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the second spilled all over the passenger seat of his car. He can‟t make

a bunch of teenagers care about dark romanticism versus

transcendentalism without some caffeine in his system. He just can‟t.

It doesn't help that his editor has been on his back all week about

getting the next few chapters of his book fully drafted. He's thankful to

have an editor at all, completely blown away that anyone looked at the

few short stories he's had published and said we want you to write us a

book, but it's still stressful to suddenly be writing on someone else's

schedule. There's no way she's going to take it well when he tells her

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he's thinking about changing up part of his plot. His protagonist is a

singer, but something about it isn't feeling right; there needs to be more

people. Two singers? Can he make it about two singers? He definitely

needs caffeine.

He‟s in the lounge on the second floor, the one with the really nice

coffee maker, finally clutching a mug of strong coffee in his hands with

nobody to ruin it, when Louis comes in and sidles up next to him. He

looks aggressively pleasant, and Zayn is immediately suspicious. Nine

times out of ten, Louis only looks aggressively pleasant when he wants

something or he‟s hiding something. The rare times when he is actually

being aggressively pleasant are also somewhat terrifying, so no good

can come of this.

“Zayn, my boy. Have I ever told you that you‟re my favourite?” Louis

says cheerily, slapping him on the back. Yeah, Zayn is never ignoring

his instincts again.

He sighs dramatically. “What do you want, Tomlinson?”

Louis clutches his imaginary pearls. “Surely you aren‟t questioning my

sincerity? Can‟t a man just pay an innocent compliment to his friend,

devoid of any ulterior motive?”

Zayn takes a sip of his coffee and feels a little better already, enough to

laugh and shove Louis away from him lightly. “A man can. You can‟t.”

Louis just grins, wrapping an arm around Zayn‟s shoulders. “I am

stunned, stunned, I say, at your accusations. Wounded, even. Luckily, I

know just how you can make it up to me.”

Years of experience have taught Zayn not to bother putting up a fight

when Louis gets like this. Last time he tried, Louis had sulked for days

and somehow Zayn had been the one who ended up apologising. He

really needs to get more friends. “Fine, fine, Jesus. What do you want?”

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“That‟s the Zayn I know and love,” Louis says. “You‟re free tonight,

yes?”

God, Zayn would love to have something planned, something written in

red on his social calendar, but a thorough search of his brain turns up

nothing. Not even the biweekly English department happy hour, which

he always finds an excuse to skip. Damn, damn, and thrice damn.

“Yes, I‟m free,” he sighs.

Louis claps his hands gleefully. “Not anymore! You‟re coming with me

to the football match tonight.”

Zayn furrows his brow at his coffee “The football match? Why‟re you

going—“ and then it dawns on him. “Oh.” He turns to look at Louis

with amusement. This is too good. “Oh.”

Louis scowls. “Don‟t make that face at me.”

“Face?” Zayn says. “What face?” He grabs the coffee pot and goes

about topping off his mug. “I‟m just pleased to see that little Louis is

learning to play well with others.”

“Fuck off, Malik,” Louis says, but Zayn can hear the laugh behind it.

“Look, he mentioned it, I said I‟d go, and it‟d be weird if I have to sit

there alone the whole time, all right? I‟m just doing him a favour.

That‟s all this is.”

Zayn just raises his eyebrows as he stirs in a teaspoon of sugar.

“I hate you,” Louis says petulantly. Zayn says nothing, just turns to

look at Louis over the rim of the mug as he takes another sip.

“Fine,” Louis says. “Maybe I wouldn‟t mind seeing him run back and

forth down the sidelines for ninety minutes, but you don‟t get to be

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smug about it. I‟m only human, and you said yourself he was fit.” He

looks at Zayn expectantly. “Okay?”

Zayn sets the mug down and smirks. “Fine, I‟ll go. But after this we‟re

even, all right?”

Louis snorts. “You tried to set a grease fire in my kitchen once, Malik,

we are not anywhere near even.” He turns to walk out of the lounge,

looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“You blew that whole thing way out of proportion!” Zayn calls after

him.

“See you at seven!” Louis sing-songs back as the door swings shut.

Zayn curses and starts another pot of coffee. Yes, definitely a long day.

Stealing art supplies from his own classroom makes Zayn feel like a bit

of a weirdo, but it more than pays off that night when Louis spots him

in the stands with a giant "GO TEAM" sign covered in glitter. His face.

Half baby tasting lemon for the first time, half cat being given a bath.

Beautiful.

Louis makes his way up to where Zayn is sitting. “I‟m going to murder

you and feed your body to Duchess,” he says, snatching the sign from

Zayn‟s hands and shoving it under his seat before anyone sees him with

it. “And she will vomit you back up, because you are not worthy of her

digestive tract.”

“Oh, hello Zayn, thank you so much for coming!” Zayn says in a high-

pitched voice. “You‟re doing me a huge favor, and I really owe you

one. You‟re the best friend a complete wanker like me could ever

have.” He looks at Louis pointedly. “Sorry, just filling in the bits you

forgot to say.”

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“Shut up,” Louis says. “It‟s about to start.”

He turns his attention to the pitch, where the players and coaches are

shaking hands. Zayn spots the object of Louis‟ myopia, dressed in a

white shirt and black slacks. Yeah, he still gets it. The guy is very, very

easy on the eyes. And he‟s a decent sort of bloke, too, which is always

a plus. Sure, he doesn‟t have the soft brown eyes or saint-like demeanor

of other, more desirable men, but when has Louis‟ taste ever been as

good as Zayn‟s?

The clock starts, and the players take off across the field. Zayn soon

gets immersed in the game, to his pleasant surprise. For a bunch of

teenagers, they‟re not bad, and the match is hard-fought. Perhaps

there‟s something to be said for Harry‟s coaching abilities. Before long

it‟s halftime, with a score of 1-1.

He turns to look at Louis, who‟s been uncharacteristically quiet the

whole match. When they watch football together, he‟s usually yelling

at the screen, screaming at players and refs alike. “Not bad so far, eh?”

Zayn says, nudging Louis with his elbow.

Louis startles, as if waking from a dream. “Oh, um, yeah,” he says,

“It‟s good, the, uh, the football.” He squints at the pitch. “Where are the

players?”

Zayn looks at him questioningly, waiting for the punchline. It doesn‟t

come.

“It‟s… it‟s halftime, Louis.”

“Right!” Louis says cheerily. “Halftime. Yes. I knew that. One of my

favorite times, halftime.”

“Are you—have you been watching the game at all?” Zayn says,

incredulous. Louis loves football. Well, Louis also hates football, but to

be fair that‟s a big part of loving football.

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Louis puts on a defensive face. “Of course I have! I don‟t know what

you‟re talking about.”

Zayn sits back and folds his arms. “All right, then. What happened

when our side got awarded a penalty? Did we convert it or not?”

Louis opens and closes his mouth, glances at the scoreboard, and says,

“We made it, obviously. As if we‟d miss.”

Triumphant, Zayn leans forward. “There wasn‟t a penalty, you tit. Did

you go into a coma or something? What‟s wrong with you?” he says,

but Louis is already distracted, looking down toward the sideline.

Zayn follows his eyeline, and suddenly everything makes sense. He can

see the little blank square in his mental calendar dancing smugly before

his eyes, and the song it‟s dancing to is called Louis Tomlinson‟s

Ruination.

“Oh, I see,” he says, smirking. “It‟s a lust coma.” Harry‟s gesturing

wildly to some of the players, outlining tactics in the air, his

shirtsleeves rolled up. Louis might as well be drooling. “Man, you are

out of your fucking depth, aren‟t you?”

“Fuck off,” Louis says lightly, still looking at Harry. He‟s even half-

smiling, the poor bastard. “He‟s hot, I‟ve got eyes. There isn‟t any

depth for me to be in or out of.”

“I‟ve got eyes too, in case you‟ve forgotten,” Zayn says. “And I have

never seen you like this, no matter how hot the guy.” He flicks Louis

on the ear and grins when he curses. “I‟ve been reliably informed that I

am extremely hot, and you have never once ignored football to stare

longingly at me. Or any of the blokes you‟ve shagged and then

callously tossed aside, for that matter.”

Louis rubs his ear. “I am not callous, you twat. It‟s not my fault so

many men are so… toss-aside-able. Anyway, you don‟t know what

you‟re talking about. This is a purely aesthetic appreciation.”

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Unfortunately for Louis‟ point, Harry picks this moment to glance up

into the stands. He spots Louis and waves excitedly, grinning like a

loon. Louis waves back, with a look on his face that‟s pure sunshine

under the pitch‟s fluorescent lights.

Normally Zayn would be thrilled to know he was right, to see Louis so

thoughtlessly delighted, but for just one moment he feels terribly sad.

Louis swore off getting into relationships with actual feelings before

Zayn even met him, and Zayn wasn‟t kidding when he said he‟s never

seen him like this. He hadn‟t realised how rare it was for Louis to be at

ease, to be happy, until he actually saw it happen. It‟s amazing, and

sad, and terrifying, and he wonders if Louis honestly doesn‟t realise

what‟s going on, or if it‟s just an act. Louis doesn‟t like to talk much

about the lads he dated before he moved to Manchester, but Zayn

knows he keeps himself locked up for a reason.

Zayn reaches out to ruffle Louis‟ hair, knocking his glasses askew.

“Whatever you say, man,” he says, and tries to put his worries away for

the rest of the match.

It works, and he goes back to enjoying the game without thinking about

his best mate slowly descending through the stratosphere of his own

disillusionment with romance and hurtling toward the hard reality of

Harry Styles. Toward the 80th minute, Zayn glances over to see Louis

staring at Harry like Louis is stranded on a desert island and Harry‟s

just turned into a giant, dancing steak, and okay, yes, this is definitely

funny again.

“You know, Louis,” Zayn says idly, “There‟s this place called the

Internet, where you can look at all the attractive men you want. For

free, even. Some of them haven‟t even got pants on.”

“Piss off,” Louis says dreamily.

They win the game, 3-2, though Zayn doubts Louis could tell you the

final score with a gun to his head.

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“Come on, I want to say hi to Haz,” Louis says as the sparse crowd

starts getting to its feet and filtering out of the stands.

“Haz?” Zayn says. He turns around, effectively blocking Louis‟

progress out of the row. “When did you two progress to nicknames?”

“Move your arse,” Louis says, ignoring him with a shove.

They file down the stands, heading toward the fence that divides the

spectators from the sideline. When they reach it, Harry jogs over,

clapping some of his players on the back along the way before coming

to a stop in front of the fence.

“Hey, I‟m so glad you could make it,” he says, flushed with victory.

“You too, Zayn, thank you so much for coming.”

“Not a problem, mate,” Zayn says, pretending that even a tenth of the

attention in this conversation is focused on him. “Your lads put on a

good show.”

“Yeah, they were great,” Louis says, the liar. “Brilliant.”

Harry smiles at him broadly. Zayn is going to throw up. “Well, it

always helps to know we‟ve got friendly faces in the stands,” Harry

says. “And you, um, the two of you are pretty much the only faces I‟m

friendly with so far, short of Niall. So seriously, thanks a lot.”

“Anytime,” Louis says, and Zayn‟s future spreads out before him, filled

with nights spent sitting on uncomfortable plastic seats, watching Louis

swoon. “Anytime” his arse. He‟s going to have to develop a social life

purely out of self-defense.

Harry scrubs a hand through his ridiculous hair and looks apologetic.

“I‟m really sorry, but I‟ve got to go help with the post-match talk. It‟s,

um, kind of my job,” he says, grinning ruefully.

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