if the kids are united - zayn/liam, harry/louis - 2/8
Title: If The Kids Are United [2/8]
Pairing: Zayn/Liam, Harry/Louis
Disclaimer: This is very definitely a work of fiction. Title taken from the song by Sham 69.
Warnings: racial slurs, homophobia, violence, possibly obscure references you may need to google
Word count: 14, 373 [total]
Summary: This Is England-inspired/80s!AU in which Liam is the skinhead with a secret and Zayn, the psychobilly pretty boy, is the epitome of everything he’s not supposed to desire. A dangerous love story unfolding on the bleak Northern streets of Thatcher’s England, where friends are family, ready with their fists, and tea and cigarettes are the life blood.
A/N: I... this might be really self indulgent? I just needed the ‘verse to exist, I admit it. There is also an accompanying mix here, if you’re interested in that sort of thing. Some of the songs relate directly, others just set the mood [a few are more modern, too].
By the time the seven of them arrive, Nick’s party has already spilled out messily past his front step, with quiff’d girls and mohawk’d boys being far too blatant with a couple of sweat-scented spliffs and some poor goth fellow spewing his entire stomach lining onto the can littered lawn. Their night is still promising is what Zayn draws from the sight- ready to grab a bottle of warming whiskey and commandeer the record player as soon as they’re inside. They nod and smile at total strangers in the door way and then split off in five different directions.
Harry and Louis seek out a recently vacated spare room- Harry mumbling about Louis’ sporting prowess against his lips, Louis pinching at his hips and telling him to just get on with it already. Other people’s bedrooms aren’t for romancing, he reasons, they’re for quick fucks and the thrill of knowing anyone could stumble in and get a filthy eyeful. Harry can’t keep himself from agreeing with that, from moaning out loud at Lou’s words. They suck noisily on each other’s necks as they shuck down their jeans and then Harry pins Louis up against the wall, wastes no time in taking him [spit slicked]. His urgency matches the three chords of the punk song thudding up through the floorboards.
Niall finds the only bowl of peanuts in the whole house that’s not doubled as an ash tray and gets himself acquainted with those- alongside the pretty, busty girl who was perched on the nest of tables beside them; Aiden slinks into a corner with the rest of his sort- the boys with Morrisey hair and Robert Smith-emblazoned t-shirts; Perry fixes her inky make up in the bathroom mirror and Rita just launches herself at Nick, wrapping around him and fluttering giggly kisses over his faux-frown.
“Oh god, the town idiots have arrived!” He groans and she spanks him and assures him that he adores them, really.
As planned, Zayn swipes an almost full bottle of scotch, thankfully forgotten on a kitchen counter, and throws burning mouthfuls back as he winds his way through to the record player. Nick’s a local radio dj and he has quite an impressive record collection because of it- a record collection Zayn prefers to the man himself. Nick can be a right pretentious bastard and not in Harry’s accidental, fumbling sort of way. It’s forgivable though, when Zayn can leaf through his music, pick out a Cramps album he doesn’t own and slip it beneath the player’s needle.
Lux Interior, a cigarette and someone else’s whiskey and Zayn’s zen- more than content to sit back against the wall and watch the party unfold from the edge. On some night’s he’s in the thick of it, high and horny, but on others he’s much more interested in just laughing at everybody else’s expense. Guys slathered with creamy black lipstick from their noses to their chins, drunk girls’ attempts at being alluring resulting in tumbles into ornaments and Niall- zip of his jeans down before he’s even gotten to where he’s going- rushing past and giving him two thumbs up.
“You’re an animal!” Zayn shouts at him, laughing.
“Yeah Zayn, I love you too!” Is Niall’s unfazed reply.
Briefly, Zayn’s thoughts drift to pulled down zippers and knees and dirty-wet-heat but when they get complicated he drinks them away. Gets thoroughly intoxicated instead, until he hits the point of seasickness. A horrible, cumbersome nausea. None of them ever learn though, always over-reaching their limits so that they need to thrust their fingers down their throats and demand the drink come back the way it went. Then they shiver for hours and the world tips upside down every time their eyes shut. They always swear it wont happen again. Until the next Friday night.
He’s whining and painfully dizzy when Rita drops down beside him but he distantly senses that there’s something conspiratory about his friend’s movements. He wonders if she has bread maybe- squints at her, looking for a loaf. He doesn’t see one, just full red lips.
“Hey Zayny,” She whispers, reaching out to smooth her hand against the blonde flash in Zayn’s hair, “We need to head out the back way, alright? You sober enough to walk, duck? Hop the fence?”
Zayn groans because no, he’s probably not. “Ugh, why?”
“Just some shit,” Rita says quickly, thumbing between Zayn’s eyebrows. She’s trying too hard to seem like her cheerful self.
“You’re a princess, you know Rita. My New Romantic princess- but you gotta tell me, kay, no secrets?”
“Andy and the others, they’re out front,” The girl grimaces, folding because it’s Zayn and he has such shiny eyes, “They’re trying to cause shit and you need to get the fuck out, okay?”
Zayn starts to stumble to his feet. His limbs are out of sync and he sways dangerously on his crepe soles once he’s upright but Rita is right there beside him to clutch his arm. Just Rita... If they’re sneaking off, why aren’t the others all appearing, ready to fence hop, too? Zayn ignores the churning in his belly and hopes desperately for a sudden onset of sobriety.
“The others are out there, aren’t they? They’re gonna fight them or some shit? Rita?”
“I dunno...” She lies, weakly.
“Fuck no, they’re not getting beat up for my honor. If that Andy wants a fight, it can be with me, yeah?”
Zayn pulls away from the blonde girl. She doesn’t really try to stop him, just follows close behind with the tips of her fingers skittering against his sides and a panicked heart in her chest. Zayn would take a bullet for any of his friends but he’d never want them to do the same. He’s proud but more than that, he’s protective. Fierce for his family, blood or otherwise. They’re all the same way- which is why Harry’s flexing his biceps, why Louis’ his wingman, why Niall’s swearing like a sailor and why Aiden- the goddamn vegetarian who doesn’t even have sausage and bacon with his breakfast- is readying himself for a blood bath.
Oi oi! ‘Ere’s brown boy! Get him! is the first thing Zayn hears as he lurches out of the front door- maybe Rita or Perry’s screech of no! after- before he starts throwing return punches for the ripe pain splitting his jaw in two.
The fighting is brutal; heavy boots swinging towards ivory teeth and quick knees ramming up into skinny guts. Zayn receives the brunt of it but his friends are not unscathed and in the very centre of the storm, it’s about killing or being killed as far as the boys are concerned. The girls fall into each other hysterically as soon as they see the first splatter of gore against the drive way and that’s when the rest of the party gathers. Zayn can hear the rush of them- cheering as bones crack and thud into the meat of muscle. It’s hazy though, the whooping and clapping, and when strong arms curl around his chest, Zayn can’t quite tell if they’re Harry’s, saving him, or Andy’s, wanting to choke him. Either way, the press of them makes his lungs ache, his breathing sting
Zayn ends up splayed out on the floor, his battered face a scary sort of sweet. He’s bloody, bruised and blinking up at a not so familiar face- Liam, the new kid, the puppy in the crisp Ben Sherman. Zayn can’t recall if it was him who threw him down onto the gravel but in the time before his vision swims out, he just can’t imagine that the kid could bring himself to do it. Liam is far too pink cheeked and horrified. Concerned almost, in a way that doesn’t fit the crop of his hair and the battle cries of his friends. Zayn tries to ask him but his jaw grinds painfully and he gives up on that nonsense.
Instead, he falls fast asleep and wakes up hours later in a hospital bed. He has a bandage strapped across his swollen nose and all of his friends are there, swarming around his bed, waiting with bated breaths and polystyrene cups of cold tea. The girls are tear stained, the guys too. Harry’s Fuck Maggie t-shirt is daubed with crust the colour of Rita’s favourite plum lipstick and his boyfriend’s eyebrow is decorated with little white steri-strips. They all smile though- as fluorescent as the hospital’s artificial lighting.
“Hey there, sleepyhead,” Louis coos and sniffles, “You gave us quite a fright there, duck.”
“Sorry,” Zayn croaks, sounding like he has a heavy cold, “Could I have a cuppa? Fuck, I ache.”
It takes three cups of tea, some jam on toast and a thorough once over by the nurse before he’s allowed to leave. They want to ring his parents but his gang insist that they’re his his family, his brothers and sisters, and as much as the nurse side eyes them she does scrawl her signature at the bottom of his forms. Zayn is terribly polite and apologetic- feeling like a fool for ignoring Rita and falling face first into eight fists, but nobody- neither the nurse nor his friends- seem to think he has any reason to be.
“They’re scum, the dirt ground into the bottom of me boots,” Aiden grunts as he slips off his oversized cardigan to wrap it around Zayn, whose leather jacket is too thin considering he’d been unconscious not long ago.
Everybody nods in agreement, crowding Zayn like body guards as they set off on their journey home [Zayn wants to hug each of them, as tight as anything, but his bones are still too delicate]. It’s just a little later than dawn and the wind’s whipping fresh with early morning dew, the air bright enough to highlight all of their wounds. Blueish bruises, busted knuckles and the gummy blood around their lips. It’s their usual walk of shame, creeping past the dying glow of the street lamps, but with heavy hearts rather than the beginnings of hangovers. Limps, too.
“Hey, you know what was weird?” Niall asks, after a stretch of soothing silence. “That Liam one- he didn’t want to be there, I swear. He didn’t throw a single punch, I don’t think.”
“He panicked when you went down, Zayn,” Rita adds, using her skinny arms to shield herself from the chill, “Then he hung around on the corner, watching when the ambulance came even though all of his mates got off.”
“Yeah... He didn’t wanna fight, just got in the way once or twice with them soft eyes,” Harry murmurs, turning back to gage Zayn’s reaction.
Through his splitting head ache, Zayn remembers Liam’s haunting gaze. The last thing he’d seen the night before. It’s an uncomfortable weight on his chest, which hurts already from it’s pummeling, so Zayn just arches one eyebrow, “Strange that. Maybe he were on somethin’, or he’s just a coward, eh? Anyway, got a fag for me? And I love you twats, by the way. Loads.”
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