Chapter Text
Zayn
The sound of a phone ringing echoed loudly in the room. Zayn groaned and waited a second, praying it would just stop. It didn’t.
His head hurt. Nothing unbearable, though. In fact, waking up with a hangover was kind of the usual for him, at this point. It was more like a steady ache than the pounding, sharp pain that it used to be. A large cup of coffee and maybe an Advil or two and he’d be fine.
“You going to get that?” a quiet female voice asked.
Zayn rolled over to meet a pair of narrowed blue eyes and raised brown eyebrows. She was pretty, at least. Too bad he couldn’t remember what the hell her name was, or if she’d been any good. Not that it really mattered. The whole night before was kind of a blur. He really needed to stop partying on weekdays.
“Hey,” Zayn said slowly. He vaguely recalled her mouthing a name to him over the loud thumping of music. Something with a ‘c’ or a ‘k’. “Cassandra.”
“My name’s Kate,” she snapped, climbing out of bed. Zayn didn’t apologize, but he did watch as she pulled on her clothes, going much slower than she probably usually did, attempting to give him a show. “You know, you might be great in bed, Zayn Malik,” she told him, grabbing for her shirt without a bra, “but you’re a real prick.”
Zayn grinned at her. “Thanks.”
“It wasn’t a compliment,” she hissed. “In fact, don’t bother calling me.”
Zayn nodded. He wasn’t going to anyways. And he didn’t think he had her number. He hoped she didn’t have his. “Bye.”
She slammed his bedroom door behind her as she went, and the sound made the aching in his head double. He rubbed the back of his hand against his eyes, trying to get all the sleep out, and reached blindly for his phone with the other hand. It had started ringing again.
“What?” Zayn demanded as he answered it.
“You still sleeping?” the voice on the other end asked. Steve -- fuck, he hated Steve-- didn’t wait for Zayn to answer. Probably didn’t need to. “Well get up, you shit. I need you to do a run for me.”
Zayn pulled the phone away from his ear to check the time. It was only ten in the morning, and he was pretty sure he hadn’t gotten home until around three, and then he’d hooked up with Katrina or whatever her name was, so he probably hadn’t passed out until around four. He sighed loudly.
“Where?”
“Verton College, the one by--,”
“I know where it is,” Zayn told him.
“Right, well, you’re looking for a kid with curly hair, drives a shitty little green car. He’s meeting you in the lot. Name’s Harry.”
Zayn swung his legs out of bed, phone still pressed to his ear. He hated dealing at any school, to be honest. It wasn’t the smartest thing to do, and the fact that a teacher could walk out at any moment tended to make him a bit too paranoid.
“Alright,” Zayn agreed anyways, because this was Steve, and he couldn’t afford to shoot Steve down, not when he was normally the only reason Zayn made enough money to pay the rent on his apartment. “I’ll be there in about forty minutes.”
“Course you will,” Steve agreed. “Then stop by my place. I’ve got someone who can take an ounce off your hands.”
Zayn made another sound of affirmation and then ended the call. It was too early to talk to Steve for more than five minutes.
Zayn pushed thoughts of Steve and girls with blue eyes out of his mind as he headed to the bathroom to brush his teeth and shower. His mouth tasted like shit, and he could feel the sweat and dirt from the club he’d went to the night before, not to mention the sex, coating his skin.
His apartment wasn’t bad, but the bathroom was definitely the worst part. The water pressure was never good, and you’d be lucky to get enough hot water for more than a ten minute shower. Then again, the place was cheap, and the landlord hadn’t cared that Zayn was underage when he’d started renting it, or that he had no job, technically.
“As long as the rent comes in, I don’t give a shit how you get it,” he’d said a year and a half ago, when Zayn had first looked at the place. He’d known from that moment on that this was the place for him.
And it was, really. He loved his apartment. It might be shit, and his neighbours might be irritating, but the apartment was his, and that was all that mattered. Everything in it belonged to him -- except maybe the blue bra that he’d seen hanging off the bedside table--, and had been paid for by him. It was better than living on the streets-- which he’d done for about a week after his parents had first thrown him out-- or crashing on the couches of people he only tolerated because he could get something out of them.
Zayn turned off the already cold water and towelled himself off. The bathroom mirror would be too fogged up for the next ten minutes for him to do anything about his hair, so he headed for the kitchen, wearing nothing but the towel around his waist.
One look in the cupboards and fridge told him that he’d need to take whatever money he made today and go shopping. He had half a loaf of bread that was already starting to go mouldy, leftovers from that premade lasagne that he’d made-- he couldn’t even remember when. Probably wasn’t safe to eat that. There were a few cans of things that really didn’t look appetising, and then a quarter of a bottle of vodka.
He grabbed the vodka, held it in his hand for a moment, and then decided to put it back. He needed to make money today. He had about twenty quid in his pocket, but he’d already be spending part of that to get around on the city. He had more than enough product, he just needed to get it out there. He couldn’t afford to get smashed that early in the day, even if a shot of vodka would probably get rid of the ache in his head.
He didn’t bother doing his hair up, since he’d only be doing runs all day anyways, and pulled on whatever clean shirt he found in his dresser and the pair of jeans that lay on the floor by his bed. He needed to do laundry, too.
He grabbed his jacket from where it lay in the hallway, discarded in the middle of the night, probably in a haste to get undressed and into bed with Kara, and then pulled his bag from the closet.
He knelt down in front of the stand that stood in the hallway by the front door and pulled out the bottom drawer. Inside the compartment there was a large bag, and Zayn’s fingers easily found it in the dark. He had an ounce and a half left from the last time he’d picked up, and it was all conveniently separated into small, gram sized bags.
Zayn wasn’t stupid. He knew not to leave shit like that lying around, not just in case of police, but because, in his life, you couldn’t really trust anyone who walked through your front door. He also wasn’t dumb enough to carry that heavily loosely in his pockets, either, and he pulled his pencil case out of the bag he’d slung over his shoulder. It had a fake bottom, and after dumping out all the pens and pencils, he shoved the bag of weed inside and then closed the drawer. He put the case inside his bag and left the apartment, only pausing long enough to lock it behind himself. Not that he really had much for anyone to steal.
He spent the bus ride listening to music loudly and idly drawing on the seat beside him with a marker. At one point an older woman sat across from him and spent the rest of his ride glaring at him unabashedly. He wrote ‘fuck you’ in bold letters on the seat, and smirked at her as he got off.
He figured it must have been lunch by the time he got to Verton, because the front of the school was littered with students, and there were cars coming in and out of the lot. Occasionally there was a loud shriek or someone shouting across the street, and Zayn narrowed his eyes, not once regretting the decision to drop out last year.
He didn’t need college. It wasn’t like he’d of graduated anyways. He couldn’t focus in class, and he couldn’t waste the day away sitting in a desk when he needed to be out making money. It just wasn’t worth it.
“Hey!” someone called out, and Zayn turned, meeting a pair of green eyes and a too wide smile. He took in the curly hair, and then the green car the guy was leaning against, and turned to head in his direction. “You’re Zayn, right?” the guy asked.
“Mhm,” Zayn answered, giving the place around them a quick look. There were too many people around, but they were also sandwiched between two cars, out of sight. He pulled open his bag, grabbed out two baggies from his case, and then held out his hand.
“Oh, right,” the kid dug into his pocket and handed Zayn the money, which he quickly pocketed before handing over the bags. “Thanks for this. Big party tonight, and I wanted--,”
“I really don’t care,” Zayn told him.
“Oh,” Harry looked taken aback. “Right. Okay. Thanks, again.”
He felt eyes on him as he walked away, and caught a few giggling girls checking him out. He ran a hand through his hair but didn’t even bother smirking at them as he headed down the street, off to Steve’s and then wherever else he needed to go before he could go home, smoke a bowl, pick up some food, and then pass out. He could already tell it was going to be a shit day.
Niall
He felt like shit, trudging through the halls after the bell for lunch rang. Who the hell decided that a loud bell was a good idea, anyways? And who decided that it was a good idea to throw a party on a Thursday night?
His head still hurt, and on top of that, there were bruises littering his body. His dad hadn’t been happy too see him come home so late on a school night, especially not trashed out of his mind. Not that it would have made a difference. The fight still would have happened, whether he was drunk and late or not. At least the alcohol had taken on a numbing affect, and the blows didn’t hurt nearly as much as they could have. At the time, anyways. The bruises, on the other hand? They hurt pretty badly.
He was in a shit mood, too. He was annoyed at everything. He’d snapped on his English teacher, told Greg to fuck off when he asked what was wrong, and ignored every text from Maria.
Not that Maria didn’t deserve it. Fuck. He ran a hand through his hair. It was also shit today. He didn’t even bother running a comb through it after his shower. He didn’t see any point. Styling his hair wasn’t going to make his hangover or bruises go away. It wasn’t going to get rid of the image of Maria in his mind, making out with Jake Richards in Mark Winston’s bedroom.
It wasn’t like he was in love with her. In fact, dating Maria was mostly something he did because that’s what everyone expected.
They all did things because that’s what was expected of them, he thought as he pushed open the door to the cafeteria. He didn’t even feel like eating, not that the ‘meatloaf’ they were serving today was really considered food.
The way he looked at it, they all had roles to play. He’d walk to their long table in the middle of the room and sit between Greg and Jake. Maria would sit across from him and wrap her leg around his under the table. Jake would tell some stupid, only half true story, and they’d all laugh. He’d hit on Maria, Niall would tell him to back off, good naturedly of course, because it was all good natured. Greg would ask him to come out after school, Niall would tell him he couldn’t because he had to be home. Allison would comment on how cute Niall and Maria were. Jake would tell another joke. They’d all laugh.
That’s just how it worked, in their lives. And sometimes, it was worth it, pretending to like each other. Because they didn’t, at all, really. He didn’t like Jake or Allison, could only kind of tolerate Greg on a good day, and only liked Maria because she was the only one who didn’t make fun of the other kids in the school. Sure, she said she felt bad for them, but that was as far as she went.
People looked up at him as he passed, some calling out greetings, others just smiling. Niall didn’t bother to smile back today. Usually, he would. Usually, he’d stop and chat to a few people, the ones that he wouldn’t get shit from Jake for talking to. But today, it just wasn’t worth it. He couldn’t put a carefree smile on his face, or laugh at Jake’s stupid jokes, or hold Maria’s hand and pretend like it was all okay.
Maybe it was a long time coming, he realized as he approached their table. Maybe it was something they all should have known was going to happen, one of them snapping. They probably just didn’t expect it to be Niall, because he was the easy one of their group. He didn’t get in fights with other kids, like Jake. He didn’t cry over every little thing, like Maria. He was just Niall, the calm, carefree one who knew everyone’s names and got along with everyone, and had since the day he’d moved to the city two years ago from Ireland.
So when he reached the table and pulled Jake up by the back of the shirt and only gave the other boy a moment to react before connecting his fist with Jake’s fat face, no one knew what to do. There were a few gasps, a scream -- from Maria-- and Greg jumped out of his seat and tried to pull Niall away from the fight.
“Let go of me,” Niall warned, pulling his arm out of Greg’s grasp.
Greg wasn’t a terrible guy. He just didn’t give a shit about anyone. That’s why he let go of Niall’s arm and let him have another go at Jake, because he didn’t really care if Jake, someone he’d been friends with since they were twelve, got the shit kicked out of him.
Jake had a hand to his face, covering his nose. Niall kind of hoped it was broken.
“The fuck is wrong with you, mate?” Jake demanded, shoving Niall’s shoulder with the hand that wasn’t covering his face.
“A lot of things, mate,” Niall told him. “Like you sticking your tongue in my girlfriend’s mouth.”
Realization dawned on Jake’s face, and he heard Maria’s gasp of, “It’s not what it looked like!”
There must have been something in his eyes, though, that had Jake narrowing his. “You want to hit me again? Go ahead,” he said, and Niall noted the way his eyes darted around him. He knew that everyone was watching them, knew that it was only a matter of time before a teacher stormed in and dragged him out. He’d probably get suspended for fighting on school property. Whatever, he didn’t really care.
And so he did as Jake said. His fist connected with Jake’s jaw this time, and Jake’s head swivelled to the left, and he was knocked off balance. He tripped backwards over his chair and hit the ground just as the doors to the cafeteria opened and someone shouted his name loudly.
“Niall Horan!”
Niall straightened his shirt and turned, a smile on his face. “Miss Talbot,” he said as a way of greeting.
It was like all at once, every student in the cafeteria sat back in their seats, as if they were afraid of getting in trouble, too.
“Hallway. Now.” Miss Talbot shrieked.
She was an older woman, one of the oldest faculty members, and she had a thin, birdlike face. Niall had never liked her, and the tone of her voice right then didn’t really help that, either.
Niall shrugged and spared Jake one last look. There was already a bruising spot on his jaw from where Niall punched him.
He didn’t care about whatever trouble he was going to be in with the school. A suspension might actually be a good thing, in fact, because he could use a few days break from everything.
When he stepped into the hallway to see a police officer standing beside Miss Talbot, though, he started to care. A lot. His dad was going to kill him.
“Alright, son,” the officer said, grabbing Niall’s arm. “Come on.”
Miss Talbot smiled at him. “I’ll be calling your parents to let them no to pick you up at the station. And then, after that, we’ll all have a nice, long meeting and discuss your future, or lack of, in this school.”
Niall decided to just fuck it all and flipped her the finger as he was dragged out of the school.
He’d never seen the back seat of a police car before, but the seats were surprisingly comfortable. “Sit tight,” the officer ordered, and then slammed the door, leaving Niall alone.
He could see people outside the car. School wasn’t over yet, and cops dragging a student out of the building was more than enough to have everyone’s attention. Niall wasn’t sure if he wanted to grin or yell at all the watching faces, so he decided it was best to just hang his head and close his eyes.
He was kind of an idiot, he realized a few moments later. He was going to be in so much shit with his dad. If last night was bad, it was going to be nothing compared to the beating he was going to get after being picked up at the freaking police station.
He remembered the first time his dad hit him. He was twelve, and his dad had found a pack of cigarettes under his bed. Niall didn’t smoke, not even now, but he had friends who did, ones who thought it was cool, and Niall had wanted to fit in. He’d taken the pack, and the lighter, and hid them under his bed. He didn’t ever touch them.
His mother never did anything about it. He wasn’t sure if he was pissed at her for that, or if he was grateful. Maybe it was best that his dad just hit him, and not her too for sticking up for him. He could take it. He wasn’t nearly as weak as he’d been when he was younger. He was stronger now, and he could handle it. He didn’t think his mom could.
And in a year, he’d graduate from college, hopefully get a good enough scholarship to go on to do something at Uni, and he’d leave his parents behind. Both of them. He decided a long time ago that when he left, he was going for good. He wasn’t going to come back, and he wasn’t going to be stuck in this stupid town with people he didn’t really care at all about.
The other back door to the cruiser opened, and another kid was shoved inside. It only took Niall a moment to recognize him, because his head was down and he was staring at his feet.
“My mum’s going to kill me,” Harry groaned, leaning back against the seat. He let his head fall back onto it, and he tilted it to look at Niall. “What did you do?”
Niall shrugged. “Punched Jake in the face.”
Harry looked confused for a moment before grinning at him. “Good, guy deserves it.”
Niall shrugged, but he agreed. He looked closer at Harry for a moment. “What did you do?” he asked, because this was Harry Styles, and that meant that the answer to that question could be practically anything under the sun, from lighting the boys bathroom on fire to setting loose the iguana from the science room.
He and Harry didn’t run in the same circles, but it could be said that Harry was just as, if not more, popular than him. Everyone knew who Harry was. He was a prankster, but in a good way. He didn’t make jokes at other people’s expenses -- teachers being the exception-- and he was a pretty likable guy. He didn’t really have a set group of friends, though. One day he’d be hanging out with the football team, the next he’d be sitting with the art kids. That’s just how he was. Flighty, unattached. He had a friend, though, one he was always with. Niall couldn’t remember his name. Some guy from the rugby team, quiet lad.
“You know Mason, right? He’s throwing a party tonight,” Harry started in his slow drawl. Niall half listened and half watched the officers outside the car, talking animatedly with Miss Talbot. “And he asked me if I knew anywhere to get weed. I don’t really smoke it much, myself, but I know people who do, so I said sure, no problem, I could hook him up. Apparently someone had seen, or heard, or something, because the school had an anonymous tip, and they decided to do a locker search, and they found it in mine.”
Niall raised his eyebrows. “Seriously?” because he hadn’t expected that.
Harry nodded. “I’m dead. My mum’s going to ground me until I’m thirty.”
Niall wished that grounding was the only thing he had to be worried about, but he knew he wasn’t going to get off that easily for this.
His knuckles hurt a bit, and he noticed how red and scratched they were. He’d never really thrown a punch before. Maybe it was supposed to be liberating, make him feel tough, but he just felt sick to his stomach about the whole thing now, really.
Eventually the officers got into the car. The rest of the ride was mostly silent, except for the conversation going on up front. Niall stared out the window, taking in the city around them. This was going to be the last time he’d see it for a while, he knew.
Liam
He was late. He was really, really late. He remembered his mum coming into his room at around six thirty to kiss him on the forehead before going off to work. His dad left at four in the morning every weekday, and worked until late into the afternoon. He was a construction worker, and apparently they had weird times. His mum, on the other hand, didn’t have to leave until a bit later.
He’d sat up after she left, taken a good look at the alarm clock, and decided to let himself sleep in, just for another half an hour. He’d had a horrible practise the day before, and he’d been exhausted after staying up late to work on a paper for English.
Liam was going to be in so much trouble, he just knew it. He never missed class, ever, unless he was really sick, which rarely happened. His school had a very strict No Class, No Practise rule, and he couldn’t afford to miss practise. Not when everything rode on him getting into a good school on a scholarship for playing. Not when his whole future was pretty much defined by how well he could pick up a ball and run with it.
He didn’t have time to shower, and was grateful that he’d taken an extra long one after practise yesterday. He needed a haircut, badly. It was starting to get a little too long, and it curled a bit the longer it got. Not that that was really important right then, because he had to get out the door and to class before lunch ended. Maybe he could convince his coach to let him play if he could think of a good enough excuse for missing the first half of the day.
Normally, he’d wake up in the morning and walk over to Harry’s, and Harry would drive him to school. Harry must have assumed he was sick or something, though, and went without him, which meant that Liam had to either walk or bus.
It wasn’t that far of a walk to the school, and normally he wouldn’t have minded the slow, relaxing exercise. He just didn’t have time for it.
He knew there would be ten money waiting for him on the counter in the kitchen for his lunch. He’d just have to skip it today and use the money for bus.
He grabbed an apple on the way out the door, only pausing long enough to grab his bag from the closet.
He nearly missed the bus. He had to jog to the stop, and even then he only just got there before the driver pulled away.
Liam hated the bus. It smelled faintly, and he never knew where to sit. He slid into a seat closer to the back and pulled his bag onto his lap, in case someone would need the seat beside him. He cursed himself for forgetting his iPod, because that left him without a distraction.
The bus was busy at lunch time, apparently, because it was mostly full. Thankfully, no one sat down beside him, though.
He looked down at the seat beside him and noticed that someone had written in large, bold letters, 'FUCK YOU!'
He made a face at it, and pulled out a pen from his bag. He did his best to scribble over the writing while trying not to be seen by anyone, in case they thought he was defacing public property. There were other things drawn around the words, little careless doodles. Underneath the words he wrote a simple, 'That’s not very nice' and then capped his pen and put it back in his bag.
When he got to school he figured he had about twenty minutes to find Harry and hang out for a bit before class. He didn’t even get to the front of the school before he noticed the police car out front, though, and he hesitated, a bad feeling in his gut.
The first boy brought out by the police, he recognized. Niall Horan, transfer student from Ireland who he’d went to school with for a few years ago. He’d never really talked to Niall before, but that wasn’t surprising, because he didn’t really talk to many people, and the group that the blonde boy ran with wasn’t really his type.
When another officer came out, this time dragging a handcuffed boy with a lost look on his face, Liam’s stomach dropped.
“Harry?” he called, running up to them.
“You best get inside, Mr. Payne,” Miss Talbot instructed. “You’ve only got a few minutes before the bell.”
Harry gave Liam a helpless look and Liam didn’t know what to do. Miss Talbot’s eyes narrowed, and he shifted his bag on his shoulder.
“I’ll-- I’ll call your mum, okay?” Liam said, because it was the only thing he could think of.
Harry nodded before being stuffed into the car.
He knew that Harry had a mischievous streak in him. Where Liam was polite and calm, Harry was rowdy and hyper. Liam preferred to stay low, unnoticed, and Harry had a flair for dramatics and always being in the limelight. Sure, Harry had done more than his fair share of harmless pranks over the year. He’d been suspended a few times, once for dying the entire football team’s uniforms an unflattering shade of pink, but he’d never done anything really bad.
This, though, had to be something bad. The school tended not to get the police involved unless it had to do with fighting or drugs. He couldn’t see Harry getting in a fight with anyone, and Harry liked to drink at parties, but he didn’t really get into the other things.
Liam just hoped that he was okay, and went into the school, unable to do anything else for his best friend.
He attempted to call Harry’s mum, but no one answered the phone. That wasn’t surprising. Anne wasn’t usually home during the day.
Liam had practise after school. “Everyone‘s late once in a while,” his coach had told him. “Don’t worry about it too much, Liam.”
Liam called Harry’s house again after practise, before his shower. He was still sweaty, and his uniform stuck to his skin. He couldn’t wait for the next game. He didn’t like practise. It wasn’t challenging enough, and it was repetitive. He knew how to play, knew how to do his job. He didn’t really need it. Not that he’d ever miss it anyways, though.
“Hello?” Anne asked brightly. “Liam?”
Liam groaned. She sounded far too happy to have any idea what had happened to Harry. Both of them had a habit of ignoring messages on the phone. He’d talked to Harry about it hundreds of times.
“Um,” Liam ran a hand over his face. “You haven’t checked your messages, have you?” he asked, just to be sure.
Anne picked up on his tone instantly. “What’s wrong? He’s okay, right?”
“He’s fine,” Liam assured her. He wished he wasn’t the one doing this. “It’s just, erm, he got in a little trouble. At school. And--,”
“Is he suspended?” Anne asked, worry now gone from her tone. She sounded exasperated. “Again ?”
“Not exactly,” Liam admitted. “He may have been arrested? Possibly?”
“Arrested,” Anne repeated, and then there was a loud sound, like the phone falling to the ground. He could hear her making noises in the background and winced. “So dead!” he heard her shout. “Oh, he is so dead.” A few moments later the phone was picked up again. “I’m heading down to the station now. Thank you for calling me, Liam.”
“No problem,” Liam told her. “I’ll meet you down there. I’ve got Harry’s homework.”
She sighed loudly. “I have half a mind to leave him there. Thank you again, Liam.”
He realized, after getting off the phone with her, that if he wanted to get there before Anne dragged Harry home and grounded him for the rest of his life, he was going to have to hurry. He changed back into his clothes and shoved his homework, along with what he’d gotten for Harry from the classes they were in together -- including an important reading assignment--, into his bag, and bolted out the doors of the school.
It wasn’t that long of a run. Ten minutes, at the most, but after a long practise, and the way his muscles had ached that morning, Liam knew he was going to be dead to the world tomorrow. Thankfully, tomorrow was a Saturday, at least, and he could sleep in a bit.
He got just out front of the police station as Anne dragged Harry out, what looked like a painfully hard grip on his arm. “-- and no phone privileges either. In fact, except for school and your community service hours, you’re not allowed to see anyone.”
“What about-- Liam!” Harry said loudly, spotting him.
Liam jogged up to them. “Fine, you can see Liam, but only because that boy is a better influence on you than--, oh, Liam.” She stopped in her tracks. “You should thank him, Harry, he’s the only reason you weren’t left there all night.”
Harry gave Liam a sheepish look. “You didn’t come to bring me my homework, did you?”
“Um,” Liam pulled the papers out of the bag. “Maybe?”
“I hate you,” Harry told him, but he took the work. “Thanks, by the way.”
“I’m getting in the car. You have a minute to talk to Liam and then your arse better be in the passenger seat, or so help me.” Harry nodded frantically, and Anne turned to Liam. “You need a ride home? We‘ve got to stop at the school first to pick up Harry’s car, anyways, and your house is on the way.”
He shook his head. “No, I’m fine to walk. I need the exercise anyhow,” he said, because he kind of didn’t want to be present for the chewing out Harry was no doubt going to get on the ride home.
Anne nodded and then headed towards her car.
Liam shoved his hands in his pockets. He felt sweaty and gross, but Harry didn’t notice or didn’t care. He hugged Liam tightly. “Really, though, thank you.”
Liam nodded. “What happened?” he asked, because he’d been wondering it all day.
Harry looked sheepish again. “Well, you know, this is actually all your fault.”
Liam raised an eyebrow. “All my fault,” he repeated.
“Yeah, see, I rely on you to not let me do stupid shit. And you weren’t at school this morning, and I did stupid shit.” Harry told him. He ruffled his hair and then fixed it, something he did often. “I got caught in possession of marijuana,” Harry admitted, grimacing. “Not a lot, and they’re not charging me. I’ve got a ton of community service hours, though.”
Liam groaned. “Harry.”
“Look at it this way,” Harry swung an arm over Liam’s shoulder. “This experience has not only scared me away from mind altering substances for the rest of my life, but it’s also made me wary enough to not do anything possibly illegal for a long, long time.”
“I thought you had an end of the year prank already planned out,” Liam pointed out, because they both knew that whatever Harry had in mind, it definitely wasn’t going to be legal.
“Yeah, like I said, a long, long time.”
Liam couldn’t help it, he laughed. As much as Harry gave him a headache a lot of the time, Harry was his best friend. Possibly only friend. And he sometimes enjoyed Harry’s antics. They were exciting and fun, both of which Liam really wasn’t.
He looked down at his watch. “I’ve got to get home, and you’ve got to get in that car before your mum drives over here and runs you over.”
“Think she would?” Harry asked, throwing a look over his shoulder to the car. They could both see Anne glaring at him, and Harry swallowed. “Yeah, she definitely would. I’ll see you Monday. I don’t think I’ll be allowed out of the house at all this weekend.”
Liam nodded and Harry walked away with one last wave.
The second Harry and Anne pulled away from the station, Liam’s phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and shifted his bag on his shoulder. “Hello?”
“Where are you?” his father demanded. “It’s-- almost five.”
Liam sighed. “I had something to do after school. I’ll be home soon.”
“Yes, you will be. We’re going to have a long talk about why you missed all your morning classes.”
Liam ran a hand through his hair. “Right, okay.”
“You can’t afford to do this, Liam, you know that,” his dad continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Your whole future depends on this. You can’t just slack off.”
Slack off, Liam repeated in his mind. His dad thought he slacked off. “I’ll be home soon,” Liam said, and then hung up.
It wasn’t something he did ever, really. He was too polite, especially with his parents, but he couldn’t help it. After everything, his dad accused him of slacking off. When he had AP courses, and practise, and his own work out routine. When he never got to do anything fun because he’s always got to worry about staying out of trouble and staying healthy and in shape. When he’d given up everything, practically, but Harry, to work towards this goal that everyone else decided for him.
Play rugby, stay in shape, get good grades, stay out of trouble, get the scholarship, play for the University’s team, move on to play professionally. It was the only plans he’d ever had in life, the only guidelines. And it wasn’t that he didn’t want all that. He did. He wanted to make his parents and his coach happy. He just wished he could actually live his life while doing it.
Louis
Louis had just finished football practise when his phone rang loudly. He sprinted across the field to the bleachers, where his bag sat carelessly slung over one of the seats beside where Eleanor was sitting.
He pulled his phone out, not sparing a second to greet his girlfriend, which she looked sufficiently upset about, as he read the name on the screen. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at her. Women were so high maintenance.
“Malik!” Louis said loudly. “How’s my favourite hoodrat?”
“Don’t call me that,” Zayn snapped, and Louis’ grin widened. He always felt good after practise. He knew he must have looked good out on the field, too, because El kept shooting glares at the other girls on the bleachers who’d been watching him. “Can you do me a favour?”
Louis switched the phone to the other ear and pulled his bag onto his shoulder. “Sure, what do you need?”
Zayn was Louis oldest friend. They’d lived in the same neighbourhood since they were five, and Zayn knew Louis better than anyone else, and Louis was probably the only person who actually knew Zayn at all.
When he was fourteen, Zayn’s parents kicked him out of the house. Louis didn’t have full details on that, and it was something Zayn still didn’t talk about. By normal standards, Zayn was not like Louis’ other friends. Louis’ friends all attended the same private school as he did. They all drove nice cars, and some of them had outfits that cost more than Zayn’s shitty apartment did.
Zayn was also the one person Louis would never judge about anything. He might look down his nose at other people, but Zayn was different, and if anyone else ever even attempted to look badly at Zayn because of his lifestyle, or his clothes, or anything, Louis would be the first person to put them in their place for it.
“I need a ride, actually,” Zayn said slowly. “To the police station.”
Louis raised his eyebrows and mouthed to Eleanor, “Need to drive Zayn somewhere.” She let out a huff of breath and stomped off the bleachers, her gaggle of friends following behind her. Louis knew she was upset but he also knew that she’d be over it by the beginning of tonight’s party. That’s just how their relationship worked.
“The police station,” Louis repeated. “Zayn, you haven’t got yourself arrested, have you? I really don’t think jumpsuit orange would be a good colour on you.” Not that that was strictly true. It would probably be a great colour on him, actually, Louis thought to himself as he headed off the pitch towards the car lot.
“No,” Zayn said, sounding annoyed. That was just Zayn’s default tone, though. “I just-- I may have sold to some kid from Verton, and I think he may have gotten into a bit of trouble.”
“You’re going to check up on this kid?” Louis demanded, heading towards his car. “Really?”
Zayn sighed. “I just want to make sure he doesn’t get me in any shit,” he said, but Louis could tell he was lying.
“You’re worried about someone else,” Louis told him. “That’s so adorable, Zayn, you’re finally getting a heart.”
“Shut up, Louis,” Zayn snapped. “Are you coming or not?”
Louis rolled his eyes, though Zayn couldn’t see it. “Yes, yes, I’m coming. Where are you?”
“At my place, I’ll be downstairs when you get here.”
“See you then,” Louis agreed, ending the call. He threw his bag into the passenger seat of his Porsche Boxter. It had been a more than extravagant gift from his father last year for not telling anyone -- but Zayn-- about the woman he’d caught him in bed with.
He was aware that it wasn’t exactly morally correct, but the way he looked at it, his father was being punished by forking out the money for the car, their marriage was being kept together, and Louis was getting said new car. It was a win-win situation for everyone involved.
Zayn’s apartment was on the other side of town. Louis resisted the urge to roll up the windows on his way through the neighbourhood, because it made Zayn snap at him. (“You’re not going to get mugged,” Zayn would say angrily.
“You never know,” Louis always said back.)
Just as promised, Zayn was standing out front, hands buried deeply into his pockets, a scowl on his face.
Despite what everyone might assume, Zayn wasn’t always such a prick. When he was younger, he’d been loud and hilarious, though admittedly an idiot. Even now, occasionally, Zayn would come over when Louis’ parents were out and Zayn would smoke a joint and they’d hang out and Zayn would laugh or dance to shitty R&B and just let himself go. No one else really saw that side to him, though.
“Thanks,” Zayn said, sliding into the passenger seat after throwing Louis’ bag into the back. “You had practise today?” he realized, taking in Louis, still in his uniform.
Louis gave him an annoyed look. “You really need to pay more attention to my life, Zayn. I have practise every Friday, and I have, sixth months out of the year, for the past six years.”
“Huh,” Zayn said, reaching for the radio dial. Louis slapped his hand away.
“What are you even going to say to this guy? ’Hey, I know you bought some weed off me and then got busted, just wanted to make sure you’re okay and you don’t give my name to the cops’?”
Zayn glared at him. “No,” he said. “I’m just going to-- I don’t know. I’m not worried about him giving them my name. He doesn’t even know me, I only went to him through Steve.”
Louis clucked his tongue but didn’t comment on that. More than once he’d considered going to one of the school’s rugby players and offering them a hundred quid to threaten Steve into staying away from Zayn, but it wasn’t his place, and Zayn would be pissed at him for it. But Louis hated Steve with a passion.
He knew, without any doubt, that it was Steve who had gotten Zayn into selling, and it was Steve who’d somehow convinced Zayn that he’d never be able to anything better. No matter how many times Louis offered, “I can get you a job somewhere, mate, and you can sleep in the guest bed until then,” Zayn refused. Because Zayn didn’t think he could do better, and Zayn was also the type of person who refused handouts.
And he thought that he belonged in the life he had. Louis disagreed. Zayn was smart, when he applied himself, and he was talented. He just needed guidance. Sadly, Zayn refused to take any.
“I guess we’ll just see when we get there,” Louis said finally. “Maybe you won’t even see him.”
Louis was wrong. When they pulled up in front of the station, there were two teenage boys standing out front. One with a messy mop of brown curls, another with slightly shorter, slightly less curly hair.
“That’s him,” Zayn said, pointing to the taller one, with the bigger head of curls.
Louis looked him over and tapped his fingers impatiently on the dashboard. “So, are you going to go talk to him?”
Just as he said it, both boys turned around to look at a car behind them where a woman with a frightening scowl on her face sat. The taller one walked away, towards the car.
“Well, looks like you missed your opportunity,” Louis commented.
Zayn was still staring out the window. “Pull up to the other one,” he ordered.
It wasn’t until they pulled up along side the boy with the broader shoulders and the sweat soaked hair -- what had he done, run all the way to the station?-- and Zayn ran a hand through his own hair, that Louis realized this was no longer about checking up on the other boy, but something else altogether.
“Hey, babe,” Zayn called out the window.
Louis rolled his eyes. The other boy kept walking as if Zayn hadn’t spoken, and Louis drove slowly beside him, Zayn hanging out his window.
“Oh, for god’s sake.” Louis honked the horn loudly.
The boy startled and looked over at them. Louis didn’t think much of his appearance -- brown eyes, brown hair, tanned skin-- but Zayn, on the other hand, gave him a very suggestive once over.
If you asked about Zayn’s sexuality, you wouldn’t get an answer. That was something Louis had learned over the years. On the best day the only reply you would get is, “I don’t like men or women. I like sex,” and that was that.
Louis stopped driving and the brown eyed boy looked at them, confused. “Can I help you?”
“I’m sure you could,” Zayn said unhelpfully.
“Your friend there,” Louis said, leaning over the seat divider. “What’s his name again?”
“Harry,” Zayn supplied, not taking his eyes off the other boy.
“Right, Harry. See, my friend here sold him something earlier today, and he just wanted to make sure he was okay.”
The boy’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t really think that’s any of your business,” he said, and then he started walking away.
“What’s your name?” Zayn called out the window.
Louis slapped him on the back of the head. The other boy didn’t answer, and a car honked behind them. Louis drove forward, and Zayn sunk back into his seat.
“Well, that was pointless,” Louis commented.
Zayn shrugged. “Or not.”
“He wasn’t even that attractive,” Louis said idly, keeping his eyes on the road.
“Yeah, but you like girls, don’t you? So your opinion doesn’t really count,” Zayn told him.
“You want to come over for a bit?” Louis asked, changing the subject. “I’m having a party tonight.”
“Maybe,” Zayn said vaguely. “Might have some other things to do.”
In the end, Louis dropped Zayn off at his apartment again and headed home. It didn’t take him long to set everything up for the party. All he had to do was pick up a bit of alcohol on the way home and make sure that anything too expensive and breakable was put away.
Four hours later, he couldn’t really hear much over the pounding of the music, and everything was a little blurry from the vodka-- or was it rum? Whatever, he didn’t really care. There was a pink stain on the white carpet from something, a couple making out a little too intimately on the couch, and people dancing everywhere.
“Where’d you go today with Zayn?” Eleanor asked, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind.
“Nowhere important,” Louis assured her.
El scoffed. “That’s what you always say, and yet you always ditch me off to run and do whatever Zayn Malik wants.”
“Can we not do this right now?’ Louis asked, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“When do you suggest we do this, then?”
Louis turned and put a hand on her waist. Her eyes narrowed for a moment before softening. “I’m sorry,” he told her.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and brought him in closer. “Me too.”
And that, Louis thought, pretty much summed up their entire relationship. Fighting and apologizing and then putting on a smile because other people were always too interested in everyone else’s relationships.
Harry
“And the DVD player,” his mum added, crossing her arms over her chest. “Hand over the cords.”
Harry rolled his eyes and reached behind his TV to pull out the cords that connected the TV to the DVD player and handed them to her.
“Good,” she said, folding them in her hands. “I hope you take a moment to think long and hard about your decisions, Harry. Bringing pot to school! What were you even thinking?”
He couldn’t bother with the protest of, “It wasn’t even for me!” for the hundredth time. It didn’t matter. He knew he was guilty, and his mum sure as hell knew it. Either way, he was grounded for a month, on top of having to do community service work.
That, at least, wasn’t going to be too bad, because apparently Niall had it too. Not that he and Niall were exactly friends, but he didn’t mind the guy. He was funny and kind of light hearted about everything.
“I called your father,” his mother said at last, sighing. He watched as she brushed a bit of hair off her face, refusing to look at him. The words didn’t really register at first.
“You what?” Harry demanded, shaking his head so fast his curls moved. “No,” he said, as if denying it would make it any less true . “No you didn’t.”
“As a matter of fact, I did,” his mother said more firmly. “He deserves to know, Harry, that you’re-- you’re out getting arrested!”
Harry sunk down onto his bed and put his head in his hands. Of all the punishments, she had to go with the worst: calling his father.
“We’ve decided that it might be best for you to stay there for a while,” his mother said slowly. “It’s not set in stone yet, but we both think that you need a bit more structure in your life, and you’re obviously-- obviously not getting it here.”
Her voice cracked, and both guilt and anger fought with each other inside of him. He wanted to get up and hug her and tell her that it’s not her parenting. She was a great mother, Harry was just… Harry. But there was also the anger, urging him to shout and throw thing, to storm out of the house while flinging angry words over his shoulder.
Instead, he grabbed the blanket off his bed and pulled it over his head. He starting humming under his breath, some song that he couldn’t remember the words to -- he’d have to look it up later--, so that he could drown out the rest of her words. He didn’t want to hear them, and he also didn’t want to fight with her. He just wanted to sleep until this all blew over and life went back to normal.
Eventually his mum gave up and left, shutting the door softly behind herself. He knew that she hated yelling at him, but he also knew that he deserved it. Still, threatening to send him to live with his dad was a bit much, by any standards.
He groaned and reached for his phone on the bedside table, deciding to call Liam to get everything off his chest, because Liam was a good listener and he was also level headed enough to calm Harry down, but his fingers found nothing except books and pens and the Nirvana Unplugged CD he’d left there. He forgot. His mum took his phone.
Harry grabbed his pillow and covered his face with it, only so that it would drown out his loud scream of frustration.
He didn’t do well with grounding. It wasn’t like it was his first time. Over the years, Harry figured he’d been grounded more often than not. It’s just that he was the kind of person who had issues sitting still. He liked to be out, or at least doing something to distract his mind from the fact that he wasn’t actually doing anything, really.
“You can come get your dinner and eat it in your room!” his mum called.
“I’m not hungry!” Harry shouted back.
“Harry Edward Styles, you get your arse down here, or I swear--,”
“I’m coming!” he snapped, swinging his legs out of bed. His attitude definitely wasn’t helping the situation, but he couldn’t seem to turn it off as he trudged down the stairs.
He ran a hand through his hair as he walked into the kitchen, the smell of some kind of meat frying invading his senses. He took a deep breath and was about to tell his mom that it smelled good when his eyes landed on his father.
“Harry,” his father said calmly from where he was seated at their kitchen table. ‘Their’ as in Harry and his mum’s. Not his. He didn’t have a right to be sitting there at all, and it made Harry irrationally angry.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
He turned to look at his mum, who was busying herself with the meat in the pan. She fidgeted and pushed her hair off her face more times than necessary. It was a nervous habit, one that Harry had inherited from her.
“Well, your mother called me--,” his father started.
“I didn’t tell you to come,” his mum said quietly.
“Yes, well, I thought that it might be best if I did.” His father spoke firmly in a way that he said he figured he could handle the situation much better than Anne could. “I think that you should come stay with me for a bit.”
Harry looked to his mum and she bit her lip while not meeting either of their eyes. “I said I’d think about it.”
“I won’t go,” Harry said instantly. “No, mum, seriously, don’t do this. Don’t make me go live with him. I’ll-- I’ll--,”
“Get arrested again?” his father asked coolly.
“They didn’t actually press charges,” his mum cut in, but her voice was frail and she didn’t speak with conviction.
“Still, Harry, honestly. What were you thinking?”
Harry shook his head and tried his best to ignore the man that didn’t even have a right to be in this conversation. “Mum, you can’t send me to live with him. You--,”
“I can, actually,” his mother told him, though she looked like she really didn’t want to. “I can’t control you anymore, Harry. I don’t know what’s gotten into you in the last couple years, but I think that maybe you’re lacking in a male parental figure. I can only do so much, and obviously my best isn’t the best for you.”
“It is,” Harry assured her. “Mum, it is. I promise. This-- it had nothing to do with you! You’re great!”
His father stood up. “I’ll be here to pick you up on Sunday,” he said to Harry, and then turned to Anne. “You can make up your mind on this in the mean time, but I suggest you take my guidance in this. Harry needs structure. He’s getting out of hand.”
“I’ll think about it,” Anne told him in a clipped tone.
His father clapped him on the shoulder as he went by. “Son,” he added.
“Don’t call me that,” Harry snapped, pulling away from him. “And I’m not hungry!” he yelled over his shoulder as he ran up the stairs. He slammed his bedroom door hard enough that it shook the lamp on his bed side table. At the last second Harry reached out and swiped it off the table. It didn’t even break when it hit the carpeted ground. “Figures,” Harry muttered.
The only thing his mum hadn’t taken away from his was his iPod, and he pulled it out, hitting ‘Shuffle Songs’. The opening beats of Rage Against the Machine’s Born of a Broken Man played, and he didn’t bother changing the song. He couldn’t even remember downloading that particular song, but right now, he didn’t regret it. It was a lot angrier than most of the music he normally listened to. It was almost fitting to his mood.
Eventually the music didn’t help, and he got out of bed. He kept the iPod on, skipping every couple of songs until he found ones that fit how he felt. He grabbed his duffel bag from his closet and then opened his dresser drawers. He didn’t fold anything, and he didn’t even really pay any attention to what he was throwing from his dresser onto his bed, or from his bed into his bag.
At one point his mother walked in, her lips pursed, as if she were angry, but her eyebrows were drawn together in concern-- or pity. “Only for a few weeks,” she said quietly. “If your behaviour improves-- if you stay out of trouble, you can come home after winter holidays. How does that sound?”
“Sounds like your minds already made up,” Harry said, not pulling his eyes away from his clothes.
“Oh, Harry,” his mum sighed. When he paused for long enough she leaned over and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I’m not doing this to make you suffer.”
He put his headphones back in, signalling the end the conversation. She pulled the door closed behind herself, leaving him to it. He wished she didn’t. He wished she’d of stayed and yelled at him. He wished she’d maybe slap him, the way she had, only once, when he was fourteen and he’d been fighting with Gemma and had called her a slut.
Instead, she was pushing him away to live with his father. No longer her concern. Not bothering to ask Harry if he thought it would be helpful, which he didn’t. In the end, it would be more damaging for all of them, because he hated his father, and he wasn’t sure if he could forgive her for making him stay there.
For the first twelve years of Harry’s life, it had always just been him, his mum, and Gemma. He’d asked about his father, he’d wondered why his best friend Liam had a mum and a dad, and he didn’t. His mother had always told him it was because she loved him enough for two parents. When he got older, though, she started to admit that it was because his father hadn’t wanted to be involved in their lives, and that they were better off without him, anyways. She had Harry and Gemma when she was young, and his father had apparently not wanted children at all, but had stuck around for the first couple years of Gemma’s life, and the first of Harry’s, until he’d admitted that it was too much for him to handle.
When he was thirteen, his father came to his birthday party. Then he was there at Christmas. He was there for the next two years, at one point he practically lived with them, even though Harry knew that he had his own house, a big one with a pool and everything on the good side of town. He was a constant in Harry’s life in a way he’d never been before.
And then he wasn’t again, when Harry was fifteen. He’d just disappeared for a long time, not bothering to call or check in or send gifts on the holidays. And when he decided he wanted to come back into their lives when Harry was sixteen, and Gemma had went off to Uni, Harry decided that he didn’t want him back. It wasn’t fair for him to just be in their lives whenever it was convenient for him, and Harry told him that he’d rather not have his father in his life at all than have him in it part time, temporarily. Harry’s mum had agreed, though she kept in touch with him, and Harry didn’t.
Spending that two years with them apparently gave him the idea that he should have some part in how Harry was being raised, though, and by court order his mother had to keep him informed on Harry’s health and how he was doing in school and the such. He tried to force them into visits, but Harry was at an age where he was allowed to say no to them, and he had.
Eventually Harry fell asleep in his messy room. Normally, he kept it extremely organized for someone his age. Right then, though, he didn’t give a fuck that his floor was covered in discarded clothes and his lamp. He didn’t care that one of his pillows was on the floor. He just wanted to sleep, knowing he was missing one of the biggest parties of the year, and was going to miss a lot more than that over the next couple months.