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zayn always lived up to expectations.
from the moment louis first saw him in that small café and whispered to liam “betcha ten quid he has a sleeve of ink under that leather jacket” to the moment he left and louis thought to himself, he’ll never, ever call me back; zayn has always been conveniently and frustratingly predictable.
when he sauntered up to louis just a few minutes after louis’s first prediction, and introduced himself with a smirk on his thin, pink lips and number scrawled on a ripped piece of paper, louis guesses he’s some sort of arts student. maybe painting, or music or theatre, like himself. well, like he was. louis had abandoned schooling in favor of working ten hour days for shit pay at the tesco’s just a few blocks from his and liam’s flat.
but that was a whole ‘nother story. one that, to louis’s surprise, zayn managed to get out of him on their very first date. zayn took him to some exotic new restaurant, where the food came in minuscule portions and looked more like a work of art that something to devour.
zayn listens to every word louis has to say with soulful brown eyes that stare back into his blue ones and a small but clear voice deep in louis’s gut says, “you’re going to fall in love with this boy.”
and an even smaller one whispers, “and he’s going to break your heart.”
but it’s hard to hear those voices because of the thumping in his ribcage, the one that feels like it might explode when zayn reaches a long, slender hand over to hold louis’s small, tanned one.
it’s instantaneous, like electricity, like lightening and suddenly all louis can see is this beautiful boy smiling in front of him, crystal clear and so, so perfect.
because, you see, louis’s never been in love. he’s never had someone look at him the way zayn is right now, like he’s the greatest and most beautiful and kindest and best person in the whole world. he’s never wanted to hold someone as tightly as he wants to hold zayn, has never wanted to be able to call someone his as he does right now with zayn. he kind of wants to grab zayn’s hand and take him to the nearest rooftop and scream on the top of his lungs “mine!”
but he doesn’t, firstly because louis doesn’t really fancy zayn thinking he’s a nutter, and secondly, zayn’s motioning for the check and asking louis in a low voice if he’d like to come back to his.
he does, and if louis had any doubting thoughts about whether or not he was in love with zayn disappear as he kisses zayn and grabs at his hipbones and traces the outlines of every tattoo. it’s strangely intimate for a first time, but it feels right, and the sweet moans coming from zayn make it seem like he doesn’t mind too badly either.
zayn doesn’t mind a lot of things, like louis’s smelly feet and the way he steals the covers in the middle of the night and the fact that he still gets scared during thunderstorms. louis thinks he loves him for that.
zayn does a lot of things louis doesn’t mind either. he may not like the smell of smoke, but he’ll put up with it to watch the way zayn sucks on cigarettes, lazy and filthy and slightly obscene. he may not feel completely comfortable about the fact that zayn spends most days surrounded by beautiful people who are completely nude, but the face zayn makes while he’s painting makes louis’s stomach erupt in butterflies.
it’s perfect, for awhile, and louis is young enough to believe that such things can last forever. so between giggling sips of cheap wine and hits from zayn’s bong, louis lets zayn sketch on his forearm with black ink.
“s’me, yeah?” zayn says, pulling away to show louis the stick figure skateboarder. “so, i’m always with you.”
louis kisses him then, hard and desperate, full of merlot and fresh ink and this burning, raging love that he can’t seem to contain for the life of him. he kisses zayn breathless and then kisses him some more because louis feels like he’s drowning and zayn is his only fresh breath of air.
it’s the first time they make love that night, they’ve fucked before, sure, they’ve had sex on the coffee table and in the shower and the bed, but this is the first time, louis thinks, that they’re making love.
it’s the first time louis has realized that maybe there’s a difference.
because it’s slow, and impossibly sweet, and louis is whispering promises of forever and always across zayn’s collarbones and zayn looks at him with warm brown eyes that whisper the same things right back. zayn kisses louis behind the ear and breathes “mine” and louis might as well have carved into his chest and physically handed zayn his pumping heart because it was all his.
he’s hungry, louis realizes, hungry for this. hungry for the late nights and the fighting and the way he always knows what zayn is going to say next. he can’t get enough of zayn whispering hotly in his ear “harder, lou” or screaming from across the room “damnit louis, she’s just a model!” and the barely audible “m’sorry” later that night when they’re tangled up in sheets and can’t tell whose leg is whose.
see louis knew how much his art meant to him. he understands the late night in the studio, trying desperately to put together a senior portfolio good enough to get him noticed. doesn’t really mind having to share the flat with zayn’s model friends, the ones that are all too comfortable parading around naked in louis’s kitchen, laughing at zayn like he’s the funniest thing in the world.
he doesn’t mind the blonde one, the one that laughs like tinkerbell and reminds louis of bubblegum and snowball fights and being five years old. he doesn’t mind the way she smiles at zayn, like she’s got a secret, and louis knows zayn can’t resist a good secret. that’s why he started smoking and had dated just as many girls as he had boys. it’s why he liked to drink tequila and talk about politics and spent a half hour memorizing the shape of louis’s shoulders. it was no secret that zayn liked secrets, and when the blonde one giggled, louis could see the curiosity in zayn’s warm brown eyes.
but things are still good, and zayn laughs when louis tries to make pasta and ends up almost burning the kitchen down, the smoke alarm no match for their hysterical giggles. liam claps louis on the shoulder and tells louis he’s happy for him. louis lets zayn doodle more on his arm and kisses him afterwards until he can feel mile long eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones.
because louis feels like he knows zayn. knows his beginning and middle and maybe even his end. louis knows about each one of zayn’s tattoos, knows about the time zayn leaned up against the wall at prom because he was too embarrassed to dance, knows about the scar on zayn’s elbow from skateboarding, knows about each embarrassing hairdo, the inspiration for all of his works of art, his favorite song to listen to when he’s sad or scared or sick. knows which movies cheer him up and has even memorized the words to the notebook because they’ve watched it so many bloody times.
louis knows zayn will love the black leather sketchbook and expensive colored pencils louis got him for his birthday, the ones he saved up for weeks to buy, taking extra shifts cashiering for disgruntled men and women buying groceries, just to see zayn’s face light up.
because when it does, it’s totally worth it.
because zayn is like the moon, louis thinks. beautiful, absolutely breathtaking and when he smiles, it makes louis’s heart hurt. he’s mysterious too though, and sometimes gets home from the studio and goes straight to the balcony to smoke his way through a pack before even saying hello to louis. one day, while they were laying lazy in bed passing a joint back and forth under thin sheets, zayn murmurs into louis’s shoulder that he was the sun. and louis wonders if two opposite things can be meant for each other.
because zayn likes drake on vinyl, and louis loves turning up the top 40 radio station. because zayn likes mysteries and louis likes romance. because when zayn loves something (painting, smoking, louis) he loves it with every fiber of his being, every single molecule that makes up his body, every blood vessel and cell and atom. and louis…louis isn’t sure if he’ll ever love anything as much as he loves zayn.
it’s good, and louis still thinks it’s going to last. there’s fifa tournaments that last all night and early morning sex on the kitchen counter and too many dinners where they just eat take out. louis always runs a couple degrees warm and zayn always keeps half of himself hidden and louis thinks this love can outlast lifetimes.
zayn’s art exhibit is coming up soon, and word is that some very influential art people are rumored to be attending. louis gets the evening off work and buys a new pair of dress pants and kisses zayn on the mouth when he starts shaking with nerves.
“they’ll love you,” louis whispers in his ear, and well. he’s never been wrong about zayn yet.
the night passes in a whirlwind of champagne and congratulations and zayn’s smiling from ear to ear, louis’s face nearly identical. zayn pulls away halfway through the show behind a curtain.
“they proper like me, yeah?” he asks, letting louis see the vulnerable side he tried to keep so well under wraps.
louis just wraps him up in a hug, “they love you zayn, just like i told you.”
(louis’s always right when it comes to zayn)
zayn introduces everyone to louis that night, there’s niall, who louis met before, stalk naked and rummaging through their refrigerator (zayn painted him as a dignified greek god and louis looks at the red faced, laughing model and thinks a leprechaun would’ve been a better fit), and the blonde girl, perrie, who gives him an icy glare (zayn depicted her as a virgin mary of sorts, but nothing less than ice fairy fits this girl), and harry, who is perhaps the prettiest human being louis has ever seen, apart from zayn of course.
zayn keeps a firm hand on louis’s back all night and it fills him with a liquid warmth, makes him feel like he’s radiating from the inside out.
makes him feel like the sun.
and later that night, when they’re buzzed and high off bubbly drinks and excitement, zayn leaves crescent shaped marks on louis’s neck.
that’s the last time it’s good.
because zayn stops telling louis his secrets, and louis is finally forced to listen to the voice inside his head that told him zayn was always going to do this. zayn smokes nearly two packs a day and barely says two words to louis.
“why don’t you ever paint me?” louis asks, one early morning, while they’re laying in bed and before zayn grabs his lighter like it’s his lifeline (which louis thinks it might be).
zayn turns to his side and brushes slender fingers over louis’s cheekbones. “it takes me a total of thirty hours to fully finish a painting, did you know that?”
louis shakes his head, because zayn never told him.
he runs a hand through louis’s mussed up fringe. “it’d hurt to stare into the sun that long.”
he stays in bed for a few moments longer before rolling over and grabbing his pack of american spirits and black lighter and heading outside.
zayn still kisses him but it’s not the same and the taste of cigarettes burn louis tongue while zayn leaves scorch marks on every other part of his body and louis wonders if he’s burning too bright.
zayn’s working a lot again, trying to fill the orders that were placed from the showcase, but instead of coming home early to louis with a box of take away in tow, most of the time he ends up staying the night at the studio only bothering to text louis that information fifty percent of the time.
it’s not so good anymore, louis realizes. because he’s playing fifa by himself and no one tells him they love him and the nights are so, so dark without the moon to the light the way.
“maybe it’s just a phase, mate.” liam tries to reassure. “things’ll get better, you’ll see.”
but louis knows they won’t. knows deep down in his gut (deep down where he knows he shouldn’t have dropped out of school, and that he keeps getting older, and that his dreams may never come true) that zayn’s got a face for breaking hearts.
and zayn’s always lived up to his expectations.
“i-i slept with someone.” zayn says, one night when he’s actually home to eat microwave chicken nuggets with louis.
louis bites a head off a dinosaur and swallows it half chewed. he looks down at his skinny ankles and scuffed red vans and the black and white tile that he and zayn fucked on just two months ago.
“okay.” louis says, because there isn’t much else.
“i’m, i’m sorry.” but louis knows he’s lying. “lou? say something. anything.”
“i love you,”
“i love you too,” and louis knew he would say that. “louis i love you too, just not, not like you want me too.”
louis feels like he’s seventeen again, just dumped by his first boyfriend, except this time the sting hurts more, will last longer, will leave scars. this time louis was the sun and zayn was his moon and he burned too bright and zayn kept more than half of himself hidden.
“it was danny,” zayn offers, like louis had asked for the information. danny who had art class with zayn, danny who came to their christmas party, danny who drunkenly put an arm around louis and told him to never let zayn go.
louis stares out at the small window that zayn would crack open when it was too cold to go outside and smoke, thinks at least he wasn’t fucking tinkerbell.
“jesus lou, say something.” zayn pleads. but louis looks blankly at their tea kettle, where he and zayn made cup after cup of tea the night their heating went out, cuddling together under five layers of clothes just to keep their lips from turning blue.
“louis i’m leaving.” zayn snaps, and okay, that gets louis’s attentions.
“m’going to paris. rent myself a little flat, paint a bit, learn some french, go to the lourve.” he keeps rambling, like louis knows he does when he’s nervous. “m’leaving next week actually, but, um, i can go before then if you want?”
louis shines bright, is the thing. always has, ever since he was a kid. louis shone bright and knew zayn like the back of his hand and feels like he might be sick soon.
“right, obviously. you’d want me to go. i’ll go get my stuff. most of it can stay here i reckon, won’t be able to bring a lot of that to paris with me.”
“you’re wrong.” louis mumbles and it sounds like the voice is coming from someone else. “i never wanted you to leave.”
zayn sighs, and runs a hand through his black hair, lying soft and flat on his forehead and louis remembers every time he touched it.
“i’ll go grab my stuff,” zayn says, leaving louis sitting on the counter in the kitchen, staring at the framed photograph on the wall. liam took it, on their one-year anniversary, just four months ago. they went out to eat that night, celebrating with pints and greasy food and when they got home zayn left bruises on louis’s neck and hip and collarbones.
“you’re mine,” he had whispered that night. and louis thinks he’ll always be right.
some time passes, louis isn’t really sure, because even though he knew this was coming, was expecting it with every fiber of his being, it still manages to take him by surprise, knock him off his feet, leave him winded.
some time passes and zayn reemerges into the kitchen with a duffle bag and backpack filled, hands in his hoodie looking up guiltily at louis.
“look, i know this is a shit thing to do. cheating and breaking up and leaving, but i think it’ll be good for the both of us, yeah? fresh start?”
louis licks his dry lips and nods, thinking to himself that he doesn’t want a fresh start if it means one without zayn.
because the thing was, louis knew zayn. louis knew his beginning and his middle and can probably guess his some of his ending. louis knew exactly what zayn smelled like after he got out of the shower and right before he got in it. he knew how many beers zayn could drink before he got drunk, knew the shape of his mouth and the precise color of his eyes, and the soft way zayn snored in his sleep.
but zayn couldn’t read people like louis could. he painted leprechauns into greek gods and faeries into saints and thought that a fresh start without him was exactly what louis needed.
“i don’t know what to do to make this okay,” zayn says.
louis shrugs. zayn was always trying to fix things, he like to build things, create things, and seeing anything be destroyed, was, well. it bothered him.
but louisandzayn wasn’t a painting, or a sculpture, or one of zayn’s daft lego sets. sometimes things were created, beautiful, good things, and when they were destroyed, no amount of apologies or work could build them back.
zayn waits for a reply and louis doesn’t give him one, too deep in his own thoughts of how two people so love could just fall out of it.
“i’ll-i’ll call you in paris, lou.” zayn says, “if that’s alright with you? if i call?”
louis nods, but knows zayn won’t.
“i…i got scared alright?” zayn says in a quiet voice and louis looks at his duffle bag, the one they used on their overnight trip to doncaster to meet louis’s parents. “i just loved you so, so much and i’m just a kid and my career is just starting and fuck, lou, it’s hard to fucking breathe you know?”
louis nodded, because he did. but zayn had always been his inhaler, his breath of fresh air, and even if he wasn’t, louis would rather suffocated with the love than feel the emptiness that was spreading through him now.
zayn sighed as if he finally accepted the fact that louis wasn’t going to say anything. “i’m going to leave now.” he announces. “call me if you need anything, yeah?”
he doesn’t really wait for an answer, just crosses the kitchen and hugs louis tight, and louis lets himself fall into the arms one last time, lets himself breathe in the aroma of cigarettes and cologne, lets the soft hair tickle his cheek. zayn pulls away and louis gets one last good look at him, because he knows deep in his gut (deep down where he knows he’ll burst into tears as soon as zayn leaves, and where he fears he’ll never find anyone to love again, and where he wishes so, so badly he can go back in time to fix it all) this will be the last time he sees zayn for a long time, at least, if not forever.
“left you something. it’s on the bed.” zayn says, before he opens the door, the one the fucked against when they were too hot and bothered to make it to the bedroom, and walks out of the flat, out of england, out of louis’s life.
louis stumbles through the living room, the one where louis sat crossed legged on the couch when zayn first told him he loved him, and into their bedroom.
on the bed is a canvas, big enough to nearly cover all of it. louis steps closer and realizes it’s a painting, unmistakably one of zayn’s works. louis can see it in the colors and the brush strokes and the amount of passion and dedication that radiated every inch of it.
it’s sort of abstract, kind of like zayn, but louis can read it clear as day. half the canvas is supposed to represent the sun, all yellows and oranges and crimson reds, the other half is supposed to be the moon, and louis thinks he can see the curve of zayn’s smile hidden in between the gray and white swirls.
they clash, horribly and annoyingly so, but, louis thinks fondly (tears running down his cheeks in a steady stream) that’s the way the sun and moon are. only one can be shining at a time. they aren’t really meant to co exist.
zayn won’t call, louis knows this.
he won’t be okay tonight, or tomorrow, or truthfully next week. but louis knows zayn, and louis knows himself, and he knows that one day things are going to get better.
because the sun shines even after the darkest of storms.