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Louis waits.
And he waits.
He scratches his chin, stuffs his laptop in his bag, checks his phone for messages (nothing since the last time he’d checked roughly forty-five seconds ago), and then
he waits some more.
Beside him, the tip of Zayn’s tongue teases his bottom lip. His brows draw together as his hand moves, furiously shading the edge of a craggy cheekbone. He peers over Zayn's forearm, looking a little more closely at the picture-- yep, that's their professor, alright.
Louis’ not really a visual person, but there’s something magnetic about the image before him: Zayn’s face, neck, shoulder, arm, wrist, fingers blending into the pencil, the paper, the dark and light contrast of the drawing.
Finally, Zayn looks up and around the room. “Shit,” he says.
Louis’ stomach drops and he follows Zayn’s gaze. The room’s empty. It's just the two of them and the TA, packing his things in the back of the room.
“Shit," Zayn says again. "Missed the last twenty minutes of that lecture. And then some.”
Ah, this Louis understands. Getting distracted. Losing time. He’d missed most of the last half hour, too, admiring the slope of Zayn’s shoulder and the swift, sure movement of his fingers across the page.
Zayn sighs, looking back down at his drawing. It’s an accurate representation of their prof, but there’s something cheeky about it, too. Maybe the beady look of his eyes or the bloat of his gut.
“I like it. 10/10. Would hang it up on my fridge.”
Zayn laughs, more of a scoff than a genuine chuckle. “Thanks, mom.”
Louis reaches out to pinch his cheek, but Zayn slaps his hand away. Except. Except his fingers catch around Louis’ wrist and Louis heart skitters in his chest.
Zayn’s thumb rubs a soft circle on against the sensitive skin on the inside of Louis’ arm.
This is it, Louis thinks. He’s been planning the ask for weeks and they won’t see each other again before Valentine’s Day.
“So,” he says.
The thing is, Zayn’s amazing. Talented. Hot. Smart, and in the way of quiet people who say only exactly what needs to be said. He’s the opposite of Louis, basically, and while Louis thinks— based on a thousand long looks and gentle touches, to be sure— that Zayn likes him back, Louis’ bound to mess this up.
Zayn flips a couple of pages back in his sketchbook and, to Louis’ extreme dismay, rips out a page. That sketchbook is sacred. It belongs on an altar. The sound of the paper crackling itches at the back of his scalp.
How can Zayn be so casual with his art?
He flips the ripped page face down in front of Louis and says, “Sorry. Gotta run. Already late for my next class.”
As he’s tucking his sketchbook back into his bag, Louis realizes his chance at a candlelit dinner and Valentine’s make out sesh is about to evaporate.
“Hey so,” he starts again.
Zayn smiles and lifts his brows. “Yeah?”
“Want to go out? On Saturday?”
Zayn’s smile turns crinkly and he taps the paper. “Happy Valentine’s, Lou.”
And then he’s walking out the door.
“That’s not an answer,” Louis calls after him.
Zayn laughs and Louis almost balls up the drawing and tosses at his back.
Almost.
Instead, he flips it over to see his own face, eyes somehow bright even in black and white. Louis' fingers trace the fringe on his forehead, the sharp edge of his cheekbone, the bulge of his bicep. This is not some distracted doodle. The details seem perfect, painstaking, in comparison to the sketches Louis usually watches unfurl at the top of his pencil.
When did Zayn draw this? And how? Because Louis certainly never modeled for him. And he keeps his socials private.
That’s when he sees it, scrawled in the corner: let’s do valentine’s.
There’s a few more notes after that, a place and a number, but Louis can’t process them in that moment.
His heart pounds and his head spins. Zayn wants to spend Valentine’s Day… with Louis. Louis’d spent so much time equivocating about whether or not to ask Zayn on a date that Zayn had beat him to it.
Louis’ not even mad about it. He has a date with the most handsome person on campus. Fuck yeah.
~
Louis stands back and looks at his desktop. Well, actually, that’s not quite accurate. Can’t see an inch of his actual desktop; it’s entirely covered in shit— unopened mail, opened mail, handouts from his creative writing prof who doesn’t believe in the internet, half-empty mugs, a poster of the Beatles he’d gotten for Christmas that he keeps forgetting to hang, and— ick— is that a dirty sock?
Louis’ 99% sure that Zayn’s drawing is somewhere in the mess. He’s dumped his school bag onto the small, once-clear spot in the middle of his rug and the drawing definitely hadn’t been in there. (He had found an uneaten bag of M and Ms and a birthday card from his mum, though, so it wasn’t a total loss.)
The drawing also had not been folded up in one of Louis’ pockets.
Which means it has to be on Louis’ desk.
Louis glances at his phone; it’s already 5:30pm and he hasn’t even started getting ready.
Why the fuck hadn’t he taken a picture of the thing? Why hadn’t he put Zayn’s number into his phone and started texting him immediately?
Cause he’s a fucking dumbass, that’s why.
He spends the next half an hour sorting through all the shit on his desk.
Somehow, his dumbass-self manages to make an even bigger mess of things, spilling two week old tea onto a stack of phone bills and his (as yet unopened, thank god) math textbook.
And yet, for all that, no fucking luck. No drawing. No time and place. No number.
He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and counts to ten.
It’s fine. All is not lost. He’s going to find Zayn. All he has to do is go to each of the few restaurants within walking distance to campus— Zayn’ll surely be at one of them.
He tries on three different shirts before settling on a soft, blue henley.
He doesn’t waste too much time on his hair— a few minutes, yeah— but what’s the point of going if he doesn’t look good?
He slips out the door and twists his key in the lock. It's six thirty. On Valentine's Day. And Louis' going on a date. To... somewhere.
Louis remembers the second conversation he'd had with Zayn.
Zayn was late to class, later than usual, later than Louis himself.
His cheeks were pink with exertion, his sleeves rolled up to expose the soft hair on his forearms. A single stray lock of hair fell into his face as he arranged himself in his chair.
He reached out to give Louis’ thigh a ‘hello’ tap. The spot still tingles at the memory.
Then, to Louis’ absolute bewilderment, he’d leaned over, breath inexplicably minty, and whispered, “You look good today. Makes me want to draw.”
Now, he hadn’t said, “Makes me want to draw you.” Louis would have remembered if he had. Still, right from the start, Zayn had been upfront with the idea that just looking at Louis inspired him.
In hindsight, that’s pretty fucking romantic. Almost as romantic as asking someone for a first date on Valentine’s Day, scribbled as a note on a gorgeous drawing of them.
Which is why Louis decides that Zayn must’ve picked somewhere romantic for their date.
The Italian restaurant it is, then.
He passes the cafeteria on his way out of the dorm. Honestly, it smells really good and he’s tempted to pop in for a pre-dinner dinner. He’s hungry.
He has to wait, though, because the restaurant is about half a mile from the dorm. A cold half mile.
As Louis dips between buildings and turns round street corners, the wind zips around him, through his jacket and hair.
With two blocks to go, his heart starts to pound. The place is lit up with several overlapping strands of faerie lights, a red and white and pink love beacon. Couple after couple line the sidewalk waiting to get in. It’s a 'no reservations, won’t seat you until your whole party’s present' kind of place.
What if Zayn’s already gotten to the front of the line and left thinking Louis stood him up? What if he arrived, saw the line, didn’t see Louis, and walked away?
Louis shoulders his way through the crowd. He can feel everyone's eyes on him, silently asking, “Where’s your date?”
He wants to shout: I threw him in the trash! On accident!
He doesn’t. Instead, he just glares at them.
When he reaches the hostess, she smiles, pen poised, “Name and number of party?”
Louis shakes his head. “I just want to look in and see if my date’s already here.”
Her eyes soften. “We wouldn’t seat them alone.” And then she adds, “I’m so sorry.”
Louis sighs, “The bar, then?”
Again, she shakes her head, smile dropping sadder still. “Closed today so we could fit in a half dozen more tables for the holiday.”
Louis nods.
The girl smiles, then. “Maybe they’re just running a little late. Do you want to put your name down and wait?”
Louis shakes his head.
The little tea lights on the tables glitter invitingly, but the freshly printed menu standing on display taunts him with prices liable to drain his bank account anyway.
“No, thanks,” he says.
As he walks out, he pulls his coat tighter around himself. The night’s become fully dark and bitterly cold.
Zayn doesn’t seem like the type to wait in line for the ‘it’ place. He's effortlessly cool and waiting in line definitely counts as 'effort.'
Actually, now that Louis’ thinking about it, he’s seen Zayn with food a few times. And, fuck.
It’s always been from the same shop.
More than once, Zayn has dropped into the seat beside Louis, dipped his hand into his black shoulder bag and brought out a thick, hot sandwich wrapped in brown paper.
Then, he always does the utterly unforgivable: dips his hand back into his bag to bring out a fistful of mustard packets with which to ruin said sandwich.
Louis shudders at the memory.
He’s at the front steps of his dorm again. But he turns, deciding not to head back inside after all.
Can’t hurt to stop by that twenty-four hour deli. Zayn likes it, obviously. Given that Louis’ sat next to him while he’s eaten its food at least three times, it’s already sort of ‘their place.’
He checks his phone. Nothing, aside from a ‘Happy Valentine’s ❤️’ text from his mum.
Which makes sense. Because, again, like some kind of dumbass, he lost the damn paper with Zayn’s number on it before texting him his own.
It’s a ten minute walk to the deli from his dorm. The trek feels strange at night— the shapes and shadows and lights unfamiliar, as the only time he ever walks this way is in the middle of the day on his way to class.
The place is mostly empty. One couple giggles at the bar by the window. The guy behind the counter tucks his phone away as Louis pushes into the shop.
No Zayn.
Louis sighs. Then, with another deep breath, he walks to the counter. “Hey, man.”
The worker puts on an obviously false smile and reaches for a pair of plastic gloves. “What can I get you?”
Louis shakes his head. “I’m looking for someone. A friend of mine. Wondering if he’s been in here this evening. Dark hair. Lots of tattoos. Really good looking.”
The guy lifts a skeptical brow. “Mate, you’ve just described like, a quarter of the guys who come in here. I mean, aside from the handsome part. Which, I honestly wouldn’t know anything about.”
“Yeah, but you would. If you saw him, I’m sure you’d know. He’s, like, that handsome.”
The guy shrugs. “I’ll take your word for it, I guess. But if that’s the case, I definitely haven’t seen him.”
Louis closes his eyes and then opens them again. “Are you very sure?”
The guy folds his arms across his chest. “Are you going to order something, or…?”
Even though his stomach grumbles, Louis shakes his head.
As he walks out of the shop, it strikes Louis: perhaps Zayn’s stood him up.
Maybe. Fuck. Maybe when Louis hadn’t texted him after class, nor the next day nor the next, he decided it wasn’t worth it. Or maybe he just realized he wasn’t that into Louis. Or maybe someone else, someone hotter, has asked him out.
By the time Louis reaches his dorm, his chest is tight and his eyes sting and, honestly, someone looking at him wrong would probably be enough to break the dam and have him crying.
He pushes into the lobby of the dorm, relishing the burst of hot air. He walks up to the caf menu they’ve got on display by the door and reads it: taco bar, green curry, chocolate cake.
Not exactly Valentine’s fare, but Louis supposes it’ll do. He starts to walk in the direction of the caf, but then he stops.
Curry.
A few weeks ago, Zayn had mentioned how much he loved his mum’s curry.
Maybe… maybe Zayn had suggested the curry place over by the bookshop. Louis loves that place— they have a soup that he might literally, actually kill for— and it seems like the perfect spot for a first date.
Louis zips his coat and hurries back out the building. He notices the front desk attendant’s frown and gives her a smile and a wave. She must think he’s lost his mind coming out and in and out and in and out again. Maybe he has. He’s lost something, that’s for damn sure.
His pulse picks up as he nears the restaurant. Zayn is so cool and so handsome and so sweet— it’s difficult for Louis to understand why he’s taken an interest Louis’ boring, dumbass self.
To Louis’ dismay, there’s a line here, too, out the door. It’s shorter than the one at the Italian place (by a lot) and Zayn’s not in it.
Louis’ mood crashes to the ground. Still, he’s made it this far, might as well take a peek inside. The others in the line glare at him as he pushes to the front and into the restaurant.
The hostess calls out to him, “Sir, can I help you?”
But she can’t. It’s a tiny place. Less than ten tables and Zayn’s not there.
Louis shakes his head, throat too tight to speak.
That’s it, then. No Valentine’s date.
Maybe he’s made it up, the whole thing.
Maybe Zayn hadn’t meant to ask him out. Maybe Louis had mistook a pity smile and a caricature for a come on and a romantic portrait. Maybe Zayn was secretly annoyed with Louis’ persistent attempts to befriend him. Maybe Zayn had given him the note as a way of saying, Fuck you. Louis hadn’t read it so…
Or maybe Zayn wasn’t even real. Maybe Zayn had always been a figment of Louis’ imagination.
He’s almost back to the dorm. The caf's tall, lighted windows glitter in the distance. What a fucking mess of a night.
He'd been starving when he started out, but now he feels more sick and sad than hungry.
As he passes the front desk, the girl asks, “Are you alright?”
Louis almost glares at her. Then, he remembers, she’s just a person doing her job on fucking Valentine’s Day, and she’s probably not mocking him. She’s probably being kind. Probably.
“Lost my date’s number. Either I stood him up or he stood me up.”
She winces. “Yikes.”
Louis shrugs. “It is what it is.”
The girl shrugs. “When is it not? Still sucks. Hope your night gets better.”
The scent of curry wafts toward them from the caf, renewing his appetite. Maybe he will stop in for a bite.
As he digs in his pocket to search for his ID, he notices someone sitting in one of the overstuffed armchairs nearby, body arced over what appears to be a sketch pad.
Is that?
The guy reaches up to tuck a lock of black hair away from his face and behind his ear.
It is. It definitely is.
“Zayn!”
Zayn does not look up.
“Zayn!” Louis’ less than five yards away now. Zayn should be able to hear him.
But Louis knows how he gets when he’s in the zone. He drops down to a squat beside Zayn and waves a hand between Zayn’s face and his paper. “Hey.”
Zayn frowns and looks at him. The frown drops as quickly as it had formed, replaced by a soft smile. “Louis. Hey.”
Zayn rubs at his brow and stretches a little. “I’m hungry. You ready to grab a bite?”
A smile spreads across Louis’ face. It's so wide it almost hurts. “Yeah.”
Zayn glances at his phone. “Fuck. It’s already half past eight?”
Louis’ heart plummets. Maybe his losing-the-drawing dumbassery has ruined the night, even still.
But then Zayn says, “I’ve been in that chair for two hours. Realized I forgot to put the time, so I figured I’d just camp out and try to catch you.” He grins. “It worked.”
Louis’ heart thumps in his chest. “Yeah.”
“You don’t mind doing the caf, then? I just figured it’s cheaper and would put us closer to, like…”
He flushes pink and Louis doesn’t press him further. Instead, he scoops up Zayn’s bag, grabs his hand, and pulls him to his feet.
“Totally.”
~
Later, on Louis’ bed, when Louis’ mouth is pressing wet and hot against Zayn’s neck, something crunches. Zayn’s hand reaches under Louis’ pillow and draws out a crumpled paper.
He laughs.
“Been wanking to my handwriting, then?”
Louis flushes hot all over. That’s where it was. Of course, how could he have forgotten?
He grinds down against Zayn, who really has no room to tease at this point. “‘Course.”