Work Text:
a statue
The sky has gone lavender and the sun falls behind the temple. Zayn pulls him along, around pillars and over the rocky floor.
“I've got people to look after,” Louis bites his lip, eyes shift nervous and bright and excited.
“You're taking a break,” Zayn looks over his shoulder, nearly trips over the rocks on the floor. They pass a statue of Dionysus, Louis gazes at it, the smooth shapes and curves.
Zayn tugs him inside the ruins, abandoned and long forgotten.
“I didn't bring a blanket,” Zayn says, hesitates to sit.
“That's alright,” Louis assures him, sits next to him.
Zayn smiles at him, lopsided and happy, like there's no war to worry about, like there's no wounded soldiers to try and fix.
“I got something to eat,” he mumbles, reaches into his robes and pulls out chunks of bread and honeycomb.
Louis reaches for it, rips off a small piece of bread and brings it to his lips, “I haven't eaten in a while,” he explains before he pops it to his mouth.
Zayn nods from where he's got honey dripping to his mouth, slow and sweet, everything Zayn is.
There's jeers outside, from soldiers milling around and Zayn stiffens, swallows some honey.
The sky has gone spotty with stars and galaxies over them, soft and fading in. Zayn leans him down, against the dirt, it's warm and humid and the sand in the air sticks to his skin.
Zayn's mouth taste like honey, sweet and pungent and lovely. There's hands pushing his robe of his shoulder, down to the dip of his waist and hips. His bare back coated in dirt.
It's trancelike, the slow glide of Zayn's lips on him, the thick taste of honey he allows Louis to take from his tongue.
He's gone sweaty with the heat of the night, of Zayn pressed to him, flushed and warm and a heavy weight pressing him to the earth.
Zayn slides a hand up his leg, to grip at his thigh, his robe hiking up with it.
He's all panting on his neck, sliding between Louis' thighs, eyes blown wide and hair sticking to his sides.
Louis, arches up, whines and he can see the statue of Dionysus looking on. Zayn shakes his head, pats his cheek to bring Louis' attention to him, he thrusts a few times between his thighs.
“One day...they'll be statues of you.”
-
Zayn isn't lonely, he isn't. He's got his drawings and his art and his cat (Dionysus) and drinks lots of wine (which yes, he sees the irony there). Harry comes around and watches him paint or draw or feeds Dionysus because Zayn forgets to feed himself so someone has to look out for the cat.
-
His hands take to the marble, chisel and focus in hand.
He starts rough, it's a ragged, shagged shaped of something Zayn knows but can't see.
It's days and weeks of Harry popping in with bags of cat food, shirt going through the spectrum of colors, hair always a floppy mess.
Rough edges turn smooth and round, curve and dip in what Zayn can only wonder would fit nicely with the sharp lines of his own body.
Harry walks in, Dionysus in his arms, snuggling deep into Harry's neck, meowing low and lazy.
“Who's that?” he asks and Zayn shrugs, traces a knuckle to the first curve he finds (the dip of shoulder to neck).
"I dunno,” Zayn blinks the burning feeling of lack of sleep off his eyes, “he just came out.”
Harry nods, scratches behind Dionysus ears, “haven't slept much, have you?”
“He's not letting me,” Zayn grins, “wants me to finish him.”
Harry steps closer, “he's pretty...kinda like a Greek statue.”
“Yeah,” Zayn frowns.
-
Zayn leaves early for work, peeks into his studio and gazes at the statue, marble eyes empty and looking at nothing, arms outstretched almost beckoning Zayn to him. He sighs, walks back out and picks up his helmet from the coat hanger
His day is burning the tips of his fingers as he pulls out trays of pizzas, zooming down crowded streets to deliver cheesy goodness in 30 or less and Niall burning pizzas while he's gone.
Work is a rush, of hungry people and the lull between lunch and dinner time.
“You wanna tag along tonight?” Niall asks when their shift is over, follows Zayn out the alley.
“Nah, I got things to do,” Zayn puts on his helmet.
“Your paintings aren't going to get you laid,” Niall says.
Zayn wishes they would.
-
He holds on to him, doesn't give it a name or a price or mentions him to any of his usuals that he has a marbled boy for the taking.
He keeps him to himself, a little secret. He moves him out to the living room, tilts him so he can watch the telly with him.
And it's not weird, it's not weird when Zayn always returns the smile he permanently etched on the boy's lips, or when he tells him about his day and he swears the statue's ears prick up. It's not even weird when all he wants is to be near him, the marble and the empty eyes. It's not weird when Zayn starts to fall in love with him, it's not weird at all.
-
Waking up to a soft body and warm breath on his neck is weird. There's lips pressed lightly on his collarbone, and a hand gripping at his hip. Zayn panics a bit, tries to remember if maybe he drank too much, maybe actually took one of Niall's offers and got too smashed to remember.
There's fuzzy words pressed to his skin and he holds his breath and looks at the body entwined to his.
He gets an eyeful of brown hair, a nice view of the slope of a nose that feels familiar. The boy shifts closer and Zayn almost bites his tongue off trying to keep himself from yelling or screaming or anything.
“You're so warm,” the boy says.
It's better than any sound Zayn could had painted for him, this is so much better than anything he could had done. His skin is golden, bright and shining like no paint he has, better than any way Zayn could had colored him in. He grips at the boy and almost sighs in relief, getting soft curves and warm skin and nothing of the cold marble he had put his heart to.
The boy sighs, smiles, something a lot warmer, more welcoming than Zayn had given him, and opens his eyes.
Those are the best things about him, Zayn decides, because they aren't empty and blank and gray. They're wide and blue, vibrant unlike any blue Zayn can mix or buy or ever hope to convey. They shift nervous and bright and excited.
“Hi,” the boy says, slowly, blinks at the sun in his face.
-
a tattoo
Louis' got a daisy chain on his hair, dirt on his nose and shirt open. Zayn grunts at him, opens drawers of his station in search for a pencil.
“There's another rally tonight,” Louis tells him, sits down on the counter of his station.
“Hmm,” Zayn hums, sticks a pencil behind his ear, starts to clean up his tattoo gun.
“Yep,” Louis grins at him.
He watches Zayn fiddle with his station, push around pots of color and straighten out his drawings. Until there's a boy waiting on him, Louis smiles and sits the boy down, asks his name.
“Liam,” the boy tells him, eyes under curly hair, squashed down under a headband.
“You going to the rally, Liam?” Louis asks as he takes the needle to Liam's arm.
“Yeah,” he smiles through the pain, “you?”
“Mmhm,” Louis nods, even though Zayn hasn't said yes.
It takes a little while, before Liam leaves with Harry scarred into his skin. Zayn rolls his eyes and muffles a snort and Louis gives him a funny look as Liam passes by the door.
-
It's loud and the sky has gone all inky against the many bonfires people have lit. The music is loud and mixes with shouts of ending war and love being for everyone.
“Amen!” Louis calls back, grabs at the back of Zayn's neck and lowers him into a kiss, free hand pressing its fingers over the bandage covering the lowercase L Louis had tattooed on him.
-
“My name is Louis,” the boy says. And it sounds familiar and faraway all at the same time.
“I'm Zayn,” Zayn points to his chest and the boy smiles.
“I know that,” Lous sits up in the bed, ruffles his hair and crosses his legs in the same way Zayn used to in school during reading time. He's bare and golden and Zayn can't look away.
“Why didn't you put clothes on me?” Louis asks, reaches to pluck at the waistband of Zayn's boxers.
Zayn fumbles out of the covers, nearly falls in his hurry and goes to his closet, reaching blindly for some clothes.
Louis grins once he's settled into Zayn's clothes, pulls the collar of his shirt to his face and sighs.
“You smell nice,” he says and plops back to sleep.
-
It's hard to explain it to Harry, who walks in on Louis feeding Dionysus in a pair of Zayn's boxers and an old shirt Zayn had stolen from Harry.
“Wha...?” Harry says and Zayn pulls him to his studio. He blinks at Zayn after he finishes his explanation and pokes Zayn's shoulder.
“Are you high?” he asks.
Zayn shakes his head, “No.”
“So then you must think I'm stupid,” Harry squints at him, “I'm not stupid, Zayn.”
“What? No!” Zayn sighs, rubs at his eyes, “why would I think that?”
“Why would your statue just come to life?”
“I don't know, Harry!” Zayn nearly shouts.
“You sold it,” Harry says quietly, “you can just tell me you sold it.”
“I didn't sell it,” Zayn groans, “he's right here!”
“Yeah,” Harry sounds awed, “you wouldn't have sold him.”
-
Zayn spends a good part of his commission money buying Louis clothes. Shorts and tight jeans, t-shirts and paisley shirts. Anything that grabs Louis' attention and makes him smile all charmed.
But Louis still wakes up in Zayn's clothes, all curled in on himself, nose tucked into the collar of the shirt he's wearing.
He walks around in bare feet, shows Zayn the soles of his feet, covered in dust, when he kicks his legs up the coffee table. He wiggles his toes and smiles so much better than Zayn could have ever carved out.
Louis can't tell him much about where he came from, huffs out that he just came to life you made me Zayn after the fifth time Zayn tries to ask him. Zayn puts his hands up, sighs and gives up on learning anything about Louis except for his name and that he's too pretty to be real (Zayn doesn't miss the irony of that either).
Instead Louis looks at his hands and tells him he gets bored when Zayn is gone at work. So Zayn nods and promises to take him with him the next morning.
The sky is still a bit dark and the morning air is cold, Louis holds on to him, presses himself to his back and Zayn thinks this is as close as he's going to get to see how Louis' curves fit with his lines.
Niall gives him a curious look when Louis walks in behind him, smile already plastered on and hair a bit flat from the helmet.
“This is Louis,” Zayn says and Louis nods and Niall looks at him like he's Zayn's double headed frog he brought in for show and tell.
“I'm Niall,” he finally says, turns back to the dough at the counter, “I didn't know Zayn had a boyfriend, now it all makes sense.”
Louis shoots him a look, one that reads what's that but Zayn still turns red, even if Louis has no idea what that is. His life has been narrowed down to drawing Louis in his spare time, avoiding staring too much and explaining easy concepts to Louis like a toddler. He adds boyfriend to the list.
-
They go home and Zayn gets a lapful of Louis, who nods and hums as Zayn tells him what a boyfriend is and does.
“So you are my boyfriend,” he says slowly when Zayn finishes with a lame and yeah that's it.
“Um,” Zayn swallows at the big blue eyes looking at him.
“'cause, you love me and I love you and we sleep in the same bed too,” Louis lists off, “right?”
Zayn should had explained the different meanings of 'sleeping.'
“Sure, Louis,” he says, slow and soft and he can feel the smile Louis sends him.
“Well good,” Louis says, takes the pen Zayn keeps behind his ear and writes an L on his arm.
-
a river
Louis walks in, gun hidden under his jacket, hat low over his eyes.
“Malik,” he says, spits at the trashcan.
Zayn sits up, rubs the sleep out of his eyes and grips his gun in it's halter, “you here to turn yourself in?” he asks, nods at the lone cell he's been guarding all day.
“Hardly,” Louis grins at him, tips the brim of his hat out his eyes, “just giving you a little visit, you are my favorite sheriff.”
Zayn smiles at that, even with Louis, thief and killer, wanted dead or alive, so close to a gun.
“You going to kill me anytime soon?” he asks.
“No, never,” Louis crosses his heart, “not someone as pretty as you.”
-
The river has gone dry, cracked mud and dirt, little weeds trying to grow fitfully from the hair thin cracks.
Louis leans down at him, eclipses him with his small shadow.
“I told you not to follow, I told you to give up,” he says, sounds scared and nervous and a bit maniac.
“It's my job, Lou,” Zayn wheezes, presses his fingers where Louis' shot him, “dead or alive.”
Louis groans at that, tips the brim of his hat over his eyes, “you we're my favorite,” he says and Zayn can hear something like sadness.
“That don't mean shit now,” Zayn shrugs, shoots pain all over his torso and arm. He winces and Louis scoots closer.
“I guess this is it,” Louis says, “it's all gone, I’ve gone and drank it all and we're dry now.”
“Greedy git,” Zayn laughs as best he can with his last breaths.
The last thing he experiences before the fading black is dry lips on his and the ringing of a gun.
-
Louis has a lot to give, he smiles a lot, offers them to anyone who comes remotely near to him. He laughs at everything, exaggerated and starting from his belly. He's so full of life, Zayn has a hard time remembering where he comes from, that he made him. Zayn's never made anything as beautiful as Louis and he doesn't think he'll ever be able to do it again.
He's working on some painting, a portrait, his clock is all fuzzy, his eyes ache and his head is full of static when Louis walks in. Feet bare, small stomach peeking up from where his shirt is a bit twisted. Zayn can't look away.
“Are you going to sleep?” he asks, takes the brush from Zayn and drapes himself over him, yawns into the crook of Zayn's neck.
“Yeah, yeah, soon,” Zayn makes empty promises.
Louis looks up, around the room, scattered with paintings and small sculptures and points at a small canvas of bright lights and pastel colors.
“That one's my favorite,” he says sleepily.
“Yeah?” Zayn grips at his hips, round and warm, “you're my favorite.”
Louis will always be his favorite creation.
-
He gets lured into the bedroom with a kiss, Louis looks at him for a bit and presses chapped lips to Zayn's. Pulls him up with him and takes him to their bedroom, mouth full and soft and warm and it tastes nothing like how he thought it would.
It tastes like honey and warmth and something that he can't place.
Louis rolls him on top of him, places Zayn's hands on his hips and takes his own to cover them, to make sure Zayn doesn't leave.
His eyes are bright and shining against the dark, breath ragged and chest falling and rising rapidly.
“I'm your favorite, right?” Louis asks.
“Yeah, yeah you are,” Zayn says slowly, lets Louis hands leave his and bring him down again.
“Good,” he says and kisses him again. And it's like everything else Louis does, overflowing and powerful and happy. He gives and gives, kisses Zayn until the sky's gone lavender and the sun is bleeding into the morning, until all Zayn can taste, all Zayn ever wants, is the honey taste of Louis. They kiss until Louis is breathing hard, mouth slick and red and swollen, and he takes a deep breath and goes in for another because Louis has a lot to give.
-
Kissing is a thing now, it makes Zayn dizzy and disoriented and greedy because he always wants more and Louis never says no, always has enough to give him.
Zayn takes a kiss for everything, good morning, good night, breakfast, lunch and dinner and midnight snack.
He doesn't really need an excuse, when Louis gives them away so easily. It's the first thing he wakes up to and it's the last thing he feels before everything fades to black from sleep.
-
fall leaves
Louis' mum rakes up all the leaves and Louis waddles to him, holds his hand out and asks him to go play with him. Zayn shoves his hat over his ears and nods, takes a hold of Louis' hand and climbs over the fence to Louis' house.
“Mum said not to,” Louis says, eyes wide and face pink from the chill in the air, “but my mum never has fun.”
There's a giant pile of leaves, and one or two floating sadly from the few left on the oak tree.
“What we gonna do with em?” Zayn asks.
“Jump on them, duh,” Louis says, “it doesn't hurt 'cause they're like super soft!”
Louis takes his hand again and starts running at the giant pile, his little knees bending and takes Zayn with him, plunging into the red, yellow and orange of fall leaves.
Zayn lands on his knees with a soft thud and Louis lands on top of him, having thrown Zayn in first, his knees buckle under his weight and some leaves find their way under his shirt.
“You're heavy!” Zayn whines and Louis bites at the back of his neck before getting off and running away.
“Catch me if you can!” he hollers, autumn leaves sticking in his hair.
-
Louis turns to months, the sun gets colder and the trees change colors and Louis is still with him. He lets go a sigh of relief every time he wakes up to a kiss on the back of his neck and one following on his lips.
Thing is Zayn's never been able to keep the things he likes. It's part of the reason why Zayn's always alone with his cats and his art and Harry. His conquests and his loves all pass by, and leave him weathered down, less resilient than before.
Only ones who have stuck by being Harry and Dionysus. Zayn's never been lonely, that's what he tells Niall when he wants Zayn to go out and get smashed and that's what he tells himself when Harry brings Liam over because he can't detached himself enough to drop in alone.
Louis shifts away from him, sighs and settles back to more sleep. He's soft and warm and he smells like Zayn and it's almost too good to pass up. But he has work to go to, and he has pizzas to save from Niall.
Work is a lot of traffic and Niall skimping out early, so Zayn lets his mind wonder and sighs, even though there's no one around to ask him what's wrong.
He takes a pizza home, bumps the door open with his hip and trails into the kitchen.
“I've got pizza" he calls, takes a slice for himself and kicks his shoes off, watches them hit the wall with a loud thud.
He waits for a bit, frowns when he hears no answer and walks to the living room, where Louis is huddled in a giant pile of blankets, some of them old and fraying from where Zayn had stuffed them at the end of his closet when they got too thin.
“What are you doing?” he asks, takes another bite of his pizza.
“They're like super soft,” Louis mumbles, eyes close, hands outstretched.
“What's that supposed to mean,” he grins at Louis' open arms even if Louis can't see.
“It means come here,” Louis yawns.
Zayn hums, finishes his pizza in big bites and licks at the grease stuck to his lips. He takes his time walking over, until Louis can reach for his hand, links their hands together and tugs at his hand.
Zayn pulls back, tries to resist.
“It's soft, don't worry,” Louis promises, “I'll catch you, I'll always catch you as long as I can.”
-
broken keys
The hall is packed, hushed conversations and expensive jewelry for show. Zayn fixes his bow tie, rolls up the program, lists of songs and important people who have come to see Louis play. Someone smiles at him, shakes his hand. All Zayn knows is that they're probably important.
The lights dim and Louis steps out, suit and hair all neat and in place. The piano is grand and majestic, and all these people have come to watch Louis tame it.
The notes are light and playful and beautiful, they remind Zayn a bit of Louis, even when they turn deep and sultry and heady, too fast to keep up with.
They remind Zayn of Louis a lot.
Everyone claps when they're supposed, and everyone awhs and oohs when Louis does some tricky sound. Zayn will never get tired of this, of getting to watch Louis so intense and focused and admired.
He finishes his last song with a flourish, a key gone terribly wrong, wonky and ragged in sound but Louis pays it no mind, grins to himself before he gets up and bows, dodges some roses being thrown at him.
Zany finds him backstage, bow tie undone and hair rumpled, pulls him in for a quick kiss and presses a bouquet of roses to his chest.
“That was great,” he assures him and Louis smiles at him.
“Didn't mean to break the key though,” he says, picks at a petal.
“Don't worry about it,” Zayn says.
“I'm not.”
Zayn nods, takes his hand, and tugs him forward, “it gave it a nice touch, all soft and pretty and then all ragged...kind of like you.”
-
Louis starts to pick up the piano, finds some old practice books Zayn used to go over when he was smaller. He sweeps the dust off the cover and presses down a key, looks intently at Zayn's books and tries out notes, bites his lip when he doesn't like the sound of one of them.
Liam comes around more often, listens to Louis play while Harry feeds Dionysus and Zayn paints out commissions.
And then it's Liam and Louis squished in the piano stool, pressing keys and playing nursery rhymes.
Zayn watches them, tries to put down the way his stomach goes all funny with what he guesses must be jealousy. But Louis always grins over his shoulder when he gets a song right and Zayn smiles back.
He could stand there and watch Louis play everyday, the way he focuses, the way he concentrates and plays at the keys all careful.
Mostly he plays what he learns, which are slow cheery nursery rhymes. They remind Zayn of a sleep rumpled Louis, just awoken, still a bit slow, but already happy.
It's homey, walking in with soft notes playing, an occasional trip up and hush little curses following. It makes the flat less empty, more alive. Which is funny because it's Louis, once a statue, once lifeless, giving life to his home. Because now Zayn can call it home.
Harry sticks by longer, burying his face to Louis' shoulder, telling him things about the world Louis hasn't even thought about, telling him about his day and uni classes and how Liam gives him butterflies on his stomach when Louis raises his shirt and finds the new butterfly tattoo.
The songs get longer and complex and Louis learns more and doesn't leave.
He walks in just as a note goes all sour, ragged and screeching and he can hear Louis mumble to himself.
“Why it do that?” Louis asks when Zayn walks in.
“I think the key is broken,” Zayn supplies and Louis' eyes go all wide, mouth already set in an apology, “don't worry about it, it was an old piano, it was bound to happen, I'll see if I can get enough money to get it fix.”
-
So the piano stops and Louis picks up singing. And it's soft and sweet and it breaks when Louis can't reach the notes. It's a lot like how he plays the piano, it's a lot like Louis.
-
a lighter
“So...” Louis says when Zayn pulls his helmet off, ash sticking to his nose, “this is awkward.”
“This is also the third time we've been here to put out a fire,” he says, tucks his helmet under his arm, “Liam didn't even wanna come this time, sure it was a fluke.”
“I could had died!” Louis says.
“We came though, didn't we?” Zayn says and Liam passes them by, grumbling about not getting paid enough, holding on to the wax of Louis' candles. They really aren't getting paid at all.
“So...I'm guessing it was the candles this time,” Louis rubs at the back of his neck, “I could had sworn I put those out.”
“Right,” Zayn sucks his teeth, “next time, please don't touch fire, or make a fire or come near fire.”
“How am I supposed to eat?” Louis asks
“Order something in.”
-
Zayn comes back next week, in jeans and a shirt and no Liam or firefighter squad, Louis opens the door with a candle lit, it smells like sugar cookies, Louis couldn't resist.
“Oh, this isn't how it looks like,” Louis says, blows the flame away.
“I thought I told you no more fires,” Zayn steps inside.
“Yeah well...” Louis closes the door, “ok it's weird having you here without the smell of smoke," So Zayn takes that as an invitation to light up a cigarette.
Sleeping with Louis feels a lot like burning, his skin sears where it meets Louis' and his breath is all warm on his neck, Zayn keeps expecting the fire alarm to go off.
Louis laughs when he tells him, breathy and whining and Zayn goes in deeper.
“You're really warm,” Zayn mumbles, “like almost on fire.”
Louis pushes at the back of Zayn's neck, demands the hot slick slide of their mouths.
“Good that you're here then.”
-
Zayn walks into a smokey flat, coughing as the smoke fills his lungs, eyes gone watery.
“Louis?” he calls, gone a bit panicked.
“Zayn?” Louis calls back, “hi!”
Zayn walks into the kitchen, where Louis got a cup of water pouring over a small fire. Louis smiles at him, uncertain and a bit scared.
“I got most of it out,” he says, chucks the cup at the sink, “I was just heating milk up for Dionysus and I forgot, fell asleep actually...” Louis trails off, eyes gone far way as the fire picks up momentum again.
Zayn singes some of his arm hair after putting the fire out, and Louis runs his fingers over the smooth patch, laughs a little at how ridiculous it looks.
“Glad you got here on time,” Louis says as he puts some burn cream on the tender skin.
Zayn hisses, nods and almost forgets to be irked when Louis kisses him, a warm slide of lips and it's lovely enough to make him forget about the burnt wallpaper in the kitchen.
-
He tries to sleep that night, but there's sirens on the streets and the screeching of tires and Louis is too warm in their bed.
And he starts to get bags under his eyes again.
-
a diary
i wrote words about you
and they weren't enough
i wrote words to you
about how i thought
and i felt
and i wanted
you
and only you
i tried to write about my day
and the sky
and the moon and the sun
but my pen
my pen did nothing but write about you
“I wrote words about you,” Louis says, a whisper in the dim light, under the volumes and pages of dead men and their long forgotten words.
"Yeah?" Zayn asks, looks up from his book, folds the corner of it and closes it slowly.
"Yeah," Louis slides on the chair next to him, whispers the next words after the librarian shushes him, "I couldn't really stop myself from doing it," Louis reaches into his bag, pulls out his notebook, dogeared and paper faded.
"Let me see," Zayn says, leans forward and Louis shakes his head.
"Let me see what?" he asks, puts the notebook behind him.
"Let me see, please," Zayn amends and Louis grins at that, pushes the notebook across to Zayn.
"This is pretty," Zayn mumbles, blush faint.
"Like you!" Louis announces and the librarian shushes him.
-
Louis has a deadline looming, his eyes are dark and heavy and Zayn watches him write away, but all the words are useless, because all the words are of Zayn. And he tries to feel guilty but it feels good being all Louis can write. Louis sighs and groans and Zayn tells him to take a break from the white paper and go to sleep. And Louis does, whispering sleepy words about Zayn.
-
Louis rips paper out of Zayn's sketchbook and writes, Zayn never knows of what but Louis seems lost and happy when he's scratching away with his pen. He's usually humming, singing little pieces of songs he's picked up from the radio and Liam. He goes all calm and quiet and Zayn likes him like that. So still he's almost a statue.
-
a statue of the boy I used to know
He wakes up and the bed is empty and his stomach goes all twisted and his heart goes all funny. Dionysus is meowing from his studio and Zayn doesn't want to go in there, Zayn has to find Louis.
Except the bathroom is empty the kitchen is intact, the telly isn't on. He goes back to their room and it's in vain. It's still very much Louis-less.
The meowing gets louder and Zayn pads over to it, the dark studio. He switches the lights on and Louis is there, arms outstretched almost like he's reaching out for him. His color has gone, the vibrant glow Zayn could never get and Louis always had. And his mouth is still wrong, because Zayn could never have gotten it right even if he had a million tries. The curve of Louis' little smile was something Zayn would never be able to do. But it's upside down now, sad and heartbreaking, a lot like Zayn.
He goes to work, a slow thing because he wants to stay home and demand Louis to come back, to stop being stone because it's not fair.
He burns his fingers and zips pass crowded streets and Niall wishes him a good night with his boyfriend but they were never that, and they never will be.
Harry is home and he's got a frown on, Dionysus in his arms, "He's gone all stone," he says and Zayn nods, presses the heel of his hands to his eyes to keep the tears at bay.
"How?" Harry asks, a bit upset, Zayn can tell by the pinch in his forehead.
"Don't know," Zayn chokes and Dionysus leaps out of Harry's arms, rubs around Louis' statue.
-
He gets a day off and he cleans around, he smiles bitterly at the corner in the kitchen where the burnt marks would not leave, shoves dirty clothes in the drawer Louis kept his clothes. He finds little papers, jagged from where Louis had ripped them out of Zayn's sketch book
i wanted to write about the moon
and the sky
and my day
but then
i realized
they were all you
so i wrote about you today
Zayn closes his eyes, tries to keep the tears from spilling and sighs, looks at the ceiling and it's not fair.
-
Days turn to weeks, weeks turn to months and Louis is a statue in his studio.
He talks to him, at first, about his day and how Niall missed him coming around and Liam didn't get it that he had just left. But Louis never talks back, just reaches out for him and frowns at him.
So he stops taking to him too.
He goes to work and that's a monotony, making sure Niall doesn't burn the pizzas, zooming around all over town. He's got one last house to get to, across the river. The streets are empty and dark and slick with the evening rain.
It's not a usual and Zayn checks the address just to make sure he's got it right.
He takes the lift to the seventh floor, gets to the door and knocks. There's a shuffle and a coming! and the door flings open, blue eyes looking at him (a shade Zayn could never get) and a smile (a curve Zayn never got right) dropping to a frown (something that doesn't belong at all).
"Louis?" he asks, steps back a bit.
"Zayn," Louis breathes, eyes gone wide.
"I..." Zayn licks his lips, "I don't understand."
"I thought you were a dream," Louis rushes, "I...I could only write about you and then you came to life and then you left and that wasn't fair."
"I..." Zayn swallows, "I know, not fair at all."
They zoom back home, against the slick streets, and Zayn thinks he'll learn just how perfectly Louis' curves fit with his sharp lines.
-
Louis is hot, warm and slick and it's like he's on fire, like he's the sun and has dried up a river into a desert.
He whines and whimpers and Zayn goes in deeper, "patient, you gotta to be patient," Zayn pants and Louis nods, holds on to him, presses him down by his neck.
Louis curves perfectly into Zayn, they slot together like they were made to, like they made each other for themselves.
"You, is all you," Louis promises and Zayn nods.
"Just you."
-
Harry comes in the next morning, looks at the empty place where Louis used to stand.
"Haven't slept much, have you?" Harry asks.
And Zayn grins, watches Louis writing down words in his notebook, dogeared and pages fading, "he's not letting me."
And that's great because it means Zayn spends nights finally seeing how Louis just doesn't fit into him, but melts, curves and lines blurred together, mouths fusing words together Zayn and love, Louis and perfect. And Zayn never thought he would ever be able to get it right, but Louis shows him how, when he plays a few songs on the piano to Zayn, and scribbles poems on his arm and presses the curve of a smile Zayn could never get and blinks blue eyes at him in a shade Zayn now owns.
"You guys are pretty," Harry hums, "like Greek statues."