zayn obliged to the idea, but soon realized that it was the worst one his dad had ever had.
He stayed late after school every day to get extra help on his math homework—not that he ever needed it (Louis liked calling him a genius those days. He said Zayn was too smart for his own good). Zayn had just thought that it couldn’t hurt anyone to be better prepared for the rest of his middle school years. Though it seemed, after some time, that it could hurt someone, and that someone had been Louis.
He was home from school one evening, taking a soda out of the fridge when he noticed through the patio window that Louis was sitting in the backyard, under their small tree. He had been picking at the dirt, his head ducked down.
“What are you doing out here?” Zayn asked, stepping outside.
“They’re mean.”
“Who’s mean?”
Louis didn’t respond, and it made Zayn’s fingers twitch. He walked slowly and carefully, as if Louis was a kind of wild animal that would scurry away at any given moment. He sat with as much care as he walked and crossed his legs Indian style, his knee brushing against Louis’ calf.
“What happened?” he whispered.
Louis sniffed hard, sighed even harder and raised his head so that Zayn could see his face. At first, Zayn didn’t know what to think. There was a cut on Louis’ top lip and the right side of his mouth was already bigger than the left, swollen and red. Once it all sank in, Zayn clenched his hands into fists, and it was almost as if everything turned white. The sun was too bright, his head pounded with rushing blood. He was livid.
“Who did that to you?”
“Kyle Taysom.”
“What, the kid with the red hair and the freckles?”
Louis nodded, sniffing again.
“Did you hit him back?”
“No.”
“Why not?” Zayn asked, though he already knew why. Louis didn’t like being mean to people, even when they were mean to him. “Did you call him names at least?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
Zayn gritted his teeth, trying to swallow back his anger. “You should have tripped him, then stepped on his fingers and ground them into the sidewalk.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about right now, Zayn.”
“What’s wrong?”
“What am I gonna tell my mom?” Louis looked to him with pleading eyes, the cut more prominent when he frowned. “She always told me that if I had problems, to go to her and she’d take care of them. What is she supposed to do about this? What if she finds out I’m being bullied and-and—” he took a deep breath. “What if she moves me to another school?” His eyes started to turn red with threatening tears. Zayn wished he could wipe them all away. He wished he could hurt who had hurt Louis.
“Tell her I did it.”
“Are you crazy? She’d hate you.”
“Say it was an accident. Tell her we have P.E. together and I threw the football too hard, or something. She’ll probably give me a lecture about rough housing,” he cringed, already having heard that lecture countless times before. “It’s better than her finding out the truth.”
“That could work.”
“It will work.”
“That doesn’t make Kyle go away.”
“I’ll ride the bus with you from now on.”
Louis started to shake his head fiercely. “No! You have your math meetings.”
“Who cares? I already know all the stuff they’re teaching anyway,” Zayn waved Louis off, smiling dully. “Kyle Taysom won’t try anything stupid as long as I’m with you.”
“No offense, Zayn, but you’re a puny sixth grader. Kyle’s an eighth grader. Why would he be afraid of you?”
“I don’t want him to be afraid of me. I just want him to leave you alone. Besides, he’s not even that big.” Zayn stood, brushed off the seat of his pants. He held out a hand for Louis to take. “And I’m not puny.”
Louis laughed as he climbed to his feet, fingers digging into the back of Zayn’s hand. “Have you seen your chicken legs? They’re so small!”
“We can’t all have nice legs, Lou.”
“You like my legs?”
With a roll of his eyes, Zayn pulled Louis by the hand and went back inside where his dad was watching the end of a Packers game, his feet rested on the coffee table, beer in hand. He grabbed another soda, one for Louis, and with their hands still linked, led them into his room.
*
Kyle Taysom was a big kid for his age, only thirteen but with the body of a sixteen year old, and a mindset of a frog—or at least Zayn liked to think. Sure, Kyle was big, but Zayn was smart and he was not going to let anything happen to Louis again.
The first few weeks that Zayn took the bus, there weren’t any issues. Kyle kept mostly to himself, only glaring at Louis when he was looking for a seat. There weren’t any more wadded up paper balls thrown at the back of his head, and he didn’t get tripped when he was getting off at his stop. Zayn liked to believe that it was because he was there with him, holding Louis’ hand when they were seated, being careful not to let anyone see. But he knew that it was more likely that Kyle had just gotten bored with ruining Louis’ life rather than found something to fear in Zayn. It didn’t matter, though, because Louis didn’t come home crying anymore, and he didn’t have any new cuts or scrapes on his hands. But the Wednesday before Thanksgiving break, that peace was broken.
They were stepping off the bus with their jackets zipped and buttoned, hands still tightly together. Not many kids used their stop, so they never hid their hands on the way home, happy to be able to do what they wanted. Louis was just about to say something, Zayn was certain because his face was all scrunched up in thought, the way he always looked before he said something important, when a loud, obnoxious voice called out,
“It’s gay to hold hands!”
Louis stumbled, fear etched all over his face. He turned to Zayn, mouthing let’s go. Zayn didn’t want to go. He didn’t like Kyle’s tone, and he didn’t like that Kyle was standing only a few feet behind them with two of his stupid looking friends. They all sneered like animals, their oversized jeans hanging low. Kyle’s backpack was in one of his friends’ arms, his jacket gone—Zayn couldn’t see where he left it.
“No one asked you!” Zayn spat out, gripping Louis’ hand harder. “You shouldn’t talk when nobody is talking to you.”
Looking angry with high color in his cheeks, Kyle asked, “What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
Louis tugged at Zayn’s arm. “Come on. I wanna go home.”
Zayn didn’t like turning his back on people, especially the ones that had issues with him, but the look in Louis’ eyes told him that if he didn’t listen, there would be a price to pay later, and Zayn hated even more when Louis was upset with him. So he gave Kyle one last look before following Louis towards their street, gritting his teeth when he heard all three of them shuffling after.
“Louis,” Zayn began. He wanted to tell him that he had to stand up to Kyle, or else nothing would change. As much as he wished he could, it wasn’t like Zayn could be with Louis all the time to keep him out of Kyle’s clutches. If it wasn’t now, then it’d be another time, and he knew it. Something told Zayn that Louis knew it, too. “We have to—” Louis’ hand was ripped away from his, nails scraping along his skin. It burned, but he hardly noticed. All he saw was Louis flat on his back, one arm pinned under Kyle’s shoe.
“Didn’t your dad teach you not to be a gay boy?” Kyle jeered, his friends laughing along.
Zayn doesn’t remember much about it now, but he knows in one instant he was watching Louis’ face twist in pain, and within another, he was plowing Kyle down, pinning him to the sidewalk. With a knee on either side of Kyle’s hips to hold him in place, Zayn hit him and he hit him hard. He could faintly hear Louis yelling his name as he pounded his fists into Kyle’s face. He didn’t know much about hitting—had only seen it done in movies, so he was sure that his punches didn’t hurt as much as he wanted them to—but it was enough to make Kyle’s nose bleed. He kicked his legs, trying to shove Zayn off of him, and his friend weren’t doing anything about it because they were all scared. Zayn knew it and it felt good to have them fear him.
“Get off!” Kyle screeched, getting one good shove at Zayn’s chest.
Zayn toppled off of him and onto the sidewalk, where he cringed, clenching his jaw, sure that he was about to feel a heavy pair of knuckles on his face. He felt nothing, of course, for Kyle and his friends had already been running off. He heard Kyle yell, “You’re a freaking psycho!” and it made him smile.
Still on the sidewalk, Zayn stared up at the sky, his hands aching.
“Are you okay?” Louis asked, sitting down next to him.
“Are you?’
He nodded.
“How’s your arm?”
Louis shook it around. “Fine. You have blood on your hands.”
Zayn stared down at his fingers, finding red splattered across his palms. “I think it’s from his nose.”
“That’s gross.”
“Yeah.”
“Can we go home?”
Zayn got to his feet and offered his hand. Louis only looked at it with distaste, eyeing the little red speckles along his skin. Offering his arm instead, Zayn smiled to himself when Louis linked their elbows together, and they walked slowly, trying to understand what all just happened.
Kyle ended up telling his mom—something Zayn would always think about later, anger rising in his chest—who then told the school principal on Monday. Zayn got sent home early for two days whilst Louis got stuck with detention. Neither of them told the principal what had really happened.
His dad was the one that picked him up, and he was grateful that it hadn’t been his mom. She always got this crazy look in her eye when she yelled, and even though Zayn’s not a baby anymore, it still scared the hell out of him. His dad was silent all the while home, the radio turned down to a mere whisper. It was terrifying to sit through, and Zayn had thought about jumping out of the window more than once.
“Why did you do it?” his dad asked once they were home, parked safely in the garage.
“He started it.”
“You could have broken his nose.”
“He’s lucky I didn’t.”
“Zayn!”
He flinched. “I’m sorry, okay? He started it!”
“Did he hit you?”
“No.”
“Did he hit Louis?’
Zayn’s eyes began to fill with angry tears as his pulse picked up. “Yes.”
“What?” His dad asked, crowding him. Shock was written all over him. “He did?”
“Yeah, but don’t go and tell his parents. He told me not to tell anyone, okay?”
“Why not?”
“Because! His mom might move him to another school and that can’t happen.”
“Zayn, this is a big deal. What if Kyle does something else?”
“He’s not gonna do anything,” he mumbled, his arms crossed over his chest. He pressed his forehead to the window, glaring out into the garage. “People like Kyle are just scared. They want to be cool so they pick on people who don’t have a lot of friends.”
“How do you know that?’
He bunched up his shoulders. “I just do.”
“Oh, do you know everything?”
“I know how jerks are.”
His dad sighed loudly, rubbing at his face. He placed a hand on Zayn’s knee and promised, “I won’t tell anyone as long as you tell me the next time you have trouble. You’ve been suspended for two days, Zayn. That’s not good. You know your mother isn’t going to be happy about this.”
“Can you just not tell her?”
He laughed loud, squeezing Zayn’s knee. “If you ever keep anything from your mother, she’ll have your head for it. Never not tell her things.”
Zayn huffed, whispered, “Yeah, okay.”
“Don’t worry, buddy. I’ll make sure she goes easy on you.”
Easy was an overstatement. When his mom got home, she was already yelling, throwing dirty dishes into the sink, her voice echoing through the house. She called his name, demanding him to come out of his room, and when he did, he had half the thought to run to Louis’ house and hide forever. His dad was standing by her side, looking guilty as all hell.
Grounded for a week, Zayn tried not to go crazy. He couldn’t watch TV, he couldn’t use the internet, he couldn’t see Louis. He was to go to school and come straight home. His mom had even started calling at the same time every day to make sure he was there. It was all very tedious, and extremely annoying. Louis didn’t get into half as much trouble, only lectured—but Zayn knew all about those lectures and how horrible they could get. Louis’ mom loved to sit you down at the kitchen table and unleash, telling you all the things that bothered her, and she’d do it for hours, too.
Maybe Zayn had gotten off easy.
Life was boring without Louis, plain and simple. Zayn didn’t know what to do with his time. He drew numerous cartoons of Louis doing various things. There was one of him and Louis holding hands—he kept that one under his bed, and one with Kyle Taysom lying on the ground with X’s in his eyes, and Louis standing over him, mid-victory scream. That was Zayn’s favorite.
Wednesday night, before he was to be back in school, Zayn was crawling into bed. All of his lights were turned out, the room soundless. Cuddled up with a pillow, he stared up at the ceiling, wondering what school was going to be like now that people knew what had happened. He imagined it would be very unpleasant. He was in the middle of making faces, trying to decide what he was going to tell people when there came a tap on his window. His heart almost stopped as cold sweat covered his body. Not many things scared him anymore, but someone tapping on his window in the middle of the night when there was only one working street lamp on their corner was enough to make anyone crawl into a closet.
He was holding his breath, blood pumping loudly in his ears. He thought if he didn’t move, the tapping would stop, but it didn’t, and Zayn yelped, short and high-pitched.
“Shut up, dummy,” came a soft whisper.
Zayn exhaled, feeling like a balloon that had lost all its air, his shoulders relaxing, his arms seeming to hang just a little bit lower. His legs shook as he walked on them, tiptoeing to the window. “Louis?”
“Who else would it be? The boogeyman?” Louis laughed, tapping again. “Let me in.”
Unlatching the window, Zayn slid the glass open, pulling up the blinds to give more room. Louis threw one leg in, clipping Zayn’s thigh, then the other, and he stumbled as he hopped off the window pane, grabbing at the wall.
“You should keep this unlocked,” he said. “You know how long I was out there?”
“I didn’t hear you.”
“Oh, I think you did,” he poked at Zayn’s chest, grinning from ear to ear. “How’s being grounded going?” he sat on the edge of the bed, kicking off his tennis shoes. He wasn’t wearing socks with them, and it wasn’t until he brought his legs up, crossing them on the bed, that Zayn realized that Louis was wearing his pajamas, which were really only a pair of basketball shorts and the Iron Man shirt Zayn had got him two years before.
“Boring,” Zayn said, sitting down beside Louis.
“Yeah, I’ve been bored, too.”
“Well, you shouldn’t be,” he snapped. “You’re not the one grounded.”
“No. But I still can’t see you.”
“Maybe you need new friends.” He didn’t know why he was in a bad mood, but he did know that he still hated that apologetic look that Louis got in his eye whenever Zayn showed any sign of being upset. Beating Louis to it, he whispered out a gentle, “Sorry,” as he covered Louis’ hand with his own.
“Can I stay here tonight?”
“What about your mom and dad?’
“Mom’s visiting my aunt. She has the flu, I think. And you know how my dad is when my mom’s not home.”
“Passed out on the couch?”
Louis snorted a laugh. “Yeah. With enough empty coke cans to build a house out of.”
“What about school?”
“My dad wakes me up at seven every morning. Just set your alarm for six thirty and I’ll leave before anyone even notices.”
Zayn said, “Okay,” because it sounded fool proof to him, and besides, he didn’t really care; he was just happy to have time with Louis again.
They spent most of the night telling lame jokes and laughing at nothing. Louis explained, in detail, what Kyle’s face looked like at school that morning. Zayn laughed hard enough into his pillow to bring tears to his eyes, too proud to care about morals. And when Louis fell asleep first, curled in on himself, facing Zayn, Zayn didn’t really know what else to do other than wrap his arms around him. Their legs tangled together as he pressed his chin to Louis’ forehead, eyes closed.
Every night after that was the same. Louis would sneak into Zayn’s room and leave the next morning. It was only on weekends that he didn’t have to sneak around, his mom let him stay however long he wanted to, and each night they would fall asleep, entwined in a perfect circle, hands clasped tightly together.
*
The summer before seventh grade was the best summer Zayn can remember. His dad would let him stay out later than usual, and he didn’t even have to go home to check in anymore. He and Louis could run around doing just about anything they wanted without a care in the world. They bought BB guns and shot each other by accident and pretended not to cry whenever blood got drawn, or when their knees got cut too deeply. Louis’ mom even bought him a skateboard that he fell off of more times than Zayn could bother to remember. There was an equal amount of scares as good times, though. Like the time when Louis had fallen too hard and cut himself above his eye deep enough to need stitches, and when Zayn had caught his friendship bracelet on a piece of bark in a tree they had been climbing, and all the beads fell off. Louis about had a heart attack when that happened, but fixed it back up and put it on a sturdier string.
When school started back up, it felt different, but in a good way. Louis was in eighth grade and considered one of the cool kids for being part of the older crowd, and because Zayn hung out with him, it was like he was cool, too. Kids would always ask him his opinion on things like who would be a better Batman, or which drawing is better. He didn’t like making decisions for others, so he’d always tell them whatever they liked best was the better choice. It worked for the most part, but Louis? He loved putting his two cents into everything, letting people know what he liked and what he loathed. It was all really funny to Zayn.
They would eat their lunches outside every day until it was too cold to stand, and only then did they bother to sit with the other students. They were all only faces to Zayn, a sea of talking heads that meant nothing to him. He didn’t know if Louis had other friends that he hung out with when Zayn had dentist appointments and doctor visits, but the days when Louis was home sick were the days that Zayn spent his time in the library, reading whichever book felt the lightest or had the most vibrant cover. Which was what he was doing on one particular day in November; the day that things changed between him and Louis.
It all started the same. He rode the bus home alone, stopping at Louis’ before checking in with his dad. He would know where Zayn was, after all. He kicked off his shoes at the front door and laid his jacket on the dinning room table when Louis’ dad handed him a soda.
“He’s upstairs,” he told Zayn, squeezing his shoulder lightly.
He crept down the hall, avoiding the creaky floorboard outside of Louis’ room. He stopped outside of his door, peeking in on him and finding nothing but a lump under a mountain of blankets. There was a nursing commercial playing on the television at an unbearably loud volume.
“How are you feeling?” he asked when he opened the door, closing it behind himself. He took the remote on the nightstand and muted the TV.
“Like I’m dying.” Louis had already missed two days that week, and he still looked sick. Zayn wondered how much longer he’d have to wait to have Louis back. “What’d I miss today?”
With a shrug of his shoulders, Zayn made an unflattering face, earning a laugh from Louis that sounded choked. It was still a nice thing to hear after a long day of silence. Sat on the edge of Louis’ bed, Zayn ran his fingers over Louis’ arm. “When do you think you’ll be back?”
“Probably never. I’ll die in this bed.”
“Don’t say that.”
“You’re putting yourself at risk of getting the plague.”
“You don’t have the plague.” He laid his palm flat on Louis’ forehead, feeling how heated his skin was. “It’s snowing out. Just a little bit, though.”
“It’s too early for snow.”
“It’s November.”
“Still too early.” Louis pulled the covers off of himself, scooting away from Zayn to make room for him. He patted the bed. “If you’re gonna get sick, might as well do it right.”
Zayn curled up on top of the blankets, not wanting to bring the outside cold into Louis’ bed, and stayed on his side so they could be face-to-face.
“Zayn?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you remember when you beat up Kyle Taysom?’
“Yeah,” Zayn laughed out. It died quickly when he saw that Louis wasn’t laughing with him.
“Do you ever think about what he said?”
“Uh, no. I don’t even remember what he said. He called you something, though.”
“Us. He called us something.”
Zayn closed his eyes, thinking as hard as he could, trying desperately to remember what it was Kyle yelled. He whispered a single word, “Gay,” and opened his eyes. “Right?”
Louis started playing with the collar of Zayn’s shirt, not looking up at him. “Do you think you’re gay?”
‘Gay’ to the kids at school meant something bad, that was all Zayn knew. They used it the way they used curse words, yelling it as insults to hurt people. He didn’t like to think that he was something bad, but the way Louis said it didn’t sound the same as when other people did.
“Do you mean,” he started, and stopped. “Do I like guys?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, how do you know something like that?”
“You see people, I guess, and you think they’re good looking.” He waited a long time before adding, “I’m gay.”
“Why do you say that?”
“All the girls at school look the same to me. I never notice anything about them.”
“But the guys?”
“They have nice faces.”
A pang off jealousy wrapped itself around Zayn’s heart, suffocating him. He spoke before thinking, asking, “Do you like my face?”
“You have the nicest face I’ve ever seen.”
Zayn felt like he was glowing with how excited he was. He bit back a grin when he asked, “Is that why you think you’re gay?”
“No.” Louis edged closer, rested his head on the same pillow Zayn used. “I’m gay because I want to kiss you,” he pressed a single finger to Zayn’s lips, “here.”
“Then why don’t you?” His voice was much more controlled than he felt. He was certain that if he had tried to stand, he would have toppled over and never gotten back up. “If you’ve wanted to do it, then why haven’t you tried?”
Louis’ eyes searched his face, eyebrows creased deeply. His voice was faint when he said, “You aren’t gay.”
“I don’t know that.”
“Don’t you look at girls?”
“I don’t look at anyone but you.”
Louis’ face relaxed, eyes going gentle. He first rested his forehead to Zayn’s, then pressed the tips of their noses together, laughing breathlessly when Zayn moved his head from side-to-side, rubbing them together. He was still smiling when his mouth touched Zayn’s.
With his heart pounding and his blood rushing, Zayn tried to kiss back the best he could, not that he had ever kissed anyone before, or really seen anyone kiss other than his parents. Their kisses were quick and small, a goodbye at the door or a thank you for getting groceries. Louis didn’t kiss like them. His lips were soft and pressed firmly together, and he was trembling, Zayn could feel it. Or maybe that had been him—he couldn’t tell. All he knew was that Louis had a nice mouth that felt like heaven to him.
Louis had rested a hand on the side of Zayn’s face, his finger touching his hair, mouth moving as he kissed Zayn again, and again, until that was all they were doing. They breathed heavily through their noses, teeth clashing together every now and again. Zayn didn’t try to put his tongue in Louis’ mouth, and he was grateful that Louis hadn’t tried either.
When Louis pulled away, his eyes screwed shut, face tense, he asked in a shaky voice, “Am I weird?”
“Maybe. But if you are, then so am I.”
Louis nodded, opening his eyes.
“It’s okay to be weird, I think. And if we are, it’s not because we kiss.”
“Then why?”
Zayn shook his head, not knowing what to say then. He pulled Louis closer, worked an arm around him. “Isn’t everyone weird? Like those guys who are always blowing things up in the locker room. How about that one girl with the curly hair who talks with that fake English accent? She’s weird.”
Louis laughed, short and sweet, nuzzling up to Zayn’s neck. “What if we’re normal?”
“We might be. But I kinda doubt it.”
“Yeah, me too.”
They lay in silence for the rest of the evening, Zayn listening to Louis’ soft exhales, thinking about his mouth and how nice it felt against his own. He wasn’t sure if he was gay, but he knew he liked when Louis cuddled up to him whenever he was cold, and how he always had to hold Zayn’s hand no matter what they were doing. And he liked the way Louis’ pillow smelled and how his eyes would get all squinty when he was angry. He didn’t think about other guys or girls, so it was possible to him then, that he was just Zayn, and Louis was only Louis. And he never once thought that there was anything wrong with it.
*
The school year ended and summer began, and with it came crisis after crisis. Louis would sneak through Zayn’s window more than just at night. He’d come in in the mornings, poking at Zayn until his eyes opened. Some days he’d come when Zayn was in the shower, not making a noise until Zayn stepped into his room to find a person sitting on his bed, and of course he screamed every now and again—anyone would. By the time July rolled around, he was used to it all. It became another part of his day: finding Louis hidden somewhere, chewing his nails and mumbling about hating his life.
Zayn was rummaging through his belongings one day, trying to decide what he wanted to keep and what he wanted to store in the attic. His parents had bought him a new set of bookshelves, not having realized that they were nearly two times smaller than the previous set. They offered to take them all back, but Zayn told them he didn’t mind. He had been meaning to clean out his shelves for a while, and it was just the kind of motivation he needed.
“It’s not a big deal,” he said as Louis smashed his face into his pillow, dry sobbing. “Will you stop? You sound like you’re dying.”
“I am dying!”
Zayn laughed lowly, looking down at his notebooks scattered across the floor. Louis was making growling sounds on the bed, his feet kicked out behind him.
“Believe it or not, Lou, but everyone has to go to high school someday.”
“Easy for you to say! You still have one more year to go.”
“It’s just high school.”
Louis sat up, eyes ice cold. “Just? Are you listening to yourself?’
Zayn bit in his lips, avoiding Louis’ glare.
“Everyone’s going to be older there,” Louis groaned, dangling his feet over the side of the bed. He fell onto his back, spread out on the mattress. “I’ll have to wake up earlier.”
“But you get out earlier, too.”
“I have more classes!”
“Yeah, and they’re all shorter than they were in middle school.”
“I’ll have to make new friends.”
“Which is easy for you. Everyone loves you.”
“Let me be upset, Zayn, god—” he rolled onto his stomach. “I hate everything.”
“You hate me?”
“Don’t be stupid.”
Zayn smiled to himself, getting to his feet. He sat on the bed, ran a hand through Louis’ hair. “I think you’re being dramatic. Think of all the cool things that come with high school.”
“Like what?”
“Like clubs! They have clubs there. Academic stuff.”
“Not everyone is as smart as you, Zayn.”
“Hobby things too, Lou. I bet they have a drama club. You could join that.”
“Never mind I do hate you.”
“And cooler classes to choose from,” he continued, ignoring Louis. “You actually get to pick your classes. So you’ll meet other people who like the things you like instead of being shoved into a room with a bunch of people who don’t know what you’re talking about. And think,” he huddled down, kissing Louis’ temple. “In another year, I’ll be there with you.”
A light flickered in Louis’ eyes, and he smiled. “I’ll miss you.”
“Yeah, me too. But I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’ll still miss you.”
Zayn hated how stuffy the air began to feel then, his chest tightening. He thought of not eating lunch with Louis every day, and not walking home together anymore, and no more bus rides. It made his heart ache. “Let’s talk about something else,” he rushed out, bringing his knees to his chest. He leaned back against the wall, trying to think of something that would make Louis happy. He gasped almost instantly, remembering what day it was.
“What?” Louis demanded, staring up at him.
“Today’s Friday the 13th.”
“And?”
“You know what that means?”
“The world’s going to end?”
He hit Louis’ arm gently, scoffing. “No. AMC’s having a movie marathon tonight.”
Louis’ eyes widened. “Which movies?”
“All the original Frankenstein ones!”
“No way!”
“I knew it’d make you feel better,” Zayn beamed, enjoying the smile on Louis’ face. It’d been a while since he smiled. “I think it’s on at nine, so—”
“I’m staying over,” and, as if to emphasize that he wasn’t going anywhere, Louis pulled back the covers and nestled under them, hiding everything but his feet.
When the marathon began, Zayn was curled up at the head of his bed with Louis’ head rested on his chest. They were surrounded by a cluster of junk food, unopened cans of soda lay on their sides near Louis’ legs, a bag of Twizzlers as their only company.
“This movie is so sad,” Louis muttered as Frankenstein ran from a crowd of hunters. “He just wanted to be their friend.”
“At least he finds someone who loves him in the end of it all. Right?”
“He waits a long time for his happiness, though.”
Zayn rubbed his thumb against Louis’ upper arm, unsure of what to say.
“I’m gonna be Frankenstein,” Louis said, dully. “And all those hunters are high school.”
“You’re not Frankenstein.”
“Yes, I am,” and he buried his face into Zayn’s shirt, sighing. “They’re gonna laugh at me, and make fun of me and look at me weird, like I’m some piece of meat that they want to tear apart.”
“Where do you get this stuff?”
“John Hughes, mostly.”
“What, the guy who made The Breakfast Club?”
Louis grunted, Zayn took it as a yes.
“If you’re anyone in that movie, then you’re definitely the jock guy.”
“How?”
“Well, think about it. You could totally get into sports in high school. Maybe join the football team, or something?”
Louis stared at him with his mouth opened, eyes narrowed. “No.”
“It’s just a thought! Anything could happen.”
“I’m not doing football.”
“Okay. Something else, then. You’ll find something you like,” he cupped Louis’ jaw, staring him in the eye. “It’ll be okay, Lou. You’ll see.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
Louis smiled, tight lipped and small, his eyes fluttering shut. He gripped the front of Zayn’s shirt tightly, and whispered, “You know what?’
“What?”
His eyes opened again, but this time they were red rimmed and sad. “I love you.”
Louis had told Zayn countless times that he loved him. It was just another part of their vocabulary. Goodnight, love you, I’ll see you at lunch, love you. It wasn’t a big deal. Until then, when Louis’ bottom lip trembled and fear stuck out in his eyes as a reminder that Zayn wouldn’t be an arms length away the next time Louis needed him. It made Zayn’s spine straighten, his hands wrapping protectively around Louis’ middle.
“I love you, too,” he said, the weight of the words hanging in the air. It was scary and it was exciting, everything that Louis was, and Zayn wanted to drown in the moment. And had he known then that it would be one of the last times Louis looked at him as if he were really someone, as if Zayn was the reason the sun shined each morning, he would have held onto it longer. He would have kissed Louis hard, would have clung to him with desperate hands and a heart that beat too loudly. But he didn’t. And he’s never known why.
*
Louis’ first month in high school didn’t go as smoothly as Zayn had hoped, but it wasn’t as terrible as Louis expected. He’d get home an entire hour earlier than Zayn, and he’d always wait in his room or crawl through the window the moment he saw Zayn was home. Zayn never found out why Louis had stopped using the front door completely, but it never really mattered.
The second month turned out better than the first, the third and fourth even better than that. Louis didn’t join the drama club, but he did start staying late after school to take extra tutoring for his math. Zayn offered to help—he was in algebra already—but Louis said he could handle it. Zayn tried not to take it personally, but it happened anyway.
Louis’ visits grew shorter, coming less frequently. He told Zayn that he had too much homework to do, or was too tired from his extra classes. Zayn could never imagine doing all the work Louis had to do, so he never complained about it. And when he would feel exceptionally lonely, he’d remind himself that seeing Louis once a week was much better than never at all. But as the weeks went on and Louis only came by a couple times a month, Zayn stopped believing his own words. He hated to feel so far from Louis, too scared to upset him to ask why he didn’t come over anymore. He didn’t want to damper the moments he had left, didn’t want Louis to think he was clinging too hard.
They stopped holding hands long before Louis stopping coming by, and it felt weird to Zayn to not have someone to kiss anymore, or to touch, or to hold. His heart felt funny all the time, his head filled with questions, wondering when Louis would start crawling through his window again, or why he never called when he couldn’t make it over. Was high school really that hard?
The week before that Christmas was the last time Zayn really saw Louis. He had been checking the mail for his mom when he looked over their wooden fence and caught sight of Louis, bundled up in a heavy winter coat. It was teal with faux fur around the hood. It made his eyes brighter than usual.
“Hey,” Zayn said.
Louis looked over the fence. “Hey.”
“What are you doing?”
“Waiting for my dad,” Louis made his way over, hands buried in his pockets. “What about you?” He walked differently, his pants a little looser.
Zayn held up the letters and smiled. “Just the mail.” Louis even smelled different.
“You look nice. Did you get a haircut?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well, still. You look nice.”
“Thanks. What are you doing today?”
“Just going out with my dad. We have to get things for the house. One of the sinks aren’t working, or something. I don’t know.”
“Wanna hang out tonight? I got a lot of new comics to show you.”
“I don’t, uh,” he cleared his throat, feet shuffling on the sidewalk. “I don’t really read comics anymore.”
“Yeah, I know. You haven’t been over.”
Louis forced a smile that Zayn wasn’t fond of seeing on him. “I can’t tonight, I’m…” he looked over his shoulder towards an oncoming car. “Busy. But how about next week?”
“Okay.”
“That’s my dad,” he thumped Zayn’s arm. “I’ll see you later, okay?”
Zayn waved goodbye, tucking the mail under his arm, and feeling as if the entire world had shifted beneath his feet.
Louis didn’t show the next week, or the week after that, and Zayn didn’t see him outside anymore unless other people were with him. A lot of new faces started showing up, older boys with long hair and baggy jeans and sunglasses. They smoked cigarettes and spat on the sidewalk, always jumping around and goofing off. They drove cars and had wristwatches. They were all very intimidating to Zayn, who felt like a child in comparison to them. They didn’t even look like they were into the same things he and Louis were into. It had never occurred to him that Louis’ interests changed. To him, Louis was still the same kid who threw rocks at him whenever Zayn called him stupid, and who always got angry when Zayn mocked him or repeated everything he said. Louis wasn’t like those guys, and Zayn hated not being able to see what Louis saw in them.
The months continued on and everything changed. Zayn’s voice got deeper and he got taller, almost taller than his mom by the time he started high school. He never quite got used to the silence in his room, or the missing feeling that would threaten to eat him alive if he stared too hard at his bedroom window, willing a tap to come on the glass.
He opted for extra help after school, sometimes wishing that he’d run into Louis at some point. He never looked for him in the halls, because he was certain that Louis wasn’t looking for him either. When Zayn met his first high school friend, a boy by the name of Curtis who wore large glasses and his house key on a necklace so he wouldn’t lose it, Louis was nothing but an old memory faded to black.
Curtis was nice enough. He’d stop by every other weekend to stay up late and watch the old black and white films that showed at three in the morning, and he helped Zayn with his homework, teaching him ways to better understand chemistry and physics. By the end of the year, Zayn had a 3.5 GPA and he owed it all to Curtis. But during their sophomore year, Curtis moved to Minnesota, leaving Zayn alone yet again. They kept in touch for a few months, until Zayn lost his email address. It was for the better, he thinks; they really didn’t have much in common. Being alone wasn’t so bad at first. Eating lunch alone was fine, and reading alone in the library was almost enjoyable, but it was when he was in class that Zayn realized that having friends was the only thing that made high school bearable.
More often than not, he caught himself thinking of Louis, wondering how he was doing and what he was up to. They hadn’t talked in over two years, but they still waved good morning when they were leaving for class. Louis had a car and a license since he was 17, but never once did he offer Zayn a ride. Zayn wasn’t sure if he’d even accept if the time ever came.
One Monday morning, as Zayn was sitting in the back of his shop class, listening to Mr. Cooper drone on and on about the importance of power tools, he heard a soft mouse-like voice whisper, “Hey.”
He turned, confused. It was one of the only two freshman in his class, the one with the unruly hair that covered most of his face. From his close range, Zayn could see he had green eyes, and they were bright like Louis’ were.
“Can I sit here?” he asked, pointing to the vacant seat next to Zayn.
Zayn said, “Yeah,” smiling sweetly.
The boy sat down, crossing his arms over the tabletop. He leaned over then, his eyes still focused on Mr. Cooper. He said, “I’m Harry.” He had a deep voice that reeled Zayn in instantly.
“Zayn.”
“Cool name.”
“Thanks.”
Harry sat upright again, resting his chin on his arms.
Zayn waited a moment before asking, “How old are you, Harry?”
“Fifteen.”
“I’m sixteen,” he said, thinking, he didn’t ask.
Harry ended up being Zayn’s closest friend that year, and the following year as well. They ate lunch together and read the same books. Harry stopped by after school almost every day—he lived only three blocks away—and he was the best listener Zayn had ever met. He could tell Harry anything without feeling stupid or lame.
One night, they sneaked into Harry’s dad’s’ wine cellar and split a bottle between the two of them. It was a heinous night for Zayn, the alcohol bringing back old memories that he had buried deep within himself. He told Harry everything about Louis, from his Iron Man shirt to the friendship bracelet that he no longer wore, but kept safe on his key chain. He told Harry that he had never loved anyone before and that he had never lost anyone, either. Harry had listened, had held Zayn when he cried too hard to breathe. He even gave halfhearted answers when Zayn asked terrible questions like Am I a bad friend? and Is there something wrong with me?
Zayn was always grateful for Harry. As the months kept passing, he learned that Harry was someone he could kiss, someone he could hold hands with. When he was with him, things felt alright again. He felt alright. Though he had made it clear to Harry that they were only friends, friends who did these things because Zayn never knew any other kind of friend, Harry still treated him as if Zayn were his boyfriend. It was nice to be wanted and to want again, so Zayn never corrected him. He knew Harry knew the difference. And even though he had given Harry things that he could never give another, had slept with Harry in different ways than he had slept with Louis, there were times when Zayn was alone in his room, staring at his bedroom window, wishing with all his heart that he’d hear a tapping on the glass and a familiar, yet deeper and different, voice whisper to him.
He was with Harry, but he was never whole.