Chapter Thirteen

The rest of the boys started to file out of the art classroom the minute the school day ended at half past three. They had all sighed with delight that they could finally go home, or follow out the plans that they had made for that school night, as they shoved their bags over their shoulders and made their way from the classroom, nodding to Mrs Martins’ reminders about homework. Soon after the boys had left, Mrs Martins had packed up her bags and left too, and now it was only Zayn left in the stuffy art classroom.

Zayn had hardly heard the class bell ring through the sixth form. The boy hadn’t heard the other boys leave the classroom, and he hadn’t even noticed Mrs Martins leaving either. Zayn was far too interested in the tiny golden specks that were hidden deep inside of his favourite pair of emerald green eyes. His mind was like an overhead projector, he had the image of Harry looking at him and smiling in his head, and his hands were working overtime to copy it out onto the paper. Zayn put an amazing amount of effort into every piece of work he did, whether he realised it or not, but this was by far one of the most important drawings he had ever done in his life. Harry’s eyes were so full of happiness and warmth, and a small smile spread across Zayn’s lips when he remembered the way those green pools would twinkle ever so slightly when Harry smiled. Harry was just perfect to Zayn.

The heat of the room wasn’t really affecting Zayn’s work either. Zayn could sit through smouldering heat or blizzards of cold and still take as much time as he needed to draw this picture of Harry’s eyes. Zayn’s eyes were set down onto the paper, watching every fine movement of the fast moving pencil in his hands. He looked over every detail that he was drawing, and smiled in pride. He had never enjoyed a piece of art so much as he was enjoying this. His black hair was folding over his eyes, and the longest tips of his fringe had poked behind his glasses, which kept slowly sliding through the bridge of his nose. Occasionally, he would push his glasses back up his nose slowly, and take a small second to look over the two eyes that were looking back at him on the piece of paper, before his pencil soon found the paper once again.

He was too caught up in his work to see the tall, curly haired boy stood by the door, looking over Zayn with the very same green eyes that he was drawing. The real pair of eyes were carrying so much unexpressed pain inside of them, like clouds of rain that were hanging low inside of the boy’s mind, instead of the happy sparkling ones which were the only pair that Zayn ever seemed to see.

“Why do you let them treat you like that?” Harry Styles’ voice suddenly came thick and fast, hitting Zayn’s body like a bullet. Zayn quickly jumped a little, dropping his pencil and slamming the sketchbook in front of him in fright. He wasn’t used to Harry’s voice being so low and serious, and for a moment, it had sounded like Zayn’s Father.

When Zayn turned around to see who it was, the small smile couldn’t help but spread across his face when he saw Harry by the door. He was stood upright, on his own two feet, with no need to lean on anything. His brown curls were ruffled across his forehead, framing the two green eyes that looked deeply and incredulously into Zayn’s soul. Zayn had completely forgotten what Harry had said, he was too busy looking at the blue watched wrapped around his wrist. The small padlock tattoo was above the band of the watch, and Zayn’s eyes quickly scanned over a couple of scribbles of blue pen, before what looked like the name ‘Louis’.

“Zayn?” Harry’s voice came again, no difference in the tone. Zayn quickly looked up at him, the same smile plastered on his face.

“Why did you let that guy just grab you and throw you on the floor?” Harry asked with a slight frown on his face. Harry’s hands slipped into his trouser pockets, and as Zayn said nothing, the frown on Harry’s face set deeper into his face, and his elbows moved up and down for a moment. Those green emeralds were flickering around the room before they reached Zayn again.

“They aren’t supposed to treat you like that.” Harry spoke again, indignantly. Zayn’s smile faded. The boy didn’t understand why Harry was saying this. Harry saw the smile fade, and he walked into the room. A sigh left his lips as he turned around and closed the door to the art room, although a summer breeze caused the door to slam loudly into its door sockets before Harry could.

“Don’t you get that you did nothing wrong, and he pushed you onto the floor and ruined your pencils? Why didn’t you do something?” Harry asked once more, but the constant questions had started to worry Zayn. He didn’t like this Harry, Harry was confusing him, but he was supposed to be the one that made sense to him.

Zayn closed his eyes for a millisecond, but the flashes and images he saw behind his closed eyelids made it feel like it was an endless hour.

“Why do you just sit there?”

“You do nothing. You say nothing. You’re good for nothing.”

“Why do you say nothing? Speak up!”

A large hand makes swift contact into the back of Zayn’s head, causing the boy to feel like his brain has just been shaken out of place. All he can feel is confusion and pain.

A growl leaves his Father’s mouth.

“Speak up.”

Silence, but another hard hit to the back of the head.

“Speak up!” Words thick with violence fly at Zayn and hit him like a car crash. All the boy does is whimpers, before he is thrown into the wall, two large, tattooed knuckles pushing punches into his torso like a train conductor punching a ticket. Every punch left its mark.

Zayn reopened his eyes. Every cut and bruise that were currently on his body, and the past ones that had long since faded, seemed to burn against his skin. His fingernails were begging to itch at his skin, but Zayn seemed almost paralysed under Harry’s intense stare. Harry let out a slight sigh and walked into the room a little further. His green eyes caught the subconscious flinch from the boy in front of him, and he immediately stopped in his tracks.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, as he looked over how pale the boy in front of him had become. Zayn quickly shook his head, before he looked away from Harry and grabbed his art sketchbook and bailed it into his hands, before he jumped off the stool and onto his feet. The stool dragged across the tiled floor of the art room, making a strained screeching sound to echo around the room. It was the only sound to fill the hot room.

“Zayn, I’m sorry. Please tell me what’s wrong?” Harry spoke, his voice lower as the frown on his face grew softer with it. Zayn shook his head once more. With one of his arms clinging around his sketchbook, the other pulled his backpack onto the art table, where he carefully packed his pencil case into it. His brown eyes checked over the contents of the bag and made sure that his drawing book was tucked in there safely, before he did the zip of his backpack up and threw his bag over one of his shoulders. He switched the arm that was holding his school sketchbook before he pulled the loose strap of his backpack onto his other shoulder, so that it was now on his back. Both of his hands wrapped themselves around his sketchbook protectively.

Zayn’s feet stayed glued to the spot as Harry started to edge closer to him. Zayn’s brown eyes were staring at Harry. The golden brown pools were catching every little movement that the boy made as he slowly walked over to Zayn. The way his big shoes shuffled along the floor a little, the way the material of his school trousers met at the knees and swayed against each other slowly, the way Harry’s curls bounced a little, but most important, the deep green eye that seemed to be recording every bit of Zayn’s own behaviours.

“Tell me, Z.” Harry spoke softly, when he finally stood in front of Zayn. Zayn remained quiet. Harry was the only one who had heard him speak outside of his family. Well, most of his family. Zayn had glowed with the fact that Harry liked to speak to him, and in turn listen to him speak, but something inside of Zayn told him to keep his lips shut tightly together.

“Tell me why you do this? Why do you act like such a coward? Why are you like this? Why were you born, damn it, why the fuck were you born?!”

Another closed knuckle dived into the centre of Zayn’s forehead.

“Tell me!” The scream came, before Zayn blacked out, the pain in his head too much.

Zayn shook his head one last time and looked at the ground. His body began to itch once again, and his head felt like a burst balloon. He just felt so heavy. Harry’s hands slipped into Zayn’s, bringing the boy back to life. Zayn looked into Harry’s eyes, the heat compressing around them both, almost pushing them together.

“Z?” Harry spoke quietly, his thumb grazing over Zayn’s knuckles for a slight second. Harry’s thumb trailed over the boy’s knuckles, and caused a shiver to erupt over Zayn’s skin. In defeat, Zayn fell into Harry’s arms. The confusion just grew too much for him, and he tucked his face into the crook of Harry’s neck, feeling the warmth from the only boy that ever wanted to be near Zayn.

To say that Harry was shocked wasn’t a lie. The sudden feeling of Zayn falling into his body had taken him by surprise. Harry’s arms had wrapped around the boy to try and catch him a little, so that they could both be balanced, but then he got another surprise. Zayn’s face nuzzled into Harry’s neck, the warm flutters of breath fleeing from the boy’s nostrils was blowing onto Harry’s neck, and Harry had to take a moment to appreciate how close they were. Zayn never really did anything like this. The boy was always filled with such anxiousness and hesitation, but then again, Harry remembered that he wasn’t a normal boy.

“It’s alright, Zayn.” Harry whispered, before he closed his eyes and leaned his head against Zayn’s. Zayn was quiet. A warm hand snaked its way around Harry’s back, and Harry smiled to himself, and pulled the older boy into him a little tighter.

In all honesty, Harry barely knew anything about Zayn. He knew that he was amazing at drawing, and he knew that Zayn had an almost supernatural talent of looking at things and observing things, but he also knew that Zayn wasn’t one of the luckiest kids, and never had been. That was all Harry really knew, but he did know that for some reason, it was the little moments when Harry could hold the boy close to him, feel his heartbeat through his thin school shirt, and realise that these were the best times. To hold Zayn Malik, the poor, misunderstood, mute boy was the only reason that Harry craved for more of him.

But then Harry remembered the reason that made him drown in self-hatred each night, when the brown-eyed boy would pop into his mind as he stared at the ceiling above him. The fact that he just didn’t have the balls to really treat Zayn like he should be treated. A part of him knew that he never really would have the balls to do this, either. Harry was cynical in the knowledge that by next summer, he would be packing his things and leaving for university. When he started university, he doubted that he would ever see Zayn again. People always drift, promises or no promises, and Harry knew that. Seventeen years on the planet, and he already knew how it really worked.

“I have a driving lesson, I have to rush off.” Harry suddenly spoke, no longer feeling comfortable to stand holding onto Zayn Malik in the art room, where anyone could walk in. Harry’s large hands gripped hold of the boy’s forearms and slowly peeled him from his body. A cold breeze hit him immediately when the two boys were no longer pressed against each other. The breeze would have been relaxing to Harry, if the smile on Zayn’s face didn’t make him feel at so unease. The boy was looking at him with that irremovable wonder that he always sent Harry’s way, and it made Harry feel even worse.

“I’ll see you soon.” Harry spoke quickly, adjusting his uniform as he started to walk away from the boy slowly.

“Good luck, Harry.” Zayn spoke quietly, before his free arm wrapped back around his sketchbook as he watched Harry go. Harry forced a smile, before leaving the room, checking the time on his watch as he went. His driving lesson wasn’t for another ten minutes, but he just couldn’t stand another second in that room with his conscience.