Fic: But I thought, this wouldn't hurt a lot.
Title: But I thought, this wouldn't hurt a lot. (I guess not)
Prompt: reunited
Pairing: Zayn/Louis
Rating: R
Word Count: 2k
Warnings: swearing, drug use.
Summary: There's an undeniable stretch of years they've missed of each other dwelling between them; Louis and Zayn reunite. The south street bar swerves into a corner, there’s cheap beer, tats, and punk rock music. It’s a special event night Potato Party, which sounds like an old-school spin on Mr. Potato head using real spuds, if you ask Zayn.
This was written for 1directionelite.
Zayn walks the curb on the side of the manor, his trainers are scorched up and his heart is banging against his chest. He brings his arms warily over his chest, fingers rasping rhythmically the tattered leather of his jacket. It's a shaky rhythm, really. His fingers clench and unclench nervously. He looks down at his shoes, scruffs them up against the concrete ground in concentration, shoving both hands in his jeans' pockets.
A hand clasps against his shoulder firmly, and Zayn whips his head up instantly, heart caught in his throat. He isn't ready, but at the same time he's never been anticipating something as much. It's a strange feeling. Really, really, strange.
The boys stands with both his hands shoved into his pockets, shirt bellowing in a low ringlet around his neck; the tanned skin of his chest making Zayn's stomach flop. There's something changed in the blue of his eyes, like they've grown even more beautiful, but also like they've seen many things. They look like they've known guilt and transgression (the thought troubles Zayn), and though he smiles, the smile doesn't reach his eyes.
"Hey, Zayn."
"Hey," Zayn croaks, he's told himself he wouldn't, it's the first time he've seen Louis in years and he's making a fool out of himself. Yet again. He shakes his head. "You didn't come back from a deserted island with a souvenir."
"Actually, I did. I just don't have it on me now." Louis says, pulling his hand out of his pocket, a pack of cigarettes in his hand. "And it was hardly a deserted island. More like a refuge for the certifiably admitted."
"Like an asylum?"
"Yeah." Louis says lighting his fag. "Yeah, something like that." He leans against the hood of the car, next to Zayn. He offers Zayn a fag, shaking the pack sparingly between them. Zayn shakes his head, and Louis's lips curl around the stick, drawing out the smoke. He pulls it out between two fingers, and leans it between Zayn's lips, sharing it with him. "You haven't changed." Louis muses, as Zayn takes a drag.
Zayn doesn't say anything then because he isn't even sure himself. The past two years went and dragged on like a haze- he doesn't remember. He doesn't remember a time without Louis, but he can't seem to remember a time with him either. He leans closer to Louis's side and he thinks he might be going crazy. Louis's back. Really, really, back.
He's just not sure how much of him he has back.
"Missed you," Zayn breathes around the smoke.
"Missed you too, you know." Louis says, his smile is weak, strained, like he's trying hard to make Zayn know it'll be alright, it'll be alright.
An hour or close to more pass with just the two of them leaning against Zayn's car, the sound of the wind and silence piping in. Louis drapes his arm around Zayn's shoulder tucking to his side, and Zayn thinks about how tiny Louis is compared to him, suddenly feeling too balky. Then Louis props his head on Zayn's shoulder and Zayn feels like the world isn't big enough for the things he's feeling right now.
It gets cold, and they climb into the car, turning up the heater and sitting in complete silence before Louis fiddles with Zayn's stuff that he has laying around the car. He looks at the sketchbook, then at Zayn, like he needs to ask if it's alright and Zayn's throat constricts around the words he wants to blurt out. So he nods instead, nerves gyrating in the pit of his stomach as Louis turns the papers between his fingers.
"You like it?" he asks, when Louis stops at one. It's the one Zayn drew last month, a possibility of a new tattoo he thought of while putting off working on the essay paper he had to turn in the next day.
"It's you," Louis says, taps his fingers over it, then fold the book closed. He picks out the disc that falls through the papers. It's the same one he'd given Zayn before leaving, it's front is scratched and dusted and Louis scrubs it over his shirt.
Zayn whisks his eyes up to meet the look on Louis's face; it's unreadable and Zayn shifts uncomfortably until Louis turns up the music.
Zayn knows the songs too well. The words drag on like a simple breath by now. The same tunes he's listened too many times to that he grows to both; love and hate. He starts up the car, thinks to himself this is probably the closest he'll have to words out from Louis.
He wants to laugh at how fucked up they both are because words weren't ever their strong suit, at least he knows as much. It's fucked up because then, words didn't use to matter as much. Words were not pertinent then. Words were just imprudent and they didn't need them. Now there's this huge spanner in the works, big fat block that needs all the right words to lift it off.
He drives to where they always went, and maybe it's even fucked up of him to think it would solve anything, but he misses Louis there.
He misses Louis everywhere if truth be told. But it's terrifying to even think about. Terrifying to even start to comprehend, so he pushes the thought to the back of his head, letting the music up and the window down. Louis laughs then and Zayn finds the teeniest of smiles creeping up to his lips.
"I thought you would've at least grown out of that obnoxious quirk by now."
"Not a chance." Zayn says determinedly and Louis shakes his head all smiling now. He taps his fingers against the window, to the beat of the music blasting through the speakers, and out of the windows.
Zayn pulls up at the restraint Mrs. White used to live at, where they used to spend time they skipped class in, kicking a ball and shouting at the top of their lungs.
It’s not the same anymore; just a washed up area where young broken people hung around at, smoking for the most part and having long parties that pulled on through the night. In a way, it fits them. Nothing’s been the same with them either, anyways.
The south street bar swerves into a corner, there’s cheap beer, tats, and punk rock music. It’s a special event night Potato Party, which sounds like an old-school spin on Mr. Potato head using real spuds, if you ask Zayn.
Once they’re inside, it reminds Zayn of stupidly familiar times they’ve spent drinking in an underground room decorated with Christmas lights and that wall graffiti their parents would probably have never let them make. Unlike most basements, however, this dive has a real jukebox, old arcade games and retired carnival bumpers cars for seating.
Zayn leans back against the cushion of the bench and cocks an eyebrow at Louis, passing him a beer. Louis smiles, but it’s not the one Zayn knows. It’s too brief, not wide enough, not white enough. Louis’s lips are too thin, pressed too tight. Zayn hopes the company and the alcohol will loosen him up.
Louis’s too quiet and it’s usually, always, Zayn’s thing.
-
Louis rolls up a joint with skilled fingers, runs the tip of his tongue at the end of it, and then hands the spliff over to Zayn.
Zayn takes it between his lips- draws on until he can’t feel anything anymore. Until the only thing he feels is the wild churn of the narcotics striking his brain. There are stupid fragments and shards of bouts he wish he’d have erased before Louis left. Like maybe, he shouldn’t have let him in the first place. Zayn draws it on like another thing he blames himself for everyday.
Every fucking day he would wake up and think, Louis’s not here anymore and I should’ve done something about it then. Now even if I have him, he thinks, Louis feels like a world’s apart.
Zayn hates every bit of it.
Louis flops down next to him, nudges his shoulder against his and looks like he has about a million questions to ask. Zayn has a million questions to ask, too. He wants to know how Louis felt everyday. How Louis felt when Zayn had stopped writing. He wants to know if he had missed him, and if he did, was it as much as he did himself?
He has about a million things to think about and all of which are driving him crazy.
Louis clasps his hand on Zayn’s shoulder then. “Breathe, Zayn.” He thinks it’s what he hears Louis says. He’s not really making sense of anything that’s happening at this point, nothing really makes sense and it does drive him crazy. “Fuck, Zayn, don’t do that to yourself, love.” Louis says, and in that second Zayn really hears him.
He hears the melancholy in his voice and the break of his resonance. Zayn stops thinking, he stops breathing, he stops everything. He looks at Louis and his eyes that hold the guilt and broken innocence. He outreaches to cradle Louis’s face in his hand, holds on too clemently like he might be afraid Louis’s going to break.
Louis, I am so fucking sorry. He wants to say, but the words scratch against his throat like daggers. I am so fucking worthless and I’ve missed you. More than anything, I can’t live without you. “I am sorry.” He says softly, hopping Louis had heard him from where he is, in his arms.
Louis shakes his head, and Zayn interrupts the gesture quickly, feeling the conversation that’s about to happen. They’re about to talk it away, say it was fine, it was okay, that Louis understands. But after the years he have had, they’ve both have had, he thinks they don’t deserve it to happen this way.
“I just want to tell you I am sorry, okay?” he continues. “I haven’t really- you know- the past couple of years were shit without you. And now you’re back and I feel like I don’t deserve this- whatever happens, whatever you think about it. I am so, so sorry. But I just- that you’re back I realized I haven’t felt anything like this for a long time- you weren’t here, Louis. I didn’t. I am sorry.”
Louis’s quiet for a long time, looking out over the empty streets. He puts out the spliff, roaches it for later, and turns to look at Zayn after an agonizing pause. He pushes his hood back and Zayn can see the cold-red tips of his ears, the frosted tip of his nose, and those clear, bright blue eyes.
“I don’t think I’ve felt like that, ever,” Louis says, eyes somewhere over Zayn’s shoulder.
Zayn pauses to process, but he can’t help the way his heart starts pounding all over again. Louis gets brave enough to look Zayn in the eye and when they connect Zayn feels it all over again, and Louis’s grinning, and his eyes crinkle at the edges, it wipes away the sad glint in his eyes, even if only for a short time, Zayn will take that. He’ll take it even if it’s just a second just to have Louis smile like this again.
There is no hesitation when Louis leans over and kisses Zayn, pressing him back to his elbows against the top step. Louis edges close, over Zayn’s chest and their legs are tangled, and Zayn’s hand goes into Louis’s hair, and he kisses Louis hungrily for the years they have stretched between them.
When they break apart, Zayn gets a leg under him and his knees ends up pressing against the inside of Louis’s thigh. Louis closes his eyes, forehead to Zayn’s jacket, and feel that for a moment.
Louis breathes deep and looks to find Zayn smiling. His fingers run over Louis’s neck and he drops his mouth to Louis’s again, kissing hard, biting gently, stomach clenching when he feels Louis pressing up into him.