Close Quarters (zouiam)

Zayn

Zayn had friends growing up; he was always that kid that was always hiding himself away in the library, the art room, or tucked underneath that big oak tree outside in the quad. The fact that he didn’t really remember a certain person, as his bestfriend, never bothered Zayn as much as some might think. Zayn doesn’t remember being called to parties, but he always had somewhere to sit at lunch. Zayn learned to cope with the somewhat solitary life he chose for himself. Zayn doesn’t understand a lot of things he went through growing up. Why he looked a little different from the rest of the kids in his primary school classes. Zayn never let his differences get the best of him. He always exceled him the things that he loved doing. Arts, English, and when he was big enough, football.

Growing up was easy for Zayn; he got good grades, was the captain of his school football team, and had a perfect girlfriend – Perrie was the girl that lived next door to him. She was always someone he could count on. It was inevitable really, she was the captain of the cheerleading team, and they were supposed to end up together right? Zayn smiles whenever he remembers the way their relationship was mostly for show. He just wanted to be what everyone thought he should be. That was until he figured out he liked the feeling of a warm, hard, guy under him, rather than the soft, curvy feel of a woman. It wasn’t something that Zayn really struggled with. He accepted it with a shrug, and moved on. Thankfully, Perrie understood. She remained by his side when the most of his classmates and teammates didn’t understand.

Zayn wasn’t sure why he started smoking; it wasn’t to look cool, badass or anything like that. He just picked up the habit once he graduated and moved out. His stress from his father being disappointed in his decision to take up art instead of a football career, the amount of course work he was loaded with, and well the student loans never helped. Smoking created that outlet. That’s why he even agreed to do this TV show. The money. Zayn rolls over in his bed; Louis’ arm is draped over his middle. His skin is warm against his exposed flesh; Zayn smiles over at the lump that resembles Louis.

Louis is a glass of cold water in Hell, a gust of fresh air during a hot summer day, or that feeling you get when you hear your favorite song on the radio. He is all of those things, wrapped up in tan color skin, ocean-blue eyes, and witty banter. Louis is everything that Zayn could ask, beg, and hope for. Zayn finds himself staring at Louis, the way those girls stared at him. Zayn looks at the way Louis’ breathes shallowly when he’s sleeping, the way his tummy raises and falls (Zayn more often that not, forcing his breaths to sync with Louis’). Zayn can’t help but smile when Louis smiles, those crinkles that makes his face so much more open. The way his laugh rings out through the halls, and the way Louis smile brightens when he sees Zayn. Louis is that person that Zayn can go to with anything, that person that Zayn can trust, and Louis is that person that Zayn can call his bestfriend.

X | X

Zayn was fourteen when he first fell in love. It was a feeling that he will never forget. He remembers the day so clearly; he remembers it through his fingers. The fingers that sketch out the way his mouth curved when he was happy. The way his eyes roamed over Zayn’s body. Zayn’s fingers draw out the lines around his eyes when he laughs. Zayn remembers the way he smelled when they were curled up in front of his fireplace. Zayn smiles when he remembers the way his voice sounded in the morning; gruff, harsh, and smooth like velvet. He was everything that Zayn could ask for. Zayn sketches out the way his words tasted when he kissed Zayn late at night. All of his touches were gentle, rough when Zayn begged. He knew what Zayn wanted, when Zayn wanted it, and how Zayn wanted it. He gave Zayn all the things he could never find the words to ask for. He was more than Zayn could ask for. He was too good to be true. The feeling of drowning yourself in someone, the feeling of being drugged on someone, or the feeling of becoming someone’s someone.