Chapter Text
Zayn finds him when they’re both eighteen.
Or, well, actually, he finds Zayn.
Zayn is on a smoke break (nasty habit, his mum would always tell him, and he knows it, but he’s on his own now, and he can’t help it if his coping mechanisms aren’t the healthiest) trying to avoid his coworkers, when a boy stumbles out of seemingly thin air and slams straight into him.
“Bro!” yelps Zayn, feeling his back crush against the rough press of brick. He isn’t hurt, or even upset, but the shock is enough to startle a frown out of him.
The boy shakes his hair out of his eyes and backs up hastily, apology written all over his face. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there; are you alright?” His words come out in a bit of a rush, and his voice is lower than Zayn would’ve guessed by looking at him.
Zayn blinks once, twice. “You came out of nowhere.”
“Yeah,” says the boy, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it, “sorry about that.”
He’s about Zayn’s height, maybe a little taller, with green eyes and flushing cheeks, and Zayn says it again: “no, you literally came out of nowhere. You appeared out of thin air.” He’s starting to question himself, but he knows that he isn’t just making this up, and he isn’t willing to back down from this one, not when he knows how much could be riding on it.
“I think you’re seeing things, mate.” The other boy chuckles, only a touch awkward. The tone is too casual, and Zayn bites his lip, tries to focus, has to stop himself from screwing his eyes shut – and then he can hear, clear as day: play it cool, Harry, just convince him, I think he’s buying it.
“Harry,” says Zayn, solemn, and smiles when the other boy jolts a little, “I know what I saw.”
Harry looks at him suspiciously, brows furrowing. “How do you know my name?”
Zayn has to be careful about this because blurting it out is generally not the best way to do this, no matter how hard it is to skirt around the issue. Zayn isn’t usually one for mind games, but this is the best he can offer, right now. “I’m Zayn,” he says, “just so we’re even,” and then, “does that happen a lot? The randomly appearing places, I mean?”
Harry shrugs before he remembers that he’s supposed to be alarmed. “I don’t know what you’re saying, Zayn, but I need to go. I’m late for class.” He seems irrationally upset about this, and Zayn chalks it up to him being some hotshot university bloke, probably worried about his GPA.
“Wait,” says Zayn, stepping away from the wall, hands up like he’s approaching a wounded animal and not a boy with an increasingly irritated expression on his face, “you’re special, aren’t you?” He says it more quietly than he means to, feels his eyes shift from hopeful to pleading. It’s just- he needs Harry to say it, or at least acknowledge it, or maybe just not leave Zayn standing here thinking about wasted opportunities and all of the things he could’ve done differently.
Harry doesn’t take the bait, looks even more alarmed and half turns around. “Listen, I need to leave-”
And then Zayn pulls out all the stops and hopes for the best, knows he’s being reckless but can’t find it in himself to care. This is not how he usually operates. He’s starting to think he might be out of his mind after all. “I can hear your thoughts. That’s how I knew your name, and that’s how I know you did appear out of nowhere, and I’m not crazy.” It comes out in a rush, and then Zayn is standing there with his hands out in front of him like a sacrifice, like he’s dumping himself out and praying Harry won’t flash out of there the way he came.
Harry laughs, but it sounds strangled in his throat. “You sure you’re not crazy?” But he’s scuffing a boot against the wet pavement, looking down, and biting so hard at his lower lip that Zayn is scared he’ll draw blood, and he’s still here. He’s still here.
Zayn takes it as his cue to provide some proof. “You’re thinking about how many miles you miscalculated your jump by – oh, that’s a lot; I’m not surprised you’re late for class – and you’re wondering how I’m doing this right now. I’m not lying.”
“You can read minds.” Harry sounds completely floored.
Zayn’s shoulders sag, relieved. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, man.” His break has probably ended already, but his manager loves him (she says she doesn’t, but he sweet talks her, and sometimes works overtime, so he can get away with almost anything these days), and he needs to talk to Harry, needs to not lose him the second they part ways. It’s been years since he last met anyone with abilities like his, and he doesn’t want to talk about what happened the last time, and how it ended in fire and pain, and he still wakes up screaming some nights.
But Harry is here and alive and looks like he’s considering the offer that Zayn hasn’t even put on the table yet. He’s not focusing hard enough to hear Harry now, just waiting patiently for an answer, and it comes. “I call it jumping,” he says, and Zayn nods, “but I’m not very good at it yet. I only figured out I could do it a few years ago, and I was too scared to try on purpose until, like, six months ago.” Zayn nods again. “I miss a lot,” he adds, gesturing at the supermarket as if to say ‘this is not my university and I didn’t mean to end up here.’
Zayn is about to go into his own…thing, eager to share despite the nerves coiled in his stomach, when one of his coworkers pokes her head out. “Zayn!” she calls out, voice distorted by the distance between he and Harry and the back door. “Break’s over! We need a cleanup in aisle 5 and it’s got your name written all over it!” Zayn groans, and Harry laughs, and the words he was about to share die in his throat, sparkle lost under his tongue and between his teeth.
“I need to get back to work,” says Zayn, because he does, and Harry looks disproportionately crestfallen. He rushes to add, “but give me your phone number; we can meet again later,” and the desperate edge of I don’t want to lose touch with you so soon after we’ve met goes unsaid, but he’s sure Harry hears it.
Harry smiles and a set of picture perfect dimples appears. “I was going to say something about trusting strangers,” he starts, and they both laugh, “but you’re right; we should talk, and I need to get going, too.” His eyes are sparkling with interest and some of the weak sunlight that’s filtering through the clouds, and they exchange numbers, and Harry disappears from one blink to the next.
Zayn looks at the spot where he was standing and hopes he made it to class okay.
…
They’re fast friends, Zayn and Harry, fond of each other and quick-witted and hard working. It takes a handful of months of close contact and lots of practice, but eventually Zayn can hear Harry’s thoughts without even having to try, and Harry can teleport (jumping, he likes to call it, and Zayn thinks it has a catchy ring to it, but in the end it really is teleportation) with pinpoint accuracy anywhere within a mile radius, give or take. He’s also gotten better at anchoring himself to people, only landed on Zayn a few times before figuring out the right distance, and he doesn’t do it all the time, but it isn’t hurting anyone to practice.
Two weeks after they move in together (Harry has to cover more than his share of the rent, but he doesn’t mind at all, says something about an inheritance and refuses to let Zayn struggle no matter how loudly or spectacularly he protests), they find Louis.
It happens like this:
They’re walking across the street, shoulders bumping as they hunch against the onslaught of rain, when they hear a horn honking loudly behind them. The car is twisting out of control, headed straight for a smaller boy wearing a hoodie about fifteen meters behind them. It’s happening too fast – there’s no possible way the boy will manage to jump out of the way in time, or avoid what will most likely be a fatal injury. The road is slick with water. There’s no time.
Zayn can hear himself yelling when the collision happens, the sound ripping out of his throat.
The boy gets hit by the car.
His body is thrown across the wet pavement. He lands at an unnatural angle. Zayn thinks, feeling a bit sick, that his spine must have snapped nearly in half the way he hit the ground.
“Fuck,” he breathes, hands shaking by his sides. Harry nods silently, equally shell shocked, shoulders stiff like he’d been bracing for impact, too. There’s a brief, heavy pause in which Zayn and Harry are completely frozen, just staring at the prone figure lying on the asphalt.
And then the boy gets up.
Harry swears unthinkingly and starts running toward him, back into the street, and Zayn tries to grab his wrist, but Harry is essentially unstoppable when he has a destination in mind.
Zayn’s mind short circuits a little when he hears Harry’s thoughts. Louis? Louis? How did he- I thought he was dead, I don’t know what’s happening; he was dead and then he was dead again, and now he’s alive. I don’t- Louis Louis Louis, and then he’s careening straight into the boy’s arms, and they’re laughing and twirling, and Zayn is standing awkwardly off to the side while they (apparently) reunite.
He walks up to them properly after a few moments, shoving his hands into his pockets and trying not to let his shock read too much on his face. “Zayn, this is-“
“Louis, yeah, I got it,” Zayn smiles, and Harry looks like he’s fighting tears and also a blush. “I’m Zayn. How are you alive?”
Louis grins, apparently charmed, and then laughs like they’ve all been let in on a glorious cosmic joke, only wincing a little when the movement jostles his spine. His eyes are blazing electric blue, and there’s blood still oozing from an ugly cut on the side of his face. He doesn’t look bothered, just keeps Harry tucked into his side and smiles, smiles, smiles. “That’s the question, innit?” and he sounds completely unaffected by the fact that he was just run over by a car in the middle of the road.
Zayn grins, too, helpless not to despite the fact that he’s still utterly confused. Louis’ thoughts are fast and piercing, relieved to see Harry and whirring through guesses as to how long it will take him to heal from this. He’s the loudest thinker Zayn’s ever heard, louder than Harry even after Zayn’s gotten used to tuning in to him, and Zayn likes him immediately, wants to hear more from this boy with the sharp grin and quick mind and wicked laugh.
People are starting to point, and Louis must notice at the same time Zayn does, because he shifts away from Harry, eyes darting around, shifting clean out of the warmth he’d been exuding. “Looks like it’s my cue to leave, then,” he says, chipper, but his thoughts all ring with regret and it sounds false even out loud.
“Come back to ours,” insists Harry, “the least we can do is help you get cleaned up, maybe catch up a bit.” His eyes are full to the brim with hope, and Zayn hides a laugh because in the time he’s known Harry he’s yet to meet a single human being that can resist that look.
True to form, Louis complies, grumbling a little but genuinely pleased that he won’t have to go back to his flat alone covered in blood. Apparently his roommate is already suspicious of how quickly his bruises disappear in general, and this takes the cake thus far in terms of healing rapidly.
So they go back to Harry and Zayn’s flat and clean Louis up, and Zayn gets to learn a bit of his story.
Louis is scrappy by nature; you can tell just looking at him, but he’s also surprisingly soft. He opens up about his family, and it’s evident in the warmth of his tone how much he cares about them. He talks about how it takes a lot to hurt him, and how he’s yet to incur an injury that puts him out of commission for more than a few hours.
He and Harry met in their school choir years ago and became instant best friends, spent all their time together, almost dated, really should’ve, not sure why we didn’t, thinks Louis, and Zayn doesn’t say anything. They lost touch when Louis had to drop out of school and started working more to support his family.
Harry had protested, arguing that he could help them financially, but Louis doesn’t have to say it for Zayn to know he’s too proud to accept an offer like that. Zayn’s the same way, though maybe not quite to the same extent. Harry pushed and Louis balked. It went on like this until they were going in circles, so Louis faked his own death, apparently, and let Harry think he was never coming back.
And now they’re here, and they found each other, and it doesn’t look like they want to let go any time soon. Aside from a few days of freezing silence, Harry doesn’t even seem bitter, really, just happy to see Louis again, and Zayn marvels at his capacity for forgiveness. Zayn would’ve strangled Louis with his own bare hands for an over-dramatic stunt like that.
Zayn talks to him about the newest Marvel movie, and Louis lights up like Christmas, and they spend the rest of the evening loose and happy chatting like old mates. (And if Zayn thinks, dizzily, that friendship isn’t supposed to be this easy – first Harry, and now Louis – then he keeps it to himself).
Later, much later, they talk openly about their abilities. It isn’t that Zayn didn’t trust Louis that first day, but he knew they’d need to take it slow. Louis was a flight risk. Zayn didn’t want to lose him, didn’t think Harry could take it, either.
It’s two weeks in when they all come clean.
Harry jumps across the room, and Louis surprises them both by laughing delightedly and clapping. “And you?” he asks, looking at Zayn, “what’s your special talent, then? Let’s have a look.”
Zayn says, with a completely straight face, “I breathe purple fire,” and immediately bursts into stitches at the look in Louis’ eyes. “Kidding,” he laughs, “only kidding. I can read minds.”
“Ha ha,” deadpans Louis, “no, seriously, what can you do? Or are you just the moral support?”
“He can hear your thoughts,” supplies Harry (so helpful, that boy), and Louis blinks once, twice, three times.
Louis straightens up in his seat and meets Zayn’s even gaze. “Well then,” he says, defiant, “what am I thinking?” and Zayn knows that this is a test, that if he makes one wrong move it could turn ugly very quickly.
Fortunately, Louis is an easy read, even on the quieter days. “The World Cup,” says Zayn, trying not to let his eyes go soft and amused and probably failing, “and how you think England really has a chance this year, even if no one else does. Didn’t realize you were such an idealist.” He earns a jab in the side and an awestruck smile for that, is helpless not to grin back.
And then: “Wait, does that mean you could read my mind the whole time we’ve known each other?” He looks slightly afraid.
Zayn just shrugs, placid and unwilling to give Louis a hard time about it. “If you’re really that curious about my how I do my hair, you could’ve just asked.”
Harry laughs like he can’t help it; Louis shoves Zayn’s shoulder, and they all relax. It takes months for them to get the hang of each other completely, though Harry and Louis are almost always attached at the hip. Eventually they figure it out, and that winter they fall into each other over and over, each time wilder than the last.
…
It takes time.
Zayn learns that Louis is sadder than he looks.
He’s reckless, sometimes; Zayn can see it in his eyes. It’s the kind of reckless that comes with being essentially indestructible, but there’s more to it, he thinks. It’s the way he tries to intercept hurt before it can hit other people, taking an elbow to the ribs when he shields Harry from a crowd, picking up the broken shards of a glass Zayn dropped without flinching, looking at the blood on his hands and shrugging because, “it’ll heal up, good as new.”
That isn’t the point, but Zayn and Harry let it slide because they’re all just doing their best, and Louis is hurricane, tornado, couldn’t be stopped even if they locked him up and threw away the key.
It’s scary, sometimes, seeing Louis’ face black and blue after he mouthed off one too many times to an ex-boyfriend and three of the guy's friends, and let himself get backed into an alley (and Zayn chided him for it, of course, because of all the harebrained, ill-contrived, idiotic, careless- he could go on, but Louis gets the picture, and all he does is smile at Zayn because he’s covered in bruises and he doesn’t even care).
When he thinks Zayn isn’t paying attention, he’ll think about how he loves his family, but he hasn’t seen his mum in ages, how he had to move away so he could send money back. Or how he’s so in love it’s painful, but he’d rather pull in a nightclub than come home to something that could walk away.
Louis loves so much, and he is at least two-thirds bravado even on the good days. Half the time it doesn’t seem as if his skin is big enough to contain every piece of him at once.
Zayn wants to ask Louis all sorts of questions, but he already hears so much that it doesn’t feel fair. He wants to tell Louis to be careful, but the day they met the boy, he got hit by a car, didn’t even bother trying to get out of the way. Careful isn’t in Louis’ vocabulary.
…
Louis’ roommate is cheerful and very Irish and named Niall, and no one suspects he’s anything but normal until he and Zayn meet for the first time.
It’s Louis’ 20th birthday party, and all of them have to promise at least fifteen times not to mention the fact that Louis is no longer a teenager lest they face a penalty of slow, painful death. The first half of the party goes smoothly, alcohol pouring and laughter sparkling in the air like glitter, but Louis is an emotional drunk, and after a while he retreats to his bedroom for (another) existential crisis. Harry follows him up quietly.
They don’t come back down, and from what Zayn can hear (which is much, much more than he wants to be hearing, god, this is so far beyond what he signed up for when he became friends with these two), it would be a bad idea to bother the two of them right now.
Niall walks up to Zayn at half three, when they’re the only ones left in the kitchen, and the living room has begun to empty out. His shirt is almost all the way unbuttoned, and there’s a tie around his head, but he looks completely sober, amazingly, cheeks flushed bright and eyes clear. “Hey, Zayn. Louis speaks highly of you,” he says, leaning up against the wall where Zayn is standing, and Zayn raises an eyebrow before nodding.
“You, too.” Zayn has heard countless stories about bottle blonde Niall with his fierce laughter and unwavering loyalty and ability to drink anyone under the table. “Pretty sure he speaks highest of Harry, though.”
Niall grins and claps Zayn on the shoulder. Zayn has known him for all of two minutes, and he already knows that his presence is magnetic, that his attention is like a spotlight, that this is the kind of kid Zayn would’ve wanted to be able to hate in school but couldn’t for the fact that he’s so nice. “I like you already,” Niall says, like he’s made up his mind and no one could change it. “Can’t believe we didn’t meet until now; I feel like I know your life story, mate.”
“Guess we just kept missing each other,” says Zayn, and then he listens in on Niall’s thoughts out of pure instinct and maybe a little bit of curiosity. Or, well, he tries to, but it takes him a bit to focus. All he hears is buzzing silence and sounds of people leaving the house. He tries again, and then again. Nothing. If he pushes any harder, he thinks he’ll start sweating or screw his eyes shut or something equally embarrassing, so he goes for the direct approach. “Hey,” he says, trying not to panic too much, “this might sound crazy, but are you thinking about anything right now?”
Niall looks unbothered by the question, just shrugs a little and picks at a fingernail. “Just thinking about dry cleaning I need to pick up tomorrow, and I’ve got that new Justin Timberlake song stuck in my head, why? Is it that obvious you don’t have my full attention?” he chuckles to himself, “sorry about that, it’s an awful habit, can’t help it if my mind’s always running. My mum used to yell at me about it, still does, actually.”
Zayn’s world tilts on its axis. “Hold on a minute, okay?”
Niall looks at him funny but nods, turning to make easy conversation with the last stragglers in the hallway, and then Zayn is racing up the stairs toward Louis’ bedroom. “Hey!” he yells, banging on the door, “Make yourselves decent, I need to talk to you!”
Louis and Harry emerge moments later, rumpled but thankfully clothed, and Zayn can hear their thoughts, and he sighs in relief. “What’s happened?” asks Harry, looking increasingly alarmed as he takes in Zayn’s likely panicked expression.
Zayn listens. Is there a fire? Is everything okay downstairs? I knew I should’ve checked up on it all an hour ago; are the cops here? Zayn needs to say something, seriously. He doesn’t look too good, maybe he’s sick? Wait, can he hear this? Hey, Zayn, mate, what’s wrong? And then he snaps out of it, able to breathe a little easier.
“I can’t hear Niall,” he says. “This has never happened to me before. I don’t- I can’t hear him. At all. It’s like there’s nothing there, or he’s shielding me, or something.”
Louis frowns. “You mean, like, his thoughts? You can’t hear them?”
Zayn shakes his head, knows his eyes must look wide and confused. “Nothing. Just silence.”
“But you can still hear us?”
“Yeah, clearly as ever.”
“Surely there’s a reason,” says Harry, scrubbing at his eyes with the back of a loose fist as he squints into the brightly lit hallway, “maybe he’s blocking you or something. Maybe he’s special, but he doesn’t know it.”
Louis’ nodding as Harry speaks. “Or maybe he does know! Could be why he’s so smug all the time, maybe, probably.”
Zayn chews on his lower lip. “Maybe, I don’t know,” he says uselessly, trying to fill up the silence.
I am so drunk, thinks Louis as soon as he finishes speaking, and Zayn smirks despite himself. I am so extremely drunk, and it’s my birthday, and I want to snog Harry right now; maybe I will. Zayn should leave; this can all wait until tomorrow, definitely.
Zayn, gracious friend that he is, takes the hint and walks back out to the kitchen.
Niall is gone, probably having retreated to his room to sleep, and Zayn decides to curl up on the couch. More than likely, Harry will stay the night, and in the morning, it shouldn’t be hard to convince him to make breakfast for the rest of them. They can talk then, or not – this isn’t a disaster or even that important, not in the grand scheme of things, and Zayn can survive one night not knowing why he’s apparently run into the only person in the city whose mind he can’t read.
Louis was right. This can wait.
…
The next morning, Zayn still can’t hear Niall.
It’s not a big deal, he reasons with himself. He’s young, and surely there must be some people on this Earth that he can’t hear; but this is the first time he can ever remember it happening, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t shaken.
Still, he plays it cool. Niall might be a mystery, but he’s cheerful and friendly and fun to be around. Zayn may be reserved, but he will also never say no to karaoke and despite popular opinion he can, in fact, be very tactile, so they get along pretty well.
The day passes without incident, and then another day passes, and then it’s been a week, and Zayn can’t hear Niall. But he thinks they’re becoming friends, and he isn’t exactly sure how he’d bring it up, anyway. He somehow doubts that asking, “Do you know why I can’t read your mind?” would be particularly effective unless the goal is to make Niall think Zayn is messing with him, or something.
In the end, surprisingly enough, it’s Louis that brings Niall into their supernaturally inclined business.
Or, well. In hindsight, actually, Zayn shouldn’t be surprised that it’s Louis.
They’re all piled into Louis and Niall’s living room, which is pretty typical for a Friday afternoon when Zayn’s not working, and Harry steps out to the kitchen to make a sandwich. Niall and Louis are on the floor with their heads tucked together looking at something on Louis’ computer, and Zayn’s on the sofa leafing through a book.
The quiet is peaceful and comfortable until it’s broken by a yelp. “Harry?” calls Louis, “All right in there?”
“I’m fine!” yells Harry from the kitchen, but it comes out a little strangled. “Don’t worry about it! Everything is great!”
Zayn listens in, but all he hears is very careful silence – it’s different than it is with Niall, because there’s a thread of intent hanging low beneath it. Harry wised up to Zayn’s methods pretty quickly, and can keep his mind blank for short periods of time if he tries hard enough. Meditation, he’d told Zayn with a grin, and Zayn couldn’t even be upset. Harry likes his privacy. Zayn won’t begrudge him that.
So it’s all quiet, and then there’s another shout from the other room. Louis is on his feet in an instant, rolling his eyes, but there’s worry written in the coiled line of his shoulders. He walks into the kitchen, and Zayn and Niall wait patiently until Zayn hears Louis think shit rather loudly from the next room, and then he’s dragging Niall with him until they’re all standing next to the counter looking at Harry.
“I’m fine,” he insists, running a hand through his hair, “just cut myself a bit, that’s all; nothing major.”
The blood running down the fingertips on his other hand undercuts his point a bit, and without thinking about it (Zayn would know if he had), Louis scoops up the hand and presses it between his own.
“Louis, what are you doing?” asks Harry, but Louis doesn’t answer, just focuses on his injured hand with a crinkle of consternation in his brow. The traces of a smile that usually litter his face have been replaced with gentleness and concern.
When he releases Harry, the cut has fully scabbed over, and the skin around it is a vibrant, healing pink.
“That shouldn’t be possible,” stutters Niall, staring with his mouth open in shock, “that was an open cut a few seconds ago; this is impossible.”
The silence in the room is thick with tension. Zayn can hear Louis’ thoughts racing at a million miles per hour, as usual, and finds himself both surprised and impressed that Louis has kept this to himself since he’s met Zayn. “It’s not perfect,” says Louis, “but now he won’t need stitches.” Niall is still gaping, eyes wide and disbelieving.
“I didn’t know you could do it to other people, too,” says Harry, wonder filling his eyes as he turns his hand to see it from different angles, “that’s really cool.”
Louis shrugs. “It comes in hand-y sometimes.” Harry cracks a smile because he will always indulge Louis, even if the pun is terrible. “And it’s mostly new, anyway. Never really had anyone to practice on until now.”
Niall’s eyes flick from Harry to Louis to Zayn and back again, trying to process it all. Zayn would kill to know what’s going on in his head, but it’s as quiet as it ever is. “So, do you guys mind telling me what’s going on here, then? Because I’m completely lost, and it looks like I’m the only one that’s not in on the joke, or whatever this is, here.” He laughs, but it’s a nervous laugh, so unlike Niall that it makes Zayn’s skin crawl.
“We’re superheroes!” says Louis, and Zayn hits him in the back of the head. Louis doesn’t even flinch. “Okay, okay, we’re just regular people who can do weird things,” he amends, and then keeps going, “we have abilities. Weird, supernatural, out of the ordinary abilities. If you stabbed me with that knife, for example,” he says, gesturing toward the bloody knife lying in the sink, “it would probably take a minute or two for the wound to close, and then a few minutes after that to heal right up, as long as you didn’t pierce any particularly important organs.”
“Right,” says Niall, slowly, and his face is paler than usual.
“I can teleport,” says Harry, and then proceeds to jump from where he’s standing to directly behind Niall. “Hey, mate,” he chirps, and Niall almost falls over when he spins on his heel.
“And you?” asks Niall when he’s gained his bearings, and he’s looking at Zayn with wild eyes, daring him to do something impressive.
Zayn really doesn’t have much to show him, just lays all his cards out onto the table. “I can read minds, usually, but I can’t read yours.”
Niall nods slowly, considering. “You know, you don’t have to feel bad if you can’t do anything like Harry and Louis. I can’t either.” It’s like he’s trying to reassure Zayn, or placate him, and while the sentiment is appreciated, Zayn also doesn’t like being made out to be a liar.
“No,” says Zayn, insistent, “you’re the only one I’ve ever met whose thoughts I can’t hear. I wanted to tell you earlier, but I figured you wouldn’t believe me. It’s the truth, ask Harry or Louis; I can hear them fine.” The two boys both agree quietly, eyes serious to match the mood. “Niall, you are the only one. I think it’s possible that you’re special, too.”
Niall has gone quiet. Harry and Louis are both thinking about the same thing, which is best translated as a single held breath, but Zayn tunes them out until all he can hear is the low hum of the refrigerator and the wind beating a tree branch against the window. “So,” Niall starts, slowly, and then bites down on his bottom lip. “You think I’m, like, immune, or something?” Zayn pulls a face that he hopes conveys well, you might be, but I’m not exactly an expert here. Niall looks at him very carefully and then shrugs one shoulder. “Let’s see, then.” Before anyone can stop him, he walks over to the sink, grabs the bloody knife, and cuts a clean, shallow line across the fleshy part of his palm. “Damn,” he says, eyes scrunching up as he winces, “that stings,” and then holds his hand out to Louis. “Do your worst.”
“You’re a madman,” says Louis as he closes his hands around Niall’s, but he’s grinning the way he always does when he feels fearless in the face of danger, or adventure, or whatever it is they’re doing right now. The blood on the floor, which had already started drying, is interrupted by new droplets that look all the more red compared to the stark white tiles. Louis’ grin fades, and his brows furrow together. “It’s not working, I don’t think,” he says, and he sounds confused but also frustrated. After a moment he adds, actually concerned, “Will you be fine with gauze, or do you reckon you need a hospital?”
“It’s a tiny cut,” scoffs Niall, “can barely feel it; I don’t need a hospital.” And then, quieter, “do you really think it’s me? Like, it’s my fault it’s not working? I mean, my mum always told me I was special, but this is a whole new level of weird, even for me.”
It’s enough to break the tension, and the lines in Zayn’s shoulders relax enough for him to breathe properly again.
“I’ll get you some antiseptic,” says Harry. It’s a testament to how much time they spend in this flat that he doesn’t even need to ask where it is, just traipses over to the bathroom and starts digging through the medicine cabinet.
Niall is still looking at his hand, forehead tight with an emotion Zayn wishes he could name.
…
One day, Niall looks at Zayn and asks, “What if we could help people?”
“What do you mean?” Zayn answers, barely looking up from his book.
“Like, what if we can do these things for a reason? What if we’re meant to try to help people, or save them, or fix something that’s broken?”
Zayn puts the book down and looks Niall right in the eyes, refuses to let himself waver. “Tried that, long time ago. Now my family’s dead. We’re not heroes. This isn’t some movie. We’re not supposed to stand out.” It’s firm and cruel and meant to stop the conversation in its tracks. He gets a sick kind of satisfaction from watching Niall try to process the information without flinching. He doesn’t talk about it much, but his past isn’t full of acceptance and happiness and sunshine. There’s a reason he hasn’t touched a comic book since the 11th grade even though they were always his favorite. There’s a reason he doesn’t have a lot of friends, and there’s a reason he generally doesn’t like to let people get close to him.
“Whatever happened,” says Niall, always so painfully well intentioned, “I’m sure it wasn’t your fault.”
Zayn fights the urge to roll his eyes, just sits very still and counts his breaths. “You don’t know anything about what happened, or about me.” He hasn’t felt so full of undiluted anger in months and months. It simmers under his skin.
“I know that you’d never hurt anyone on purpose.” After a pause, he continues. “And I know you seem like the type of person to blame themselves for something that they couldn’t change. You’re a good person, Zayn. I’ve known you long enough to notice that, at least.”
“Leave it,” Zayn says quietly, looking down, “please, just leave it.”
And Niall, steady, unreadable Niall, nods once, claps Zayn softly on the shoulder, and sits next to him on the couch. They sit there in silence as the sun sets, and Zayn tries to wrap his head around everything that was said.
It keeps him up that night. It keeps him up most nights after, too.
…
Niall gets Harry and Louis on his side, and it takes Zayn a while to realize that they’re waiting on him, for some reason. Like his vote is the deciding factor when it comes to using their abilities to do some good.
If he couldn’t hear Harry and Louis thinking all the time, he’d have a hard time believing how much they trust him.
It’s that, in the end, that clinches it, even if he’s still skeptical and undeniably terrified. “No costumes,” he says. “I’m not wearing tights or some ridiculous mask or something; that isn’t happening.” And the other boys start cheering before he’s even finished speaking.
“We could do so much good,” says Harry, and his hair is getting long again, framing his face and falling in wild curls, “even if it’s just one person. Even if it’s just one time that we can help someone.”
“Sap,” says Louis, and then jumps on his back, hollering for him to take a lap around the flat.
Children, thinks Zayn, smiling, and then he slows down, thinks it again. Children. They’re so young, all of them, and here they are celebrating because they get to put themselves in danger for the common good, whatever that is at any given moment, or whatever they believe it is. He’s seen this before. It doesn’t end well. Niall sends him a questioning glance, but Zayn just shakes his head, forces himself to hold the smile before it drops off of his face and shows just how scared he really is. There’s already a sick curl of dread twisting in his gut. Please, he thinks, and tries not to let it spill right out of him, please don’t let any of them die.
…
It turns out that saving the world isn’t quite as simple as they thought it would be. Between the four of them, they have virtually no way to weaponize their abilities, so they’re mostly stuck practicing defensive maneuvers. They’ve done a few good deeds, like when Louis surreptitiously healed a young boy’s skinned knees on the playground, or when Harry jumped four blocks to help an elderly woman cross the street, but they aren’t living the lives of superheroes by any means.
True to form, Louis is impatient. “Where are all the super villains when you need them?” he asks, tapping his foot against Zayn’s leg where they’re reclining on the floor. Harry’s in class and Niall is at work, so this is how Zayn and Louis usually spend their Fridays: lounging around in Zayn’s flat doing absolutely nothing.
Zayn snorts. “What’re you going to do, heal them to death?”
Louis sticks his tongue out. “At least I can take a hit. You fall over whenever there’s a strong wind, let alone someone pushing you.”
“Oi, shut it.” Louis doesn’t, and Zayn decides he needs to defend his dignity by starting a scuffle. Zayn is stronger, but Louis is slippery and squirmy and hard to pin down, so they’re very nearly an even match. They’re rolling over each other laughing, each trying to grab the other’s wrist, when Harry bursts in through the door, eyes wild.
“Something’s happened,” he says, out of breath, practically vibrating with energy. “We need to- we need to go, come on, get up!”
Harry’s thoughts are all just as frantic and confusing as his announcement. “What’s happened, Harry?” asks Louis, gentle and soft the way he only really is with Harry.
Harry just shakes his head, cheeks flushed and hair tossing wildly with the movement. “We need to go. Now.”
Zayn catches if we don’t get there right now then the situation could get worse and someone could get hurt come on come on come on, and it’s all he needs to hear to drag Louis to his feet and rush to Harry’s car, heart pounding loud in his chest.
…
The situation turns out to be a boy around Zayn’s age with sandy brown hair, impressive biceps, and a complete lack of control over the beams of energy shooting from his hands.
“That’s Liam,” murmurs Harry once they step out of the car. “He’s in my music production course and almost killed our professor today, nearly knocked his head right off his body.” The parking lot is wide and mostly empty, thankfully, but the boy (Liam, apparently) is creating what is essentially a crater of destruction stretching out to cover a nearly thirty-meter radius. Zayn doesn’t doubt he could do more damage than he is, hopes for everyone’s sake that the kid is holding back on purpose.
Zayn looks him over. “Doesn’t seem like the violent type, honestly.”
They never do, thinks Harry, and Zayn rolls his eyes but smiles. Always was one for the melodrama, Harry, probably got it from Louis in the first place. “We need to stop him,” he says, out loud this time, and Zayn nods solemnly.
“I reckon I can get close enough to talk to him,” says Louis, and Zayn immediately thinks it’s a bad idea.
He looks at Liam, who has managed to overturn another vehicle, and then back at Louis. “Just because you’ll heal doesn’t mean it won’t hurt, you realize that, right?” he asks, trying to keep the hardness out of his voice. He mostly succeeds.
Louis’ mouth twists, but he remains otherwise calm and collected. “I realize that, yeah. But we need to stop him before someone gets seriously hurt, or worse – when do classes get out, usually, Harry?”
Harry checks his watch. “We have a quarter hour, maybe a little bit more.”
“That settles it, then, I’m going in.” He takes a step toward Liam, who hasn’t noticed their presence yet, and laughs, turns halfway back. “Niall is going to be so mad that he missed this.” And then he’s off.
Zayn tries to get a read on Liam, listening carefully, and for a moment he thinks that this is going to be just like Niall all over again, feels his blood run cold. After a beat, though, he realizes why he couldn’t hear Liam: his thoughts are an endless string of words repeating over and over until they almost sound like static. Stop stop no stop control yourself get it together stop stop it stop you could hurt someone no no stop please stop and the desperation and frustration hits Zayn like a punch to the gut. He is holding back, like Zayn suspected. That’s a good thing, means maybe they can reason him out of it, or calm him down, or whatever they’re supposed to do in this kind of situation. He can’t imagine how frightening it would be, to wreck everything around you even though you’re trying not to, to have so much power at your disposal but no way to control it.
“Hey!” shouts Louis, now much closer to Liam, “Mate! We’re gonna need you to stop doing that!”
Liam turns around, and before anyone can blink Louis’s entire body is slamming into a car door ten meters from where he was originally standing. “Sorry!” yells Liam, and then he curses a bit. How do I turn these off? he thinks, a bit manic, staring at his hands, and Zayn has to muffle a laugh as a cough because this boy is dangerous but apparently also rather endearing.
Zayn looks to his left to try to formulate a new plan, but he should’ve known Harry would jump straight to Louis. They’re probably regrouping over by the car, but Zayn isn’t going to wait for them to figure something out. He might be a bit more fragile than Louis, but maybe he can talk Liam down, respond to his thoughts, something like that. It’s worth a shot, anyway.
He takes a few steps toward the swirling vortex of chaos (aka, where Liam is currently standing) and ducks behind a light pole. “Liam!” he calls, and tries not to flinch when the boy turns around, looks at the ground and bides his time. When he’s determined that he’s not about to die, Zayn peeks around the pole. “Hi,” he says, stupidly, because Liam is just staring at him and growing increasingly alarmed, and Zayn doesn’t actually have a plan of action, here, beyond minimizing damage.
“Erm, hi,” answers Liam, clearly struggling to control himself, “that’s probably not a good place to stand,” and he overturns a sign behind him, sending it flying, and Zayn tries not to think about that potentially being his own body, “since I, uh, am, well…having a bit of trouble, here.”
Zayn takes the opportunity to creep closer, hiding behind a bicycle rack this time. If Harry’s right, they have less than ten minutes at this point to get Liam out of here, hopefully without any more cars being overturned in the process. “We want to help you,” says Zayn, and he has to shout less loudly this time, “but you need to calm down, yeah? Take a breath.”
He can hear Harry and Louis’ thoughts on the other side of the wall of cars as a dull buzz – they’re probably talking to each other by the sound of it, both nervous for Zayn but hopeful that this will work. Zayn feels the same way.
“Right,” says Liam, trying to shake his body into submission, but he merely succeeds in very nearly decapitating Zayn. “Sorry, sorry, I don’t know how to stop it. It’s never been this bad before.” His fists clench and unclench, and Zayn definitely does not ogle his arm muscles while it happens, no, he does not do that. That would potentially compromise the mission (because apparently this is a mission, now that they’re all playing superhero), and Zayn is nothing if not professional, usually.
Liam’s thoughts are jumbled, but they clear up a bit when Zayn is speaking to him, so he keeps talking. “There you go; you’re doing better, just relax a bit. Remember to breathe. See, you’re calming down already, Liam; you’re doing really good.” Zayn isn’t usually great at the whole rambling thing, but he had younger sisters growing up, and he used to absolutely dote on them, so soft underneath all of the leather and cigarettes, and he knows how to comfort people well enough if he’s in the right mindset.
Liam’s chest is rising and falling steeply, but his breathing seems to have slowed down. “There you go,” says Zayn, standing up and walking over to Liam. His thoughts have narrowed down to breathe, breathe, breathe, and Zayn should probably be on his guard a bit more, but he feels like Liam has gotten himself more or less under control. “All right?” he asks, now only a few steps from the other boy.
Harry and Louis stand as well, and start making their way over very, very slowly. Louis doesn’t look any worse for the wear for having been bodily slammed into a car. If anything, Harry is the one that looks shaken, but they can deal with that later.
Liam falls into a crouch, head in his hands, and then looks up at Zayn. “Yeah, good, thank you.” Then his eyes go sharp, like he’s remember something, and Zayn knows what he’s going to ask before he even says it. “How did you know my name?”
“I can read minds,” he says, flippant, figuring he can play it off as a joke if he needs to, “and my mate Harry is in your music production course, apparently.”
Liam laughs like he isn’t sure if he’s being made fun of or not, a small, uncertain thing that makes Zayn’s stomach twist. And then Liam thinks something about Zayn being so attractive it’s almost offensive, and Zayn doesn’t blush easy, but he can feel himself coloring to the roots, finds himself grateful that his darker complexion hides the worst of it. “Wasn’t kidding about the mind reading thing,” he says, because he feels the need to clarify, and he can hear Liam’s thoughts stumble over themselves. “If you want, I can tell you more about it back at mine and Harry’s flat?” He can’t help but curve it into a question.
“Yeah, that would be good, I think, thanks, good plan. I probably shouldn’t be out ‘n about anyway, in this state. Thanks.” Liam is looking at his feet, but he’s biting his lip around a smile.
“’Course,” answers Zayn, easy as anything, and the four of them pile into Harry’s car. Zayn was worried that there might be awkward silence, or that Liam might accidentally kill all of them, but he probably should’ve known better. Liam is completely calm, now. He apologizes to Louis about a hundred times; Harry tries to small talk about the class they share; Louis is an absolute pest, and Zayn is just trying to keep up with it all.
“Do you reckon,” asks Louis, when they’re very nearly back to the flat, “if I caught you off guard, you would accidentally, like, shred this car to pieces, without meaning to? Like if I poked you when you weren’t looking or something?”
Liam genuinely takes a moment to think about it. “Don’t think so,” he says, “at least, I hope not, maybe don’t try it right now.”
Louis doesn’t look deterred, but he also doesn’t try to goad Liam into hulking out, so Zayn counts it as a win.
Niall is tinkering around on his guitar when they get back, sitting at the table. “Zayn’s adopted another one of us,” sings Louis, practically skipping into the kitchen, “our little band of magical do-gooders has a new addition, and he can flip cars over without touching them!”
Liam looks startled. Niall just grins, because he’s probably never met a human being he couldn’t put at ease, and kicks his feet up, setting the guitar down next to him. “Hey, I’m Niall. Ignore Louis; he’s just starved for attention.”
“I’m not starved for attention; how dare you?” Louis is indignant. This is not an abnormal occurrence, and Zayn just heaves a long-suffering sigh. Harry snickers because he will always indulge Louis and runs a soothing hand through the older boy’s hair. Louis twitches but doesn't say anything.
Liam’s thoughts are dazed and confused, but he introduces himself politely, anyway. “I’m Liam, nice to meet you.” He and Niall shake hands, and Liam still looks uneasy, but he does look less likely to bolt the more time goes by. Zayn counts that as a win, too, and then wonders exactly what happened to his standards for social encounters. “So, Zayn, you said you could read minds? And then Louis said something about a secret society, or something? I mean, you guys saw what I did out there, if there’s some kind of club for figuring this out, then…uh, that’d be a good thing; I’d like to be a part of that.”
“It’s not a club,” says Zayn, “or, like, a secret society, or whatever Louis called it earlier. We’re just mates who have weird abilities, s’all. I can hear peoples’ thoughts, yeah, and Harry can teleport, and Louis basically doesn’t break. But we’re not experts.”
“Yeah,” adds Harry, “we usually have no idea what we’re doing.”
Louis huffs a laugh. “Nice sell, Harold, real convincing there.”
Harry pouts, and Liam looks a little heartbroken. He recovers quickly, though, expressions flitting across his face until he settles into something neutral. “Niall, what’s your…thing?”
“Not sure,” says Niall, loose and easy as he kicks his heels up onto the chair in front of him. “Zayn can’t hear my thoughts; Louis can’t heal me, and Harry can’t use me as an anchor unless he can see me. My friend Leigh-Anne can’t tell what I’m feeling, either – she told me she’s an empath, long line of ‘em in her family, but she thought I was a robot when she first met me. Couldn’t feel a thing.” Liam’s hanging on every last word and Niall seems happy to have an audience, preening a bit. “Zayn calls it immunity. Makes sense, I guess. And you, Liam? How’d you get dragged into all of this?”
“He tried to kill me, if you can believe it,” says Louis, “bit rude, really.”
Liam is already apologizing in his head, but Niall jumps in to cut off his inevitable reply before Zayn has the chance to. “You probably deserved it, mate.”
“He didn’t,” says Liam, firmly, even a little bit aghast, and the mood in the room shifts. “My, uh, my thing,” and he stumbles over it, “is that I can shoot energy. I guess you would call it, from my hands, but I’m rubbish at controlling it. They had to stop me from basically leveling the entire parking lot. I thought for sure I’d seriously injure someone, or send them to the hospital, or worse. I couldn’t turn it off.” Niall apparently doesn’t look as shocked or as repulsed as Liam was expecting, so he pushes on. “It was awful. I didn’t know what I was doing at all, and I couldn’t stop any of it. I did hurt Louis, and I’m so sorry about that, I just. I couldn’t get it under control. Probably could’ve killed someone.”
Oh god, I’m a monster, thinks Liam frantically, and it shows in the tenseness of his jaw but nowhere else, and Zayn’s protective instinct rushes to the surface full force. “You’re not,” he says, looking right at Liam, urging him to understand, and all eyes are on him. And yeah, it might be a bit of a confusing statement to anyone but Liam, but he needs to say this, “it wasn’t your fault; you didn’t want to hurt anyone. You didn’t end up hurting anyone who couldn’t handle it, anyway.” Louis waves a little from where he’s standing. “Yeah, it was scary, but you pulled it together. You’re not a monster. You’re not.” Zayn is surprised at how fervent he sounds, but he means it from the bottom of his heart. He’s known Liam for all of an afternoon, but he believes in him. He believes that Liam would never hurt anyone on purpose, or lose control without first trying desperately to rein it back in.
Liam looks like a deer caught in headlights, stiff. “So you really can read minds, then,” he answers, which is not exactly the response Zayn was looking for, but Louis laughs and claps him on the back.
“He’s good at it, too,” says Louis, “nosy bastard that he is.”
Zayn socks him in the shoulder, Harry agrees, and Niall says, “Never bothered me, for one.”
Liam laughs again, a little steadier than before, and Zayn thinks that maybe, possibly, this crazy thing they’ve got going could actually work out.