Chapter Text
Zayn
Applause is minimal, non-existent. Genuine, physical sounds of encouragement unheard. It leaves an awkward tone in its wake after the final note of an electric guitar vibrates through the room. Sometimes he’ll get an applause, maybe a half-hearted hoot or two, depending where it is in the night and if there’s a drunken haze in the audience’s eyes.
He sometimes wonders if he’s even heard, even appreciated. He looks over the heads of the patrons, his neighbours. They don’t meet his gaze; too transfixed on the bottoms of their fifth glass, their old friend they’ve known for years, the backs of their eyelids.
It never used to be like this. They once roared with grins on their faces, thankful for the newcomer that could provide decent entertainment, with new music and a live-action set right in front of their eyes, a refreshing difference to the old radio they used for music. It got old fast, after three weeks to be certain. Instead of grins and clapping he’d get a handful of thumbs-up’s and light words of praise.
Now, it’s like he’s a passing ghost, performing to a pack of bored souls that don’t acknowledge the words he sings.
He doesn’t mind, though, not at all.
He found this place when he was mentally and physically unstable and lost. He’s been those for a while — not cured just yet, doesn’t think he ever will be — for a year and a bit, now, or maybe longer. He used to keep track of the days precisely since he left his hometown, used to scratch it into his notebook with a pen that was short of ink. But then he lost said notebook on a bus from his journey to and from different parts of the city and he didn’t bother buying a new one, accepting that time means nothing anymore.
So, when he found this place he’d been lost and unstable yet when he was proposed to perform for money to pay for his rent he’d accepted willingly, sung with up-tempo guitar riffs, a smile on his face to keep the town alive, to get them to like him. Since then, he’s now lost the interest of them all. Since now, he’s able to comfortably write about what he wants, what he feels. Able to sing with the depressing tone that constantly circles his mind — a creative outlet.
“Are you… like, okay? Up there?” One of the townies had asked him after the forth night of moping, resembling a wolf that howls at the moon.
“Of course, yeah,” He had replied, lying through his canine teeth and fixed it with a smile, “Nothing to be sad about, is there?”
Not in this town, there’s not. Not in this old, deserted, population of nothing town. Everyone’s a family, everyone helps each other, everyone has grown up and had families of their own, haven’t moved for generations and haven’t seen the life outside of this little, barely-a-town town called Hillside. A town that, realistically, nobody knows.
He’d stumbled upon it on complete fluke. He’d meant to be heading towards Yorkshire, just barely touching the outskirts of it. It had been a wild, stormy night (because isn’t it always?) and he’d been driving down the long outstretch of road. He knows this road; spent far too many hours and far too many miles with residue in his eyes and pain in his heart, coasting down with nothing in his view aside from dirt and trees. The first time he travelled down it, his mind was fog and his intentions were none other than to, quite simply, get the fuck out. The second time he travelled down it, it was the opposite direction, and his stomach was crying for food and all he wanted to do was enter a field of familiarity; to test whether or not being close to his hometown would spike anxiety or give him an overwhelming feeling of home.
He never got there, is the thing.
The roads were slippery and his windshield was covered in sheets of rain and he couldn’t see a thing, nothing at all. He’d be lying if he said the deja vu didn’t make him want to keep driving, to feel the adrenaline, to feel something. The thought, the memory in the back of his mind caused him to clench the steering wheel in two hands, knuckles turning as white as his bones, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.
Some say time heals all wounds. He scoffs at that saying, laughs at it so loud people turn their heads. “How much time?” He’d ask, to himself, to those that would listen, to the sky as he shouts. “Is two years enough?” It was a guess, of course, but he always knew when, roughly, when Christmas rolled around, when the world is collectively happy and when he drowns himself in cheap liquor and chopped cocaine. “All wounds are different, you know.” He’d slur, mostly. If he got this far in his monologue he’s usually half-awake, half-lidded. “Some cut deeper than others, some heal by themselves, some need stitches.” He’d laugh, then, a sound that would make whomever was listening either laugh, too, out of pity, out of nervousness, or they’d look at him with that sympathy in their eyes — always fucking sympathetic. “Some bleed out, don’t they?” He’d ask, not expecting an answer, “Some never heal at all.”
That’s how he feels. He’s living, he’s existing, he’s breathing — but his bones and his skin and his muscles feel like some sort of shell, some sort of case that’s caging in a deadly gash right in the middle of where his heart lays.
He’s wounded, and time can fuck itself.
But it’s a saying that, despite himself, he keeps close. It’s one little phrase that keeps him optimistic. Because maybe it’ll take all the time in the world, maybe when he’s seventy and his bones are breaking, his mind a little slow, maybe then he’ll be forgiven. Maybe then he’ll get to see him and everything will be okay. It’s far-fetched and it’s so wildly unrealistic but it’s the only thing keeping him from self-destruction. And it’s this phrase time heals all wounds that made him park on the side of the road on that stormy night, made him take a break, made him sleep in until the morning.
When he awoke, he found Hillside.
And now he’s here, placing his electric guitar back into its case with ease as the bar he’s in starts closing up. It’s around midnight and the night-life has ended. He guesses that’s what happens when the demographic is mostly middle-aged people and children.
“It was a bit more lively tonight, wasn’t it?”
It’s a joke, a lame one at that, but it comes from someone that’s taken him underneath his wing the whole time he’s been here, the only one that’s looked out for him and made sure he’s never completely lonely or bored. So, Zayn returns it with a light chuckle, eyes cast downwards, clicking closed his case.
“Wanna pint?” Anthony continues, smiling. He’s standing at the side of the stage, looking up at Zayn with a knowing expression, almost as though the question comes as something routine more than anything. And Zayn nods in response, meeting his eyes and giving him a tight-lipped smile.
The beer’s are always free whenever he plays. Maybe that’s because he doesn’t drink much, doesn’t waste much, since the bar shuts when he finishes and maybe it’s just tradition now, something he and Anthony started when they had first met.
“You’re quite good, mate. Like, really quite good.” Anthony had told him, shock in his voice. He looks much like Zayn, in a way, but with smaller eyes and a bigger nose. “Let me shout you a beer, yeah? I work here, so, like, I call the shots.” He had laughed, Zayn had merely blinked. “Y’know, figuratively and realistically.”
“Yeah, okay.” Zayn had replied, shrugging one shoulder. Who was he to pass up free piss? The last time he had scored something for free was because the man at the bar was taking him home. Zayn’d shivered at the memory.
He and Anthony had sat down at one of the two booths, the leather starting to shred on the seats and the wood of the tabletops so worn down you’d be sure it could break. Zayn placed his glass on it wearily.
“So, what’s ya story, then?” Anthony had asked, popping a cashew nut into his mouth from where he had a stash in his hand. “What brings you to the good old, lively, absolutely breathtaking Hillside? You don’t look much like a country boy, to be honest with you.”
Zayn had inspected the beer in front of him, tried his hardest not to swallow it in one go. He tried to formulate an answer many times, each time failing him. He couldn’t tell him the truth, not just yet. It’s not like the city where he can bare his bones and his soul to someone, then leave them the next day only to find another couch to sleep on. No, here, he had to be careful. Here, he had to be liked.
“Nothin’ wrong with change.” Is what he’d settled on, flicking his eyes up to meet those opposite after he’d said it, finality in his tone.
Anthony had waited for something more, anything, but eventually he’d looked elsewhere, shifted in his seat, and shrugged at nothing in particular. “No, yeah, I mean, I get that.” He said, curling a hand around his own beer as Zayn took his first sip. “But, like, also, man,” He sighs, shakes his head, a shadow of a smile forming, “I’m being real with you right now, you have, like, an insane voice. Like, record-breaking…”
Zayn had shaken his own head, eyes down, a modest smile of his own, “No, no…”
“I mean it!” Anthony had been grinning, now, leaning over the table, gesturing with his hand, “You could get out there, perform to people, make albums, get rich!” He collapsed back into the leather seat, letting his hand fall onto his thigh with a slap, “I just don’t get it. Why waste your time here?”
It was a while before Zayn had replied. Wasting time, Zayn had thought with a scoff, Why waste time?
“I like small towns.” Zayn had lied. He’d been suffocating already, just in the mere hours he’d been there. “It’s quiet, y’know? Less…” He trailed off, tried to think of one positive aspect. The thought of why he stumbled upon this place, where he was headed to beforehand, what happened those years ago at the original destination, came to mind. He cleared his throat, “Like, traffic, and shit.”
With a snort, Anthony had laughed, “Yeah, only ‘cause nobody here knows how to fuckin’ drive.”
He looks at his friend, now, as Zayn sits on the bar stool and Anthony finishes cleaning up, wiping down the bench and counter. It’s only been a few months, yet Zayn’s grown accustomed to the lack of outside influences, the quietness of the air, the closeness of the people. He’s grown used to his shitty house, the familiar strip of land, the expectations of waking up and knowing nothing exciting will happen. He likes that last part the most.
“So,” Anthony says, head tilted to the side, a quirk to his lips, “Spiralled into insanity yet?”
“No,” Zayn fixes him with a look. He knows the bet Anthony and Mary had made when he first got there; the bet that Zayn wouldn’t last a week, to which has since been modified to six months, and Mary, forever the optimist, said he’d last three years. The stake is fifty dollars. “I’m not letting you win, Ant. I happen to think Mary deserves that money.”
Anthony merely chuckles, shaking his head, “You won’t last three years, there’s no bloody way.”
“Really?” Zayn says, raising the glass to his lips, “You did.”
He takes a substantial sip as Anthony rolls his eyes, “I control the real estate here, mate. I have business here. Like, I have a good plan goin’ for as long as I live in this shithole.” He gestures lamely with his fingers, “You, on the other hand…”
“Mm,” Zayn hums, almost challengingly, “What about me, then?”
“You just stick to your little hide-out, day in and day out. I mean, the only time I see you is while you’re performing and afterwards, basically. That can’t be good for the soul, man.”
Zayn shrugs, unbothered. “I like my alone time.”
This brings a laugh out of Anthony, one that sort of resembles a firecracker, loud, abrupt and short. “Yeah, no shit.”
They talk back and forth until all that’s left in Zayn’s glass is the residue of beer and the dwindling froth down the bottom, resembling that their time is up, almost like an hourglass. He tells Anthony he’ll see him same place, same time, tomorrow night before he steps out of the bar that smells of alcohol and pine wood, and immediately fetches the familiar box from the inside pocket of his jacket.
He takes out a cigarette and perches it between his lips, lighting it before tucking everything away and picking up his guitar case.
It’s spring, he thinks. The air is slightly warmer and there’s less clouds in the sky, less fog in the air. Plants have begun to grow again and for all Zayn knows they could be well into spring, nearing into summer. Then again, he remembers Christmas not too long ago. Not clearly, though, the vast majority of that week and into the New Year he had been in an altered state of consciousness, his face becoming all too familiar with his floor. So, it could still be winter, who fucking knows?
Hillside acts as a detox, a rehab, in a way. He’d rather avoid all media types, avoid the news, avoid the current status of society. In the city, in Mirstone, where he had stayed, there was no avoiding the consistent chatter about current events and world issues and the fucking radio noise that drove Zayn insane. All about grocery prices rising and neighbourhood wars and shit that he couldn’t care about yet people would lap it up like dogs that take to water after a walk.
But it’s not just the lack of media that Zayn has withdrawn from his stay here, but also his substance abuse. Mirstone had access to any type of drug Zayn could get his hands on. He could whisper the word MDMA and five people would come out of the woodwork, offering their stuff with a gleam in their eye and fingers hungry for cash.
At first he’d been skeptical, denying whoever had mentioned it to him when he’d been partying. But sometimes it gets to the point where alcohol can only dull your senses so much, can only make your limbs loose and your mind looser, yet you still wake up with a sense of awareness and the ability to think and regret. Sometimes you need more — and that’s exactly what Zayn felt.
Benders were something he’d quickly gotten used to. Days on end where he’d constantly be high, never falling, never allowing a moment to be aware, to gain a sense of clarity. He’d go out with a bunch of people, do whatever they did, go home with a new group of people, continue the cycle. He’d fuck strangers, live at their houses, exist with flowing adrenaline that never stopped.
One time, after filling his nostrils with cocaine and imported ketamine, pupils blown wide, he’d found himself at a man’s apartment. He was skinny, skinnier than Zayn, and he wore sunglasses despite the night-time. They had fucked, but neither of them came due to the drugs in their systems. And, still high, they’d travelled out onto the fire escape as the sun rose.
“Here, have some of this.” His one-night-stand had said, passing him a bong and a lighter.
Zayn had taken one look at it and felt insulted, like he’d had a drink thrown directly in his face. He had an overwhelming urge to pick it up and throw it out onto the street. It had been his third morning completely obliterated and it was the first time something made him remember that night, made him re-live it.
He’d never been so mad.
“Are you fucking with me right now?” He’d asked through gritted teeth, convinced it was a set-up, that this man was out to get him.
But he’d looked back at him with furrowed brows, a perplexed expression, “What, dude? You don’t like weed?”
Zayn wanted to tear him limb from limb, wanted to throw him onto the street, too. He was out to get him and he was playing with Zayn’s emotions, he knew. He fucking knew.
But he must have been coming down, must have had something in his brain go off like a switch — which he later learnt was common sense — because he realised there’s no way this man could ever know. Zayn was officially paranoid, and it was seeping into his veins.
After that, he drunk himself silly until he either passed out or couldn’t think anymore. It continued like that until his money had run dry, until he had to stay sober for job interviews and trials.
On his first sober night, he let himself cry for the first time in seven months. He’d never felt so weak.
He thinks about returning to Doncaster. He thinks about it every damn day. Daydreams about it, actually, dreams about how he’d be welcomed, dreams about seeing his family again, dreams about finally seeing the friends he’d lost contact with. He dreams about seeing him — but not for too long, never lets him think about it too long — and almost falls in love with it.
But then he thinks about the questions, the weary eyes, the judgement — What have you been doing all this time? Where have you been? How have you been? Why did you leave? Who have you become? — And it sends him into a spiral, the hypothetical concept enough to make his skin itch and his head hurt.
So, there’s that. And also the mere fact that the police and press will swarm him the second they’re aware that the one and only on-the-run boy Zayn Malik has finally returned.
He can’t go back, no. It’s just not a possibility.
His cigarette burns to a stub as he reaches the front porch of his old, size-of-a-shoe house. He puts it out in the ashtray on his balcony fence and steps inside, flicking the lights on. As he lies in bed that night, he stares at the ceiling, barely making out the down-lights through the darkness, his hands laced over his middle.
There’s a few things Zayn’s learnt since moving to a small town around three months ago. One, it’s easier than some people think to deal with people that aren’t necessarily your cup of tea. Two, it’s essential to create— if you don’t already have one — a hobby or to throw yourself into your work to avoid the risk of eventual insanity. Three, making any type of enemy or having a spat with someone is not ideal and will certainly make your stay a living hell. And, lastly, having a phone is almost entirely useless.
It sits on his bedside table all day, every day. The only people that call him are his mum and, on the rare occasion, the people he hung out with from the city.
And nobody from Doncaster. Never anybody from Doncaster.
Louis
“Next!”
Louis steps up to the window where a woman with grey hair, spider leg-like eyelashes and a bit of eyeliner smudged on her eyelid is sitting, looking down at her computer. She’s typing something, cut fingernails tapping against the keyboard. She doesn’t say anything further, doesn’t look at him, either.
“Er, hey,” Louis says, at a loss of how this works.
“Name?”
“Louis Tomlinson.” He replies, easier.
At this, she perks her head up, eyebrows going with the movement. Her eyes lock onto his own and she sort of inspects him for a moment before putting her chin in the palm of her hand, a slight smile on her lips. “Huh.” She says, “Well, it is too.”
Louis flits his gaze elsewhere, brows pulling together as he clears his throat uncomfortably, “S-sorry?”
“You’re certainly looking well.” She says, still looking at him like he’s some sort of treasure. Louis’ about to reply, he wants to ask her how the fuck she knows him, but he knows that, realistically, all that would come out is an awkward thanks for the compliment. He doesn’t get a chance to reply, though, since she continues with a question, “How’s your mum going?”
Right. Everybody’s bloody friends with his mum. He’d forgotten that since he doesn’t go grocery shopping with her anymore or hang out in public with her all that much, since she’d get stopped every square metre by every woman in town to which they’d chat for what seemed like hours. It’s no guess as to why Louis had opted out from sticking by her side often, lately.
“She’s good. Yeah,” Louis nods, rolls from the backs of his heels to the tips of his toes, “Doin’ well, I s’pose.”
“That’s good to hear.” She says with a genuine smile, still looking at him in wonderment. Louis suddenly has a flicker of guilt in his stomach—should he know this woman? And shit, fuck, he’s done it again, hasn’t he?
“How… Er, how are you?” He manages, slaps on an expression he hopes seems genuine.
She lets out a light, airy laugh, much to his surprise. She waves her hand once, absolutely delighted for some odd, greatly weird reason. There’s also a pull to her brows, etching in something as she looks at him with an usual kind of softness, sympathetic. Louis can’t help but merely blink back, the interaction leaving an unsettling feeling in his stomach. He fucking hates sympathy.
“You don’t know me, darling.” She tells him, her tone something sweet, but also mildly condescending, almost like a shouldn’t you know that by now? It sends a spike to his gut, a twitch to his eye. “Never did, it’s okay. Thank you for asking anyway, though, sweets.”
“Oh,” Louis says on a breath.
Every time, every single damn time, it’s like whiplash. It’s like Louis’ been tugged one way and then pushed the other. He has the knowledge that, shit, this person knows who I am, and from there, the questions start spiralling in his head — Have they known me long? Were we close? Did I learn about them? Have I just completely forgotten? Again? — it’s frustrating and it’s emotionally exhausting and then to have them shake their heads, say, you don’t know me, is still completely surreal, is what it is. Because people know him, but he doesn’t know them. Because he’s somewhat of a celebrity, you see, something of a well-known figure in Doncaster, and it couldn’t be because of his breathtaking talents and other-worldly good looks, no. It had to be because of a stupid fucking accident two and a half years ago that people still can’t get over.
He’s a miracle, apparently. God’s “favourite,” they say.
Whoopdee-fucking-doo
“Age?”
The question startles him out of his gritted teeth and reverie. Right, he’s here for a reason. Speaking to this lady for a reason. A good reason, at that.
“Twenty.”
She smiles, “Just turned, right?” She asks it without looking at his documents.
Louis doesn’t know what to respond to that, so he doesn’t. It’s half-way through January, and yes, he’d turned twenty on Christmas Eve. And yes, that’s knowledge to a complete stranger. You would think, after two and a half years, that would get a little easier to comprehend.
Nope. The uncomfortable feeling underneath his skin still occurs.
Moving on completely unaware, she gives him a brief of what the test entails and Louis nods along, the words going in and out of his ears faster than her nails clicking on the keyboard did.
He swallows deeply and nods once more before getting introduced to his instructor. It puts him at a sort of ease when he sees him, since he looks the least bit intimidating with his too-big glasses and quite a goofy looking smile. He’s extremely tall, though, and Louis doesn’t appreciate having to tilt his neck up to look at him.
“Ready?” He asks Louis, smiling at him, professional.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“You’ll be fine, don’t stress about it.”
Louis knows this. He’s gone through many hours, more than required, having to do a lot more than any other teenager out there — Just to be sure! His mum had said, taking him out on the road time and time again after Louis told her he’d be fine — and it’s all to do with the moment that changed his life. It’s not dramatic, to refer to it as that, because it’s the truth. That night changed his life, for the absolute worst (there, really, isn’t any positives about it at all) but the fact is, Louis and cars shouldn’t mix. Not after that.
He supposes he understands his mum’s hesitance, even after all the time that’s passed. But he’s twenty now. His friends have had their licenses since they were eighteen. It’s about time, now, and he’s convinced her. Finally.
They get into the car and Louis automatically tries to get a feel of it—adjusting the chair, mirrors, feeling the steering wheel, testing the pedals—and it’s when the instructor tells him to turn on the car that Louis realises that he’s been marking him already.
The car purrs when Louis turns it on and he takes in a deep breath, ready to pull out onto the road.
“Turn left, here.”
Louis nods and obeys. The traffic is mildly light and the weather conditions are perfect for driving in and it’s all almost like second nature to him now, driving, but he can’t help having doubtful thoughts about everything he’s doing. Is he checking both ways correctly? Is he slightly over the speed limit? Did he turn that corner too widely? Are his hands in the right position of the steering wheel?
And, of course, when Louis’ nervous, he talks.
“How old were you when you went for your test?”
“Uh,” The instructor finishes writing something and pushes his glasses up from where they’ve slipped down his nose, “I was eighteen.”
“See, that’s when most people go for it, don’t they? I’m twenty, like, s’bit late, isn’t it? But better late then never, right?” He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, shifts in his seat, “But, like, I don’t think my sister will ever drive. She just like, doesn’t care for it much? But I’ve wanted to get my license and my own car for so long—“
“Turn right.”
Louis stops his train of thought and turns right, indicator and all. He clears his throat and bites his lip, hoping that if his mouth is trapped shut, he won’t babble and talk the ear off of this poor man.
An hour later and Louis’ beaming at the camera, holding his paper that shows his score in his hand. The camera flashes and he’s quickly wrapped up by his mum, who was waiting for him as soon as he got out of the car, grinning from ear-to-ear.
_
The bar is absolutely packed for a Thursday night, but in a crowded town like this it’s not even surprising. The people are all dressed in casual attire—jeans, t-shirt, some are even in tracksuit pants and hoodies, which, really, paint the area in the laid-back, lower-class place it is—and the music being played faintly over the speakers that hang in each corner of the bar is unfamiliar, old.
Niall shouts the first round of drinks, making sure everyone says cheers for Louis’ success, “May we all get fucking wasted due to our mate’s late as fuck license!” and as though it happened in quick succession, like a quick film montage, they’re suddenly all drunk off god knows how many pints, arms around each other swaying from side-to-side along to a song only their grandparents would know.
They’d quite literally stumbled into this place late one night after they’d spent all their time at some filthy club in the city. They were taking a taxi home from the outskirts of Doncaster, when Harry had blurted loudly that the total on the machine was a lot more than they’d anticipated.
“You can pay it, right?” The cab driver had said, slowing down the car as he spoke.
“Uhh,” Harry had slurred from the front seat, looking at the other three boys for help.
“‘Course we can!” Niall shouted, laughing nervously. He’s the most terrible liar Louis’ ever met. “I’m a fuckin’ Leprechaun, mate, I’m shittin’ gold!”
It was, obviously, because some girls that night had taken a liking to Niall’s Irish accent, something that grows thicker and thicker with every drink he has. Niall, that night, had had many drinks. Was at the point where he was hardly understandable, actually.
“I’m sure,” Liam had sung, lingering on the last word for a lot longer than any word is necessary to be lingered on, finger pointed upwards, “It will all. Work out. In the end.”
Louis had snorted at that, then had giggled, burped, and held Liam’s finger. “We’re all broke as shit, taxi driver.”
Harry had gasped at Louis’ words, Liam’s mouth fell to the floor, Niall had hit him so hard in the gut he was sure he was about to throw up. The taxi pulled to a stop and they all had to pay what they could, their wallets left in a dry state, the boys’ left in a drunken state, and their plans left in a fucked state.
“So,” Liam said, swaying, eyes half-open, “Whadda we do now?”
They’d stumbled through the streets, Niall being their own personal GPS, Harry greeting every passerby with a wave, Louis holding up Liam’s weight. It was by complete luck they’d walked into The Milhouse, a place filled with men and women twice their age but have obviously never grown up. The bar never closes, is the thing, it stays open to five in the morning and the people there, people around his mother’s age, party ’til close.
They knew instantly that it was a place to frequent from now on, since, on their arrival, they were greeted with belly-laughs and were shouted beers, drinks for the youngins!
They’re not quite as excited to see them, now, already used to the pack of young boys that would prefer to hang out with an older crowd than a bunch of sloppy teenagers. It’s better, alright?
And here, wrapped in each other, shouting out of tune and without a care, Louis realises it’s because he doesn’t have anyone to impress. Niall’s not on the prowl for whichever lady that as much as looks in his direction, Harry’s not getting hit on every two minutes, Liam’s not shying away with being who he is and Louis’ not fussing around, making sure he looks nothing but perfect to whichever man looks his way.
The rest of the bar is just as carefree and dozy off of booze; singing along terribly and laughing loudly amongst it all.
They eventually stumble outside for some air and a smoke, bundling up next to a gas heater. Liam and Harry still have their arms around each other, grinning wildly from cheek to cheek, eyes glistening, hazy. Sometimes Harry reminds Louis of the cat in Alice in Wonderland, the one he’s forgotten the name of. He’s still trying to wrap his head around all the Disney films, to be honest, ever since Harry had made him watch a bundle of them one weekend when Louis had fallen sick and couldn’t move from his couch.
“But, Lou! It’s vital to know these! It’s, like, an essential part of everyone’s lives!” Harry had told him, or, more fittingly, whined as he stretched himself over Louis’ weak body and petted his hair until Louis huffed and shoved him off.
“Fine! Fine,” Louis caved, because of course he did, and he’d bitten his lip to stop the smile threatening to spill, “What’s the first one, then?”
“The best, the absolute best.” Harry jumped off the couch, opening up one of the DVD’s he held in his hand. “This is called The Lion King.” Louis had frowned at the name but then Harry had looked back at him — so seriously that Louis had almost been concerned — and said, “I’ve brought the tissues.” And Louis just couldn’t help but break his composure, cackling even if his ribs hurt.
If he had to wipe away a few tears with the sleeves of his jumper an hour later, nobody had to know.
Louis glances at Niall, then, all red cheeks and slurring words and Louis smiles to himself. This, right here, is all Louis needs, he thinks. His mates for years, his mates for life, the only people that don’t treat him like an expensive piece of China about to break, the only people that don’t have expressions of sadness or sympathy whenever the accident is mentioned.
They treat him like they would’ve done (Louis assumes) if he’d never gotten a bloody head injury. It’s refreshing, it’s nice. It’s exactly what he needs.
“D’you guys ever think of leaving here?” Harry asks once the world goes quiet, the outside area of the bar empty, the music unable to be heard. But maybe that’s only because his senses are blurred, too buffered to care.
Liam shrugs against him, “Sometimes,” He says, thoughtfully, tapping his lips with a finger “But I dunno where else I would go.”
“Same.” Niall pitches in, raising up a glass that’s not his own as though he were toasting something. The other boys don’t even have drinks to join him, and Louis giggles at that fact, pressing his face into Liam’s shoulder. “Lived here me whole life, anywhere else would be weird.”
They all hum in response, agreeing.
God, Louis would love to get out, though. Would love to see other people, other bars like this one, other towns where people don’t know his name just from looking at him, people that don’t know his ‘story’; just thinks of him as a passing stranger that they don’t think twice about. Yeah, that’s a fucking great thought.
“We should, though,” Louis finds himself blurting out, throwing his arm around Niall with a mischievous grin, “Why not? Like, even just for a few days, y’know?”
“What, like a road trip?” Harry asks, eyebrow raised, weariness in his voice.
Louis’ heart almost stutters in his chest from excitement, from the unknown, from the mere prospect of a road trip. He just got his license. What a better way to celebrate than to go on a drive to fuck-knows-where with his best mates in the whole wide world?
He nods to himself. His mind already made up.
“Yeah,” He says, face almost splitting into two. The other boys look at him like he’s crazy, or how they do whenever they know he’s about to do something bad but can’t stop him. The anticipation in their eyes, the cringing of their mouths. Louis thinks he sees Harry shake his head minutely before he flicks Niall’s nose and says, “I’ll drive.”