Louis’ seething. His teeth are gritted, arms folded. He’s sitting on the old armchair that sits in the middle of his and Zayn’s living room, back straight. His expression is stony as he stares at the door, even if he really just wants to cry.
The door opens and Zayn walks in, humming under his breath. Usually Louis would find this amusing, endearing even, but not now. Not when he’s just discovered a pair of boxers which are decidedly not his and not Zayn’s in their bed.
Trust’s a very fragile thing, Louis muses. He thought he could trust Zayn to be by himself for a week while Louis went on a business trip, but apparently not.
He’s angry. He’s furious. He’s enraged.
He’s hurt.
“Louis?” Zayn smiles uncertainly and sits down across from him, the way they always sit. It’s their habit, their routine. It seems a bit tainted now, now that Zayn’s done this. Louis realises he can’t sit here, can’t do this - not right now. Yet he has to.
“I, uh, found these.” He throws the boxers in Zayn’s direction carelessly. They land on the floor near Zayn’s feet. He bends down to pick them up, and a fleeting expression of recognition is on his face before he looks up at Louis, desperate and pleading.
“Louis, I swear it’s not what it looks like-“
Louis scoffs. He hates the cliche of the full situation - the business trip, the cheating. It’s all so cliche that he wants to vomit. This sort of thing belongs in shitty movies Louis’ mum cries over, not in his life.
Certainly not in his life with Zayn.
Zayn continues trying to defend himself, but Louis’ not listening. Yes, he hears Zayn talk, of course he does, but it’s no more a deep (albeit distraught) note sounding in the background, and Louis’ brain coming up with trivial facts to think about. Nonsense.
Zayn stops for breath and Louis takes the opportunity to grab his car keys and storms out the door, stuck somewhere between reason and madness. His thoughts are tinged with anger, blood red and razor sharp. For a moment, he thinks he hears Zayn call his name, voice breaking on the last syllable. He pushes it to the back of his mind and starts up the car.
Zayn continues to yell Louis’ name even after he’s gone, down the street, around the corner, away. He just wants Louis to listen, to understand.
It’s quite ironic, really. The boxers belong to Niall - who’s the straightest person Zayn’s ever encountered - and Zayn had kindly let Niall crash in his bed after a really bad night out. Zayn had slept on the couch, the wooden frame digging into his back and the blankets itchy.
If Louis had just listened, he would’ve understood. Probably even laughed at his overreaction. Tried to apologise, cut off by a kiss from Zayn which he’d return sweetly, hands clasping at the back of Zayn’s neck.
Zayn goes back inside the house and waits by the door. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Half an hour. No sign.
He goes out and looks for him, going to every place he can think of. The park, the library, friend’s houses. Nothing.
Three hours.
Four. Still nothing. He trots back home and tries not to think the worst.
He makes himself a cup of tea to try and calm down. He sits in the couch and starts watching Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?, half expecting Louis to collapse beside him and start shouting out the answers. But nothing.
It’s late, and Zayn’s drifting off until the sharp, deafening sound of an incoming call blares from his phone. It’s an unknown number, and Zayn takes a quick moment to pray that it’s Louis - calling him from a phone box or something.
He hears the word “Louis” alright, but it’s not him. The woman’s voice is cool, professional. She follows his name with words like “sorry”, “accident”, “car,” and “hospital”.
It takes Zayn to figure out what she’s said. When he does, his stomach twists violently and his breathing’s a little ragged. He hangs up, not bothering with a “goodbye” or “I’ll be there soon”, just grabbing his keys and driving, trying not to think of what happened to Louis when he was doing the exact same thing. Because he’ll be okay.
It’s Louis, he always is - in the end. He has to be.
