Zayn
Zayn sits criss crossed on the cold winter concrete outside of the thick glass of Sector C’s council building. It was the one federal building in the district without a murderous guard poised outside.
The wind was absolutely killer. Zayn’s old leather jacket did nothing to protect from the chill. Even with the sun peaking out for the first time in the week, Zayn was still freezing his ass off, literally. He is pretty sure the concrete is freezing his behind solid.
Nonetheless, Zayn stays put. He has a mission in mind, unlike most people.
Zayn hunches over, his tongue peeking out of his lips in concentration. He grasps a thin black chalk in his frozen hand, attempting to get the lines and curves just right. It was quite hard, considering his fingers felt like frozen sausages.
After a few more strokes and a few switches in color, Zayn leans back to appreciate his art work:
IT’S NOT THE VOTING THAT’S DEMOCRACY. IT’S THE COUNTING.
Zayn nods his head approvingly, but frowns when a shadow falls over work. Zayn looks up.
“Uhh, you-I, uh, I don’t think you should be doing that.” the man above him stutters. Zayn opens his mouth to reply, but the man looks oddly familiar. He has short brown hair, brown eyes, and tan skin. The man seems awfully tall, especially in his grey suit, although that could just be because Zayn is sitting on the ground. Zayn narrows his eyes in thought. Although the man looked awfully generic, there was just something that stood out about the eyebrows.
Zayn snaps his fingers. It hurt.
“You’re Liam Payne, aren’t you?” Zayn’s eyebrows raise.
“Oh, why yes! Do you know me?” Liam seems pleasantly shocked. Zayn nods.
“I hate you.”
Liam’s face drops.
“Oh-okay,” Liam scrunches his forehead in thought. “Uh, why?”
Zayn points to his writing on the cement.
“Partly because of that, but it’s also personal. I’m an artist. You suit people ruled that artistry isn’t a real occupation. Thus I am here, forced to express my thoughts while freezing my ass off.”
Liam still seems confused.
“Did you not ask the government for a job assignment?” Liam asks.
“I’d rather be here than in one of those glorified sweatshops.” Zayn points up to the sky, where the skyscrapers of office buildings reflect the clouds in their glass walls and almost seem to blend in with the sky. “Logical, innit?”
Liam hums. “I suppose so?”
Zayn springs up from the ground. His legs are wobbly.
“THEN WHY DON’T YOU DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT?” Zayn jabs at Liam’s chest. It really hurts his finger.
Liam’s eyebrows raise in surprise, and he stumbles back a few steps. Zayn realizes he’s probably making a bad face for people like him, but what could he do?
“I’m sorry, man, but I’m just another politician trying to make his way up the ladder.”
Zayn is surprised at how genuinely sorry the man sounds.
“I-I just try to do what my superiors want. It’s the only way I can get more influence.” Liam admits. Zayn balls his fists.
“Listen, Mr. Politician Payno, we live in a ‘democracy’,”Zayn puts air quotes around the word. “Do you know what that means?”
“A government ruled by the people?” Liam responds meekly. Zayn couldn’t believe his ears. Liam sounded like a ten year old reciting a definition to his teacher.
“And do you know what that means?” Zayn leans in. Liam blushes.
“What?”
Zayn whispers to Liam’s ear. He can feel Liam shiver.
“It means your opinion GODDAMN COUNTS!” Zayn shouts the last part, startling Liam.
“Ouch.” Liam cups his ears.
“It means that you don’t need your superiors to get up the damn ladder. It means that you get up the ladder by voting for what’s popular with THE PEOPLE. We,” Zayn gestures to himself, “are supposed to have the power. But no, the power is all up in those high and mighty big pants-elbow rubbing autocrats!” Zayn takes in a lungfull of air. “You guys aren’t supposed to decide our fate for us. You guys are representatives so all of us don’t have to go become politicians just to get the basic rights we want.”
Liam seems impressed. He better be. His mouth is gaping open, searching for words to say. Partly because this conversation is about to get awkwardly silent and that Zayn is all about dramatic exits, Zayn sweepingly whips around and strolls away from the scene.
----------------
Harry wakes up with a smile. He turns over in his bed, hugging the sheets. Last night, once he had finished tucking Darcy in, Harry had gone back to his bedroom, only to find it empty of the mysterious Mr. Tomlinson. Now, it all seems like a dream to Harry. Perhaps it was a dream. Either that, or Mr. Tomlinson found his marbles and left.
“Mornin’ sleep’n beauty.”
“AAHHHHHH!”
“AAHHHHHH!”
Harry cocks straight up in bed. Sitting at the edge of his bed is Mr. Tomlinson, still in that big grey sweater and dark jeans he was in last night.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Harry’s arms wave wildly. He is suddenly aware that he is naked.
“Language!” Mr. Tomlinson scolds. Language, Harry scoffs. He can’t believe some psycho is teaching him about language.
“Wh-what-why,” Harry splutters, “why did you scream? I’m the goddamn one who’s waking up with a stranger in their bed!”
“On your bed.” Mr. Tomlinson corrects. “You scared me. I just wanted to say good morning.”
Harry wants to throttle the man in front of him. But then again, that wouldn’t be a good example for Darcy.
“Look, don’t worry. I haven’t been watching you all night.” Mr. Tomlinson assures.
“Where did you sleep?” Harry asks bewildered. If Mr. Tomlinson didn’t watch Harry, that could only mean he slept with Harry… in the innocent sense.
“I didn’t sleep.” Mr. Tomlinson says. True enough, Mr. Tomlinson had shadows of shadows beneath his eyes. Harry will let that slide. For now.
Harry rubs his eyes, flustered.
“Look, Mr. Tomlinson-”
“Louis.” Mr. Tomlinson, or Louis, whatever, corrects.
“-Louis, whatever. I know you’re upset over your home being taken away and all that-”
“Upset is a bit of an understatement.”
“-but that doesn’t mean you can barge into mine!” Harry finishes, crossing his arms.
Louis pouts, and well shit. It looks too much like Darcy’s.
“Please?”
“No.” Harry states firmly against his will.
“Please?”
“No!” Harry cries, then clasps his hands over his mouth. Darcy could still be asleep.
Louis seems to think along the same line, for he suddenly lowers his voice.
“I-please, Mr. Styles.” Louis pleads. Sometime in their madness, Louis had gotten closer. His shoes were almost on the bed. Harry could smell the faint scent of… honey on him. Louis looks up at him with big blue eyes. They still had that tricky elf-ish look to them, but nonetheless, they were big blue eyes. Harry gulps.
“Just for a while, Mr. Styles. I even know how to make a mean grilled cheese and tomato soup!”
Harry stiffened. “How do you know about that?”
Louis gave a wistful smile.
“Darcy wrote about it in class. It was a truly fine piece of writing, especially for an eight year old.”
Their eyes meet. For the first time, Harry sees Louis as a real human being and not some crazy anarchist.
“O-okay.” Harry gives in.