The next day, before his tutoring session with Harry--and after the most boring day of lectures yet—Louis fell asleep during all three of them, being awkwardly awoken by others each time, papers crusted to his face--Louis knocks on Zayn’s door, his nerves jumbling frantically and his palms sweating with ‘what the fuck am I going to say’.
“Come in,” he hears the silken voice reply, and he pushes the door open, smiling instantly as he meets with Zayn, who is dressed in black track shorts and a Nirvana t-shirt, paint smeared on his hands and arms, as he stands before a canvas covered in blacks and grays, speckled with whites.
“Hey,” Louis greets, his hands in his pockets as he slowly makes his way over, feeling rather awkward and nervous and generally weird.
Zayn smiles instantly as he takes in the sight. “Louis,” he greets, his pallet in his left hand, paintbrush in the other.
“Er, hi,” Louis greets once more, and his awkwardness is absolutely showing as he mentally scrambles for an introduction to what he’s trying to get at.
But Zayn doesn’t appear curious or intrigued, instead carrying on as if Louis wasn’t even in the room.
“I was wondering when you’d come to see me,” he finally says with a smirk, beautiful hazel eyes catching the crystals in the lights as he studies his work, then dips his brush in midnight blue paint.
“I see you all the time,” Louis replies with a laugh but it’s nervous and light and Louis shoves his hands deeper into his pockets.
Zayn glances up whilst smearing his brush in the rich color. “You’re here because of Harry,” is all he says.
Louis gapes. How in the fuck??
“How did you—“
“Relax. Doesn’t matter.” He pauses, running his brush along the top of the canvas, head tilted as he follows the motion of his hand. “Liam’s at a meeting. So we’re alone.”
Louis nods, understanding the implications, and appreciates the reassurance of privacy. But his stomach is still queasy. And his shoes suddenly feel too tight, so he taps them against the dark wood of the floor. They look so dirty against its polished gleam.
He’s never been alone with Zayn before. That, coupled with the awkward subject matter, is leaving Louis a little blank.
“If you ask me questions, I’ll answer honestly,” Zayn’s gentle, glossed voice prods, and though his eyes never leave his canvas, Louis knows he’s trying to help him, trying to ease him into a conversation he doesn’t quite know how to go about.
Louis begins to open his mouth.
“But only in regards to myself—situations that concern myself, and general knowledge. I won’t disclose any information that’s Harry’s own right to disclose. All right, mate?” he asks, but it’s not really a question, and he now dips his brush into a thick mess of gold as he stares at Louis head on.
Well shit.
There go all the questions.
But Louis nods anyway, admiring Zayn’s principles and morals and unyielding loyalty, and a small smile lightens his expression as he watches the beautiful boy before him. “All right,” he agrees.
And Zayn goes back to painting, quietly and steadily.
So. Here it is. But where does Louis start?
“I’m-I’m not sure if you know about the past couple days?” Louis begins, tugging the sleeves of his pale gray sweater over his hands, giving himself cozy little paws. He focuses on them, glancing occasionally up at Zayn who continues his work.
