the pants book ≫ ziam & larry

viii

" ' I stare at them a lot.' " he still can not quite comprehend his own exceptional stupidity thirteen days after. the phrase sounds particularly average and reeks the obvious stench of desperation with only eight syllables. zayn is officially a national joke in his small and undoubtedly judgmental community of people who, under specified terms, he might consider friends.

he hates liam with his adorable pink pouty lips and unnaturally bushy, large eyebrows which have been the source of too many absences in sanity. zayn demands a recount in whatever system the universe uses to decide the fate of mankind.

the night liam drives zayn home, he decides to sleep on his small balcony.
the sky is coincidentally pitch black.

and then its 10:23pm and his mind is reeling and the sky is still so black so he calls niall to terminate the empty void residing inside his chest and help zayn pretend that life is slightly more exciting than the actuality of its mediocrity. except when niall does ring the bell twice and zayn swings the door open to reveal bloodshot eyes equipped with aching limbs, it's as if he is looking into the mirror at a blonder and somehow equally damaged version of himself.

the philosophy is that zayn essentially infects his self absorption and emotionally stunted epidemic onto any human who is too foolishly innocent to realize his internal sadness compared to the seemingly content exterior.

"you alright?" is all zayn can manage. he feels the intensive urge to panic and call someone who isnt so mentally corrupt in the brain with loneliness and isn't a potential contender for disposable human garbage.

niall doesn't answer, instead stares at his forehead for sixty seven uncomfortable seconds, (zayn counts).

and then, "bro. i'm in love with jade," he whispers. niall isn't like this. he's happy and smiles and certainly not damaged goods like 2/3 of his best friends. he's waiting for zayn to kick his pathetic ass or spill out his intestines onto the floor with laughter.

but all zayn can focus on is how terrible niall looks.

he's not wearing any shoes, for starters. there is a suspicious blue liquid dried on the corners of his lips and his white t-shirt is visibly transforming into a defining beige color. his plaid pajama pants appear to be the only sanitary item on his entire body.

"i'm.. sorry, what?" zayn mumbles, scratching his stubble.

"i'm in love with jade," hollow eyes and raven hair doesn't believe he's comprehending correctly.

"what?"

"i'm in love wi-"

"no, i heard you," too much, too soon, "am i getting punked?" his eyes travel down the corridor, "where's harry with the camera?" this is a joke. this has to be a joke.

"i'm serious!" niall screams in aggravation.

it's not a joke.

zayn groans internally and decides to preserve his genius theory of how incredibly ironic the entire situation is, (because the universe is so superior and evidently heartless to allow a wonderful human who was previously everything good in the galaxy and morph him into a tiny boy who loves someone who is extremely incapable of reciprocating such feelings), and assume the role of the supportive and i-totally-saw-this-coming-and-im-not-stunned-or-freaked-at-all friend.

"shut the hell up, my neighbors are going to call the landlord," zayn grumbles, motioning for him to come inside the flat.

niall closes the door behind him and slides his back down the wall. "dude, i'm so fucked," he whines, and buries his head in his hands.