"You need me to get that shit together so we can get together..."

___

"Where's Royce?"

"You don't know?" Michael asks as Calum looks confusedly between his friends and hers.

"I hate to agree with him," Lola jerks a thumb in his direction, "but I thought you were always keeping tabs on Roycie."

"She texted me this morning," Kennedy shrugs. "She's here."

"Did she leave?"

"Call her, Cal," Kenn snorts. "Shit, man. You're acting like her dad."

If only they knew that he had a right to be worried. If only they knew she was possibly maybe ignoring him.

And, because they had no idea about Dina, Calum couldn't even explain to them why.

"She's skipping today or something?"

Lola nods, "Personal days are important."

"I mean, c'mon," Ashton laughs. "It's Royce. She's incapable of ditching, like, without us."

Calum wasn't so sure about that.

But, he nods anyway.

"Yeah...Right."

___

"Hiding out?"

"More like," Royce pauses as she lingers in the parking lot outside of St. Augustine's gates, "deciding if I'm even gonna go in."

Zayn laughs, nodding. "Same."

There are ten minutes until the first bell.

Ten minutes before AP Calc.

Gross.

She peers up at him, watching as he lights up a cigarette beside her.

He sucks hard, drawing the smoke into his lungs and slowly out of his mouth. The smoke curls around his face and if Royce smoked, she'd want to do it like Zayn, who seems to make everything look effortless and cool.

He's also got these really long eyelashes--

"You still not talking to Paige?"

Bad mood back.

"What are you, her shrink?"

He shoots her a sly grin. "More than less."

"Don't even wanna know what that means," Royce replies, and Zayn lets out that little laugh that she finds adorable. "And if you two're such good friends and/or fuck buddies, why don't I ever see you together?"

"Simple," Zayn shrugs, "it's 'cause I hate her friends."

"Makes two of us, man."

"They hate me, too."

"Still makes two of us."

He grins. "I know. S'why I like you."

And he clears his throat. "B'sides, we aren't fuck buddies, just so you know."

"Somehow, I don't believe it."

"You should," he states, and Royce is still unconvinced. Zayn shakes his head, "Anyway, it seems like I'm corrupting you or something...I'd have never thought I'd keep running into you in the places I've run into you."

She rolls her eyes. "You mean in detention? 'Cause that, again, also makes two of us."

"Hey," he nudges her gently, "we shared some pretty real moments in there."

"Just you, me and the paint."

And she shakes her head as he chuckles beside her. 

"Look, Zayn," she begins, "I can't do this today. My mental state can't actually take school, so I'm just gonna..." She swings her tote over her shoulder, motioning towards the parking lot. She'd been driving to school alone a lot more lately. "I'm just gonna go."

"Yeah?" Zayn motions in the direction of her car. "Where?"

"Anywhere else. Probably home. Y'know," she shrugs, "sick day."

He shakes his head in disapproval. "S'too early to go home just yet," and he lifts a single brow, "You eat?"

"No," she replies. "But waffles sound good."

"Don't they," he nods, stroking his beard. "Hey, you ever been to The Diner?"

"Of course," she replies. "But, I can't go there ever again."

"That's criminal."

"I kinda flipped a few shits outside the place yesterday, so..."

And both of Zayn's eyebrows raise.

"Yeah. Can't go there just yet."

"Holy shit, Royce," Zayn chuckles. "Sounds like you need a better association with the place."

"You sound like Calum."

"Hood?" Zayn lifts a brow, watching Royce nod. "S'your man, innit?"

"I..." She shrugs, "Maybe."

And Zayn laughs. "Maybe?"

She shoots him a glare. "Maybe."

"Hey, hey," he holds up his hands, "don't get mad at me, yeah?"

"I'm not," she sighs. "I'm just...My whole life is fucked up right now," she peers up at him, "So, I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted," he grins. And he squints up towards the grey sky. "Sounds like you need some catharsis."

"Catharsis cannot be achieved at this school, man."

He eyes her. "Who said anything about school?"

Royce almost laughs, but she doesn't. "Whatchu mean, boy?"

"How about it, eh? I'll help you cathart today."

"Cathart? Not a word."

"Doesn't matter what the fuck I say, we're not going to school," and he flicks his cigarette onto the sidewalk, snuffing it out with his toe. "C'mon," and he takes her hand and this feels to Royce a lot like the times she'd gone out with Calum, right when they first met. "Let's cathart today."

Royce giggles kind of excitedly. "How are you gonna help me cathart, Zayn?"

"S'what I do for pretty girls," he replies, tossing a wink over his shoulder. "You'll see."

And damn, Royce can't help but grin.

That grin falls immediately.

She's thinking about Calum again.

"Look," he begins, "it's the least I can do for my detention buddy," he grins, "right?"

"Right."

"Right," he calls, leading her to a--holy shit--a motorcycle. "Now, c'mon," he grins. "I hope you like bikes."

"I hope you like throw up."

"I hope--"

His mouth parts slowly as if he's just processing her words, and Zayn can't even help it.

He laughs.

__

Royce thinks that she's pretty much summing up her junior year with two words: bad boys.

That's all she seems to attract, lately. And what did that say about her? She was friends with boys who rode motorcycles and sold drugs and all types of other shit she would have never done as the "princess cheerleader straight-A Greene." But, this was her. That was who she was, apparently.

And she was trying to slowly come to terms with that.

"I should've known you'd take me to the artsy part of town."

Zayn laughs, cutting the engine on his bike. "Didn't know there was an artsy part of town if we're being honest."

"Oh, y'know," she shrugs, shaking out of her helmet. "It's for beatnicks and artists and hipsters. C'mon, Zayn. Nearly all of Seattle is exactly," and she motions to the abandoned buildings turned lofts, "this."

He rolls his eyes. "C'mon, you," he says, shutting their helmets in the trunk.

"Like, look at this," Royce continues, trailing behind him, "there's a farmer's market today, Zayn. And look, there's a dog park. And bike lanes. And wall art and grafitti--"

"Dude," he takes her hand, "chill," and he drags her into one of the converted buildings, inside, up the elevator, to the top floor, into an empty loft.

"This," Zayn says, "is where I cathart."

And in the giant, empty space are giant canvases propped against the walls and cans of paint littering the floor.

"This," Royce begins, her voice echoing through the space, "is so you, man."

"Thanks?" He chuckles. And he motions to her uniform, "and the first rule in catharting, Royce," he holds out his hand, "no cell phones."

"What?" She whines, slapping the iPhone into his hand. "That's my life in your hand right there."

"And I thought I was helping you get your life together, yeah?"

"Touché."

"Second rule," he tugs on her uniform, brushing past her, "you gotta take that off."

"What exactly is the that you're speaking of?"

"That, means your clothes, Royce," he laughs. "Your clothes."

"Um... What if I kept my clothes on?"

"Fine," he shrugs, unbuttoning his starch white shirt. He slips out of the sleeves and tosses it near the door, leaving him in a wife-beater. "Do what you want, but, you'll thank me later."

"Ugh..." Royce groans, lifting her fingers to her own uniform shirt. "I'm gonna be cold, though..."

Zayn lifts a brow, amused. "Need some help with that?"

"No," she retorts, turning her back as he laughs, "Thanks."

"Royce."

And she turns, her shirt barely unbuttoned, as suddenly something soft and cotton and white comes flying at her face.

She catches it against her.

"The paint stains," Zayn explains, as she holds up an oversized shirt.

It's a smock.

He's giving her a smock to wear.

"Oh."

"Yeah," he chuckles. And he turns his back to her, waving his hand. "Go 'head, then..."

And quickly, Royce shimmies out of her skirt and unbuttons her shirt and slips into the tee she'd been given before folding her clothes and slipping them into her school bag.

"Okay," and she rubs her arms, feeling cold in just this shirt. "I'm ready."

Zayn is staring at her like he wants to laugh, but he doesn't laugh.

"What?"

"Nothing," he shrugs, and Royce pretends not to be so fascinated by his tattoos. "You're just..."

"Just what, Zayn?"

"Nothing," he replies again, that half-smile still on his face. Royce wants to know what the hell he's finding so amusing at this point, but she doesn't even ask. She keeps her mouth shut and just watches him as he takes her hand and drags him towards a canvas and squats in front of her.

He takes her laces in his fingers and tucks them into her shoes.

Was that her new thing? Boys with tattoos who took her out? Boys who suggested skipping class?

Had to be.

"So you don't track paint anywhere," he explains, rising to a stand before her.

"Right," she nods, and he chokes. "Sure, Zayn. Sure."

He doesn't touch that.

"See the canvases?" He asks, and Royce rolls her eyes.

"Canvases? What?" She snorts. "Where?"

Zayn only pulls a face, deadpanning as he squints up at her.

"Anyway," he continues, dragging a paint bucket their way. He eyes her quickly, "Smartass."

She laughs.

"Well, we're gonna cathart all over 'em."

Royce nods.

"So, just..." Zayn dips his hands into some blue paint.

"Just...?"

And he presses a hand to the front of her giant white shirt. "Just," he grins, "go. Y'know?"

He smirks, tongue pressed to the back of his teeth. "Like that."

"C'mon, Zayn," she groans, "I'm already cold in here so--"

"So," he slides her a paint bucket. And he motions towards the canvases. "Less talking. More catharting."

Royce dips her hands into some red paint.

And she lifts her dripping fingers from the bucket and carries them across the floor.

And she presses her hands against the canvas.

Zayn follows, smearing blue across her handprints.

"Hey!" She exclaims, pouting at the purple smudge. "I wanted to make a handprint mural here, man!"

"Do it, then," Zayn shrugs.

"Uh," she points to the smear. "Don't fuck it up next time."

"Royce," Zayn laughs, "its art," and he sticks his hand into the purple, pressing it onto the clean canvas. His handprint is half blue, half purple, and Royce has to admit, it looks pretty cool.

He smirks at her expression. "Be creative. Let all the shit that's been bothering you come out in your art."

"Spoken like a true artist."

Zayn chuckles. "S'why I keep tagging the school."

And they paint for a few hours, laughing together and mixing colors and running about the giant lofty space. 

And it's fun. 

And Royce is grateful. 

This sure beat AP Calc.

And at the thought of that class, her mind skips to her friends who have to be blowing up her line right now.

(They are).

Her mind skips to Calum, who she wonders if he could possibly be feeling the uneasy feeling at the thought of her like she is at the thought of him.

"Royce?"

She looks up at once. "Huh?"

Zayn laughs. "You've spaced."

"Yeah," she shakes her head. "Sorry."

And she blinks. "Wait, are you coming to dinner?"

"Dinner?"

"Yeah. Are you coming?"

Zayn laughs. "I literally don't know what that means, Royce."

"It's...I figured Paige had told you about it," and she shakes her head, watching as Zayn's eyebrows pull.

"She didn't tell me shit."

 "My mom's trying to meet Calum," she says quickly, "and she's putting on a dinner for it, so..."

"Ah," Zayn grins. "S'that kind of dinner."

She nods. 

"Doesn't sound like a lot of fun, Royce."

"I know," Royce pauses, "But, you should come. For me, at least. Be my special guest. Y'know, the plus-one I turn to when everything goes to shit," she pauses, "because it will go to shit."

"Isn't that what Hood's there for?"

"You might have to be my mediator, too."

"Kinda like a Dr. Phil type, yeah?"

Royce laughs aloud. "If you think you can do it."

"Anything for my new best friend."

She grins at this. "Thanks, Zayn."

He shrugs. "Don't mention it," and he takes a final look around, "C'mon, then. Let's get cleaned up and get out of here."

And they do.

And Royce follows behind Zayn, who, she's got to admit, has helped her stay laughing and light this whole day.

She's got to admit, she needed this.

On the bike, he slips her cell back into her hand.

"Catharting was helpful, yeah?"

And Royce nods, because she hadn't thought about any of the shit weighing her down all day thanks to him.

She doesn't look at her phone, yet. Not at the missed messages. Not at any of it.

She can't.

Instead, she wraps her arms around Zayn's waist.

She nods.

"Yeah."

___

new best friends or...?

lolz i heart catharting.

my fave man calum is in the next chapter don't worry fam.

p.s. NEW STORY ALERT and ya girl is thiiiiiiis close to publishing the first chapter early. 

get it together || drake ft. black coffee