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The first time Zayn hits someone in the face, it feels really, really good. He doesn't ever admit that though, not to anyone, not even to himself, because it shouldn't feel good. If it feels good, then he's just as bad as them. If it feels good, then it's not right. But he does it, he does it because he's changed schools three times and he's always out of place, always too skinny, always too different, and it doesn't ever stop. He tries to hide it, keep his bruises out of sight, under layers of clothing, because maybe if he does, it won't feel real anymore. Maybe it won't happen anymore. But it always does. And his parents always find out eventually.
He feels kind of ridiculous at first, standing there, trying to make an impact with his delicate wrists and artist's fingers. But he figures even the weakest of hands can make a fist. And he wants it; he wants it to hurt. He has the anger to back it up. He has it; he's sure. He has years and years of torture and humiliation and rage to channel into his fists.
He goes into the gym every day after school, practises until he has to be home for dinner, doesn't stop for hours and hours, long after his trainer's left. He's never felt weak, not really. He knows it's not because of him. He knows those kids are dealing with their own shitty lives, taking it out on him. But he's never felt truly strong until now though.
*
It's been a month and a half and he expected it to be sooner, really. Expected it to come when he was surprised and underprepared. And they'd get some punches in, maybe right in the gut or in the ribs, and when they thought it was over, he'd make his move.
It doesn't happen like that though. When it happens, it's like he's almost asking for it.
They find him on the bleachers during a free period and he's drawing and not paying much attention to anything and then they're right on him. And it really couldn't have happened any other way.
The piece of paper is ripped away from him and he looks up, sun in his eyes, and they're just there, and the big, dumb one who thinks he's the leader says, What kind of faggot drawing is this, Malik.
And he looks down, at his hands, the pencil he's holding, charcoal streaks on his fingers, steadies himself, and then it happens, almost mechanically.
One quick jab, straight to jaw, and he's out. Dodge the second guy's fist, uppercut straight to the solar plexus. Whirl around to block the third guy's shot, stick a leg out and he goes sprawling, face-down.
He only starts breathing again when it's over.
He retrieves his drawing from where it fell, grabs his sketchbook and bolts.
*
His entire body shakes for a while. He stares down at his hands like the first time he tried to throw a punch, like they belong to someone else.
Only there are no gloves this time, no protection, and his knuckles are torn and bloody. But it's a good sort of pain, this kind, the kind that he can own.
He expects a phone-call, his parents to be summoned to the principal's office, a suspension, an expulsion... It never comes.
In the end, bullies don't tell either, he learns.
*
No one touches him after that. They hardly come near him. It's like he's suddenly got some kind of force-field or something around him. And it's not like he was ever the most popular person before, but this is different. This is a different kind of distance. It almost has some kind of respect in it.
(Or fear maybe. It's strange, how he can't quite remember it, the impact of knuckles on jaw, of bone on bone, the sound it made, the feeling, but he can remember how it felt afterwards. It felt like he was taking something. Like he was taking something back. Something they'd stole from him.)
*
He doesn't stop training. Not then, not until he finishes school.
The day before he graduates, his trainer hands him a flyer. And it's for a competition. And he tells him he's good, as good as he's ever seen at his age, and he could win, he could, trust me. And Zayn almost believes him.
He doesn't tell his parents. He's hanging out with Danny when he says, "So there's this boxing competition and I've been thinking about entering."
And he says, "Yeah, man, you should do it."
So, he does it.
*
The prize is five-thousand dollars and Zayn's never even seen that much money in his life.
Most of the guys are bigger than he is, but that's been the way it is his whole life, and he's never let it stop him. So he's sure he can take them anyway.
Zayn isn't fighting until day two and he's watching the first couple fights from the audience, scoping out the competition when one of the other guys sitting near him sticks his hand out and says, "Hey, I'm Liam."
And he's not - not what Zayn expected at all. He's built, yeah, but he looks like a boy and he's smiling so genuinely and he's so out of place here, where there are grunts and the sounds of flesh smacking together or bodies hitting the floor and sounds of pain and sweat and blood and - He looks innocent, fragile, not meant to be here. Meant to be working in a nice, clean office or in a kindergarten or something.
But then again, Zayn isn't supposed to be here either.
He says, "Nice to meet you, mate. I'm Zayn."
*
Zayn dispatches his first two opponents fairly simply. They think because he's smaller, they can try to overpower him. But he's faster and unorthodox and they underestimate him. They always have. All his life. It usually ends in their downfall.
He watches Liam too, cheers him on (and maybe Liam is doing the same for him, but when he's in the ring, everything else gets blacked out), and he's actually pretty great. He's tough and he can withstand a frankly astonishing amount of beating. He's technically really good too, better than Zayn can ever hope to be.
The third match is a struggle. The guy seems to anticipate every move before he makes it and it's so frustrating. He just wants to tear into him, wants to rip him apart. And he hasn't felt that for months and months. He thought it had passed, his blood lust. It's hard to stay in control, to remain patient, to keep testing for weaknesses.
When he finally breaks through, the relief courses through him like a drug.
And he's done it; he's made it to the final.
He lies on a bench in the locker room after, trying to bring his breathing back to normal. He's not shaking this time but it feels like his insides are betraying him; his blood flowing too fast, his nerves on fire, his lungs wearing themselves out.
When he comes back out, he realises Liam's just won his third match.
Which means he's his next opponent.
*
Liam sneaks in to see him before the fight.
"Hey, I know I shouldn't be here but -"
"It's fine," he says and he smiles at him, because Liam just draws that reaction.
"I just - I'd be happy if you won," he tells him, honestly. "I mean, I want to - more than anything - but I'd just - I'd be happy for you."
"Me too," Zayn says quietly.
*
Liam cries after, actually cries, and he pulls Zayn into a tight hug and tells him how brilliant he was. And people are screaming and cheering and Zayn just wants to carry this feeling, this high, forever.
Although it's not his.
*
He's smoking outside the arena afterwards when Liam comes up to him.
"Partied hard?" Zayn asks, almost teasing.
He grins even wider than usual. He's definitely halfway to drunk if he isn't already. "Yeah, it was...good. You should've joined us." He means it; he always means everything so sincerely.
"I - I just needed time alone to think about stuff." It's more truthful an answer than he'd intended.
Liam looks at him kind of sadly now.
"You know what you're going to do now?"
"I'm not - I'm not sure. I was going to go to art school. Before this, I mean. Before I came here. But I don't know if that's enough anymore."
"I've never wanted anything else," Liam confesses. "I know. That sounds weird. Like, growing up dreaming about knocking people out for a living? But I was five when my dad put gloves on my tiny, little hands. And I've never wanted to take them off since."
And that's kind of wonderful and admirable and Zayn's so happy, for him, suddenly. And he's remembering his face when he won; how he'd looked like he had everything he'd ever wanted in that moment, something no one could take away, something that made him untouchable and powerful. Zayn knows that feeling.
"You're going to be amazing," Zayn tells him and believes it. Believes it more than he's ever believed anything.
"I should go. I have an early morning tomorrow."
"Yeah, okay, I'll see you."
He turns around to call back at him, "Hey, Zayn?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't give up on it, okay?"
They just look at each other in the dark.
"I won't," he promises.
He doesn't.
*
It's five years later and Zayn's won more fights than he could've ever dreamed (and he's beaten Liam twice, but he's still ahead overall, damn him) and won money and titles and maybe he regrets not going to art school some days but every other day is so worth it.
He's been looking for places. In London. And Liam's been giving him feedback when he sends him photos because he's in Japan, fighting in bloody Japan, and he won't be here for a couple days. And they're going to live together.
The realtor's telling him all about this beautiful complex and all the rich and famous people who live here and Zayn's just laughing at the dumb story Liam's telling him via text about this cab driver taking him two hours away from where he was trying to go and then billing him for it and bloody language barrier and I wish you were here and - Oh. Liam says these things sometimes, maybe without even noticing it, but Zayn does. Zayn notices everything, and he tucks those moments away somewhere hidden in his brain to replay later when he's alone and in bed and thinking too much about things.
The realtor's leading him down to hall to the empty unit when this guy steps out of one of the other flats and just stops dead.
"Oi, are you Zayn Malik?"
"Um, yes," he says cautiously. People recognise him occasionally now. It's a hazard of the job. He deals with it the best he can without getting flustered and running away. He definitely deserves props for that, he thinks.
"Well, fuck me. You're brilliant, mate." And when he looks at this dude with really big, bright eyes and a ridiculous hairstyle and an actual tan (in London) and everything obviously designer, from the shoes he's wearing without socks to the sunglasses perched on top of his head. First thought that he registers is: douchebag. Second: famous. And then he really looks and thinks, Oh, really famous. Star-footballer famous.
"And you're Louis Tomlinson," he says, politely offering his hand to shake.
Louis grins devilishly and takes it. His hands are really soft. He probably gets manicures. (Douche.)
"Wait, are you visiting someone?" he asks, narrowing his eyes in a way that makes Zayn a tad uncomfortable.
"No, I'm thinking about moving in here, actually."
"Seriously? Mate, that's great. We could be neighbours. Fucking A."
"Yeah," he agrees stiffly.
"Anyway, as you potential future neighbour, anything you want is yours. Season tickets. Private boxes. All-access passes into the finest clubs, restaurants, whatever. Just give me a shout." Louis makes his life sound like some kind of whirlwind of fabulousness. And maybe it is. Maybe that's what this life is for him.
Zayn wonders if he can ever become that.
"Yeah, mate, that sounds awesome."
And that's how he gets initiated into the most elite circle of young, hip, rich people in London. Liam is going to freak.
*
If he's ever done freaking out about how nice their new flat is, that is. It doesn't ever seem to get old for him. For them. Everything's just as insane as the first time. Even though they have money and influence and a tiny bit of fame, it doesn't feel entirely real yet.
What feels real is what happens in the ring. Like it's always been.
They have a housewarming party and Danny and Ant are there and Liam's friends and Louis invites like half the team and Zayn doesn't quite believe this is his life but he's also so, so happy it is.
He doesn't know how much they're actually going to be here, in this flat, the two of them together, because they're always all over the country, all over the globe, but it feels good, comforting, to have it here, a place to come back to, a place that's theirs. Something they can claim as their own after so long of having nothing.
*
It becomes a routine impossibly easily. They train all week. They go out for drinks or food with Louis and Niall (who instantly became their favourite of all his teammates) and Harry (who seemingly just tags along with them everywhere; Zayn isn't even sure he has a real job). They go see them play on the weekend whenever they don't have a fight.
When they do, they go out and face the crowd and the boos and the yells and the lights and cameras and they reach that place that makes them feel most alive. Zayn can't explain it, not to anyone who's never felt it, but when Liam gets out of the ring and just looks at him, he knows that he knows too.
It doesn't feel good anymore.
It feels right.
*
Zayn's fighting and Liam's not here and Louis is in the crowd yelling like a maniac and he kind of hates it but it works, he supposes, in the end.
"You're an asshole," he tells him afterwards in the bar. Their usual spot. Only Niall's at some family thing and Harry's at one of his vague, secretive 'events' that he probably had to burn the invitation to and surrender his phone at the door and it's just the two of them this time. Zayn probably would've bailed too, but Louis is - Louis's different from what he thought he was at first. He's actually a pretty decent friend, truth be told.
"Oh, come on," he says, grinning that infuriating grin of his. "You know you needed the motivation."
And yeah, he kind of did. The rage has left him long ago. And he's won so much already that it feels trivial sometimes. But only sometimes.
"How do you stand it?" he asks, before he can take it back.
"What?"
"All of this. How do you not go crazy?"
Louis gets more serious than he thought was possible for him.
"I think about when I was thirteen. And I was awkward and stupid and I carried a football around everywhere I went. My mum used to have to pry it away from me at the dinner table. I think about that kid. And all the other kids who - who didn't get the chance. And I just love every day and every intrusive photo and every near-slanderous article about my personal life and every minute I get to spend on that pitch because so many people will never know what it's like."
Zayn just looks at him then as he goes back to staring down at his drink and he finally figures out that he and Louis are so much more alike than he'd ever known.
*
Liam's back and Louis and Niall are getting their arses thrashed all over the fucking field and it's awful and he can barely look.
Harry's looking though. He doesn't think Harry's ever glanced away for a second of any match he's ever been to. (And he's figured it out. Harry just knows people. Lots of people. High-profile people. All throughout the city. And he gets invited to all kinds of events. And he gets papped. He's in an indie rock band too, but no one cares. He's pretty and cheeky and charming and he hangs out with footballers and popstars and models and that's everything.)
Louis fucking rips his captain's armband off before he even reaches the tunnel, and oh, oh, that's a really bad sign.
*
He's in the corner booth and Harry's talking to him soothingly.
Niall and Liam are with Zayn by the bar pretending not to eavesdrop.
"Fucking shit luck," is all Niall says before chugging his pint. But that's Niall. It's probably the end of their Champions League hopes for next season. And Louis is, of course, beating himself up about it.
" - they trusted me with it and what the fuck do I do -" they hear him say over the music.
"It's not on you, Lou, it's not your fault," Harry says urgently.
"Who's is it then?" he asks, and there's no answer.
Harry just moves closer to him, lets him drop his head on his shoulder.
Liam looks at him and then drops his gaze, takes a sip of his drink.
It's the quietest they've ever been.
*
Harry takes him home a short while later and apparently spends the night because Zayn sees him coming back in with coffee and bagels when he's leaving to go to the gym in the morning. He just gives him a small smile as he unlocks the door.
He knows Liam will be mad he didn't wake him but he needs the sleep; the jet lag's now setting in, he guesses.
Louis himself shows up around noon.
"Where's Harry?" he asks, surprised.
"Told him to go home. I don't need a babysitter."
"You're out. In daylight." He won't mention that he's still wearing his Ray-Bans. Indoors. "On a day that's neither a matchday or a training day."
"So? I have things to do." He rolls his eyes like Zayn said something completely ridiculous.
"Louis - you had a rough day yesterday. You should take it easy."
"I'm done - I'm just so done with people thinking I don't take this seriously," he bursts out.
"What? Louis, no one thinks that."
"You clearly didn't see the back pages this morning."
"Oh, I -" And God, Louis is so stubborn and so frustrating. Liam gets like that too sometimes when he's on a losing streak. They don't know about being patient, about knowing when to make your comeback. "Why do you read that crap, Louis? It's not true. How many times do you have to hear it to believe it? It wasn't you. It was just some dumb substitutions and the injuries that have been plaguing the team all season. It's not you, you selfish fucker."
And Louis laughs, actually laughs, at that.
"I hate the gym," he sighs a moment later.
"I know you do," Zayn says fondly.
"I'm gonna - I'm gonna go."
"Yes. And call Harry. Apologise for being a dick."
*
"You didn't wake me," he accuses but it's not harsh.
"You need to sleep in some days."
"Yeah, I know. But still," Liam says, trying to look like he's angry at him but failing.
"What'd you do today?"
"A couple phone interviews. Nothing much." He shrugs.
"What are you doing tonight?"
"Nothing. You?"
"Nothing." They both start giggling like idiots.
"You wanna do something?" Liam asks, kind of breathless for some weird reason.
"Like what?"
"We haven't - you know, really done anything, just the two of us, in a while..."
"Oh. Yeah. We can do - whatever." Zayn feels apprehensive for some strange reason.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
*
Liam takes him to an art exhibit and he gets nervous and says, "I thought you'd, you know, like this," while he looks down at his feet and it's suddenly weird and almost like a date or something. But - but that's stupid to even think. It's not like they don't do things together all the time. It's not like Liam doesn't ever do nice things for him. (He's never wanted to drag him into a corner in a public place and kiss him for it before though.)
"This is great," he says instead. "Just what I needed."
*
They're walking home after when Liam says it.
"You know, you never told me why. Not even after all this time."
"Told you what?"
"Why you gave art school up, why you gave everything up. Why you chose to do this in the first place."
"It's not -"
"I mean, you don't have to tell me -"
"It's - No, it's fine. I've just - never told anyone."
"Oh." He looks genuinely surprised.
And Zayn tells him, tells him everything, because it's not something that needs to be protected, to be held close to his heart like a talisman. Not anymore. It's not a victory that has to be his alone. He has other things now - so many other victories. He has his pride and his confidence. His happiness. He has Liam now.
Liam just looks at him after and his eyes are shining with tears and he just gently takes Zayn's hand, like he can't quite help himself. Then he pulls away again, just as quickly, like he's not sure he wants to be touched.
"I'm sorry. I just - I'm really sorry you had to go through that."
Zayn just wordlessly reaches back to hold his hand properly this time.
They just stop and stare at each other for a long time and he's so sure something's going to happen, and just when he thinks it's about to, he looks away, drops Liam's hand, says they should probably be getting home.
He lies awake all night, just looking up at the ceiling.
*
The phone rings at 6am and Louis's whispering frantically about how he invited Harry over last night to apologise and maybe he'd kind of been drinking all day and maybe they'd ended up kissing and one thing led to another and he's still sleeping, in Louis' bed, in his bed, after they'd had sex, more than once, in more than one place in the flat, and God, Zayn really didn't need to hear that. Zayn really needs to not be dealing with this shit at 6am when he hasn't had three hours of sleep and he has his own problems. He really doesn't know how he became the person that Louis would call at 6am to freak out about these kind of things.
*
Harry and Louis are yelling at each other in Louis' bedroom and the rest of them are sat outside on the sofa pretending they're not listening.
"I know what it's like to be in the tabloids, Louis. I'm not exactly new to this."
"You think this is the same thing? Because it's not. Pretty, socialite, friend-to-all-the-superstars, Harry Styles is not the same thing as Louis Tomlinson's boyfriend, Harry Styles."
"I'm not - Louis, you don't have to protect me from this. I can take care of myself. But can you? Are you ready to do this?"
"I - I don't know."
And maybe that's the worst possible answer he could've given. The door is flung open then and Harry comes storming out, grabs his coat where he'd left it, and then he's gone without looking at any of them.
Louis comes out a couple moments later, sits down and pours himself a drink.
*
Niall and Liam are gone and it's almost 2am and Louis's still just sitting there and Zayn hasn't moved either.
"You can't just let him go," Zayn says finally.
"Why not?" Louis demands stubbornly, but his heart isn't really in it.
"Because - because he doesn't even like football."
"What?" Louis asks, looking confused.
"He doesn't even like it. Niall told me that he said so ages ago. Before - before, well, you. He doesn't miss a match, Louis. And he doesn't ever take his eyes off of you."
"I don't - I don't deserve that," he says, shaking his head.
"He thinks you do. And he deserves better from you."
"It's not - It's not simple."
"I know it isn't. I really do. But you have to let him know it's not about him. Stop pushing him away for his own good. He wants to be with you. You'll figure out everything else after."
"I hate how smart you are," Louis says grudgingly.
"Me too," Zayn says, realising sooner or later he's going to have to take his own advice. Or risk ruining everything irreparably.
*
Liam's still awake, surprisingly, almost like he was waiting for him.
"Hey, how'd it go?"
"He's agreed to stop being an idiot."
"Good."
"Yeah."
"What about you?"
"What about me?" Zayn says, knowing exactly where this is going.
"What have you decided?"
"About what?"
"You know what."
Zayn lets out a heavy sigh.
"I don't know how I'd feel about kicking your ass if you were my boyfriend, to be totally honest."
Liam groans and visibly cringes. "That's a terrible joke, you know."
"Yeah, I do. I was saving it."
And then Liam just looks at him, like he's seeing something that's always been there but he'd just never noticed before. The reason Zayn's always been so private about his emotions and relationships. The way he stares too long sometimes or clings on a little too tightly after Liam's been away for an extended period of time. The way he gets distant sometimes, retreating back into his own head and his own world, leaving Liam out in the cold, because he just wants too much and it's not fair to him.
Only now he's looking at him like he gets it, like he really gets it, and like he wants just as much.
"Don't worry. You can always use it as an excuse when I kick your ass again," he says, voice low and tempting.
And then Liam's fingertips are touching his cheek lightly and they're kissing. It's as great as the first night they stood in a ring together and it was Liam's victory but he chose to share it. They chose to share it. Like everything else. Zayn thinks about his life now and wonders how that first punch could have ever felt so good.