Help. [ Ziam ]

Normality.

2. Normality

"How do you feel about that word, Liam? Because that's how some people feel about it; normal. Is that how you felt about it? Did it perhaps feel normal?" Liam puts the paper to the side, knocking the mug of hot tea slightly out of the way with his knuckle, before looking back up with a low, reluctant sigh. He shrugs into an uncommitted air. "Upbringing plays a big part in why people stay throughout a large portion of their abuse, perhaps it's because of the familiarity it brings, or even that you can become so used to it that you've began to feel a sense of comfort somewhere between the blurring lines of your vision... Is that perhaps the case with you? Perhaps you were bullied, or even abused, as a child?" He looks down but she continues, "Do you feel like you can relate to being beaten, even during your younger years?"

That was a silly question; obvious in its entirety. The other knew the answer, too, they just wanted to hear it come out of his mouth; perhaps to take a note on the roughness of his voice, or the way his eye flicks to the left as he speaks his thoughts, to somehow explain how both are a clear example that he's been fucked up completely - or any other word or phrase she chooses to supply - like the damaged little science project she believes he is.

It's bullshit, he knows this. Thinks somewhere in there that she knows this too. Because of course he was abused. Beaten, battered, bruised. But she knows - she fucking knows this - and so she also fucking knows that he's depressed, but she can't bloody well tell that from the twitch of his right leg like she's writing down in her notes. And yes, he probably is scared shitless of every sudden movement, but the persistent shake in his left hand when ever she leans closer isn't screaming this, like she tells her superiors at the hospital. No. The abuse is what she's reading. That's what's telling her this.
The fading bruises on his jaw, the fingertips dug into his collar bone, the limp in his gait. That's what she's seeing, and so the outcome is obvious. He's depressed, he's scared. The rest is just side effects, not proof. The fucking abuse is proof.

"Liam," she says, trying again to get an answer from her silent patient, "Can you relate?"

And well of course he can blummin relate, he's gay for Christ sake. And so of course he was bloody bullied. But she already knows this, because it's in his fucking file, and it's on his fucking record, and he can see both of these tucked carefully in a brown paper envelope held in her scrawny little fucking hands, so this she already fucking knows, so all he needs to know is why on earth she is making him replay this, because, seriously, what the fuck does it matter?

Liam went through hell at school. And he knows this, and she knows this, and the whole fucking hospital knows this, because it was never much of a secret.

He went through hell at school. Every. Single. Day.

He'd experienced thoroughly the harsh shoulder barges in the halls, and the name callings in the cafeteria. He knew all about the paper balls in the classrooms, and the quiet beatings after school; behind the bushes in the playground, next to the sign in the McDonald's parking lot, by the faded graffiti on the wall at the bridge with the ugly rusting wired fence at the foot. Because he went through it all at school, and he knows it from experience, and now she's making him relive it.

Like remembering how it had all been fine up until high school, where he was met with an even wider range of people, and a higher range of opinions; opinions, at which, had never been all that much in his favour, to tell the truth. But he could take it, most of the time, all he needed to do was act unfazed by the dirty looks and the god-awful names called after him whenever he walked through the school, and though most really did hit home, he never did lose his strength, he always kept his head up, his shoulders square, and his middle finger raised; statement worthy hot-pink nails on show for the whole school to behold.

He'd always been a bit of a drama queen. Accentuating anything he could only to wind them up them up more. Show them he wasn't embarrassed.

He also remembers how he couldn't take seeing it though, which is probably when and why the worst of beatings started; the second he spotted Zayn - small, scrawny, graphic tee wearer with a bag too big for his body - stalked through the McDonalds parking lot, (right next to that god-awful bloody sign,) by a bunch of lads, calling him names identical to the ones they had called him, and tugging at his clothes as a means of getting his attention, Liam's mouth had fallen open to yell something close to defence, and a fine area of punishment was what was soon to follow.

And as much as it had hurt at the time, it can do nothing but make him smile to think about now. Because although he got one hellofa kickin' for trying to protect the older lad, Zayn got one hellofa kickin' too for attempting to protect him back, and the two had somehow managed to exchanging a greeting amongst the punches hitting their bodies, brought on by the giddy feeling of a tanned hand brushing against a lighter.

And so Liam sure as hell never let his weaknesses get the better of him, his thin body and wire arms never holding him back from his attempts at fighting back. Not even after school,  when a tap on the back would grasp his attention, and a brutal fist to the face would be his reward. He refused to back down, despite how he could never really pose all that much of a hardship for his opponents.

Because Zayn was always there to make him confident. And that was all that mattered.

*

Light fingers trace his features, along his lips and over his cheeks, a low voice whispering comforting words into his ear, over and over, "it's okay, it's okay."

He hisses, low and pained, "don't press it, it hurts."

The hand spreads down to his jaw, where a particularly dark bruise marks the boys otherwise perfect completion. He grimace at the sight and leans in to press a kiss to the bruised skin, breathing, "who gave you this one," into the purpling mark.

The other shivers and whispers a name, a quite, "Tomlinson," that has the others eyes flashing in anger. He consoles, "it wasn't that bad this time, think I'm growing on him."

"Could've dulled me," Zayn grates, tugging him closer, persuading the youngers head into pressing against the tanned expanse of his neck, he hums, "I'm sorry i couldn't be there."

"I'm not, they'd have just gotten you too."

An awkward movement in order to place a kiss against forehead and Zayn's mumbling, "It always feels better when I'm there with you; when we try harder cause we've got someone to make us feel stronger."

"But we're not," Liam answers, lips brushing against skin, "We're not strong enough for this, Zayn, we just think we are. But we're not, we're weak, that's why we're always the ones left with bruises. That's why they do it; because we're weak."

"I know." Zayn says, hugging him closer, "I know we're not strong, but that doesn't mean we can't feel it." He squeezes his lovers hips reassuringly, "because I do feel it; i feel it when you're around and I feel it when you're with me. Because you make me brave, and that makes me stronger."

Liam grins. "I love it when you go all poetic on me."

Zayn laughs and nudges the other back to see his face, kissing him softly, whispering his love. "We can do this." And somewhere between attempting to breathe his compassion into the younger lads mouth and hold him closer to give him stability he manages to give him strength instead. "We can do this." He whispers again, words laced with love and dripping with sincerity.

And Liam finds that he believes him.

*

"Hey," a hand brushes a hand, "Sorry, I'm Zayn," they're both backing into a wall, the feeling of regret setting over them, he explains, "They think I'm gay."

"Hi," A laugh, "I'm Liam," a wave of statement worthy feisty-red nails, "And they know i am."

*

Liam thinks about how missing Zayn isn't about dearly missing his husband like a good husband should.

It's about missing his best friend too. 

But then, maybe he's been missing that for a while.

.

A/N Happy New Year!