#corruptedziallfiles

It’s half-past seven. The sun is nearly all the way set, casting eerily long shadows, bathing its ever-shrinking domain in fiery licks of red and orange. Zayn and Louis are on a bus heading east. Zayn had paid for both their tickets with the smile he kept in reserve for days like this, when it is an exercise in futility to make Louis be polite, and now they’re snugged together in a pair of seats, shoulders touching as Louis slumps, sideways, into Zayn’s side, staring sulkily out the window.

His knee jogs up and down against the wall of the bus, Zayn casts out slowly, blindly, for his fingers. He needs to keep Louis calm until the next stop, where they can stretch their legs. It’s been a handful of hours since either of them last smoked, and they both need it pretty badly, but Louis shows his withdrawal more brashly, wears most of his emotions on his sleeve.//

There are a few he keeps under lock and key, though. And sometimes even Zayn has a hard time finding his way to them. Tonight, Zayn doesn’t even try to get Louis to talk, knows that sometimes, silence is the best thing for him, for them. He just combs his fingers through Louis’ hair--a rare occurrence; even though Louis loves it, he only allows Zayn to do it, and only at certain times--until the tension melts out of him, and Louis is asleep, head tucked neatly into the crook of Zayn’s neck.

zayn and louis met in third grade—zayn was eight, louis was nine, and technically louis should have been in fourth grade, but he was held back because he kept purposefully failing tests, even though he was clearly smart enough to ace everything and actually move up a grade. he claims later that it was fate that drew them together.

louis was born and raised in NYC by johannah (his sisters don’t exist in this au, sorry!! figured it’d be hard enough for a single mom in NYC to raise ONE kid, let alone EIGHT). zayn moved to NYC with his parents and sisters from (oh my god this is so terrible but it’s a small town please don’t kill me) persia, ny. it’s a six-hour drive, yikes. they live in a tiny apartment that both parents need to work full-time jobs to pay for; zayn has to share his full-sized bed with all his sisters, and his parents share the other one. but yes, both zayn and louis are new york boys. they spend the next nine years learning how to wind themselves around one another, how to pick into one another’s psyche just so. when they’re on the road, they’re able to imitate a lot of different dialects, but when it’s just the two of them, curled tight in one another’s space, they slip back into their nasal vowels, dropped ‘r’s, broad ‘a’s.

after junior year of high school—zayn is now 17, louis 18—they decided to ditch and just travel. they each wrote letters to their respective authoritative figures, telling them what they’ve done and that they’re sorry and that they’ll visit when they can, and… they’re gone. neither of them have cell phones—not 100% sure when this au is set, exactly, but neither of them have cell phones, i’m definite on that. they each sneak about $50, and head south and west. they aren’t exactly sure where they’re going, but they know if they’re together, it doesn’t really matter. there are. SO MANY. fics i could write about their adventures pre-gang. you have absolutely no idea.

anywho. they end up in california a little less than a year later. i don’t know exactly? how harry’s ~origin story~ is gonna work out right now? but something super-dark happens to him, and he ends up alone. taylor (as in ‘swift,’ i may change her to someone else at some point, since this character is kind of a coldhearted dick, but right now, that’s who she is) takes him under her wing, under the guise of genuinely caring about him, when she really just wanted to preen him and make him into the Perfect Trophy Boyfriend, basically. in my mind, taylor’s parents don’t really talk to her at all, but they fund any and every whim she happens to have, so she can afford to blow off school if she feels like it. they’re both californian kids, and harry has that laid-back drawl you expect from stereotypical californians. taylor sounds like herself.

so taylor gathers them into a gang, buys everyone a motorcycle, and they head off east. at first, she’s pretty picky about the motels they stay in, but after a while, it just stops mattering. they just find one that’s not awful, crash there for the night, and they’re gone by morning.

they find themselves in Bumfuck Nowhere, iowa. there’s at least a bar, and they’re about to go in and drown themselves in hard alcohol—even though taylor is the only one of legal drinking age—when they hear a scuffle out behind the dumpsters, and the word “faggot" over and over. zayn and louis rush over and help pull the four bully assholes off of this guy, probably around their age, his face absolutely covered in cuts, bruises, and blood. both eyes are swollen shut and shining, both lips are split open in several places, and his nose is probably broken. when they ask him his name, they can barely make out the name "liam."

so liam joins their ragtag team. he’s a genuine, earnest iowa boy through and through, a perfect gentleman to pretty much anyone he meets. he’s absolutely perfect… except for the fact that he happens to be gay (bi, actually, but everyone seems to focus on the male). or at least, that’s how his parents saw it. he’d realized his attraction to men a few weeks before he decided to tell his parents, and they had almost instantly kicked him out. (sorry geoff and karen, i’m sure you’re absolutely lovely people, this is just the aura i want to create.) he has a mild midwestern accent, softened at the edges and basically sounds like a low, soothing hum if you’re not really focused, or if you’re resting your head on his chest.

niall’s the last to join, and it almost seems like he was meant to be the last brick in their wall of lovers brotherhood. he’s a texas boy, forever glowing from the constant absorption of sunlight—and ruddy from countless sunburns. the deep south has definitely left an imprint on him, giving him a companionable redneck drawl and an infectious belly laugh. he and his ma have drifted through the south for as long as niall can remember, living in the same trailer. (greg lives with niall’s dad; he doesn’t see either of them except at christmastime, and even then, there’s a lot of tension.) zayn finds him, on the coldest night in february, shivering in a ditch outside of town. zayn can’t sleep, so he decides to take a ride alone, to let the wind push his hair back. normally, zayn zones out and just lets his bike take him where it’ll take him, but that night, he catches a glimpse of a shock of blond hair in a ditch a couple of miles out from the motel. he pulls over, and sees that the kid is frozen, wearing just a tank top and shorts, and bundles him onto the bike in front of him. zayn puts the kid in his own motel bed, making sure there are several blankets on him. he watches the kid all night, barely sleeping and only taking breaks to go out and smoke, hands shaking worse than the kid’s shivers. he wakes up the next morning, and instantly latches around zayn’s neck, and from then on, he’s inseparable, and everyone loves him.

so yeah. zayn and louis are new yorkers; slightly different accents, louis’ more queens, and zayn’s more bronx. subtleties found here!! (yes, i know i said louis was born&raised in nyc; i’m having johannah come from queens, so that’s how he learns his language.

harry is californian—think almost surfer-dude stereotype, but not quite. very laid-back, very slow talker. he chews on his thoughts as he says them, sometimes leaves sentences hanging, halfway finished.

liam’s iowa, midwestern accent but faint enough that it’s not obnoxious. (basically all my relatives have the stereotypical midwestern accent… it grates after a while. i don’t want liam to grate. he’s gentle.)

niall is deep texas southern. think those people who say “bless their hearts” and “i’ll pray for you.” sweet tea and cornbread and grits and biscuits with gravy. pretty much all i gotta say about that.

They spend the first hour together just kissing, just running their hands over one another, just feeling. They don't get to do this often enough--usually they rush to finish, so if anyone came barging in (like Louis, looking for the other sock in his pair, or Niall for his sunglasses) they wouldn't see much of anything.

But today, Zayn can absorb every shift of Harry's leg against his, every push of tongue against tongue, every hitch of Harry's breath as Zayn rubs gentle circles into his bare hip, shirts tossed to the floor already. Today, Zayn can take his time. He can enjoy himself.

He sits up, smiling at Harry's confused whine. He pecks Harry's nose and says, "Don't worry babe, not goin' anywhere," and reaches up to pull the blinds up.

Sunlight floods the dingy motel room, revealing the floating dust motes, causing Harry to blink and squint, nose scrunching up. Zayn slides back down to cradle Harry's head in his hand, to push his hair aside and press his lips against the pale skin of Harry's neck. He can feel Harry's pulse kick up, both in his jugular, where his lips are puckered, and where their chests are pressed together. The ends of his mouth perk up as he moves down to the hollow of Harry's throat, nipping just hard enough to make Harry's hands twitch where they're resting on Zayn's shoulders.

"Not that I'm complainin', babe, but… what're you… oh--what're you doing?" Harry breathes, a small broken whimper slipping out when Zayn starts suckling on Harry's left nipple, one hand drifting over to rub slowly at the other. Harry's hands comb restlessly through Zayn's hair, as if asking for something more, but unsure of what exactly he's asking for. Zayn closes his eyes, just breathing in the warming air. The sunlight filtering in through the filthy window is serenely warming his back, the nape of his neck, his arms. He feels time flowing, slow as molasses, as he looks up at Harry through his lashes, and sees the flush climbing down Harry's throat, a rose flush blooming against his porcelain skin.

He pushes himself further down the bed, briefly licking at Harry's right nipple before smearing warmth over Harry's cool stomach. He can feel the muscles jumping under his lips, and smoothes his hands up and down Harry's sides, nails raking softly against his ribs. It doesn't slow the pace of Harry's breathing, but Zayn can hear a quiet huff of a laugh, and it makes him smile.

There's an easy familiarity about how their bodies move. Zayn presses kisses to Harry's shoulders, inner elbows, fingers, belly, thighs, knees, all the while murmuring tender nonsense that still manages to tint Harry's cheeks with mild heat. Harry bends and sways with Zayn's advances, folding himself into the shape Zayn needs.

After Zayn has given affection to every part of Harry's body (except feet, neither of them are into that--and his dick, because they would both get too distracted), he slides, sinuous and undulating, back up to Harry's face, and buries his face in the crook of Harry's neck, pressing him into the mattress. He feels tears pricking behind his closed eyelids but forces them back.

Harry's hands are drifting over Zayn's back, head tilted to the side so Zayn has easier access to his neck. Even if Zayn wasn't lying on top of him, he would have found it hard to breathe. Zayn loves him so much. Zayn cares for him, Zayn would fight for him. Harry digs his fingernails into Zayn's back, leaning his head against Zayn's and trying so hard to keep his breathing even.

Of course, Zayn notices. Of course he does.

"What's wrong, babe?" He rumbles, right behind Harry's ear. He swallows, squeezes his eyes closed. Saying things aloud is a shared difficulty in their band of misfits. So he reverts to poetry they both know, pushing his fingers up through the hair on the back of Zayn's head as he slowly recites:

"Kindness glides about my house. Dame Kindness, she is so nice! The blue and red jewels of her rings smoke In the windows, the mirrors Are filling with smiles."

Zayn stills above him; Harry can hear the confused eyebrow knitting. But, after a pause, Zayn adds the next bit:

"What is so real as the cry of a child? A rabbit's cry may be wilder But it has no soul. Sugar can cure everything, so Kindness says. Sugar is a necessary fluid, Its crystals a little poultice. O kindness, kindness Sweetly picking up pieces!"

Harry's breathing is pretty much back to normal, but he can't stop hugging Zayn closer to him. He continues:

"My Japanese silks, desperate butterflies, May be pinned any minute, anesthetized. And here you come, with a cup of tea Wreathed in steam. The blood jet is poetry, There is no stopping it."

And, with a shared breath, they finish together:

"You hand me two children, two roses."

Zayn sighs, a heavy thing, that presses Harry a little further into the bed. He rolls off to the side, but instantly turns back and drapes an arm over Harry's chest, fingers idly tracing the birds shadowing his collarbones.

There's such a weighty shadow in Zayn's eyes, and Harry cannot stand to see it. Zayn deserves to get out of his head, to have the chains tying him to his inner demons broken, to have a comrade to help ward off the darkness inside of him.

So he sits up, grabbing Zayn's hand and tugging them both out of bed--much to Zayn's distaste and confusion. He digs out a clean shirt, one that has the sleeves ripped off, and tosses it over his shoulder to Zayn; he opts for a long-sleeved, pale yellow v-neck. He can feel Zayn's eyes on him as he ties his hair back in a bun, and braces himself for the inevitable…

Zayn presses against Harry's back, arms winding around his waist and forehead resting on Harry's shoulder. "Where're we goin'?"

Harry smiles despite himself, nudging Zayn off so he can pull on his bike boots. "Nah, 's a surprise." He narrows his eyes when he sees Zayn's fingers start to twitch. "No cigarettes in the motel."

With a huff, Zayn runs a hand through his hair, his half-formed quiff floating to the side. His expression softens. "Just… wanted to stay with you today."

"Well, good thing you're coming with me here, too, then!" Harry beams. He grabs Zayn's wrist--even that small point of contact bleeding warmth and buzzing electricity--and rushes out the motel door.

Zayn shares Harry's bike for the ride, arms locked tight and safe around his waist. Harry loves this, the rush of speeding down an abandoned highway, paired with the solid, living warmth of Zayn melded to his back.

There's a small park near the edge of town--Harry had noticed it when they drove in, but didn't tell anyone. He'd kept it a secret, so he could reveal it now. It has an aura of that particular brand of desertion which includes preservation, down to the last detail. The birds, the trees, the rusting swingset, are all the same from day to day, month to month, year to year--though of course, Harry doesn't know this. When they breathe in the deathly perfume of age-old leaves, they both shiver.

Harry breaks the silence, his soft voice sounding thunderous when compared to the gentle sounds of nature carrying on its way. "If you wanna smoke, you can." His voice holds no judgment, his eyes unfocused and far away, as if he were already miles away. Zayn presses his lips together and nods, unseen; he taps a cigarette against his tattooed knuckles, already fidgeting in anticipation of the calming smoke.

Harry wanders over to a particularly ancient tree, Rorschach patterns and swirls gnarled into the bark, fashioned over centuries of patience and determination, slow growth and plenty of sunlight. His fingers dance over the damp moss sharing this precious space, skirt around the trail of little black ants marching up the trunk, up, up, up, to some faraway destination.

Zayn watches the clouds as he puffs, creating his own miniature fog, pulling it from his mind and watching it float away, dispersing like fine morning mist. He imagines his troubles, his anxieties, the sharp-fanged fiends that haunt the corners of his thoughts are fading away with each exhale. He knows, objectively, that he's ruining his lungs. But his life is already so fucked up, what's one more hurdle to jump? And he doesn't smoke all the time; he limits himself, draws lines, makes conditions for himself. Though it is so hard to deny Louis when he holds out his open lighter, dancing flame lighting up the expectance in his face, sharpening the hollows in his cheeks, a living reaper.

When it feels like he cannot take another breath, Zayn grinds the fag out under his heel, watches the tobacco shards splinter out from under his foot, feels the extinguishing as if he were putting out his own internal flame. He forces himself to take a deep breath: in, two, three, four; hold, two, three, four, five, six; out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. He turns to see Harry gazing up into a tree's limbs, leaves dappling his face with strange-colored shadows, throwing his cheekbones into sharp relief.

Zayn has to remember to exhale.

He walks over, barely feeling his legs move, focused only on the explicit openness of Harry's face. He reaches out, brushes his fingertips against the cross tattoo on Harry's hand, just firm enough that it breaks the spell.

Harry blinks, turns to look at Zayn, mouth slightly open. Zayn's stomach flips, and he swallows, eyes magnetized to Harry's full lower lip.

They kiss.

They kiss, and the chattering squirrels skitter across branches dozens of feet above them.

They kiss, and they can hear cars passing on the road, but for all they can see, those cars are just figments of their imagination, placed there to complete an atmosphere of humanity, when really, it's just them. Only the two of them, and the jabbering squirrels, and the throaty songbirds, and the scores of trees.

Zayn kisses Harry, and forgets that they're both too fucked up to live out their lives together. He forgets about Taylor, he forgets about Niall and Louis and Liam and his bike and the rumble of the road. All he can hear is the roar of blood in his ears and the nearly inaudible, aborted moans Harry's trying to hide.

His heart's in his throat, and he knows he'll cry. But he doesn't care. He doesn't care because he's kissing a beautiful boy who's kissing him back and their passion is all that matters right now.

They pull apart, eyes glassy and lips bruised-red. Harry's tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, Zayn pulls his own in between his teeth.

Just then, an acorn falls on Harry's head, dropped by a squirrel who is, frankly, furious that Harry's head dared to interrupt its acorn's falling process.

Zayn can't help it. He laughs.

He laughs, and his laugh echoes through the trees, startling birds into flight.

He laughs, and Harry joins in, the dappled-green light bouncing off bright white teeth and deepening the dimples Zayn will love to the end of time.

Zayn reaches out and taps the side of Harry's face, gently, oh so very, very gently, so soft that he barely feels the contact. Harry leans into it, eyes fluttering shut, as Zayn murmur, "This. I like this." Harry makes a questioning sound, eyebrows furrowing without opening his eyes. Zayn leans in to kiss the wrinkles away, and explains with an audible fondness, "Your smile in the sunlight… I may be addicted."

Harry's face falls a little, and Zayn's stomach lurches. They both know why he shouldn't have said that.

Harry reaches up to keep Zayn's hand in place, presses a feather-light kiss to his palm, then drops their hands altogether. He starts walking back to the bike, back to their forced charade, the same old dance. Zayn grabs his wrist, desperate to stay in their sacred forest for a few minutes longer, to stay in the light of day for just a few more moments, one more kiss.

Harry's hand clenches to a fist.

He doesn't turn around.

Zayn lets his hand slip through his fingers.