England's Dreaming

The minute he stepped up to the old shabby house, Zayn regretted not heeding Jez's warning. He should've left well enough alone. The minute he knocked on the door and no one answered, he should have just walked away. Hell, he should have run away. Run all the way back to London and forget he ever went looking for Callum Farmer in the first place.

Callum was a victim of economics and sordid politicians. He never stood a chance and instead of working twice as hard in life to overcome his circumstances, he just chose to live with what he was given. Zayn shouldn't have expected anything more from his old friend. He was born and bred in a council house, and with the way he was living, he was doomed to die in one too.

Zayn should have walked away, but he was never one to do what he should do. He was always going to do what he wanted to do, no matter what anyone told him. If that meant sneaking into the back garden of a rundown council house in an area of town where being Pakistani was as good as being a fox on a hunting ground simply because someone told him not to go around there, so be it.

Suddenly, he felt a firm grip on his shoulders and his body was slammed into the brick siding of the house. A sharp groan of pain passed his lips upon collision. Faster than he could react, his attacker had his wrists in a vice-like grip crossed behind his back. His heart began to race and he could feel it beating rapidly in his chest as he tried to free himself. The more he struggled, the tighter the hold on his wrists became and his body was pushed further against the brick wall, the rough surface scratching his face. The panic built in him, reducing his breathing to shallow, desperate gasps to get enough oxygen into his lungs. He wanted to scream out, but his voice was temporarily lost. He closed his eyes and the only thought in his mind was that he should've listened to Jez.

Jezza Smith was an obnoxious arse, a royal twat, and a right wanker if Zayn ever met one, but he caused enough trouble to sense it coming a mile away. That was the one thing they always had in common. All Zayn could hope for in that moment was for Jez to remember how well his old friend listened to him and come to the rescue like he usually did, but Zayn wasn't counting on it after their last meeting. He wasn't counting on the slightest bit of mercy from his attacker either.

He felt a hot breath on his ear followed by a whisper. "Give me one reason not to throw you to the lions."

Zayn stopped squirming as all his fear and anxiety dissipated. His body relaxed against the abrasive brick wall and he could feel his breathing start to steady. He knew that voice; he had it memorised. It had permanently burrowed itself into his brain, burying the sound of every word it ever spoke with it so there would never be an inaccurate imagined conversation and he could never mistake it for belonging to someone else.

"Callum," Zayn breathed out in a sigh of relief.

He felt his wrists freed from the tight grasp and the weight pressing his body into the wall lifted from off his back. The presence behind him moved away and Zayn slowly pushed himself back from the side of the house with shaky arms as his breathing returned to normal.

"Couldn't listen to Jez, could you?"

Hearing that voice again after so long felt slightly surreal to Zayn, like hearing a recently passed loved one on a recording. It just didn't feel real and he thought for a moment that maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was his mind playing tricks on him. He had imagined hearing it again enough times that in his fear-induced panic he was hallucinating the whole thing.

The sound of the voice again snapped Zayn from his haze. "Fuckin' typical."

Zayn turned around, sharp comment ready on his tongue, but he swallowed it once his eyes fell over the boy. He took in the dishevelled and neglected appearance of the young man in front of him. The person standing before him looked nothing like what Zayn had remembered. He had cut his dark hair short since they last saw each other and it was sticking up all over the place, clearly haven't had been tamed by a brush in quite a while. His jeans were littered with holes and tears that would inevitably grow into more rips in the black denim. Zayn was sure they weren't clean either, judging by a series of stains splattered in various spots.

His skin looked sickly pale, exposed by the lack of a shirt underneath his tattered, unbuttoned jacket. Zayn could almost count the bones protruding from underneath the thin boy's skin and wondered when was the last time his friend had a decent meal. He couldn't say it surprised him in the least though. Callum always had been nothing more than a fragile skeleton wrapped in pallid flesh susceptible to bruising and covered in scars.

"What you starin' at?" Callum asked, noticing Zayn's lingering gaze.

His amber eyes snapped to the unkempt boy's face and Zayn couldn't help but notice the dark bags underneath his tired eyes that indicated a lack of sleep. Everything about Callum seemed to be a mess from the inside out.

"You look rough," Zayn choked out, his voice sounding weaker than he intended.

Callum's grey eyes were on him in an instant, running over his entire body from head to toe with a faint look of disgust evident in the cold glare sent his way.

"Rather be lookin' rough than like an Arab Ken doll," he spat. "They dress you real nice and posh these days, huh?"

He rolled his eyes with a scoff and turned his gaze away from Zayn. He reached his hand into his jacket pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and removing one from the box before shoving it back from whence it came.

"Must be nice to have a wardrobe more expensive than some people's houses."

He said it softly enough that Zayn knew the moment it reached his ears that he was never meant to hear it, but he did. He heard everything Callum was saying loud and clear. He heard every hidden meaning in the sharp remarks coming from his old friends. They were saying they didn't recognise him anymore, and based on the way that they were acting, he didn't recognise them either.

He tried his best to shrug off Callum's callousness, but there were no words to be found in Zayn's mind. It was as if the English language had been erased from his brain and all he could do was watch the boy in the beaten up bomber jacket bring the white stick to his chapped lips, holding it there as he pulled a cheap disposable lighter from his other pocket. Zayn took note of the dirt collected under Callum's fingernails as he brought the lighter to the end of his cigarette and tried to ignite it, but it failed to produce a flame.

The pop star cleared his throat. "I-I heard your father passed away."

Callum's gaze immediately shot back to Zayn, his brow knitted in confusion. "Heard —" He removed the cigarette from between his lips. "Heard my father passed away?" he repeated in disbelief. "Who are you?"

His cold hard glare froze Zayn where he stood. There was a clear and present danger in Callum's eyes that made his blood run cold and his heart race. He suddenly became aware of his surroundings and what he had gotten himself into by looking for his childhood friend after losing touch for so long. Callum was right: he had walked right into the lion's den with no protection and the only hope he had for not being eaten alive rested solely on how generous the lion felt like being at the moment.

And Zayn knew that lions were never very generous animals.

Callum scoffed. "They've even got you talkin' like a fuckin' rah. Fuckin' hilarious." He tried sparking the lighter again with no success. "I'd ask if you came to piss on his grave, but you're probably so proper you wee sittin' down now."

He tried not to let the lanky boy's words do any damage, but Callum always knew how to cut right through him like a knife if he wanted. He could break anyone with one well-timed insult and his indifference towards the destruction he caused would be enough to keep them broken for a very long time.

All Zayn could do was watch in silence as Callum became increasingly frustrated with each failed attempt to get the lighter to work. His grip around the piece of plastic tightened until the veins in the back of his hand were clearly visible.

His angry scream broke the silence. "Oh, come on!"

He whipped the lighter across the back garden with such force that it hit the fence with a loud thud and ricocheted off into the uncut grass somewhere, causing Zayn to flinch. He swallowed hard while he tried to remain calm and unaffected, but he was feeling more uncomfortable than he did running into the boys at the shopping centre. The tension was becoming unbearable for Zayn and he wondered how he had come to be nothing more than a stranger to the people he always thought he was closest to in life.

Mustering up all his courage, he cautiously approached Callum and removed his own lighter from his pocket. "Here."

The closer Zayn got to him, the more apprehensive Callum appeared, but he made no move to back away. He brought the cigarette to his lips, hands slightly shaking as Zayn sparked the lighter and carefully lit the end for Callum, watching it burn for a second before he pulled away. There was a reason Callum always called him brave Asian boy. He wasn't going to be intimidated by anyone, especially not by the people who told always him not to be afraid. Besides, he knew that if Callum wanted to hurt him, he certainly would have by now.

Zayn was expecting a thank you, or a silent nod at the very least, but Callum just took a long drag and nonchalantly leant forward to blow the smoke right into Zayn's face.

"For fuck's sake, Call," he managed through his coughs.

A smug look of satisfaction washed over Callum's weary and peaked face. He had always been more trouble than he was worth to Zayn, but somehow that never deterred the foolish boy.

"Listen, where'd you even know how to find me?" Callum asked. "Jack rat me out again?"

Zayn shook his head. "I haven't even seen Jack yet."

His eyes narrowed as he tried to decide whether or not that was a lie. "Yeah, well, keep it that way, alright?" he snarled. "They were my friends first and you ain't got no right talkin' to nobody now, you got me?" He pointed at Zayn, his cigarette perched between his index and middle finger. "Don't talk to Sim, don't talk to Nev, don't even think 'bout talkin' to Jez and if you go round Jack's gaff, I'll fuckin' smash your face in."

He brought the cigarette back to his mouth as his gaze locked on the pair of bright eyes watching his every move. He sucked in his breath. He didn't blink once as he exhaled the smoke through his nose.

"Just piss off, yeah?" he said slowly and softly. "No one wants you here anymore."

He turned his back on Zayn and headed towards the house. Before he could take two steps, he felt a strong grip on his arm, yanking him back.

"Why you being such a twat, man?" Zayn all but shouted.

Callum whipped around, startling Zayn and causing him to nearly stumble backwards. Anger was etched all over his normally apathetic face. "Me?" He gestured to himself. "I'm the twat?" A mix of a scoff and a laugh slipped passed his lips. "You're fuckin' hilarious. You really are."

Zayn couldn't understand what his problem was and finally snapped. "What? Are you mad at me or something?"

He wished he had never asked that the second Callum's expression went blank again and he looked at Zayn with a hatred and disdain in his eyes that the Asian boy had only seen from one other person in his lifetime.

"I don't fuckin' care 'bout you," Callum said with such conviction it stung. "Get over yourself. Just 'cause you're a pop star don't mean you're special and I give a right shit. Just get the fuck outta here. Last time I checked, no one invited you round and you certainly ain't gonna be welcomed if anybody finds you here."

The tension between the two of them increased tenfold as they stared each other down, both refusing to give in. There wasn't the slightest bit of emotion to be found on the pale boy's face. Zayn desperately searched him over for any hint of regret or indication in his body language that said he didn't mean it, but he came up empty. There was nothing; he was as cold as a poorly carved marble statue.

There was a flash of fear in Callum's eyes when they heard a car door slam nearby. He quickly ran to the gate, grabbing the top of the fence to lift himself up to see over.

"Shit," he cursed under his breath. He lowered himself back down to the ground. "Shit fuckin' cock."

Zayn watched him nervously puff his cigarette as he paced in circles for a moment before grabbing the gate to pull it back just enough to peer out. He slammed it shut almost straightaway. With his back resting against the gate, his eyes fell upon the international pop star casually standing in his back garden like he wasn't out of place.

"This is your one free pass, Malik," he warned. "Come round again and I won't be lettin' you walk outta here in the same condition you came in. Got it?"

He allowed no time for Zayn to respond before he lurched forward, capturing the famous singer by the front of his jacket and nearly tossing him into the fence. Callum frantically threw the gate open, poking his head out first to make sure the coast was clear before he motioned to Zayn to hurry through.

"Call, wait," Zayn said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded up piece of paper he had scrawled something on. "Here's my new number."

"Oh, Jesus fuckin' Christ."

Zayn thrust the slip of paper into Callum's jacket pocket before he could protest. "Just ring me sometime. You know, if you want, that is."

Callum simply rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure I'll be doin' that." He roughly shoved Zayn forward through the gate. "Just go."

They heard the backdoor of the house open and worry washed over Callum like a gigantic wave threatening to drown him.

"Go," he said sternly. "Before you get yourself killed."

"Callum —"

"Get outta here!"

Zayn didn't even pretend like he understood Callum's sudden irrational behaviour, but he knew better than to stick around in this neighbourhood and find out what, or who, had him so anxious. The next person to shove Zayn against a brick wall surely wasn't going to stop there.

Without another word, he took off away from the house as fast as he could without running and Callum hurriedly closed the gate behind him just as a burly man with a shaved head and tattoos covering his hands appeared in the back garden.

"Who you screamin' at?" he asked.

"No one," Callum lied. He tossed his cigarette to the ground. "Mind your fuckin' business, alright?"

He brushed past the man and into the house, slamming the door behind him. Once inside, he rested his weight against the nearest wall and exhaled. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, feeling the scrap of paper Zayn had slipped in his jacket before he escaped. He pulled it out, unfolding it and staring at the eleven digits written down on it in black ink. Without so much as a second thought, he ripped up the number and tossed it in the rubbish bin.

Callum had been doing just fine without Zayn Malik in his life for the last two years and he planned to keep it that way.