if the kids are united - zayn/liam, harry/louis - 1/8
Title: If The Kids Are United [1/8]
Pairing: Zayn/Liam, Harry/Louis
Disclaimer: This is very definitely a work of fiction. Title taken from the song by Sham 69.
Warnings: racial slurs, homophobia, violence, possibly obscure references you may need to google
Word count: 14, 373 [total]
Summary: This Is England-inspired/80s!AU in which Liam is the skinhead with a secret and Zayn, the psychobilly pretty boy, is the epitome of everything he’s not supposed to desire. A dangerous love story unfolding on the bleak Northern streets of Thatcher’s England, where friends are family, ready with their fists, and tea and cigarettes are the life blood.
A/N: I... this might be really self indulgent? I just needed the ‘verse to exist, I admit it. There is also an accompanying mix here, if you’re interested in that sort of thing. Some of the songs relate directly, others just set the mood [a few are more modern, too].
Zayn keeps his chin dipped in from the wind as he walks, intently watching the scuffed toes of his creepers over the monotony of the pavement rather than facing up to anyone’s unfriendly gaze. There’s usually somebody undesirable about of an evening- even if it’s just a middle-aged bastard with prison tattoos greying in his wrinkles and misinformed views on Zayn’s living conditions [no, he and twenty other family members do not share a one bed counsel flat]. Four or five fights in and Zayn’s learned that it’s better to simply sink into his leather jacket, collar plucked up over his jaw like a T-Bird, because scuffles don’t end so well when thirty-odd year olds inch machetes out of their bleach-splattered jeans.
Unavoidably, there’s always some fuckers at the opening of the underpass. At least two of them, if not double that. Teenage skinheads, but the rotten sort with sawdust for brains and a cutting repertoire of slurs. Tonight, he spots them before they see him- flicking cheap cigarette ash and laughing with all of their teeth on show; hands slapping to drawn up thighs. Something hilariously fascist having just tickled them, Zayn’s sure. There’s no other path to take though, not if he wants to make it to Harry and Lou’s place before his greasy bag of dinner goes cold. So, he fumbles to light up a fag, breathes deep and marches onwards.
“Paki scum!” They exclaim with utmost originality, all four in unison, “Oi! Elvis weren’t a fucking paki, lad!”
Zayn does nothing more than grind his teeth and note that he recognises each of them. The ring leader, Andy, who was in his class all through primary school; Gazza and Smith, his alarmingly ugly, acne-scarred sidekicks and Liam, the new kid. He’s a bit of an anomaly, since not many people willingly move to their grotty town, but Zayn’s made his judgements based on who Liam quickly fell in with. Harry, who Zayn fondly considers both odd and endearing, had cocked his head and mused that Liam had unexpectedly soft eyes considering his choice in companions- like a puppy in steel-toed boots and a crisp Ben Sherman. Zayn doesn’t risk a close enough look to verify Harry’s claims. He barely risks blinking out of fear that they’ll jump him in the split second that his eyes close. They don’t, but they do pinch their noses and waft away an imaginary stench.
“Fucking stinks of curry ‘round ere now, ruined me night!” Andy yells at Zayn’s back and Zayn has to tuck his fingers in tightly against his palm to keep from showing him a middle finger. He’d only end up with a black eye for his trouble and he’s had enough of those.
Harry and Louis’ shared flat is in a foreboding tower block- battle ship grey concrete piled up towards the smog of the evening sky. Rusted metal railings; uneven lace curtains hanging at grimy windows; stairways that stink of sour tramp’s piss- three of them Zayn has to trudge up to reach the right door. But it’s almost his home and Zayn forgives it it’s downfalls when Rita answers. She’s a grinning vision in layered tulle and crimped blonde hair- delighted that he’s finally arrived. And there’s Louis behind her, sides of his head freshly shaven, smiling so wide Zayn imagines his cheeks probably hurt.
“You got the chips, duck?” He asks hopefully- and then he and Rita usher Zayn inside, slinging their arms around him in hugs and thawing him out from the bitter English cold.
As always, there’s a pot of Tetley’s tea brewing and Harry’s buttering slices of bread in the kitchen when Zayn goes through, the curly haired boy dancing to a Soft Cell song on the radio and swinging his knife around in time to the electronic back beat. He’s wearing nothing but a hand painted Fuck Maggie t-shirt and socks. Zayn doesn’t question it because often, Harry wears nothing at all [despite the insistence that he’ll catch his death; Zayn pointing out the ominous damp patch creeping along the ceiling]. Their flat isn’t in very good shape at all- but who can afford anything inhabitable these days?
“Zayn!” Harry shouts, abandoning his buttering for a cuddle. “Your walk up ‘ere alright, eh? No cheeky cunts?” His green eyes are too bright with concern and he’s got gentle thumbs working against Zayn’s cheeks. Zayn assures him with a lie and fakes a perfect smile.
They all settle on the single sagging sofa to eat Zayn’s chip shop feast. Louis small enough to snuggle up in his boyfriend’s lap, fitting like a lock for a key, and Rita with her ankles folded neatly atop Zayn’s thighs. There is an extra arm chair, but they dragged it from a skip one day, discovered an infestation of wiggling white maggots beneath the cushioning and simply left it in the corner to fester. Besides, their preference for piling together makes it easier for them to share the cod and chips from the same paper and for Zayn to prod at the spots patterning Rita’s tights. They sup from mismatched mugs of steeped tea and moan a fair bit about the war, and the shocking rise in the price of cola cubes-
“It were fifteen pence for a bag last week, and now it’s twenty! Thievin’ twats!” Louis laments- waving around a half chewed chip for emphasis- and Harry soothes his long greasy fingers through Louis’ fringe, murmurs against the peach fuzz above his ear.
Then they snog, with Harry’s broad hands lovingly cupping Louis’ cheeks, and Rita and Zayn toss the last soggy scraps of fish batter at both of the boys. Zayn doesn’t mind at all though, not really. Harry and Louis have been in love since they were children [Louis little, Harry even littler], taking each other on dates to the swing park and the swimming baths on a Sunday and Zayn loves them for it. For the predictability of these evenings. Domestic, unassuming... Up until a mad banging rattles the front door from it’s hinges and a broad irish accent yells in through the slot of the letterbox-
“Oi! Open up, yer shower of cunts!”
“Niall!” Rita squeals and dashes from the couch to answer- the layers in her skirt bouncing as she goes. Rita’s always thrilled to see everyone and it’s quite charming.
When the two of them reappear, Naill’s got one arm slung around Rita and a footie tucked under the other, a smile as broad as her’s for good measure- “Match!” He declares, “Over on the wreck- don’t think we’ve got even teams but Aiden’s got a bottle of vodka, so?”
Nobody thinks to mention that it’s near pitch black outside [and they don’t comment on Niall’s attempt at Flock Of Seagulls hair, either]- they just leap into action, wriggling into various Fred Perry jackets and in Harry’s case, his Levis and oxbloods, too. Matches lead to parties which lead to waking up on someone else’s bathroom floor and knowing that your weekend has officially begun. All that Zayn lives for, especially now that adulthood’s snuck up on them without their consent. He helps out at his Dad’s shop of a weekday, Harry has his after-school job in the bakery and Louis spends his days on a factory floor. Zayn doesn’t like to dwell on that though- that they’ll be their parents in no time at all. Their depressed little patch of England is sad enough.
Outside, they play their game to the rhythm of their favourite ska bands. Bouncing on the soles of their boots, back and forth, racing through the foggy shadow with their sights set on the ball. It’s clumsy and yet glorious- with skidding tackles and sneaky fouls; parroted chants stolen from the terraces. Over and over again, Harry fails to take control of his overly long limbs and ends up caked in mud; Niall doubles over laughing instead of attempting saves and Rita scores even more goals than Louis [which is a first, and Harry has to placate his boyfriend with yet more kissing and a cheeky hand to the bum].
Rita and Perry, Zayn’s sweetheart of an ex, take to a victory dance and a bellowing of Come On Eileen loud enough to raise the neighbors. Or the police. They’re hushed only when Aiden’s litre of vodka is thrust towards them, then all of them- the girls, Zayn, Niall, Harry, Louis, Aiden- tumble down to sprawl over the slant of the damp hill. Swigging with sour faces, embracing and arguing over who was on whose team exactly. Cigarettes are passed around, bellies become cushions and the lot of them hush up to contemplate the murky sky. Zayn can’t decide if he prefers this impromptu get together in the crisp, clawing air or a cuppa in Harry and Lou’s love nest. They both fill his heart up to the fucking top.
“Eh, are there any parties or shit?” He asks eventually- not wanting the night to end, the easy freedom of it.
“Nick mentioned somethin’?” Harry pipes up- looking over to Zayn from where he’s attempting to roll a cigarette paper despite being able to see nothing at all, half of his tobacco lost to the folds of his jeans.
It’s quite a walk to Nick’s but walking is what they do. The streets they know like the lines of their palms are theirs, as though they possess each crack in the pavement, each spat wad of gum gone rubbery beneath the soles of their Doc Martens. They lot of them are a tribe, a knot of misfit togetherness and swinging arms as they curve around corners and take short-cuts over thigh-high fences. None of them have much, not the riches supposedly devoured by Thatcher’s generation, but on the right nights, the beloved clothes on their backs and their knocking wrists are pure gold.
[Zayn half remembers a quote from school- something with Oscar Wilde about gutters and stars- and even though the memory of it is fractured, he just knows it fits.]
next