Conformity (Larry Stylinson AU)

Seven.

It's only the third time since Zayn's expulsion that I've gone to visit him. I feel a shade of guilt as I sit in the media room and attempt to converse with the pallor, unhappy looking boy. He hasn't been able to smoke anything, or imbibe any kind of alcohol. I don't feel bad that his addictions are being terminated, but I can see how much distress he's in, which doesn't make me too excited.

"What've you been doing, then?" It's a stupid question, but I ask it anyway.

Zayn's chocolate brown eyes look daggers at me. "Sitting here,"

I nod. "That's fun."

"I could be out doing stuff, but I'm sitting here, ostracized from the world. So, so fun."

"I'm sorry."

He scoffs. "No you aren't."

His comment jabs at a nerve. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you don't give a shit about me. In fact, I'll bet you're happy I got caught. Now I can't be the useless druggie you think I am."

I give him an indignant half smile and shake my head. "I'm not the one who doesn't care about you, and I'm not the one who thinks you're a useless druggie."

"Who is it, then?" He challenges. "Because I'm pretty damn sure it's you."

"It's you, Zayn. I have never called you useless, or a druggie. I've told you that I don't agree with you smoking weed and cigarettes so much because you're either going to get caught or catch cancer. And that's because I do care about you. So don't try to make me feel like a bad guy."

"Then why didn't you try to help me out of this?"

I throw my hands up in frustration. "What the hell was I supposed to do? They found a pound of pot in your locker!"

"You could have said it was your's and you just put it in my locker so you didn't get caught or something,"

"You're being irrational. That isn't my responsibility."

Zayn sinks back further into the brown, leather couch and crosses his arms over his chest. He impeccably resembles a two-year-old, pouting about this. I'm genuinely offended that he views me as an inadequate friend for not taking the blame for his idioticy.

I rise from my seat and glare down at him. "You know what, Zayn, I've tried to be here for you and support you even though you're a low, foul git. I've been here for you since we were small, but I'm done putting up with you. You criticize me and blame me for your problems, and I'm utterly done. Come find me when you want to treat me like a friend instead of rubbish."

Without giving him an opportunity to reply, I exit his home and head to mine on my skateboard. My heart feels heavy and my chest is still bubbling with rage. I don't understand how putting the culpability of his actions on me makes him feel better, but it doesn't make me feel better. I'm tired of giving a mile and getting an inch in return.

This is why I like to shut people out; nothing good ever comes of putting your trust in anyone. Humans are flawed; they're greedy, selfish, defensive, and horrified. The pattern seems to continue for everyone I see, and I'm close to becoming a recluse.

A loud, ghastly noise sounds from down the corridor as I trudge to my next class between bells. More pounding follows as well as the swelling shouts of over animated teenagers. I change my course and ready myself to either break up a pointless brawl or defend a bully victim.