Archive of Our Own

liam is six the first time his mother reads his palm. she had done it as a profession, proclaiming herself a psychic that foretold bad events, misfortunes, and the like. she owned tarot cards, an ouija board, and even went as far as purchasing a crystal ball she spotted at the local flea market. liam watched with amazement from behind the curtain as his mother sat with a client, eyes closed and in deep concentration. sometimes her hands would be pressed firmly against the transparent glass ball, her fingers leaving smudges afterward. other times she’d sport a furrowed brow, eyes scanning cards like a lifeline as she told the woman sitting across from her that her cat would surely pass within the next year. liam didn’t know how she did it, how she was able to tell her clients these things with honesty so pure in her eyes, such determination; the look on her face was enough to silence any doubt liam had in his mind about whether she could really tell the future or not.

she had just finished reading liam a bedtime story when he stopped her from getting up.

“read my palm, mummy.”

she smiles down at him, pushes his hair off his forehead, yawns. “maybe tomorrow, love.”

he sighs sadly, gives her the best look of sadness he can muster. “please, mum? please?”

this time it’s she who sighs, and it’s heavy, but liam only feels sorry for a second, because then she pulls his hand in hers, studying every line, tracing them all, memorizing. her eyes close, and several moments pass before liam thinks she’s accidentally fallen asleep. but then they open again, and she speaks with conviction.

“this right here,” she says, and thumbs the line at the very middle of liam’s palm, “this is your line of head. see how it’s almost perfectly straight? means you’ve got a good head on you, love.  yes, a very good head. it doesn’t curve, not even slightly. know what that means?” liam shakes his head. “means you’re a straight thinker. you don’t let anyone or anything change your mind. you’re stubborn in that way, and very firm in your beliefs. practical.”

her index finger moves swiftly as it caresses the indention just below the one she described. “this one here, this is your line of life. it’s the one people are most interested in, but for all the wrong reasons. we do not see how long you will live through this line, no, we see everything in between. like here, see how it curves downward into the middle there? yes? that means you’re a healthy one. nothing like your mother.” she smiles down at him warmly, and liam returns it with fervor.

“and this one,” she inquires, and points to the line at the right of liam’s palm, away from the others, he realizes, “this is your line of heart. it tells me your emotions, what you’re feeling, the state of your heart.” she tickles his side, and liam lets out a breathy laugh. “but it’s tricky, liam, this line. it’s never black and white like the others, plain and in sight.” she shakes her head. “no. it is different. each time you are in love, the line changes, curves differently.”

“what do you mean?” liam whispers.

“if the love you feel is good for you, you will notice the line curves upward, towards the sky. if it is bad, it slumps downward, toward the ground. most of the time though, people don’t catch it, the lines changing. they are too busy to notice, too uncaring to pay attention. they are blinded by their own bodies. do you understand, liam?”

liam nods tiredly, and his mother leans in, her perfume heavy, leaving a thick cloud above liam’s head for several minutes.

“that’s enough for tonight, my love. sweet dreams.” she turns off the light and liam falls into a dreamless sleep.

-

harry is his best friend, though most of the time liam wonders why, knowing how different they are, how different they always will be. harry is sneaky in a way only liam understands because while he puts on a show of good character to anyone he wishes to impress, in reality, he can be quite the see-through little shit.

harry is quick to judge, sees the outside of things, makes a clear-cut assumption, swears it as truth, and moves on to the next thing. liam isn’t carved from the same wood. where harry is defiant, liam is obedient. where harry is wild and reckless, liam is solid weight. where harry is tears spilt from his mother’s eyes, liam is the coolness fanning his mother’s face. it isn’t that harry is a bad person, but he has built in him a need to rebel, even if in the slightest of ways, and even if no one but himself is aware of it. where other kids revolt to get a reaction, harry does it because it’s who he is.

liam isn’t a godsend, not exactly, but he’s pretty close. in the years he’s been alive not once has he had his mother tell him he is a disappointment. for that, he thinks he’s doing an okay job of being a son. he cleans the dishes after dinner, scoops up stray rice from the table, places a blanket over his mother’s sleepy form as she lies on the couch, television muted, her eyes droopy. he feels thirty stuck in the body of a sixteen year old, dark circles already etched into the skin under his eyes. he works hard, but sometimes, most of the time, it doesn’t feel like enough.

his father visits when he can, his job as a steward putting him at the airline’s beck and call. his parents divorced when he was only four, and there were many things he missed out on that harry never had to, like fishing and watching football games and prematurely sipping beer. he couldn’t help the jealousy that coiled in his belly whenever harry returned from his mum’s bungalow, skin tanned from hours of swimming in the pool and falling asleep in a hammock. or the times liam invited him over to watch a game already knowing harry planned to watch it with his older cousins. in the grand scheme of things it didn’t matter much, and he knew it. but he couldn’t deny that his father’s perpetuated absence left him aching some nights, longing for thick, strong arms rather than thin, wiry ones that smelled of expensive perfume.

it was scary, learning about harry’s abuse as a child. how his parents never married but his father had such a hold on harry and his mother that they might as well have been. how his dad had always had cruel undertones to his personality which subsided by day and attacked by night. harry was still young when it all came to an end, his father finally sent to prison and his mother and him free for life. it isn’t something harry ever mentions though, and liam hates to admit it, but he’s glad.

his mother and harry’s had drifted as he and harry grew older, harry’s being a bank manager and liam’s a psychic. at first they had gotten along great, differences set aside, but even as they were hunched over the table exchanging inaudible whispers, teacups clutched in their fingers, liam could sense a disconnect. it wouldn’t last. and it didn’t.

-

it wasn’t a secret that mr. jenkins was dying. the oxygen tank sat beside him was a dead giveaway, if anything, but it was also in the sallow of his skin, the endless cracking of his bones, the rapid loss of white hair that fell behind him as if a dog were shedding its fur. he had lived in the house next door since before liam was born, and liam fondly remembers the days when mr. jenkins would babysit, let him eat more cookies than his mother allowed.

liam marveled in the stories mr. jenkins told about his past, and liam listened with marvel. his name was clive, and he was born in wales in the city of port talbot. his family left the country to move to england when he was very young and he attended an all boys’ school until he graduated. eventually, he took up politics and became a trade union leader, retiring at the age of sixty-three.

“didn’t want to,” he had said, shaking his head in defiance, “it’s work that keeps you sane, boy, and work only. but my old bones wouldn’t let me do much, and i was useless. i felt like a handicap even with both feet on the ground.”

to keep himself busy, mr. jenkins carved. it was something he had only gotten into because of old age, but he was happy he did. it brought a delight to his life he couldn’t understand, even though he tried in vain to explain. he made dolls for his granddaughters, cats for his sister who was exactly ten years his junior, and toys for other members of his family.

liam visited jenkins as often as he could, offered to read him stories at his bedside on days he couldn’t fathom making it outside, even to the porch. he brewed him fresh pots of tea, three spoons of evaporated milk, two medium-sized spoons of sugar, just as he liked. he swept up cobwebs that had formed on the corners of the ceilings, much to mr. jenkins’ dismay, but liam insisted and continued anyway. mr. jenkins had a nurse who looked after him, spent most of the day at the house tendings to his needs, but liam took note of her drab voice, her drab attire, her drab face. if that was the face he had to die to, he wouldn’t be too thrilled, and so he made his presence more frequent from there on out.

sometimes liam opened the curtain to one of the upstairs rooms of his house as if he could see into the window of the yellow house next door. he thought it funny that a house could represent a person so much. if mr. jenkins had to be translated into a color, yellow he would be.

one night, while liam is putting on one of mr. jenkins’ favorite old records, he’s called over with the wave of a knobby finger. liam stands at his bedside, the old man’s voice croaky and almost impossible to make out.

“you have a girlfriend, boy?”

liam smiles abashedly, shakes his head no.

mr. jenkins shakes his head too then, and with much difficulty, liam notices. he knows his final moments are here, but liam swallows and tries not to think about it.

“a shame, that is. listen, i have a granddaughter, she’d be perfect for you, i’m tellin’ ya. or is it my great granddaughter? christ, i get them all mixed up - you know how it is, don’t you - but i think you’d be good for each other, you kids. i really do.”

liam laughs quietly, afraid if he’s any louder it might stir up a ringing in the old man’s ears. “that sounds just fine, mr. jenkins. lay back now. good. that sounds fine.”

“what’re you gonna do with your life, boy?”

liam fixes the pillow supporting his head, fluffs it a bit, and jenkins grunts in approval.

“me? i want to be a pilot.”

the old man breaks out into a smile, his grin toothless and a tiny bit frightening. “that’s what your mother told me,” he says, “that’s fine. that’s just fine. respectable.”

mr. jenkins places a thick, veiny hand on liam’s, looks at him with earnest this time. he doesn’t speak for several minutes, his chest silently rising and falling, eyes never leaving liam’s.

when he does speak, he says feebly, “you deserve only good things.” his eyes close, slowly slowly and more slowly, until his eyeballs no longer show. his breathing slows, brows unfurl, and then his chest stills, his grip on liam’s hands loosening until it clenches no more.

the only sound liam hears is the record, still playing from before.

-

the house is cleaned out in the weeks that follow, and at first liam feels angry as he watches movers throw mr. jenkins’ boxes in the huge garbage bin that’s been situated outside. what angers him more is the ungrateful younger generation of jenkins that come to the house only to claim their part in clive jenkins’ will. this is what confuses liam most. why had mr. jenkins wanted to set him up with one of these relatives of his? these pompous, greedy, heartless young women that scoop up clive’s expensive belongings for their own benefit. their eyes do not look at the objects as sentimental, rather as things they can sell on ebay later and make a profit from. liam shrinks back in disgust. he hopes they will at least scatter the old man’s ashes over the river as he had wanted. even that, he doubted.

he doesn’t understand why one of the girls, probably in her early twenties, makes her way onto liam’s driveway and then up the path that leads to the front door. the doorbell rings, and liam begrudgingly makes his way downstairs, now face to face with the blonde as she takes in the sight of him and tucks a strand of stray hair behind her ear. her eyes aren’t unkind, but they aren’t friendly, either.

“are you liam?” she asks. liam nods and she continues, “i’m jenna, his granddaughter.” liam’s heart unexpectedly thuds against his chest as he realizes what this is: clive’s final attempt at matchmaking. he laughs to himself; a dead man setting two people up.

“um, right,” she interrupts his thoughts. “he left this for you,” she says, and hands it to him before he can ask questions. as soon as she had appeared, she was gone, making her way back down the driveway, and liam realizes he’s gotten it all wrong.

in his hands is a wooden airplane, crafted from what liam knows was jenkins’ hands. on the side, LP Airways is painted in thick navy blue letters. he grins in the direction of the sky, hoping that, somehow, the man’s soul can sense his thank you.

-

the house doesn’t sell as quickly or as easily as liam had predicted. months pass, winter turning to summer, and the for sale sign still sticks out of the dead, yellowing grass, begging to be taken down. until one day, liam peers out his window while nonchalantly taking in his surroundings, and notices the lawn is bare. he thinks it’s some mistake, that the wind swooped it up and away, and another one would surely replace it soon. but weeks pass and that doesn’t happen.

“did someone buy jenkins’ place?” he asks one morning over cereal.

“rumor has it,” his mother replies, blonde hair pulled back into a lazy ponytail. she no longer reads palms or tells fortunes, now working selling furniture to big companies over the phone. with her job switch changed her attire, her look more professional than liam had ever seen it.

“i wonder if it’s true. wonder who might’ve bought it.”

his mother shrugs, but something in her face doesn’t look right. almost like she’s worried, complacent. “i wouldn’t worry. people come and go. it’s life. they’ll probably be out of here pretty soon too, so quick you won’t even notice.”

if only liam’s mother knew how wrong she had been. if only liam had caught on to this. if only.

-

they learn that the house has indeed been bought. the names of the people are still a mystery, but in liam’s room, harry conjures all sorts of different things, most of the time drabbling senselessly.

“i heard from timothy simmons who heard from shelly obert who heard from matt reynolds that it’s a dude our age. oh, and that he’s deformed.” he balances a football on a single index finger, somewhat impress given that he’s lying flat on his back.

liam huffs in disapproval. “do you not know a rumor when you hear one, harry?”

harry shrugs, sits up to balance himself on his elbows. “yeah, i know. still funny though, don’t you think? how crazy it is. people are talking about him like he’s the elephant man or something.”

“where did you even hear that, anyway?”

harry repeats monotonically, “from timothy simmons who heard from shelly obert who-”

liam waves him off, annoyed. “no, not that. i don’t know. i guess what i’m asking is rhetorical. who would be so bored to make up a rumor so unlikely? who would even believe such a thing enough to pass it on?”

harry shrugs lazily, not in the mood to make jokes today. “dunno. don’t care.”

it’s his mum that worries him. he finds her hunched over the kitchen table, mug grasped tightly in her hands, knuckles turning white. she’s gnawing on her lower lip and doesn’t notice liam sit beside her after he’s made himself a turkey and tomato sandwich.

“mum, what’s the matter?”

she snaps out of her daydream, head turning towards him sharply.

“you know i haven’t been telling in years since i transferred jobs. haven’t bothered with it since. not once,” she mutters, taking a small sip. “but they are everywhere. everywhere i go.”

“what are, mum?”

“the knives, liam, what else?” she licks her lips tentatively, brow raised in concentration. “i go out to get the mail, there’s a knife carelessly scattered on the road. i put them away in the drawers and they end up in the cupboard. i turn my head in any direction, any at all, and a knife of some sort is staring me in the face. like that one.” she points to the counter.

liam laughs lightly. “i just made a sandwich, see?” he takes a hearty bite, but her expression doesn’t lighten.

“something bad is about to happen. i know it.” she takes a sip of cold tea, gazes off into the distance.

liam puts a hand on her arm. “i’m sure those were all just coincidences, mum. we’ll be fine. it’ll all be fine.”

she shakes her head. “whoever’s moving into that house, liam, whoever it is, they’re bad news. it isn’t just what i see. it’s what i feel.”

he nods silently, lets her believe he buys into it.

-

a small crowd of sorts has gathered outside the yellow house, most of them huddled about, and if it weren’t for the ruckus coming from his lawn as people spill over onto its edge, liam never would have noticed the flock. he makes his way outside, spotting harry instantly as he stands on his tiptoes, trying to peer into the windows.

“what’s all this about?” liam asks. harry turns to face him.

“new neighbors moved in. it was quite a sight, liam. the rumors are true after all.”

“did you hear about the dude’s face?” someone asks as they walk over, their eyes glued to the house. liam shakes his head, doesn’t understand the gathering. either the new family has invited everyone in for afternoon tea or liam’s neighbors are all assholes who don’t know the meaning of privacy.

harry nods his head rapidly, tongue caught between his teeth like he’s afraid. he says, looking pointedly at liam, “he has a huge bandage on his cheek. remember, liam? his face got bitten off by a rabid dog when he was little. he’s infected. be careful. he lives right next to you.”

liam thinks it sounds too theatrical, too dramatic to be true, but he had heard of these things happening in real life, knew that they were indeed a reality. because he doesn’t want to seem out of sorts, he nods dutifully and says, “i’ll stay as far away as i can.”

-

liam can’t help but get caught up in the neighborhood drama, much to his own dismay. he doesn’t want to be clumped in with the group of people who firmly believe the boy next door is wild as the dog he was bitten with and eyes that probably burn bright red. and hey, if he has fangs, nobody wouldn’t put it past him, it seemed.

that’s why, sometimes when liam has nothing else to do, he catches himself opening the curtain to his window, fingers holding the blinds apart so he can steal a glance at his new neighbors. no, he doesn’t think the boy is disfigured or that he was bitten by a rabies-infested animal. he’s probably wearing a bandage because of some accident he experienced on the way here. sharp objects are everywhere, he thinks. liam heard other rumors that the boy and his mother traveled from madrid. he doesn’t know if that one’s true, but it’s far more likely than the others.

two weeks have passed since the gathering outside the yellow house. liam spends most of his time outside, balancing a ball on each foot, afraid he’s getting rusty with his tricks. harry makes his way over some days and joins him, but liam prefers being alone.

it’s as he’s kicking the ball towards an imaginary goal that he sees him, peering over at liam from the second floor in the same exact fashion liam had been trying to look at him: through the blinds. the second liam catches his eyes and meets his gaze, the boy’s hold of the blinds is gone, and he backs away from the window.

the next time liam sees him is an entire month later.

he gets home after a day spent with harry, the latter of the two discussing girls and curves and more girls and lips and girls. they had gone to the movies, chomped on popcorn, bought bad fast food, and played football. he was tired, bones achy and rattling. he wanted to jump in the shower and slip into bed.

“liam, finally you’re home. look, we have guests!” his mother chimed, and liam rubbed his eyes tiredly. probably just a bunch of old women from across the street who have come to play cards and gossip.

when liam looks up at the dining table, he doesn’t expect to see a woman with long brown hair sitting there, all dimply grins and straight white teeth, waving at him excitedly. what he also doesn’t expect is the boy next to her, shoulders hunched, eyes weary, black hair sharply styled into a quiff, the sides of his head shaven. on his left cheek is a bandage that covers the length of his face, it seems. liam finds that strange; his wound, whatever inflicted it, should have healed by now.

“darling, this is tricia and her son, zayn. they moved in next door just last month or so, remember?”

liam thinks it rude to just stand there and gawk, so he sits as quietly as he can, mutters, “yeah, i know.” he extends his hand to her. “nice to meet you, ma’am. i’m liam.”

she smiles prettily at him. “please, call me tricia. ‘ma’am’ makes me feel like an old woman.” she laughs heartily, and liam likes the sound. tricia turns to her son. “zayn, don’t be rude.”

begrudgingly, zayn sticks out his hand, his voice a tiny whisper. “zayn.”

liam takes it in his own, only lets their skin slide together for a millisecond before moving away.

“i just thought, well, it’s been a month or more now, they’re definitely settled in enough now that they can stop by and have a chat.” liam’s mother is more excited than liam’s seen her in what feels like a decade. he misses the way her face used to light up like this.

he watches as tricia’s hand makes its way over the table and onto his mum’s. “i’m so glad you did, karen.” in all honesty, he doesn’t see what these two women could possibly have in common, but the glint in his mother’s eye doesn’t make him question it further.

all throughout the evening as they chat away about everything and nothing, and as he tries with difficulty to steal glances at zayn whose gaze focuses in and out of reality, the only thing liam can think of is how strangely warm zayn’s hand had been in those two seconds.

-

the moment it comes out of his mouth, he knows he’s made a mistake. a grave one.

“he was in your kitchen? like, as in you walked in and he was sitting there making himself at home? i’m... that’s freaky.” harry rubs the back of his neck as if the thought alone exhausts him. his curls, normally loose and puffy, are tight against his scalp and don’t move in every which direction.

“he wasn’t at home at all. he hated it, harry, you should’ve seen him. he barely looked at me all evening.”

harry looks at him tentatively. “did you see it? the dog bite, i mean.”

liam rolls his eyes. “you really believe that garbage? i doubt it’s anything like that. probably just... maybe... okay, i don’t know, but i doubt he’s, you know-”

“infected? twenty quid says you’re wrong about that.” harry looks so sure of himself, the way the left corner of his mouth quirks up like he’s determined to make liam believe in what he’s saying.

“no point in arguing with you, is there?” liam resigns. “even if he was bitten or something, what does it matter?”

harry shrugs and smiles devilishly. “is it bad i don’t want my best mate to die prematurely by catching a disease from his creepy little neighbor?”

in the pit of his stomach, something twists. it isn’t the first time or the last or the sixtieth that harry has said something cruelly insensitive. what liam can’t understand is why he insists on being this way. no matter how much he voices his distaste for harry’s callousness, harry doesn’t seem to care. it unnerves him a bit.

but he doesn’t want to argue. he’s never been one for confrontation, even on issues that he feels strongly about, like in year seven when harry made a racist comment in class or when he bluntly told liam’s mum just how much she had aged over the years. liam doesn’t want to believe it’s in harry’s blood to be so insensible, but arguing with him accomplishes little to none.

so instead he sighs and says, “can’t believe we’re halfway into summer already, huh?”

-  

it surprises him when he comes downstairs early one morning to see that tricia is sitting at his kitchen table, cup of tea never absent from her thin hands. what he can’t wrap his head around is the boy sitting next to her, how miserable he looks, how out of place and pitiable the sight of him is as his gaze wanders, stares at anything just to distract himself. liam can’t find it in himself to sit beside him and make conversation like they’re two ordinary people who have mastered small talk. if it were anyone but zayn, maybe. mostly the two of them sit across from each other, eyes avoiding contact and hands nervously playing with the wood of the table. and every once in a while, liam will look up to find zayn already staring at him, unwavering, unmoving. liam’s cheeks redden for some reason, neck hot, but zayn doesn’t seem to take notice. after a few prolonged seconds zayn licks his lips and looks away, bored again. liam is more than thankful.

he learns they come from madrid, the two of them having lived there for a year before deciding it was for the best to come back to the place where zayn was born. before madrid it was paris, and before paris, athens, and before that, rome. liam doesn’t let it show, but he’s almost jealous of zayn and all the places he’s seen. since he was little it’s been his dream, his ultimate goal, to travel the world, to make it his career. he’s made lists of all the museums he’d visit, all the skyscrapers he’d walk past, all the monuments he’d capture on camera. it was the most upfront and honest reason he wanted to be a pilot. and here was zayn, sulky and broody and full of loathing, not appreciating any of it. it leaves a sour taste on liam’s tongue.

it doesn’t take long before tricia makes her way to liam’s house every morning, zayn in her shadow as he trails behind, the two mothers sipping their tea, almost unaware of their sons’ presences. liam almost always finds himself standing awkwardly in the kitchen, shifting from one foot to the other, arm propped up against the counter that is now too low for him to lean on without it looking out of place. he wishes they wouldn’t come over, wishes his mum and tricia wouldn’t get along as well as they did, and for that, he resents himself. tricia is the first true friend, it seemed, that liam’s mum has made since before he could remember. all the other women she had come into contact with, even the ones that seemed worthy of his mother’s affections, never stayed. it was always off to another city or country or continent, always off to bigger and better things. and here was tricia, bright smiles and catchy perfume and interesting stories, keeping liam’s mum on her toes and making her excited about the small things. to want that taken away for his own comfort, for his own lack of embarrassment and the sneers that were sure to sound themselves behind his back as zayn followed him made his stomach turn unpleasantly.

“so, you’re buddy-buddy with the freak now, huh?” harry asks one day, back planted on liam’s carpet.

“shut up,” liam mutters, skimming through a book he’s been assigned to read over the summer. “our mums are kind of friends now. i can’t control that.”

“but you can control the fact that you two hang out.”

liam shakes his head. “i really can’t.”

“you don’t have the balls that i do.”

liam rolls his eyes. “we barely even talk. he does his own thing and i do mine. that’s it.”

harry props himself up on his elbows as he positions himself on his stomach, eyes boring into liam’s. “what’re you gonna do when school starts up again?”

“what do you mean?”

“well you’re the only person he knows. what’s gonna happen when he tries to hang around you and shit? around us.”

liam shrugs. he doesn’t want to talk much anymore.

-

tricia is one of the most charming women liam thinks he’s ever met. polite, straightforward, kind. she has an air about her that screams comfort and makes you feel welcome. liam finds it odd that he feels so comfortable in her presence, so at ease, like he has nothing to hide and wouldn’t want to, anyway. offhandedly she mentions to liam one day, “you should come over, we’re always over here. i’m sure zayn would love to give you a tour of the house, wouldn’t you, zayn?”

liam doesn’t mention that he’s been in what used to be mr. jenkins’ house plenty of times, only pays attention to zayn’s blank stare as he nods absently. it’s the first time liam feels that something is off, because for someone with an attitude like zayn’s, it wasn’t usual for him to be so passive. did tricia raise a son or a puppet?

one morning he rouses after hearing voices coming from the living room, and really, why do they have to be here at nine a.m.? he’s about to enter, mutter an awkward ‘hello’ and have himself a bowl of cheerios, except he notices their voices are hushed and moves closer with caution. tricia and karen are seated on the sofa, zayn next to karen for once, staring at the carpet. something is off, this is obvious. but it’s less about the eeriness in the atmosphere and more about the look on zayn’s face; sad almost, like he wants to hide...

“i told him, surgery is most definitely an option, has been for years, but he just doesn’t listen. do you, sweetheart?” tricia nudges zayn in his side and forcefully so, but zayn doesn’t move an inch. his expression has turned to stone, eyes glued to the floor, mouth set in a tight thin line.

“really, it’s fine,” karen says with a wave of her hand, “we don’t have to discuss it.”

“ah, why not? best to just get it out in the open. it’s just, the men i was with in the past... they weren’t exactly father material.” tricia tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and repositions herself like she’s prepared to unleash this story since the moment they arrived. “i had been seeing this guy only for a couple months. he was handsome and kind and generous, or so i thought. he even offered to watch zayn for me sometimes while i was at work and i just thought he was everything i’d never had before, you know? but one night i came home and there he was, standing above my little boy with a knife in his hand...” tricia’s emotions have gone from upbeat and chipper to despondent and somber in all of three seconds and it puts liam off in more ways than one. “i can’t even begin to explain what that was like, karen. to think anyone could hurt a child in such ways.” she places a hand on zayn’s knee, who sits across from her looking stoic. liam wonders how many times she’s told this story, if there was a time when zayn protested it. he thinks perhaps so.

his mother is in tears as she uses her hand to wipe them away. “oh my. oh my.”

tricia nods, bottom lip caught between her teeth. “i can’t put into words the way i felt, what it was like to experience that. cameron - that was his name, the bastard - said zayn had pushed his buttons, that he was asking for it. he was only seven! seven years old and he had to experience the cruelty of this world. i still have nightmares sometimes.”

“oh, tricia,” karen whispers, stroking tricia’s hand with her own. she offers her a tissue which tricia gladly accepts and dabs her eyes with it lightly. “i’m so sorry.” karen looks at zayn as she says this, but zayn isn’t looking at her. instead, liam finds zayn’s eyes plastered to his own, mouth slightly parted as he tries to pin liam down with his stare. liam shrieks back, knows it’s too late because zayn knows. zayn knows that liam knows, that he heard everything, and it’s too late to run away.

“but anyway, i really do wish he’d get the surgery. they’d fix him up so well. he’d be as beautiful as he used to. he’d look normal, you know? fit in with all the other boys.” she sniffles, and liam gapes at her words where zayn can’t see, in shock of the words that have left her mouth. zayn had gone through something tragic, something unforgivable, and here she was caring only about his physical scarring, insulting him even. he shakes his head, figures he’s got it all wrong. tricia isn’t like that. sure, she boasted about her trips around europe and the men that gave her prolonged stares but she wasn’t a bad person who intentionally offended her son.

and then zayn speaks, softly and calmly. “i don’t care to fit in.”

tricia lets out a throaty laugh. “all talk, this boy. aren’t you, sweetheart?”

karen asks to be excused and enters the kitchen to get them some cookies, and liam stays behind the door, paralyzed. moments later he hears tricia speak in a scolding tone.

“what are you doing? no, don’t take it off. i said don’t! what are you trying to do, scare her off?”

and that’s when liam understands. zayn doesn’t wear the bandage to hide his own embarrassment, but rather, to hide his mother’s. and then he can’t help but pity the boy sitting on his couch, hands in his lap, eyes on the floor. he doesn’t know what to do with that.

“liam should be up by now. that boy sleeps like nothing i’ve ever seen, i’m telling you,” his mother complains. quietly, carefully, he backs away, taking the stairs two at a time and dressing after brushing his teeth.

he makes his way into the living room afterward, doesn’t make eye contact with zayn. “morning.”  

“good morning, liam!” tricia exclaims, patting the seat next to her. liam sits. “sleep well?”

“just fine, thank you.” he sees zayn looking at him out of his peripheral vision but doesn’t look back. “what are you guys talking about?”

“tricia and i were just saying how you boys will be in school soon. you wouldn’t mind showing zayn around, would you, liam?”

in his mind all he sees is harry’s face. “i, um, i mean, no. no, i wouldn’t mind.”

“of course not. all right, it’s time for gossip. liam, take zayn with you to your room. go on.”

liam forces himself to look at zayn now, expects him to be sporting a look of disgust and staring right at him. instead his eyes are glued to the wall, expression nonchalant and rather bored. liam stands. “all right. um.” he makes his way upstairs, hears zayn follow quietly.

it’s awkward the instant they’re alone. liam doesn’t know where to situate himself, figures the best option is his bed. he watches as zayn makes himself at home on the desk chair, leaning back carelessly.

“so,” liam starts. he expects zayn to help him out, but he stays silent. “um.”

“do you always eavesdrop?”

it’s the first time zayn’s voice hasn’t been a whisper. liam clears his throat, suddenly nervous. “what?”

zayn scoffs. “i’m surprised they didn’t notice. guess they were too caught up.”

“right,” liam says.

“you don’t have to do it. show me around, i mean. i can find my own way.” zayn begins to play with the items on liam’s desk: the pencils and action figures and abandoned books. his fingers are thin and slender as they stroke the spines and then run over a deck of cards. “i wanted to be a magician when i was younger.”

liam licks his lips. “i know a couple tricks. my mum’s into that kind of stuff. or she used to be.”

zayn hands them to him expectantly, and liam tries his hardest to look him in the eye rather than let his gaze wander to the left side of his face covered so obnoxiously. carefully he shuffles, doing so professionally and separating them before placing them before zayn. “pick a card, any card.”

zayn’s tongue darts out and pauses at his lips like he’s deep in concentration. he picks one and stares it down.

“memorize it without showing me. got it? now put it back.” liam watches as zayn places the card on the pile in his right hand. he shuffles them once more and extracts one. “queen of hearts?”

the left side of zayn’s mouth tugs upward. he nods. “i’ve seen that one done a million times but could never figure it out.”

liam smiles. “the secret is to remember the card facing you before the person puts theirs back in. that way, when you look at the deck, you find that key card and the one picked is right next to it.” liam watches as zayn’s mouth forms an ‘o’ of understanding. “not so difficult now, huh?”

zayn shrugs and lean back in his seat. “show me another one?”

so liam does. he isn’t sure how much time passes as he teaches zayn magician lingo and how magicians get rabbits to appear out of a hat and how to make a card bend. zayn takes it all in, asks questions sometimes, but mostly stays silent as liam explains.

“yeah,” zayn says outstretched on the floor, liam cross-legged in front of him. “i’m definitely becoming a magician now. fucking fascinating.”

“that would be cool,” liam agrees. “i’m gonna be a pilot myself. well, hopefully. we’ll see.”

zayn nods. “that sounds interesting enough.”

“who’s your favorite magician?”

zayn’s eyebrows knit together. “what?”

liam shrugs. “everyone has a favorite illusionist. come on. who is it, then?”

zayn bites down on his lip. liam smiles. “you don’t have one, do you?” zayn shakes his head.

“who’s yours?” zayn asks meekly, eyes everywhere but liam’s.

liam thinks on it for a second. “houdini. definitely houdini. did you see the one where he gets himself out of the rope in under thirty seconds? how brilliant was that?”

zayn doesn’t answer, just stares at him blankly.

“you have no clue who he is, do you?”

the side of zayn’s mouth quirks up - just a little - as he shakes his head once more.

liam grabs his laptop. “well, now you have no choice but to watch his magic tricks. i swear, once you see him in action, you aren’t gonna believe the things he was able to do.”

it’s an understatement saying they get lost in youtube and google, whatever they can get their hands on that has houdini’s name splattered across it in bold lettering.

“one of his most famous acts is getting out of handcuffs. a pretty popular one these days, isn’t it?”

he almost misses the way zayn licks his lips obscenely - or, liam imagines it to look that way. definitely imagined it. doesn’t think on it for another second.

he gets up to stretch, doesn’t think too much about the way zayn’s gaze lingers when his shirt rides up a little. “i think i’m gonna go for a run.” he doesn’t make a point to invite zayn specifically. the thought of harry seeing them pass by leaves him feeling uneasy.

zayn stays planted on the floor and doesn’t say anything. in a matter of second he’s retreated, gone back to his usual, quiet self. liam can almost feel the loneliness creeping up on him, tangible and within arm’s length.

it feels like days pass before he swallows and says, “would you, you know, do you maybe want to come with?”

zayn shakes his head. “i don’t run.”

“oh. we could walk?” before he’s finished talking zayn has passed by him, headed for the stairs.  he doesn’t know what he’s done, if he’s done anything, but decides thinking on it too much is pointless. maybe zayn is just one of those guys he’ll never be able to read. he changes into a pair of sweats and heads out the door by himself.

-

it’s like he blinks and suddenly he’s standing in the halls of his school, rummaging through his backpack to get everything he needed ready. he’s already seen harry; they walked here together,  liam ignoring the sly insult harry had thrown at zayn as they passed his house. zayn hadn’t given much away through his stony expression, but liam knew him well enough to know that he didn’t miss a beat. he sincerely hoped he had bad hearing, at least.

liam thought it was comical, though, the look of zayn with a bag slung over his shoulder, like it didn’t belong there. he’d only ever seen him look casual. the thought of zayn hunched over a desk taking notes, pencil behind his ear... that was something liam had troubling imagining.

it’s like watching a bad comedy, the way they treat him at first. it’s through his peers that liam realizes all the cliches seen in movies about high school bullies aren’t actually cliches at all. books zayn carries are thrown from his arms, papers snatched from his hands, objects thrown at his head. liam becomes cowardly in these moments, watches helplessly as zayn falls victim to the latest bout of laughter that rings throughout the halls. he pretends not to notice these things, backs into a corner the second he senses trouble and watches zayn calmly gather himself and his things and walk towards class. ignores the “what a freak” harry whispers into his ear, like it’s to remind liam of who he’s dealing with next door and in his own home. the arm around his shoulder feels a thousand pounds too heavy.

he doesn’t find hiding a real problem until the third tuesday of october when, just like most days, zayn’s things get tossed out of his arms. and just like every other time he stoops to the ground to retrieve them, eyes glued to the floor, bandage plastered to his cheek. he’s gathered just about everything when he looks up suddenly, and his hazel eyes bore into liam’s so plainly that every inch of liam’s skin burns. all the other times it was easy to sleep at night with the knowledge that zayn had no idea liam was at the scene of the crime, that there was no possible way he could swoop in to help zayn out just a bit.

but now he’s nakedly being stared at by the boy whose expression of realization quickly turns to stone. liam wants to reach out, make up some sort of pathetic excuse to explain that he isn’t one of them, that he doesn’t see zayn the way the rest of them do. he knows nothing would do him justice, because honestly, no words in the world could excuse his cowardice. just let me explain, let me explain, it isn’t what it seems, it’s your side i’m on, i swear.

zayn breaks eye contact, stands erect, and walks away. he doesn’t bother looking over his shoulder.

-

he’s never been inside zayn’s house before. he has - but when it was mr. jenkins. he hasn’t ever been inside with it as the malik residence.

zayn’s the one to answer the door, as liam knew he would be. tricia is still at work and will be until late.

“hi,” liam says, and is just as quickly met with it slamming in his face. he leans against the door frame. “i know you’re still there. please come out.” when he’s met with nothing, he rests his forehead against the wood, breathes in deeply. “please, zayn. just open up. please. please.”

his head jerks forward in tandem with the door opening. zayn looks just as surprised as he does. he’s changed into different clothes since getting home, liam notices. his shirt is tightly wound around his body, hugs it in all the right places.

“make it quick, payne.” his arms are crossed against his chest defensively.

he knows he could mutter i’m sorry, but it would be of no use. zayn wouldn’t buy it, nor would liam be able to deliver it. his voice would tremble, palms would sweat. it wouldn’t come out sincere, though he would mean for it to.

instead he stands there stupidly, hands fumbling awkwardly in his pockets.

zayn clicks his tongue. “you’re a real fucking piece of work, you know that?”

it’s the kindest insult liam’s ever received, he thinks. it’s a slap in the face, but worded nicely, at least. he doesn’t deserve the extra effort.

neither one of them bring it up again, and if liam thought that was good at first, he was wrong. it’s more of a punishment, if anything, the way he harbors his guilt silently in the pit of his stomach, zayn never saying any more on the matter as they sit across from each other. their mothers don’t seem to catch on to the bad air between them as they chat happily amongst themselves.

what’s worse is the way zayn doesn’t admonish him for it, for his inexcusable behavior. he’d only ever called liam out that one time, but after that said nothing. didn’t have to. it’s clear in the way he doesn’t add on more to conversation the way he used to, doesn’t make jokes, doesn’t ask liam to teach him new card tricks. he’s polite in voice and indifferent in action. he had gone through the trouble of being liam’s friend and it had come back to bite him. he wouldn’t make that mistake again.

harry joins him for a jog one saturday shortly thereafter. a tacky headband lines his forehead. liam braces himself for what’s about to sputter out of his mouth once they pass the yellow house.

“don’t know how you do it. if i were you, i’d’ve asked my mum to move out ages ago.” his breathing is becoming more shallow, and well, if he has to stop to take a breather, liam isn’t going to wait up.

“stop it, harry.”

“what? s’not like i’m saying anything out of the ordinary.”

liam grits his teeth. “that’s just the point.” he stops mid-run, watches harry do the same. he’s thankful they aren’t in front of zayn’s house anymore. “you always say the same thing. how he’s a freak of nature and shit, but honestly, you have no reason to think so.”

harry snorts. “neither do the people at school, and yet...”

“so why do you do it? he hasn’t done shit to you. why can’t you just let it go?” liam feels heat rise in him from the waist up. he can’t remember the last time he had it off with harry.

harry crosses his arms. “oh, so you’re best mates now, are you?” he laughs without humor. “all right, then, liam. so you’ve got a little crush. i’ll respect that. but it’s funny,” he leans in too close for comfort, “‘cause if i had a friend that let me take the piss all the time, i don’t think i’d stick around very long.”

the one time harry speaks the truth, he has to take that route.

he watches him turn and jog onward, curls bobbing up and down in the distance. liam doesn’t follow.

-

zayn is lazily playing fruit ninja on his phone, expression bored and suicidal as tricia rattles on about her life as an actress, her success, her short burst of fame. liam watches his mother’s lips purse, mouth set in a tight line. he knows how she feels about braggers, like they’re the worst species of human beings. she thinks tricia’s embarrassing herself.

“there are rumors of snow this weekend,” liam comments nonchalantly.

“uh huh.”

liam nods, shoveling food into his mouth. “said we might be locked inside. might even get snow days.”

zayn tries concentrating on his game but eventually loses the round. “you sure?”

instead of answering, liam licks his lips and reaches into his pocket, places what he’s retrieved on the table in front of zayn.

zayn lifts an eyebrow. “for me?”

liam shrugs. “i know you don’t have a deck of your own, and if you’re gonna be a magician you’ll need to practice.”

zayn eyes them for a minute, then reaches out to retrieve the deck from the box and shuffle them with his hands. he holds them out in front of liam, a small smile on his lips.

“pick a card, any card.”

the humid air between them thins out a bit after that. zayn smiles a little more (even if he rarely shows teeth) and things aren’t awkward like they used to be. and everything would be all right, really, if it weren’t for the way zayn sometimes arches an eyebrow like he’s in constant defense of himself whenever someone gets close.

they stroll through the neighborhood, air a bit chilly as liam zips up his hoodie, when they pass a young woman walking her corgi.

“always wanted a dog,” zayn says, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his worn jeans. his hair is messy today, all fluffy and disheveled and completely unplanned and liam can’t help but marvel at it for some reason.

“why don’t you get one, then?”

zayn turns, looks at him pointedly. “used to be because it’d be the reason people talked.”

and for the couple seconds he pauses in conversation liam’s heartbeat stutters in his chest because shit. he hadn’t even thought of that.

zayn shrugs as if unaware of liam’s reaction. “but now not so much. i guess i just never really pictured myself being a dog owner? i don’t know.”

“what kind would you get? i’ve always liked huskies myself,” liam says.

“don’t laugh,” zayn mutters, “but i love golden retrievers.”

liam laughs anyway, doesn’t miss the way zayn glares at him from behind dark lids.

“don’t get me wrong, they’re cute. it’s just-” his eyes squeeze shut, one final chuckle emanating from his chest. “i would’ve taken you for a rottweiler or pitbull kinda guy.”

zayn frowns. “why? i like gentle things.”

liam could kill himself then. he could be handed a knife or a gun or a match and would have happily set himself on fire. so many things he’s said without thinking and so many things have affected zayn because of his mess-ups. he wants to slap himself raw.

a piece of hair misplaces itself over zayn’s right eye, and before zayn can get his hand out of his pocket to fix it, liam finds himself reaching out and doing it himself, brushing it off his forehead, his fingers lingering just at zayn’s hairline. for how frigid it is, liam can’t understand how someone’s skin can be so impossibly warm. he wants to keep his hand there, stroke zayn’s forehead, his cheek, his neck, say so many different things. but then he’s pulling back, hand resting back in his pocket. he’s so preoccupied with what he’s just done that he doesn’t notice zayn smiling at him.

-

they’re in his room, zayn on liam’s bed with headphones blasting music in his ears and liam situated at his desk visibly stressed and out of sorts.

he’d been assigned a project in which he is supposed to make a collage of his future, mainly his career. and while he’s got the main part down - knowing what he wants to do - he isn’t quite sure how to go about it.

“come over after school. we can work on it there,” harry had said, stuffing books into his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder as they made their way out.

liam had scratched the back of his neck, couldn’t believe he was doing this, going there, making excuses. but he was, nonetheless. “sorry, mate, i can’t. i um - i have other stuff i need to do. catch up on. like work. school stuff, you get it?”

harry quirked an eyebrow. “if you’re going to lie to me at least be convincing about it.” with a roll of his eyes and a wave he made his way out, and liam was surprised he hadn’t asked questions. but he didn’t know of liam’s intention to spend his afternoon with zayn, that he was sure of. if he did, he definitely would have said something.

zayn hadn’t known either, though. he was surprised when he opened his front door to see liam standing there, hands shoved in his pockets, not quite sure of what he was trying to accomplish.

zayn takes his headphones off now and raises an eyebrow. “someone’s stressed.”

liam turns to face him and shakes his head. “it’s this project. i have to make a collage. i’d rather write a fifteen page paper than force my lack of creativity onto a poster board.”

“a collage, huh? of what?” zayn scooches himself to the edge of the bed and leans forward. liam catches a whiff of citrus and honeysuckle.

“my career, i guess. what i want my career to be. and it’s due next week. i don’t know. i’m really not any good at this.” he rubs a hand over his face, already in defeat of something he hasn’t started. out of his window he sees harry walk past and every cell in him freezes as he holds his breath, praying he doesn’t stop by.

when ten seconds pass and the doorbell doesn’t ring, he sighs with relief and then kicks himself for being such a fucking dick. he hopes zayn hasn’t noticed, but if liam’s learned anything about the boy, it’s that he’s every bit of attentive as you wouldn’t expect him to be.

zayn only shrugs and leans back into the pillows as headphones find their way back to his ears. “you’ll figure something out.”

liam doesn’t though. it’s nine fifty-eight the night before it’s due and he’s staring at the poster board, has been staring at it for the past three hours wondering where to start. he had figured maybe lying and saying something easy to put to paper would be his best option, like a chef or an athlete, but he was actually interested in his future and wanted to be honest about it.

“freaking out, are we?”

he jumps in his seat as the deep voice fills his room, startling him.

“jesus christ. could you, i don’t know, maybe not scare me half to death when i’m alone?” he places his hand over his heart for dramatic effect. “and that smells amazing.”

he eyes the pizza box zayn is carrying as he places it on the desk in front of him. “hand tossed, half cheese, half jalapeno.” liam raises an eyebrow. “asked your mum.”

“my mum knows you’re here?”

zayn shrugs. “who do you think let me in?”

“that’s weird. she hates when harry’s over late.”

“well i’m not harry, now am i?” zayn asks, and liam can’t help but notice the sour look on his face the second harry’s name leaves his mouth. he shrugs off his coat and lazily throws it on the bed. liam sees pizza isn’t the only thing he had been carrying.

“what’s that?”

zayn picks up the envelope and hands it to him. photographs of city after city, skyline after skyline, from airplanes while up in the clouds, monuments and museums and landmarks both famous and not well-known.

“for your project. pilots see all sorts of amazing things while doing their job, right? i figured these might be able to help you. you can cut them how you like and do with them what you want, i’ve got extra copies. and, you know, if you don’t want to use them, that’s cool, too. whatever works.” he smiles genuinely, making himself a seat next to his jacket on the bed after grabbing a slice of pizza and taking a hearty bite.

liam leans back in his chair as he continues to sift through them. before he can let out a string of thank yous, zayn is beside him, arranging them on the poster board in all different directions and sketching out a title. he watches as zayn gets lost in all of it, feeling kind of bad that he’s doing his project for him but all the more intrigued by his interest. occasionally zayn tells him to cut a photo a certain way or color something in “to give it life” but mostly liam watches. zayn in his element, he learns, is a beautiful thing.

zayn rubs his neck as he glues on the last photograph. liam doesn’t have to think twice before praising it. “it looks amazing. i mean, i kind of pegged you for the artistic type, i’ll admit, but... thank you.”

and it’s just like zayn to shrug nonchalantly, as if he didn’t just save liam’s ass, and say, “yeah, it’s nothing.” he slips on his jacket.

“why?”

zayn looks up at him, the intensity of his stare heating every inch of liam’s skin. “would you rather i hadn’t and you failed? ‘cause i can keep that in mind, you know, for the future if you want.”

he knows he isn’t going to get a real answer, so liam resigns and sighs instead as he watches zayn head for the door.

“hey, zayn?”

zayn turns, brows lifted.

“see you at school, yeah?”

the corner of his mouth tugs up, but he doesn’t say anything; just nods and heads out. long after he’s gone liam regrets not walking him to the door.

-

his presentation isn’t a total mess, he doesn’t think, not considering the couple slips of his tongue and the string of “oh shit, sorry, wrong one, yeah. anyway.” and the way his voice cracks near the beginning, mouth dry and throat closed. he finds himself constantly scratching the back of his neck even though it doesn’t itch, and his palms sweat.

when he makes it out of class he can’t help but notice a dark figure walking just a few feet in front of him.

“zayn! hey,” he says, sidling up next to him and readjusting the bag on his shoulder.

zayn quirks an eyebrow, surprised. he looks around them, takes note of all the people still in the hall. “uh, yeah?”

liam smiles. “hi. how’s your day going?”

zayn snorts. “fine. how was your presentation?”

“good, but stupid. i mean, the visual part was good, you know, what you did obviously. the oral, however...”

when he doesn’t continue, zayn does. “i’m sure you did just fine. don’t sweat it, yeah?” they stop at zayn’s locker and liam waits patiently as zayn retrieves some of his books.

and that’s when he sees him in his periphery, harry walking toward them, strides long and fast and eyes glued to the two of them. he freezes in place, not sure of what harry’s boundaries are and what he will and won’t do. he hopes zayn doesn’t notice him, but it’s too late.

“you should go,” zayn whispers, zipping up his bag and strapping it to his shoulders.

liam shakes his head fiercely. “not going anywhere.”

“well, well, well. what do we have here?” harry’s smile is vicious, full of mockery, and liam feels heat pool in his stomach.

liam rolls his eyes. “what do you want, harry?”

harry’s gaze falls on zayn, eyes slits. “just thought i’d have a little chat with this one if you don’t mind.”

that makes liam stand straighter, hands balled into fists. “i don’t think so.”

harry looks at him incredulously, mouth still pulled into a smirk, and without warning his arms reach to grab zayn who pulls back just as liam steps in front of him. and it’s like all he has inside of him is fire and defense and instinct because he shoves harry hard in the chest, so much so that he falls backwards onto the tiled floor.

“you may be the brains,” liam says, kneeling over harry as the younger boy gawks at him in pain, “but i’m the brawn. remember that next time you think of going near him.”

when he’s sure harry isn’t going to get up and lunge at them again, he boldly takes zayn’s hand and drags him in the opposite direction. he shouldn’t feel good about fighting his best friend, but he does. he absolutely does.

-

just when it seems like things are going smoothly, liam is proven wrong.

liam is at his locker during passing period gathering his things and tucking them under his arm when he hears the commotion. it’s just like the jocks to be rambunctious along with the freshmen and just about everyone else at school, so it doesn’t mean much at first. but this isn’t just playful banter. this is something entirely different. upon closer inspection, he watches as a boy at least three times the size of zayn is backing him into a corner, arm outstretched and fingers reaching out with purpose in the direction of his left cheek. liam watches in horror as the boy manages to grab hold of the bandage and rip it halfway off so that it hangs from zayn’s face, part of the scar exposed.

from where liam stands, all he can make out is the discoloration and the disgusted expressions of all the people surrounding zayn, staring and pointing and laughing shamelessly.

that, and the look on zayn’s face.

it’s like a reflex: his hand reaches up to cover the scar and put the bandage back in place as fast as his fingers will allow. people aren’t as hunched over him now, as if witnessing part of his disfiguration firsthand has made them afraid of catching some sort of disease, but they stand their ground, don’t quit mocking for anything.

and what’s worse, harry is in the mix. and that’s it; all liam sees is red.

if you asked him in the future, asked him to describe that moment, he wouldn’t be able to. because right now, he’s so blinded by his anger at his classmates, at these people he’s surrounded by every day, he can’t think straight. all of it is a blurred line of faces.

he’s running towards the crowd, shocked to see that zayn is now on the floor, hands over his head, defending himself from the crowd as it slowly moves in on him.

“stop it! you’re suffocating him!” liam pushes through and is met with dirty looks, the strongest of them coming from harry.

“aw, don’t let it bother you, mate. just a bit of playful banter.” harry’s smile doesn’t contain one bit of remorse or a hint of empathy. and honestly, liam thought after their scuffle the other week that he’d learned his lesson. he should have known better.

“fuck off,” liam responds, gritting his teeth, forcefully grabbing harry by the collar. “you and me? we’re done. you hear me? done.” he doesn’t try not to push roughly past him, knocking their shoulders together. he secretly hopes it leaves a bruise or three.

when he finally gets to the front, zayn is just a small ball on the floor, still hunched in the same position as before, hands cradling his head as people throw things at him and do so much as spit in his direction. and that just crosses the fucking line.

“all of you, fuck off!” liam screams, using his body as a shield against the lot of them, willing them to disappear. he may be muscled in all the right places but that sure doesn’t mean that dozens of people against him is an easy thing to handle. only a few scoff and step back, headed towards the other end of the hall. more of them lean in his direction, trying to get to zayn, to hurt him in some way, whatever way possible, but liam isn’t having it.

a hand reaches out from the crowd and manages to clasp around zayn’s wrist, and then liam isn’t thinking straight anymore. all he can focus on is the fact that someone wants to hurt zayn - really hurt him, cause him pain - and then he’s digging his nails into the guy’s arm and shoving him backwards with as much force as he can muster.

they all seem to step back after that, some of them laughing, some staring, some still mocking, and liam thinks that if he has to physically fight them, any of them or all of them, he will. he doesn’t give a flying fuck.

the bell rings, and slowly but surely the crowd disperses, sneers being thrown in liam’s direction. once he thinks it’s safe, he turns around and kneels to the ground, placing a gentle hand on zayn’s shoulder.

“they’re gone,” he says, but zayn doesn’t look up, doesn’t move from his huddled position. it isn’t until liam feels him shaking beneath him that he realizes zayn is crying.

“hey, it’s okay,” he soothes. “they’re assholes, yeah? no, worse than assholes. they’re just downright shitty miserable people. don’t pay them any attention.” without thinking twice, he rubs circles into zayn’s back, runs his fingers up and down his spine, doesn’t stop until zayn is no longer trembling. zayn unwraps his arms from around himself to wipe the tears from his face, not ready to look liam in the eye yet. liam doesn’t remove his hand from his back.

“you know, i bet there are certain tricks you could learn to make everybody you despise disappear or be forced to eat dog shit for breakfast.”

zayn’s mouth tugs upwards, and he doesn’t show teeth, but it’s something, and liam basks in the fact that he was able to make that happen. he stands, holds his hand out. zayn waits a beat, and for a second liam thinks he’s going to tell him to fuck off, but then he takes it and lifts himself to his feet, brushes off his pants.

“you know what makes me feel better when i’m having a particularly shitty day? ice cream. lots and lots of it.” liam nods to the double doors. “come on. to the parlor we go.”

“liam.” zayn’s voice is quiet and scratchy. he clears his throat. “if you’re doing this to make yourself feel better, you can save it. i don’t care.”

liam swallows, feels like shit because part of it is true. part of him just wants zayn to forgive him, to somehow forget about all the times he never said or did anything and camouflaged himself for his own benefit.

zayn walks past him, says, “if you want to take me out for ice cream though, i’m not gonna object. cookie dough waits for no one.”

-

“wouldn’t have pegged you for the cookie dough type,” liam says, taking a spoonful of his own ice cream and shoving it in his mouth. they’re sitting across from each other in the shop, mouths cold.

zayn cocks an eyebrow. “if you say i look like i’m into strawberry, i’m out.”

liam laughs and shakes his head. “nah. more like... jamoca. definitely jamoca.”

“like the coffee flavor?” zayn mulls it over questioningly.

“well yeah. coffee is your favorite beverage and the color of jamoca matches your skin.” it slips out of liam’s mouth before he can swallow it back down, and then he turns a humiliating shade of red, wills the cold of the ice cream to make it go away.

zayn stares at him a beat too long before nodding. “yeah, i guess i can see that.”

liam tries not to notice the way zayn’s tongue flicks over his spoon and then darts out to his lips to clean up his mouth; how these two parts of him are just the right shades of pink and how his lips curl in such a way when he smiles that it leaves tingles running through liam’s body and how he read in a magazine that the color of your lips matches the color of the head of your cock and...

he mostly asks, “what about me?” as a distraction.

zayn snorts. “knew you were gonna get rocky road. don’t ask how or why but it’s kind of obvious you’re a chocolate bloke.”

“a chocolate bloke,” liam repeats. “right. i’ll keep that in mind.” he gnaws on his lip, not wanting to ruin the good conversation as well as the fact that they’re getting on so well. “i’m sorry about earlier. people can be such dicks.”

zayn absentmindedly chews on his spoon as it rattles against his teeth. “thanks for getting them away from me.” he laughs lightly but it doesn’t feel right as it fills the space around them.

“i, uh... i also want to apologize on harry’s behalf. he’s kind of been this way since i’ve met him. there really is no explanation.”

“rarely ever is.”

liam taps on his cup. “aren’t you going to ask why we’re friends? or were.”

zayn shakes his head, shrugs. “it’s none of my business. but i must say if i’m the reason you two are no longer friends, you’re welcome.”

he winks at liam, dipping his spoon into his cup for another mouthful. his words should sting - the fact that liam’s friendship with harry is over should hurt - but it doesn’t. liam smiles through another bite.

-

the four of them are settled around the dining table. tricia insisted on bringing the main course - potluck style - and karen had offered to cover the dessert.

and it’s funny now that liam pays more attention how he notices her effortless ways in which she turns conversation back to herself. it’s a form of non-listening called monopolizing in which a person makes everything about his or herself regardless of the topic of conversation.  he’d heard his teacher drone on about it in psychology.

so when tears well up in karen’s eyes as she talks about the absence of liam’s father, liam is not one bit surprised when tricia brings up all her exes.

“i know how you feel, karen,” tricia says. “when joey came after zayn and made him look - well you know, like that - i just felt so helpless, you know? and-”

“you mean cameron?” liam interrupts, fork absentmindedly scraping across his plate.

tricia turns to him slowly. “hm?”

“it’s nothing, really. just... you said his name was cameron before, not joey.”

she does nothing but bore holes into him, her expression something unfriendly, almost menacing. but as soon as liam sees it, it’s gone, and she’s smiling again. “you’re right. i’ve slept with so many men in my lifetime i get all mixed up!” she laughs loudly, and the air in the room is nothing short of awkward. liam lifts his eyes to look at zayn, but he’s already looking back at him, lips parted and eyes opened wide, seemingly in awe. liam can’t think of a reason why. perhaps he is the first person to call zayn’s mother out on her bullshit.

-

“you did it,” liam says, barging into zayn’s room one afternoon, rubric in hand with a fat red A on it, his collage a success. “you are actually a genius. you-”

he freezes in place. zayn’s back faces him as he stands in front of his window, obviously unaware that liam was going to be coming. but it’s too late to grab a shirt and pull it over his head, too late to hide what’s staring liam in the face. it’s malicious and angry the way it curves over his back, a slash starting from the middle of his back and ending precisely at the holes dimpling his skin.

so his face isn’t the only thing that’s scarred.

“zayn,” liam breathes, walking towards him slowly. “what... how did that...”

“it was an accident,” zayn says, rummaging through his closet and pulling on the first thing he grabs.

liam stands behind him, and when he places a hand on zayn’s shoulder, zayn flinches away as if liam’s struck him.

“i’ve seen accidents, zayn. they don’t look like that.”

zayn snorts, “what do you care?” and liam tries to play it off like it doesn’t sting, doesn’t leave a bad taste in his mouth. (fails.)

“i do. i do care. and that... look, i don’t know what happened. i don’t know anything. but that looks serious.”

zayn sits on his bed, breathes in deeply, eyes closed. “it was a long time ago. believe it or not, that’s what it looks like fully healed.”

but liam can’t let go of the anger he saw just a minute ago, the twists and turns that etched themselves onto zayn’s back, canyons of red carved into marble. he sits next to him, doesn’t touch him this time. the paper he was holding is now crumpled in his fist.

“i’m not going to ask,” liam says with finality. zayn won’t look at him. “i just need to know that you’re okay. that’s it.”

zayn doesn’t respond, doesn’t even attempt to form words that will make sense or put the pieces together for liam.

he doesn’t want zayn angry with him, doesn’t know why he thinks this is the right time to bring it up. it just feels right.

liam’s voice sounds distant, even to himself, when he speaks. he toys with the fabric of his shirt, eyes averted. “sometimes it seems like... your mum... she seems... i mean, most of the time, she’s nice, you know? she seems so nice. and i’m not saying she isn’t, but sometimes, zayn... i just get this bad feeling, the way she looks at me, you know? the way she looks at you. i can’t explain it. please don’t be angry with me.”

the look on zayns face is one of darkness, his eyes clouded over, smoky, lips quirked upward ever so slightly. "you see through her.”

liam shoots him a confused look; it shapes his features slowly, his lips pouting slightly, trying to understand.

“that’s why she doesn’t like you, liam. no one knows it’s all a facade. and rarely anyone ever figures it out, even after so long.” he looks at liam pointedly. “but you do.”

zayn leans forward, breath on liam’s neck, but liam knows the hotness he feels there isn’t just from zayn alone. his mind wanders, picks pieces out of the past and stitches them together; the knives in his mother’s line of sight right before they moved in; when tricia had mentioned the name of the man responsible for disfiguring half of zayn’s face and then named a different one later; the malice with which her voice was drenched, even as she spoke to zayn alone, unaware of liam’s presence. so many things, so many instances, so many different occasions in which liam should have realized, should have paid closer attention, should have put the pieces together. they fit perfectly. liam wishes they didn’t.

zayn’s breath feels sticky now as it dampens liam’s neck. zayn points to his left cheek, still bandaged, always bandaged, and from the corner of liam’s eye, he can see that he’s smiling.

“no man has ever laid a hand on me,” he says. liam’s chest feels heavier than before, the weight of zayn’s confession like bricks mounded on his shoulders. he understands then all of zayn’s silences as his mother took on answering questions directed at him, perhaps afraid that her son would somehow betray her. if not with his words, then his eyes. they would tell the story zayn’s tongue couldn’t. liam can’t imagine how hard it’s been for him, keeping this inside all these years, not able to tell a single soul.

the next time liam finds it in himself to look zayn in the eye, his fears are confirmed. the upward quirk of zayns mouth, like he's surprised it's taken liam this long to understand, has liam's cheeks running red. all this time and he had never put it together. all this time and he had ignored tricia's act, her mask of flashy smiles and white pearly teeth, compliments always at the tip of her tongue. he feels sick to his stomach, like several pebbles have taken root of his abdomen, weighing him down, anchoring him to the ground even though he’s underwater.

his throat is dry when he swallows, breath sputtering unevenly. “did she ever... afterwards... did she...”

zayn nods. “face got ruined when i was seven. my back, she did that when i was thirteen. that was the last time.” the air around them in thick, cloudy, too heavy, and liam feels like he’s suffocating beneath it. “even through her drunkenness, it’s... different now. i think she can make out what she’s done, no matter how many bottles she’s gone through. she says that’s her punishment: the fact that she can’t take it back.” he toys with the carpet, a smile creeping onto his lips. “little does she know, it’s actually mine.”

liam doesn’t know what to say after that. his mind conjures different ways of saying i’m sorry, but none of them fit. none of them work. none of them undo the damage of tricia’s hands and alcohol.

so instead he says, “there’s nothing to punish you for. you’ve done nothing wrong.”

this is a boy who will never see another normal day of his life, who has not seen a normal day for years. it is not something he can shake from out of a bad dream, nor simply discard. he will have to live with it for the rest of his life. liam wants to cry. zayn never had a choice.

zayn is still smiling, and the degree of insincerity, the lack of color in it, makes liam’s stomach turn. “i was born, wasn’t i?”

liam doesn't say anything to that. and judging from the eerie calm that radiates from zayns body, he doesn't have to. words cannot fix this and they never will.

this time, when liam reaches out to him, he’s slow about it, takes his time, let’s zayn know it’s coming. their hands find each other, liam’s cold, zayn’s incredibly warm beneath them.

he is heartened when he realizes that several minutes have passed and zayn has not tried to pull away once.

-

it’s difficult after that, waking up in his bed with the knowledge that the boy next door was tortured by his mother for years, that that same boy is one he’s come to care about more than he is able to explain. it’s hard looking her in the eye with the knowledge of what she’s done in the back of his mind. he cannot be in close proximity with her. he cannot sit across from her or eat with her or laugh at her badly delivered jokes. and she notices, her lips curling over her teeth in a sinister way that only he catches on to. the way she suggests, “pour me some more wine, would you, liam?” while staring at him intently with the purpose to scare the shit out of him. he’s about to suggest she’s had enough, enough to last her a lifetime, but the look in zayn’s eyes, frantic and wild, makes him change his mind.

it’s been four years since she’s hurt zayn, but liam has no doubts in his mind that she could do it again.

“you need to quit whatever it is you’re doing, liam. getting angry isn’t going to solve anything,” zayn says to him shortly after, pacing around liam’s room, sunlight streaming in through the window. it’s oddly warm for the end of winter. liam takes note of how it hits his face just right, bringing out the squareness of his jaw, defined and angular. his skin is lighter than it was when they had first met, the sun being dormant these past few months, but it looks just as healthy and smooth.

“i’m sorry,” liam replies, bringing himself out of his thoughts. “it’s not intentional. just... i can’t look at her the same. i don’t.”

zayn kneels in front of him, looking up at him intently. “listen to me. none of this is your responsibility. none of this is in your control. i’m fine, okay?”

the same scenario plays itself out over the course of the next month, zayn reassuring liam and liam insisting that it’s not enough, that zayn isn’t safe with his mother. but there is nothing either of them can do, and honestly, zayn doesn’t seem scared of her, doesn’t shrink behind her like he used to. maybe he really is fine.

-

he’s good at avoiding harry, has it down to a science. it doesn’t take much effort. memorizing his schedule so that the chances of them running into each other are slim is pretty simple, and the fact that they share no classes makes it even better. liam had sort of expected to miss harry by now, to feel that part of himself was missing in a masochistic, self-deprecating sort of way. but he doesn’t. he feels free.

he doesn’t anticipate the growl in his ear when it sneaks up on him. “you must think i’m a real idiot, don’t you, payne?”

liam’s insides feel like they’re melting, his legs frozen in place. “harry-”

harry shakes his head. “nah, it’s cool. i get it. you’d rather fuck around with the handicapped than hang with your best mate since forever.”

liam rolls his eyes, stands a little taller. “quit being such a baby, harry. it’s pathetic.”

harry’s tongue makes its round over his teeth, a dastardly smile on his lips. “i’m pathetic?” he’s staring at the ground and liam knows from the look on his face that he’s hit a soft spot, knows this is the breaking point.

and he’s ready for it.

“yeah, all right, liam. but i’m not the one leading on helpless little boys and making them believe they’re worth something. not even i could do that, but you? it’s your specialty, isn’t it?”

liam’s shaking his head slowly, rubbing his temple. “i could never understand it. all these years, you had something against people who were different from you. always looked beneath people based on stupid circumstances. i don’t understand how you can live your life with that mindset.”

harry snorts. “what are you, voltaire now? c’mon,” he nods towards the door, “the lads and i are meeting up for drinks. don’t wanna be late.”

“has us not talking for a few months meant nothing to you?” liam rubs the nape of his neck, disbelief toning his voice. “i can’t go back to the way i was before. i can’t be around you like this. i meant what i said, harry. i’m done.”

harry stares at him for a long time, weighing the situation from every angle perhaps, or maybe trying to see if liam is serious or not. and then he turns without a word and walks away, bag heavily slung over his shoulder as he grasps it tightly.

maybe it’s the way he slumps his shoulders as he puts more distance between them or the indignant huff of breath that had escaped his lips before he walked away, but liam swears there’s a certain sadness in the air over harry’s head that follows him all the way out the door.

-

they’re sitting across from each other, zayn absentmindedly shuffling his deck and making random cards disappear and then appear again. liam has a comic book in front of him but isn’t reading. he can’t. not with the carnage taking place in his head.

“zayn?”

zayn doesn’t look up.

“i’m sorry.”

he wants to add what for, like it isn’t already obvious, but he feels he owes it to zayn to be specific, to put himself on the spot. for the times i walked ahead of you. for the times i let them laugh at you. for the times i was ashamed of you.

zayn rolls a card nimbly between his thumb and forefinger, expression thoughtful. “all right,” he replies, and goes back to practicing. liam watches him, confused, heat pooling in his stomach, worry filling the creases in his face. that’s it? where is his punishment? where is the iron that will brand his forehead with a stamp of shame? for all the grief he has caused, he thinks there must be some sort of bad karma headed his way. he’s sure it won’t come to him in small steps; rather, it will run into him with brute force and knock him out of breath.

“liam,” zayn interrupts tersely, “stop. i forgive you.”

liam knows he could hold the sun in his right hand, moon in his left, and give both to zayn as a peace offering; a way to say without words just how sorry he is for being so brutal, so savage and atrocious and heartless. he laughs bitterly. it’s ironic. he doesn’t bear a single scar on his body, not one blemish or bruise, not a single sign of damage, and yet, he is the ugly one.

zayn would accept the gifts with a smile. it wouldn't be enough.

-

spring slowly emerges, the leaves growing back on their branches and the sun making more frequent visits above them. with the warmth comes good moods and less despair, and everything is fine for a while. liam and zayn sit outside on the grass, liam picking petals off of flowers. he doesn’t expect zayn to talk about it.

“it isn’t all her fault, you know, sheltering me the way she has. for some reason i think that even if she hadn’t done it, she still would’ve hovered over me, controlling my every move.” he picks at the blades of grass beneath them, eyes averted, full of concentration and something else liam has trouble picking up on. “she saw the way kids looked at me, how they used to treat me, even though i never went to school with them. she always used to tell me how guilty she felt. she told me, ‘if i hear of a single person picking on you, we’ll pack up and go. we’ll never look back.’ but i never told her. she just knew.”

liam feels courage boil beneath his chest, and he realizes he always finds himself caught between wanting to tell the truth but not wanting to upset zayn. “that doesn’t make it okay.”

zayn stops, freezes mid-grab, blades falling from his fist. “‘course it doesn’t. she’s the reason i’m like this, why i’ll never be normal. she’s the reason for all of it.” he sucks air deep into his lungs and closes his eyes, as if gulping all the oxygen in the world wouldn’t be enough and he’d still be left gasping for air, out of breath. when he speaks again, his voice is only a whisper and comes out in drawn puffs. he’s tired. “i barely remember what it was like before. i don’t remember the life i had without this - this thing on my fucking face.”

it’s the first real spout of anger liam has seen, the first real sliver of anguish he’s witnessed since he’s met zayn. the telling eyes and quirked lips and broody expression - those were only glimpses into how zayn felt, what he thought. and now he was letting liam, even if just a little. liam plays with his hands and feels as if he’s standing on the edge of a rocky cliff and zayn is a firework going off in the distance, shedding its light.

they watch as the sun sets itself in the middle of the sky, inch by inch disappearing what looks like further into the ground. they lean back on their palms and let the dirt sink into their fingernails.

just as the last splinter of light hangs around them, moon ready to set itself in place, liam turns to him. “my mum used to be a fortune teller. did you know?”

zayn licks his lips. “my mum mentioned it once. why?”

“she knew you were coming. even before you were here, she knew.”

a black brow molds into the shape of a tent over zayn’s right eye. “did she now.”

liam nods. “it was the day before you moved in. she looked like she had just seen a ghost and i asked what was wrong. she told me she saw something, this one thing, everywhere she went, in the randomest places. the side of the road and the supermarket and on bookshelves. places that that object shouldn’t be.”

he watches as zayn’s brow slowly falls back in place, his gaze breaking away and looking towards the trees and the other houses; perhaps anything else.

a long stretch of silence follows, and zayn finally whispers, “i see.”

liam’s eyebrows knit together. “don’t you want to know what it was?”

zayn absentmindedly runs a hand over his left cheek. he’s smiling. “it’s kind of obvious, isn’t it?”

-

at first he thinks the pounding is in his head, part of a dream. the sound of a fist colliding with wood over and over and over again doesn’t leave him though, doesn’t change into the next scene, and he suddenly realizes it isn’t a dream at all.

karen runs into his room, baseball bat in hand. “whoever it is, i’m gonna kill them!” she creeps towards the staircase but liam stops her, insisting he walk ahead. when they get to the door, bat held firmly in karen’s hands, liam swings it open, both their mouths open in horror.

“zayn,” karen breathes, a hand clasping over her mouth, “darling, what happened to your face?”

his lip is busted, that’s for sure, as well as his right eye, which liam is sure will be black by the time noon rolls around. without thinking he pulls zayn inside by the cuff of his sleeve and drags him into the kitchen, sitting him in a chair. blood is oozing from his mouth, his eye swelling the more liam looks at it.

“i’ll get the first aid kit,” karen says hurriedly, fiddling around in the medicine cabinet. she comes over with it in her hand. “was it one of those little shits from school? just say the word and i will have their asses whipped in a second.”

zayn smiles at her, but quickly retracts from doing so as his lip splits open further. he groans in pain. “no - um. it wasn’t - it wasn’t anyone from school.” he looks at liam knowingly, and liam can’t seem to find it in himself to balance properly because he trips over nothing. he walks to the freezer to retrieve ice and wrap it in a towel.

karen levels their eyes. “now you listen to me, zayn. you need to tell me who is responsible for this. they need to pay for what they did.”

“you’re too nice to point fingers, mrs. payne,” zayn replies, taking the towel from liam and placing it to his lip. “took a while, but the alcohol finally got to her. she just lost it. you don’t have to worry, she’s long gone by now, told me to wait a while before talking to anyone. jail isn’t really her thing, you know how it is.”

karen sits now, stunned, like her fears being confirmed are too much for her to physically handle. “son of a bitch,” she murmurs. “like hell it isn’t.” she reaches for the phone, but zayn grabs hold of her arm in earnest.

“please, mrs. payne. don’t. it would do a lot more harm than good. i’m still a minor; they’ll put me in a home with a bunch of violent people i don’t know. and they won’t find her, trust me. trust me.” liam knows the only thing keeping his mum from calling the police isn’t the words coming out of zayn’s mouth but the pleading look on his face. she cups it lovingly, stroking his cheek with her thumb.

“such a sweet boy,” she whispers, her voice cracking as tears spill onto her face. zayn holds her hand in his own, ice still pressed to his mouth.

liam digs around in the first aid kit, pulling out things he needs and then wetting a napkin under the faucet before sitting down in front of zayn. “i can take it from here, mum. go get some sleep.”

karen shakes her head. “there’s no way i can sleep now. how about i make us some tea?” nobody answers as she heads into the kitchen.

he starts by cleaning the wound on zayn’s lip and tries not to pay too much attention to the broken blood vessels beneath zayn’s olive skin. there will be bruises there later. bruises that do not deserve to be on zayn’s body.

zayn grabs hold of his chin and turns it towards himself. “hey, look at me,” he says, and the warmth of his fingers on liam’s face has electricity running through his body. “i’m fine, see?”

“stop trying to be so strong all the time. you don’t have to with me,” liam says, regrets the harshness of his tone and tries to soften his face instead. zayn hasn’t removed his hand from liam’s face. “i’m sorry,” he whispers.

zayn’s fingers caress liam’s skin, rub circles into his jaw as if to reassure him that he’s okay, but liam doesn’t want reassurance. he wants to be the one to reassure, to let zayn know that as long as he’s alive he will never let zayn be touched like this again. he rubs ointment onto his index finger, gently rubbing it onto zayn’s lips and willing them to heal so that maybe one day his own lips will know the feeling of zayn’s underneath them. zayn watches him all the while and it’s so early in the morning and the sun is only just rising but liam feels so warm under his gaze.

once the ointment is generously applied, he moves on to zayn’s eye, isn’t quite sure what to do with it except leave it be and let it heal on its own as all black eyes do.

when karen comes back with three cups of tea, they sit in silence for the longest time. it’s a weekday, but that’s clearly the last thing on any of their minds. liam watches the way zayn’s adam’s apple bobs up and down every time he takes a sip, his eyes closed and shoulders hunched over the table. he is too polite to excuse himself.

“i’d better get him to bed,” liam says, standing up and taking zayn’s waist into his possession as zayn stands with him, turning to karen.

“i’ll tell you everything later, mrs. payne,” zayn says, eyes droopy. karen nods into her mug and watches as liam leads him upstairs.

liam fluffs the pillows and pulls down the covers, gesturing for zayn to get under them and tucking them up to his chin once he does. zayn fights hard not to smile but can’t help it, pain still biting his lips. his eyes are closed.

“i’ll be right here on the floor if you need anything, okay?” liam is about to head to the linen closet before zayn is shaking his head.

“here,” he says, patting the open space next to him, not opening his eyes and clearly not in the mood to argue. liam isn’t either, so without further question, he falls in beside him, making himself comfortable under the covers. it isn’t until he feels the even rhythm of zayn’s breathing that he is able to succumb to sleep.

-

it surprises him more than anything when, as they sit around the table later, zayn tells them every piece of the story, every bit of his horrifying past and karen does not shed a single tear. it astonishes him when all that masks her face is blatant anger, her fists clenched as they grip the wood of her chair. liam’s never seen his mum like this.

he’s in the attic rummaging through old photographs and sighs when he sees one of his mother and father, himself in between them smiling at the camera. they’re out to sea, on a tiny boat, but liam barely remembers the trip. his stares at it for what seems like eons before the floorboards creak behind him.

zayn doesn’t sit beside him; just leans against an old dresser, arms folded across his chest. he should be resting, liam thinks, but doesn’t voice it aloud.

“what happened to him?”

liam glances back at the photo. “has more important things to do than see me, i guess.”

zayn sits himself on an abandoned nightstand, his weight barely affecting it at all, feet dangling off the edge. he shrugs. “his loss, then.”

“yeah,” liam sighs heavily, tossing the picture back in the box, “his loss.”

there’s an air between the two of them, an air that’s different from before. like the aroma they’re both currently bathing in is full of unfinished sentences and dark secrets and scary monsters and it suffocates them a little.

"my face eaten by a dog." zayn laughs without humor, biting his bottom lip. he looks away, and through the haze of sunlight peeking through the tiny window, the bruises on his face and the swelling of his eye don’t look as harsh. "i wish it were true."

his nimble fingers pick at the edge of the bandage, pulling at it until the glue is parting ways with his skin, and liam feels that this is big. huge. he boldly covers zayn’s hand with his own to which zayn looks up at him, confused.

“you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

zayn’s lips part slowly, head nodding. “i want to.”

and then it’s peeled off. the only kind way liam can think of it is to say that it isn’t as frightening as he had assumed it would be, the way zayn’s mother had spoken about it as if maggots had taken root in the empty crevices of zayn’s cheek; the way one part of it protrudes upwards from the balanced plane of his skin, like a thin mound, and the other sinks into his cheek, transparency where russet flesh should be. the skin is stitched it seems, starting at the corner of his brow and ending at the edge of his jaw. where the rest of zayn’s skin is olive-toned, the scar is a few shades darker; it has healed, liam notices, in unforgivable ways.

it’s strange, looking at it up close for the first time, so close that if liam reaches out he’d easily be able to touch it, feel the raised flesh on his fingertips. zayn seems to sense liam’s thoughts, and liam remembers the way he thought zayn could read him like an open book, because zayn jerks away then, abruptly, without apology. his jaw clenches and his eyes search everywhere but liam’s face as they avoid his general direction, but it is not in unkind. it is as if he is wondering if this was a mistake, showing liam; being so honest with him and inviting him into his private corner to take a peek at what people have tormented him about for most of his life. if maybe liam should have gone his whole life without seeing him this way. and liam thinks this strange because this isn’t like zayn, the boy in front of him now, who is always so sure of himself, so unapologetic for the way he is. it is as if something has taken root deep inside him, changed him somehow.

“she was right, wasn’t she? to make me hide it.” zayn is already motioning to put the bandage back where it was just moments ago, and before liam can think about what he’s doing, he’s firmly gripping zayn’s arm, stopping him.

“no.” it’s all he can find in him to utter. zayn looks at him, makes him feel naked under his gaze. “there’s nothing wrong with it. with the way you look.”

zayn scoffs. “right. tell that to every person who’s ever seen it and made a disgusted face. i’m not stupid, liam. i’m hideous. i know.” liam is still gripping zayn’s arm, but he doesn’t try releasing his fingers, and zayn doesn’t try to pull away, nor does he try to cover it again.

“you are not.” he surprises himself with the way it comes out, so defiant, so resolute. it’s not his place to speak about it, to argue even, but he feels the need to anyway. “trust me, zayn, i’ve seen hideous.” your mother. harry. me. “you aren’t it.”

it comes out of nowhere, but it hits him like lightning, surges through his body like he’s been struck, paralyzed, and suddenly he wants to know every thought that has ever brewed inside zayn’s intelligent brain, all the dreams he has ever had, all the goals and aspirations. did he ever want to be a teacher? a chemist? a marine biologist? what was his life like before the accident? who were his old friends? was it hard saying goodbye? what was his first impression of liam?

and then, as lightly as his movement will allow, liam places his hand atop zayn’s again. he doesn’t look over at him or steal looks at zayn’s expression to get a glimpse into what he’s thinking, how he’s feeling. he doesn’t rub or caress or soothe zayn’s soft skin as he wishes to, and admits to feeling a bit embarrassed at the sweat that’s forming under his palm. he holds still, determined to give zayn this one sliver of undoubted determination that he lost the first day he laid eyes on him. he is braver now, has some courage in him. he is not who he used to be, not like he was before. he wants more than anything to prove this not just to zayn, but to himself. he is ashamed. he wants zayn to know this.

if they were different, if the two of them had grown up any other way, if zayn wasn’t scarred both physically and psychologically, liam wouldn’t have asked. wouldn’t have felt the need to. would have known that it was something zayn would want. but they aren’t. they are two boys, one of which has lived through torment beyond the other’s comprehension, and for that reason, liam inquires before acting.

“can i?” he asks, face leaning closer and closer toward zayn until he can count his lashes, dark and thick and so long. he watches as zayn licks his lips, saliva coating them generously, before he nods, mouth open slightly.

liam doesn’t know what he expected; he kind of hoped any kiss he shared with zayn would be mundane, ordinary, stupid, meaningless. that way any doubt he ever had about him could vanish into nothingness and disappear. but it isn’t. some part of him expected it to be like fireworks, blues and yellows and greens under a black backdrop that made him rock on his heels and fist his hands into zayn’s shirt. instead it’s slow and searing and hues of red that start on his tongue and make their way down to his throat and his heart and his stomach and it burns.

zayn’s lips feel incredibly soft. and he may come off as a boy who is self-assured, who knows everything there is to know about any and every sex, but from zayn’s body language alone liam can tell he’s going to have to be the one to take initiative. so he does, his teeth biting gently on zayn’s bottom lip, pulling ever so slightly, causing zayn’s mouth to open wider until liam slips his tongue against zayn’s. zayn’s mouth is warm, unbelievably so, his tongue soothing, like maybe it could heal all the scars in the world. liam opens his eyes a little and revels in the sereneness of zayn’s face. he spots all the places where creases would normally be, armor disguised as disdain and ruggedness, which are now patches of smooth skin.

“you have beautiful lips,” liam murmurs, their mouths still attached. he realizes zayn will probably laugh at him for it, is surprised when he doesn’t. “and hands.” he finds them, locking their fingers together, breaking the connection of their lips only to kiss all ten of zayn’s knuckles instead. “and your neck...” his thumb runs up and down it as he cups it with his hand. he leans forward, still wary as he stops just in front of zayn’s chin when he’s interrupted.

zayn rolls his eyes. “ugh, stop. you really don’t have to.”

liam ignores him. “do i even need to say it? your jaw is incredible.” he kisses along the bone as zayn sits still as stone, letting him. liam can tell he knows it’s coming, figures zayn is bracing himself for it, for the truth he’s never been told that he doesn’t quite believe himself. and liam has to be careful, wants so much for zayn to see in himself what he sees. he looks at him, but his expression is unreadable.

he starts with the right side of zayn’s face, just at the end of his eyebrow. the kisses trail down to his chin and then his nose and then his left brow and liam prays he doesn’t run away. his fingers trace the scar lightly, as lightly as his calloused hands will allow, up and down, and the feeling of zayn staring straight at him makes his temperature rise, but he continues anyway. memorizing the feeling of it on his fingertips. mapping it out. programming it permanently into his brain. he doesn’t want to forget.

slowly, but not hesitantly, he kisses his way over the scarred flesh, each and every inch of it. it’s bumpy beneath his lips but not at all terrible or vile or disgusting or any of the things zayn had always described it as. he doesn’t stop until, like his fingers, his lips have memorized the feeling of it under them.

“your face,” liam murmurs, eyes mirroring zayn’s, locking their fingers once again, “your face is the most beautiful thing.”

zayn blinks, hot breath blowing in liam’s face. and then tears are welling up in his eyes and spilling over onto his cheeks. his lips don’t quiver, his body doesn’t shake, but his eyes. his eyes do all the talking there is, saying that he understands and he knows and it’s been too long since he’s been told. and then he’s nodding, shoulders hunched over, the whole of him falling into liam, arms clasping around liam’s waist as liam takes him in and holds him near, kissing whatever part of him is closest: the top of his head, his ear, his arm. he whispers how beautiful zayn is to him over and over and over for what seems like hours, willing zayn to believe it himself, wanting it more than anything. it isn’t long before zayn is still in his arms, and they stay like that for an infinite amount of time neither of them can calculate.

-

people don’t bother trying to hide their grimaces at the sight of zayn, his face torn up, eye three different colors, scar exposed. he wants to shelter zayn with his body, use it as a wall to protect him from all the stares as they walk through school and in and out of class. he’s about to yell out that they’re all a bunch of dirty pricks who need to get lives, but then he realizes it isn’t the scar they’re gawking at. it’s his most recent injuries.

“man, what happened to him?” a girl asks, placing a hand on zayn’s shoulder. “you all right, mate?”

it takes everything liam has not to openly scoff at her or roll his eyes. where was she when he was getting tormented every damn day? he keeps it to himself instead.

zayn shrugs, unaffected by the unusual contact. “‘m fine. should really be getting to class though.”

they can’t ignore the whispering, but that element isn’t anything new. liam’s witnessed it from day one and, for the most part, has completely blocked it out.

no, the thing that’s different is the looks on their faces. like they aren’t disgusted or revolted but something else. concerned almost.

and it’s obvious as to why. it’s only been three days since zayn moved in with liam, his wounds still fresh, eye still dark and excruciating looking, but he had insisted on coming to school. liam knew he wasn’t stupid; people heard about his mum, about all the things she’d done. perhaps they felt shame, liam wondered, but quickly disposed of that thought.

he doesn’t notice harry beside him until he hears a raspy voice and a clear of the throat. “um. hey, liam.”

without thinking liam grabs zayn by the hand to which harry chuckles lightly. there’s something different about him, not in the way he dresses or how he styles his hair, but his face. his face looks calmer, less creased, less vicious.

“i have nothing to say to you, harry,” liam says, voice leveled.

“good, because i came to talk to him,” harry answers, and turns himself towards zayn, who looks suspicious.

harry shoves his hands in his pockets, something he only does when nervous. “i, uh. i heard about what happened to you, zayn. i...” he clears his throat once more, eyes shifting from zayn’s to the floor and back. “did liam ever tell you about my dad?” he closes his eyes and breathes in deeply before opening them to look zayn directly in the eye. “he tortured me and mum when i was little. like, really little, luckily, so i barely remember most of it. but that’s the thing. i do still remember some of it and it’s... it’s not easy, is it?” he fidgets, plays with his hands. “that’s why i’m such shit for a person. i’m all screwed up thanks to a few bad childhood years. but you never should have had to deal with the consequences. i’m here because i want to say i’m sorry.”

zayn stares at him, bites his bottom lip raw. he looks like he’s about to answer when harry interrupts.

“you don’t have to forgive me. don’t feel like you have to. i understand if you don’t. there’s a long list of people i need to start giving apologies to and i just figured, why not start with the one that deserves it the most, yeah?” he turns to liam. “and i’m sorry to you too. i should have just listened to you. you were my best friend and i should’ve...”

harry looks so young now as he struggles to find words; nothing but bouncy curls and rosy cheeks and a huge dimple and liam wants more than anything to go back to when they were young and innocent and full of life. maybe he never gave harry credit for being who he was. maybe he should have paid more attention and been there for him more given his past.

liam doesn’t hesitate, just brings harry into his arms and lets him stay there as his hoodie gets soaked. he mouths it’s okay into his ear and watches as zayn puts a comforting hand on harry’s back and squeezes his shoulder.

when harry stops crying and gets to wiping his eyes, zayn says, “shit. are we a lifetime movie or what?” and they laugh for a long time after that.

-

it’s a cliche if liam’s ever heard one, but it’s like time doesn’t exist with zayn around. at first he thought maybe he’d get tired of the extra company and want back his personal space, but more and more time passes between them and liam only feels himself falling deeper and harder. he loves coming home from a run, exhausted and worn out, only to find zayn lying down on his bed with a book in hand waiting for him. zayn smiles with teeth, face fully healed now, and pulls liam down on top of him, hands roaming over liam’s lower back, nails digging into his sides.

“i’m -” kiss. “all -” kiss. “sweaty.” liam moves to get off of him but zayn keeps his hold on him, grips him arms tightly.

“just one more,” zayn pleads, eyes big and lips pouty, and liam can’t help but succumb to more kisses than he bargained for.

it goes like that a lot, them getting deeper and deeper into something more sensual and erotic with hands everywhere against each other until liam has to put it to an end. he doesn’t want zayn to end up regretting anything, doesn’t want zayn to resent him.

they’re lazily in bed another time, lips locked tightly, zayn resting on top of liam while liam’s hands hold him by his hips. zayn’s hands fist at liam’s shirt, a low whine escaping the back of his throat before liam tugs it over his shoulders. liam works zayn’s zip-up off as it pools around zayn’s wrists and gets thrown onto the floor.

he knows it makes zayn cringe most of the time but he can’t help it. “you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, thumbing zayn’s cheeks and running his lips over his scar. “so lucky to have you.”

zayn buries his face in liam’s neck shyly, tongues at the skin there. he learned a while ago to just put up with liam’s compliments and take them in stride. but even long after zayn believes it, liam will continue to shower him with praise and admiration. it is everything he deserves.

“liam.” he looks up at liam’s browns curiously. “have you ever had sex before?” liam’s cheeks heat up and all he manages to do is shake his head. “me neither,” zayn whispers, and liam props himself on his elbows to kiss along his collarbone and up his neck and back down again. he gasps when he feels zayn’s hands grip his thighs and run up and down them ruggedly.

“zayn,” liam murmurs, connecting their lips again. zayn puts a leg on either side of liam’s body and leans down again to suck on liam’s bottom lip.

“let’s do it,” zayn whispers against his skin, hair nuzzling liam’s nose.

liam looks at him warily. “we can wait, zayn, honest.”

zayn looks at him adoringly, dragging his teeth along liam’s jaw. “always taking care of me, you are.”

liam closes his eyes as zayn ruts against him, both of them still clothed from the waist down. “take off your shirt, yeah?” liam asks, and zayn complies within seconds. his fingers find the scar without trouble, gently tracing it from zayn’s shoulder blades to the end of his back. he knows old wounds don’t hurt once they’re healed, but he wants to be careful just in case.

zayn digs his fingernails into his thighs, begging for more and aggressively so, but liam only watches as zayn unbuckles his belt and gets off the bed, pulling out of his trousers until he’s left in nothing but dark grey boxers. liam takes it all in, the sight of zayn standing there more than half naked in front of him, lust and want in his eyes and it’s almost too much. zayn makes his way back to the bed slowly, and liam knows he feels too exposed. he pulls him down on top of him once more, but the second zayn lands on him, he flips them both over, zayn’s head now pillowed on the bed.

he plants kisses all over his chest, not leaving a single inch untouched by his lips. he takes his time, too, basking in the way zayn trembles beneath him, cock hard under his boxers.

“how are you real?” liam murmurs, fingers tracing zayn’s nipple, other hand holding him up. he’d crush zayn if he put his full weight on him. “you should see yourself right now, underneath me and so beautiful.”

he kisses around zayn’s belly button, moves toward his hipbones and back again. zayn tastes like sweat and spice and liam can’t get enough of him. when zayn bucks his hips up, liam’s mouth a little too close to where zayn’s boxers begin, liam pulls them down a few inches and plants kisses there too.

“liam,” zayn pants, “please.”

liam can’t ignore the hardness forming under his trousers, but he can’t think about himself right now. all he wants to do is focus on everything zayn.

he bites the inside of zayn’s thighs, a soft moan escaping zayn’s lips. “tell me what you want.”

zayn manages to lift his head, look at liam directly. “what would you be willing to do?”

using his teeth, he pulls zayn’s boxers the rest of the way off, zayn lifting his hips to help him out, and throws them somewhere behind him.

“whatever you want,” liam answers, kisses getting closer and closer to zayn’s dick. “just want to make you feel good.”

zayn moans, louder this time, his head falling back onto the bed. “i... i want you in me. that’s what i want.”

liam keeps a firm hand on zayn’s thigh but moves up the bed so he’s face to face with him again, lips grazing zayn’s. “it’s going to hurt.”

zayn grabs hold of his waist, rutting himself upward and liam’s eyes fall shut, speechless. “it’ll be worth it. let’s get you out of those trousers first though.”

zayn moves to unbutton his pants and liam lets him. once they’re off, zayn wastes no time in pressing their lips back together, this time needier than all the others. he slips both hands under the waistband of liam’s briefs, nails digging into his skin, dragging them off as best he can until liam gets rid of them himself.

“jesus. you photoshopped or what?” zayn teases, hands roaming all over liam’s body.

“you should be saying that about yourself, actually,” liam comments, gasping when zayn runs a hand over his cock.

“you have everything we need, right?” zayn asks shyly, eyes glazed over. “i’m not gonna last very long as this rate.”

liam nods, reaches under the bed and comes back up with lube and a condom. “mum and i are embarrassingly open about this kind of stuff,” he says in response to zayn’s smirk.

“mm, want you in me,” zayn murmurs against his neck, and that alone sends a shiver down liam’s spine. zayn whines when he sits on his knees, places his hands on each of them.

“spread your legs,” he commands, and zayn obliges. he slicks his fingers with a generous amount of lube and sticks one of them in zayn’s hole, gently and slowly. he watches as zayn’s eyes flutter shut, teeth biting down on his lip, a look liam doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to. he crooks his finger, stretches the skin as much as possible before adding another one, and then zayn’s moans become more erratic, breathing uneven and heavy.

“liam, fuck,” he moans, fisting the sheets, back arching every time liam hits his sweet spot. “okay, that’s good, i’m - i’m good.”

he whines when liam’s fingers leave him though, and liam slips on the condom and puts lube at the end of it. he doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s scared, cock lined up perfectly. all he has to do is push.

when he does nothing, zayn looks at him expectantly. “what’s wrong?”

“i don’t want to hurt you,” liam whispers, trying his best to ignore the heat coiling in his stomach that just wants to let go and fuck zayn senseless.

zayn sits up, grabs hold of liam’s neck firmly. “you couldn’t if you tried. i want this, liam. i want you.”

liam still hesitates, thinks it over again.

“do you trust me?” zayn asks.

“you know i do.”

zayn nods. “then trust that i’m going to be fine. trust that i want this enough that the pain will be worth it. trust me.”

liam kisses him softly, pushes zayn back down and maneuvers himself on top of him again. when his tip grazes zayn’s hole, he asks, “this okay?”

zayn’s eyes are sewn shut, lips darting out to lick at his mouth needily. “yes. please.”

he goes slowly, doesn’t miss the way zayn’s mouth twists in pain as he slips in more and more, but he soon realizes it’s a mix of that and pleasure. the way his chest heaves up and down like he can’t get enough while his eyes are shut tightly, mouth contorting like he can’t get enough. liam buries himself inside of zayn as far as he’ll go, allows him to adjust to his size before zayn says, “you can move. please.”

liam bottoms out, burying himself inside zayn slowly again, softly. he’s sure not to make any sudden movements, calculates every twist of zayn’s face to make sure he’s doing it right.

when he thrusts in the fourth time, just as calmly and subtly as the first, zayn opens his eyes and digs his nails into liam’s hip. “i’m not going to break, liam. hey, look at me. i’m not going to break. look at me. i’m fine.” his hands cup the back of liam’s thighs, a gasp leaving liam’s throat at the contact. “now please,” he whispers into liam’s ear, “fuck me raw.”

he lets his self control slack, his body seeking pleasure and lust and wanting to see those same emotions in zayn as well. he drives himself into zayn, watches as a litany of expletives leave his mouth as he moans in pleasure, pleasure liam is giving him. and liam finds it amazing that he’s able to do this for zayn, to make him feel something no one else has been able to.

“you feel so good,” he says, showering zayn with kisses, “this is the best i’ve ever felt.”

needing a new angle, he brings his palms under zayn’s shoulders and lifts him up so they’re both vertical on the bed, liam slamming into him harder and faster, a good rhythm now going. when zayn pants, “yes, liam, there, please, please, right there, yes, fuck, liam,” he knows zayn is about to come any second. he puts a hand between them and strokes him through it, feels warm liquid coating his palm within seconds. two thrusts later and he’s coming inside zayn, the two of them sweaty and sticky and laden with each other’s cum. he quickly disposes of the condom and lays beside him, their chests heaving uncontrollably.

he knows they should head for the shower, but the feeling of after-sex has him feeling so calm, so content. he doesn’t want to move at all.

zayn rolls onto his side and buries his head into the crook of liam’s neck. liam threads through his messy hair and plants a kiss on the top of his head.

“that was... you were...”

“don’t even get me started,” liam interrupts. “you were incredible. i’m still kind of in shock.”

zayn snorts. “what. you saying you didn’t think i’d be a good lay?”

liam rolls his eyes. “i think even if you tried to suck, you couldn’t.”

“oh, so now you’re saying i’d be bad at blowjobs as well?” zayn retorts, a huge smile on his face, teeth gleaming as he stares up at liam. he doesn’t think it can get much better than this.

“so,” zayn continues, finger tracing shapes into liam’s chest, “who’s up for round two?”

-

he didn’t think it’d weigh this much, hadn’t anticipated it when he saw it from far away. it looked particularly feeble actually, and liam was sure carrying it would be a sinch. and it would have been if he wasn’t responsible for all the supplies he was holding, juggling everything - puppy in one hand, food, toys, and treats in the other. getting the dog into his car was a different story. turns out he’s very much afraid of vehicles, liam realizes, and it takes him the better part of fifteen minutes coaxing him inside.

“come on, boy. it’ll all be smooth sailing once you get in, i promise.” but the dog's only flattened his ears, big puppy eyes frightened.

the drive went better than expected other than the wailing of the animal from the passenger seat. when liam gets home, he carries him into the house sneakily, wanting to make sure zayn doesn't see just yet.

“zayn, come down! need your help!”

zayn appears at the top of the stairs moments later. “what is it, li? i was finally getting into the summer reading.”

“toilet’s clogged. need you to help me with it,” liam says, gesturing for him to come down.

zayn wrinkles his nose. “no way. you’re a big boy. do it yourself.”

“zayn,” liam pleads, pouts his lips as far as they’ll go. he clasps his hands together in earnest. “please, zayn? please?”

zayn sighs,a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “i hate you.”

when he gets to the bottom, liam places his hands over zayn’s eyes. “it’s a bit of a sight. don’t want to shock you with it or anything.”

“jesus, liam, you’re the sickest bastard i ever-”

liam removes his hands and there, sitting calmly in front of zayn is a golden retriever puppy, its fur soft and beautiful, tongue sticking out of its mouth playfully as it pants. the second it sees zayn, it runs to him, paws pressed against zayn’s knee until he picks it up and pets it lovingly.

“you... you got me a dog?” zayn asks, too much love in his voice.

“think of it as an early birthday present. couldn’t help myself.”

“my birthday’s in january.”

liam leans forward and kisses zayn full on the mouth. “fine, forget the pathetic excuse then. oh, and i love you.”

zayn puts the dog back on the ground but only to wrap his arms around liam’s upper body, hands entwining behind liam’s neck and sighing as they kiss. “i love you. thank you. i love him already.”

liam smiles and looks at the puppy. “looks like i’m gonna have some competition from now on, aren’t i?” he turns to zayn. “what are you gonna name him? bruce? rob? scott?”

zayn mulls it over for a bit, leans down to pet him again. “he will not bear a name related to the kardashians, liam, i forbid it. nah, i already had a name in mind the second i saw him.”

“oh?” liam asks, hand running up and down zayn’s spine and then over his left cheek. “and what’s that?”

zayn retrieves a deck of cards from his trouser pocket, smiles. “houdini.”

liam crowds into his space, holds his waist tenderly. “we’re sort of like magic, aren’t we?”

he can feel zayn’s eyes rolling, but fondly so - it’s always so fondly - as zayn replies, “yeah. we kind of are.”