Archive of Our Own

There was something about the inhaling of smoke that gave his heart that kind of rush that comes with things like love, fear, arousal, anticipation.

He blames it all on Danny, really.  They’d known each other since Reception and it wasn’t until he was fifteen, completely out of place in this world because he wasn’t like the other kids with their blue eyes, brown hair or freckles.  He was tan, eyes that were something like brown, no, gold-speckled in the light.  He was high-top trainers and varsity jackets while the other kids were blazers or pressed chinos with their collars neat or flipped because that’s what the cool kids did.  He was comic books, reading novels for days just because; it was his little escape from everything else.  His accent was a little different, a bit foreign to them and, honestly, most of them were assholes for making him feel less than normal.

Danny never did.  No, Danny made him feel like he was just like one of them.  And that first drag of a cigarette, Danny’s lips quirked up with a grin as he choked, beating on his chest with his eyes watering, took away most of the pain of being indifferent.  That second pull, holding the smoke in until it drug a fire against his lungs, kept him on a high that left his head a little dizzy.  By the second pack, somewhere around the holidays, sitting on Danny’s back porch with his little brother Anthony running around in the snow, he knew this is what he’d always be: anything but what everyone else around him was.

He was a wreck in the best kind of way and, by the time he could afford to buy his own pack from that old, worn-down corner store, slipping his sister Doniya some of his lunch money to buy them for him most days, he didn’t give a shit that people still looked at him like he was a lesser person for his skin color, his beliefs, the way he talked, the way he blasted hip hop and urban music rather than Robbie Williams in his headphones.

He made his own rules because the other rules were frankly daft.

And some days when he was in the bathroom, window cracked because he didn’t want his mum to know he smoked, his eyes would sting with tiny little tears that he had become accustom to not releasing.  He’d chew slowly on his bottom lip until it was completely raw with fingers dangling a fag from them, arm hung out the window, ashes dropping outside into the cool air as he stared into the mirror.  He sorted that part of him still wishes he was like one of them so he wouldn’t have to make up everything as he went along.

It’s the only reason why now, at twenty, breathing in that smoke was still the kind of rush he needs to laugh everything off like it doesn’t trouble him at all.

But this smoke, this smoke burns more than just his lungs.  It’s suffocating, nothing like the drag from the filter of a cigarette or from the tip of a blunt, something that Perrie and Cher had introduced him to a little over a year ago at some silly Uni party he went to because there wasn’t anything else to do in this stupid town.

No, this smoke was hostile.  It left his eyes stinging, lungs gagging for air, fingers trembling.  He’s thumping his fist at his chest, trying to breathe but it’s getting more difficult as the seconds past.  His vision is hazy, desperate to see anything but bright oranges and sparks of yellow.  He’s scrambling backwards but he’s in a corner and there’s no room left to move.  And, fuck, it’s hot.  He’s sweating through his t-shirt, that one he stole from Anthony a few years ago with the picture of Bob Marley on it.

The smoke is everywhere; he’s choking on it.  Everything is becoming hazy, the lines blurring together and this isn’t any kind of high he’s had before, he’s certain.  He can see the flames, the way they dance in the background, threatening to move closer but they feel so far away.  But they’re in more than one corner of the room, his fingers balling into fists because the smoke is dragging that fear up rather than anticipation he knows he’d have from inhaling smoke from a cigarette.  He wipes at his mouth, pulls sweat from his forehead along his palm.  He’s panicked, not that he could do anything but feel that emotion tangle its cold fingers around his lungs, but he knows it’s not doing anything to help him resolve a way out of this.

His younger sister, Waliyha, not Safaa, always warned him he’d die from smoking if he didn’t quit.

He didn’t anticipate dying from this kind of smoke.

It’s crippling, the way his heart pulsed too quickly, the way the tears streamed over his cheeks, never lingering long enough because the heat was evaporating them before they made it halfway to his lips.  And his bare feet move along that shitty floor, the one that still had beer cans crushed on it, dirty plates, that stupid shag throw rug he’d sat on for hours watching the telly with a fag dangling from his lips.

He laughs to himself because, yeah, he’s not terribly upset this stupid flat is on fire.  He hates this place.  He just didn’t imagine dying in it.

His breath hitches, black spots forming in front of his eyes, and he closes them for a second just to think.  He whispers a prayer his mum taught him when he was old enough to cup his hands in front of his face and utter the words in Urdu without struggling halfway through.  His tongue is dry, lips numb, but he still manages to repeat the prayer over and over until it’s the only language he knows.

He shakes when fingers grip his shirt, haul him forward.  His hands are scrambling, panic truly gripping him as he looks on the thick tan material, the reflective strips, the bright canary helmet as he fights to break away.  A gloved hand grips his chin, holds him still until he can barely peer through that reflective visor.  He finds a pair of solid brown eyes, can’t really make out anything except the way they seem comforting, asking for trust he doesn’t know if he can afford to give.

“You’re going to be okay,” he thinks he hears, but he can’t really hear anything except the crackling fire, the pounding of his heart in his ears, the rush of blood creating adrenaline that makes him a little nauseous.

His eyes are heavy, mouth dry, but he nods because there’s nothing else he can do other than cough harshly.  He’s being pulled up, being gentled into a pair of arms and his body is limp when he’s scooped up into a pair of strong arms.  There’s a little waver when the other man tries to find his balance, cradling him tighter and he doesn’t know how he manages to think this doesn’t seem right.  Shouldn’t he be thrown over someone’s shoulder, hauled out like a sack of vegetables?

No, he’s being carried, head rested on a shoulder, lids drooping, chest heaving.  He’s cradled into someone’s arms, a fucking guardian angel who’s holding him tightly as they rush through the building, down stairs that haven’t yet burned away.  His fingers try to pull at that uniform, still too weak to and that damn material of the turnout coat won’t let him get a proper grip anyway.

He barely comes to when he’s lowered onto a stretcher, noise, too much noise around him making it impossible for him to find his bearings.  There’s people asking him a million questions, shouting at him, oxygen mask thrown over his face before he can answer any of them and he’s blindly reaching out for help because those damn black spots are still flickering over his eyes and the cool air outside won’t settle his too hot skin.  He’s choking, begging, but strong hands keep pushing him back down onto the gurney, not enough strength left in him to fight everyone off.

He can hear it, barely over all the questions: “Payne!  You’ve gone completely mental, mate.  You can’t carry a victim out like that.”

And then, “Woo!  Payne does it again.  He saved another one.”

“You know Dani in dispatch is going to have his head when she finds out he went in by himself.”

“Fuck it.  Payne saved that guy.  First round when we finish this tour is on me lads.”

“Chief is going to roast him alive before he even gets to sip his first pint.”

He’s shivering by the time they haul him into the ambulance, hair matted to his forehead before he hears, “Payne, where are you going?”

The back of the ambulance rocks a little, his fingers barely finding a grip on the side rails, still reaching for some sort of comfort.

Hands cup around his flailing hand, hold it loosely until he calms just enough to focus, not that he can really see anything but spots and sparks of light.

“Is he going to be okay?”

“Not sure, but thank God you got him out of there.  Quite daft of you to run into that building, though.  You’re a hero,” he hears one of the paramedics say, the one that’s strapping him down and being just a little too rough with her hands on his arm as she tries to administer some meds that he really doesn’t care to have right fucking now.  And he wants to tell her to fuck off but he’s still unable to do anything other than gasp for air.

“Just doing my job,” he hears the reply, clings to that sweet tone because it sounds so much like what he thinks he heard inside of that stupid flat that’s probably all dark ash now.

He blacks out after that, fingers still held in a pair of warm hands that feel so much cooler than they’re supposed to.

When he wakes, the black spots are replaced by way too bright white ones, but after he blinks a few times, he realizes it’s because of those stupid fluorescent lights in the damn hospital room.  He drags fingers roughly through his hair, chokes on his first few deep breaths, and it takes his eyes more than a moment to adjust to the lights, the way his head still sort of spins but no longer in that nauseating way.

He’s a bit cold, pulling at the scratchy, rough blanket the hospital provides that’s always way too short; either your toes are cold or your chest is freezing.  He settles for the chest part because the hospital gown provides just enough warmth that he’s not completely uncomfortable.  He’s not satisfied, but it’ll do.

He glances around, scratching idly at his neck, thinks about how much he hates hospitals and his vow never to return to one after being daft and immature at sixteen, fracturing a few of his fingers after slamming his fist into a wall when his ex-girlfriend accused him of cheating.  Silly, yes, but the throbbing ache did take away some of his anger back then.  And then there was that last time he was at a hospital, the dull ache of that moment still catching him in his sleep sometimes but he’s done a fairly proper job of pushing all of those memories so far down, it’d take him more than just a beat or two to fish them back up.

He’s rather woozy when the first nurse comes in, checking all of his vitals and being uncommonly kind with the way she handles him.  She’s quite talkative, going on about nothing he truly pays attention to but the crinkle around her eyes when she laughs, the way her hair is graying through the blonde, swept up into a messy bun with wrinkled but delicate hands, makes him feel entirely at ease in a way he can’t truly describe.  She does say a few things he recognizes – the fire, the way the building practically collapsed on itself ten minutes after he was rescued, the fact that he’s been passed out for nearly eleven hours – it all tries to settle into his stomach and he almost wants to throw up remembering the way that smoke swallowed him whole, threatening to take away all that he’d managed not to care about.

When the doctor comes, another nurse following who’s young and a bit upbeat with full cheeks, reddish hair, smattering of lip gloss, and red trainers squeaking against the faded tiled floors, he thinks she’s the type of girl he’d flirt with and probably end up having a one-off with, pretending to want her number the next day only to delete it the second he snuck out of her flat.  He reads her nametag while the doctor goes over a few things: Jesy.  He laughs to himself, crooked grin when she gazes over the tattoos scattered on his forearm while checking his pulse.

“Did you get all of that Mr. Malik?”

“Zayn,” he replies briskly, snapping his head in the doctor’s direction.  He bares down on his bottom lip, gnawing at it as the doctor nods slowly.  “I’m not Malik.  Just Zayn.”

“Right, well, we were almost uncertain of who you were when you arrived.  You had no ID on you.  Fortunately, your past medical records were still available and – “

“Right, of course they were,” Zayn cuts in, sighs lowly with his head dropping.  “How long do I have to stay?”

The doctor gives him an amused expression, pulling his clipboard to his chest.  “Just awhile longer.  Overnight.  We just want to make sure your body is completely all right.  No respiratory issues, no internal injuries and the like.  You inhaled quite a bit of smoke in that building.”

I’ve inhaled quite a bit of smoke my whole life, he thinks but he doesn’t say it.  He merely nods slowly, pretending to think over what the doctor is telling him.  He shoots Jesy a look, a quick wink that she blushes at before swinging her hips as she walks away.  Yeah, he would’ve definitely had her on her knees, gloss smeared over her mouth and lips shiny because of his precome and nothing else.

He sighs when they exit the room, tries to fluff up the pillows behind his head but they’re just lumpy and they make him long for those pillows on the settee he’d crawl onto when he was a kid.  He hasn’t felt those velvety cushions in so long, the way his head would just sink into the fabric while Doniya stroked his hair and made fun of his cheeks whenever he smiled.  He shuts his eyes tightly, tries not to think about silly things like that, sighing out a shaky breath because it was all too overwhelming in the worst possible way.

**

It’s quite late when he shiver awake.  He can tell because the room is covered in shadows, the thin hospital curtains over the small window still pulled apart to give him a perfect view of the dark skies outside.  The sky is a rich purple and he can’t see a trace of the stars or the moon, but it’s clear that it’s far later than when he was first awake.

The room spins for a minute, his breathing a bit labored.  He coughs on an inhale and, fuck, he doesn’t know why he wants a cigarette so damn bad but he does.  The telly is on, buzzing lowly, and he wonders if maybe one of the nurses had clicked it on.  There’s a thin layer of sweat sticking to his skin and that makes it even colder in this stupid hospital room.  He’s not quite sure why hospitals always had to be so cold?  He’s chewing on the inside of his mouth as he struggles to get comfortable under that inconvenient and incredibly itchy blanket.

He blinks a few times, the only light in the room coming from the telly and some flickering overhead light right over his bed.  His eyes adjust and he looks around, breath seizing for a moment when he finds someone sitting in the small chair next to his bed, blinking at him with a soft smile that spreads a little when Zayn focuses on it.

Later on, Zayn is certain he will blame the exhaustion or maybe the drugs one of the nurses gave him as the reason he finds this boy all sorts of attractive, but right now he’s nearly certain it’s the way his smile tips at Zayn or the way his brow lifts that makes everything in Zayn’s head spin anti-clockwise with his stomach dropping.

He’s got soft features, a nice contrast to Zayn’s sharper ones.  His eyes are an unsettling and kind brown, like the color of coffee or espresso.  His eyebrows are thick, not in the least bit standoffish in the way they frame those inviting eyes.  There’s a light run of stubble along his jawline, over his big chin and his hair is buzzed, military-like but with just enough length that Zayn could probably feel the soft texture beneath the prickles.  That smile, full bottom lip that’s pink, almost ruddy, bares white teeth and pushes his cheeks up ever so slightly, easing all of his features.  His cheeks are soft-looking, almost like crushed velvet, his nose downright adorable and that freaks Zayn out because he doesn’t find anything adorable.  And this kid has muscles, he can tell by the way his shoulders stretch out that tight navy blue jumper.

Zayn licks his lips, unintentionally of course because it’s what he always does but he bites softly on his bottom lip before speaking, clearing his throat to make sure he still has some control over himself.

“What are you doing here?”

There’s a small laugh, short and direct as the boy leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees as he holds that look on his face that makes Zayn’s scowl fold a little.

“I came to check on you,” is the reply he gets, that voice almost as kind as those damn eyes Zayn keeps studying.

“Because?”

Another laugh and Zayn’s trying damn hard not to smile but there’s an ease falling over him when the boy shyly picks at the ends of Zayn’s blanket, eyes finally dropping away as blush settles on his cheeks.

“I don’t know.  I was concerned, I guess.  The whole fire thing and when I pulled you out, you seemed a bit shaken up.”

Zayn nods slowly, tries to get his brain to function and concentrate on anything other than this silly boy in front of him.  It’s like a clap of thunder when the boy tilts his chin up, eyes lifted and Zayn’s go a bit wide, unfocused.  He inhales quickly, settles his vision on those eyes because, yeah, when he squints hard enough he can see it.  Those eyes, behind a visor, promising Zayn he’d be okay.

“You saved me,” Zayn says slowly, his voice a bit meek.

There’s a nod, stretched out grin before fingers trace farther up the blanket, nervously settle on Zayn’s thigh with a pat.

“My name’s Liam by the way,” he says, Zayn slowly mouthing the name until it rocks gently against his tongue.

“Liam,” Zayn repeats, his voice dry now.

Liam nods, still grinning.  “The doctors around here know me because I’ve volunteered here a few times when I’m off from the station.  Had to ask around a little, but everyone was kind enough to help me find you.”

Zayn swallows, wishes that hand would slip off of his thigh because it’s burning through the fabric of that itchy blanket, unnerving him in an unusual way.  Fuck, he needs a cigarette.

“You’re a bit young to be a firefighter, yeah?” Zayn asks, dragging his fingers through his hair.  He sorts of wishes he didn’t look so wrecked right now, not that he needed to impress this incredibly fit bloke, but part of him sort of did.

There’s another laugh, a shyer one as Liam eases back into the chair, hand slipping away and, yeah, Zayn sort of wishes it didn’t now.

“It’s all I’ve ever known, honestly.  Dad’s a firefighter, well, was but now he’s a chief.  My granddad before him.  Sort of a family tradition,” Liam explains, his voice the right side of deep that Zayn clings to.  When he stretches in the chair, Zayn spots the birthmark right along his throat, wonders for a brief moment if that patch of skin is as tasty as it looks.  He cringes, head shaking – completely daft and inappropriate.

“Still, aren’t you still a little – “

“Yeah, I am,” Liam confirms, face going serious for a moment, “But I can handle it just like the guys ten years older than me.  I was brought up that way.  My dad always knew this is what I was going to be.  So I trained, skipped out on finishing University and volunteered until I made it through the ranks to whole-time.”

Zayn nods slowly, eyes narrowing.  There’s a determined look on Liam’s face, his brow wrinkling and Zayn sighs, slips into a smile because he can admit he misses the one that once occupied Liam’s face.

“Do you always visit the people you rescue?” Zayn finally asks, teeth tugging at his bottom lip.  He lets his eyes stray, focuses on the telly for some stupid singing competition where the host is almost never funny and the acts are quite boing.  Still, it’s easier than looking into those eyes that Zayn knows will haunt him later on in the most exquisite way.

Liam grins, rocking forward in his chair.  “Sometimes,” he says, blush heating his cheeks again.  “You seemed nice enough that I wanted to be sure you were all right.”

“Really?” Zayn wonders, snorting but refusing to look at Liam again.  “Judging by my looks, you’d think otherwise, huh?”

“I’m not the kind of guy who gets hung up on looks,” Liam retorts, Zayn’s eyes straying just in time to see Liam nibble on his bottom lip.  “I’m not the judging kind, either.”

Zayn raises his brow, slouches onto the bed.  He inhales deep and, fuck, that still stings a little but he thinks part of that is the way his breathing hasn’t been regular since he laid eyes on Liam.  It hurts even more when Liam’s expression slides back into a smile, head tilting to admire Zayn like he’s some child’s play toy.  He rolls his eyes at that, lips cocking to the side, waiting on Liam to say something else he’ll no doubt try to erase from his memory later.

“Zayn, right?” Liam wonders, leaning forward again.  “That’s what the nurse told me.”

Zayn picks at the loose threads of his blanket, eyes on the faded hospital gown he’s wearing.  He nips at his bottom lip, thinks maybe its best that Liam didn’t know his name.  It’d be best if he didn’t know anything about Zayn because, for some reason, tainting this incredibly dishy lad seems like quite an awful thing.

Zayn nods slowly, chin tucked, blinking at the fabric of the blanket rather than Liam.

“It’s quite a nice name,” Liam remarks, tapping a melody along the cold plastic of Zayn’s bed.

“Means beautiful in Arabic,” Zayn mutters and, what the fuck, where did that come from?  He didn’t mean to say it, face scrunching seconds afterwards.  He chances a look up, finds Liam’s smile quiet and adoring.  It’s like a bad drug, sinking Zayn before he knows what he’s done.

Liam snorts before chewing on his thumbnail, grinning.  “I don’t think my name means anything special.  Liam Payne.  Quite unoriginal, yeah?”

Zayn’s eyes narrow, teeth chewing at the corner of his lip.  He shrugs, doesn’t know why he thinks about finding his phone to look up what Google says about the name Liam, maybe doing just a little research about Liam Payne, stalking him just a tiny bit.  That was completely unlike him, but so was him being saved from a fire by incredibly attractive young men.  It all feels a bit unhealthy, he thinks.

“Do you have any family I can call?” Liam asks and Zayn immediately feels himself turn cold, fingers gripping painfully at the blanket.

“No.”

“It’s just that I asked the nurse if anyone had come to visit you and, well, I don’t mean to be in your business but – “

“So don’t,” Zayn snaps, watches the way Liam shrinks a little.  He closes his eyes for a moment, sinks into the way the blood rushes through him.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Zayn laughs, but it comes out broken.  Zayn shakes it off, eyes flitting open.  “I’m my own family.”

Liam nods slowly but that look behind his eyes doesn’t do much to hide the questions he still has.  Zayn’s become accustom to avoiding those types of questions though.

There’s a cool silence for a few beats, Zayn watching Liam, Liam watching the floor.  The air settles to his skin, cooling his sweat from earlier in the most unpleasant way.  He shivers, pulls his knees close to his chest and, damn this blanket, he doesn’t have enough fabric to warm himself.

“You’re cold?” Liam asks, almost tells Zayn.

Zayn snorts.  “I’ll be fine.”

Liam waves him off, head shaking.  There’s a glint in his eyes, nurturing in a way Zayn wants to avoid, but then he’s standing, pulling a jacket from beneath him.

“Slip this on,” Liam orders, pulling the sleeves of the jacket apart and he’s sliding it around Zayn’s shoulders before he can fully protest.  He fixes it on Zayn until it’s nearly swallowing him, the size too big for Zayn but he doesn’t shrug out of it.

Warmth folds around him, Zayn taking in a deep breath and the jacket smells like some sort of apple-tinged shampoo, sharp cologne, fresh soap.  It’s one of those varsity jackets, the kind Zayn would’ve no doubt nicked from one of his classmates in secondary school.  There’s a large ‘W’ on one side, ‘Payne’ stitched onto the other side and Zayn bites back a grin before sliding his arms into the sleeves.

“Wolverhampton,” Liam whispers, toying with the collar for a second before pulling back shyly.  “Where I’m from.”

Zayn glances up at him, his stomach tightening at those brown eyes.  The light is off of them but they still look like chocolate, deliciously sweet in a frightening way.

“Thanks,” Zayn utters, doesn’t think he can corral his voice together to say much else.

Liam nods, slow swooping grin taking over his lips.  It pushes gently at his cheeks, scrunches his eyes.  Zayn’s establishing that he’ll probably forever associate adorable with that expression.  He fucking hates it.

“I should probably get out of here,” Liam says, the scuffing of his Converse along that beat-up tiled floor squeaking through the room.  He rubs at the back of his neck, swallowing.  “One of the desk nurses nearly bit my head off for trying to get in here past visiting hours.  But, like I said, they all sort of know me so it wasn’t that hard.”

Zayn snorts, sinks further into that jacket until every scent from it envelopes him.  He wonders if Liam smells this good after sex and, yeah, that completely wrecks him.

Liam looks around nervously, smirks when he sees the whiteboard hanging near the door, the one with the stupid pain chart on it that Zayn refuses to look over.  Liam glides over to it, popping the top on the way too thick marker before scribbling on the board in messy handwriting that’s a bit endearing to Zayn.  He pulls back, pointing.

“Since you don’t have any family, here’s my number,” Liam says with a small shrug, head jerking in the direction of his poorly scrawled number and a silly ‘Liam’ with an awful doodle of a smiley face underneath.  It’s so silly that Zayn can’t help but let the corners of his lips pull up for a grin.

“Call me if you need anything.  Or text.  Or, I don’t know, whatever,” Liam adds, still rubbing at the skin on his neck.

“For what?” Zayn questions dryly, lip curling into a sneer.  “A date?”

Liam clears his throat, visibly shaking before his brow lowers.  “For a chat.”

Zayn snickers, winces at the way that feels in his system.  There’s a pull at Liam’s lips, slighted frown that Zayn’s heart drops at.  Since when did freakishly nice firemen from Wolverhampton make him feel bad for being who he was?  Or, at least, who he had done so well at becoming.

Zayn pulls at the jacket on his shoulders as Liam moves toward the door, hands shucked into the pockets of his chinos, his head lowered a little.

“You’re forgetting this,” Zayn calls out, trying to slip out of the jacket.

Liam looks up, tipping smile that Zayn finds brilliant in the most awkward way.

Liam shakes his head, shoulders rolling forward.  “Keep it.  I’ve got at least two more at home.”

Zayn nods, teeth nibbling at his lip.  He’s not sure how to reply to that, wants to throw the damn thing off of his shoulders because getting used to this sort of kindness, no matter how fascinating it feels against his senses, doesn’t seem right or fair.  Maybe Liam’s not human, he thinks, sinking back on the bed.

“I hope I see you around Zayn,” Liam adds as he pulls open the door, leaning back just a bit so Zayn catches the way there’s a tinge of hope in his almond eyes.

Zayn’s brow quirks up, the corners of his mouth twitching.  His fingers dig into the blanket, curl into its roughness before he shrugs.

“Maybe,” Zayn mutters, blinking at Liam.

Liam smirks, head nodding.  “Maybe’s better than no.”

Zayn wants to tell him ‘no’ right then, thinks it’s probably best but Liam’s out the door by then.  And there’s nothing but white noise from the television, the constant click from the bed, and Zayn’s heart thumping uncontrollably right along Zayn’s eardrum.

He looks around, finds his phone sunk between the plastic railing and the mattress and he quickly types in Liam’s number, tossing his phone down after he files the number under ‘Leeyum Pain.’  He doesn’t want to stare at the number too long because then he’ll have to admit to himself that he wasn’t just saving the number for emergency purposes.

No, he thinks it’s because he sort of can’t get that glittered sunshine smile from his mind.

He settles his head against the lumpy pillows, eyes shifting shut while snuggling into the fabric of Liam’s jacket.  He thinks maybe apples is his new favorite scent.

**

He loves sleep.  In fact, he’s awfully sure he covets it as much as he does religion, but he’d never admit that to his mum.  But to anyone else within a ten feet radius, either he made it very aware, usually by throwing something hard or with a sizeable amount of force behind it so that they knew that is exactly how strongly he felt about his sleep.

He’s not surprised when all of the lights in his room are clicked on early, something he’s hastily not liking about being in the hospital.  He thinks he’s given enough of the nurses a glare or a very uncomfortable grumble anytime they came in to bother him with their tests, checkups, offerings of disgustingly stale hospital food – seriously, how do make Jell-O taste bad? – and they’re constant asking of “Do you need anything Mr. Malik?” even though he’s mentioned more than enough times he’s just Zayn, nothing more.

When he blinks his eyes open, he’s scowling when he spies a sideways grinning Harry standing in front of him, grumbling as he forces a pillow over his face and prays that it’s just an awfully nasty dream he’s having.

“I see you haven’t gotten any better with your manners during your stay,” Harry says and, fuck it all, Zayn can’t close his eyes tight enough under that damn pillow to fall back asleep.

“Get the fuck,” Zayn drags out the last word with extra emphasis, “out, Haz.”

“Oh, I wish I could,” Harry laughs out.

Zayn feels the bed dip when Harry sits on the edge, thinks about kicking him off but he’s too focused on trying to drown out the sound of Harry’s voice and slip back into that extremely uncomfortable sleep he was semi-enjoying before his best mate had entered the room.

“Why are you here?” Zayn asks from underneath the pillow, words muffled.

“Hmm,” Harry hums, roughly patting Zayn’s shoulder.  Best mate or not, Harry could be quite the douchebag when the occasion called for it.  This was not one of those times, though.

“It would seem you’ve done so well at not calling me and informing me that your temporary residence had burned down to the ground.  Which, of course, would explain why you haven’t rung me up in two fucking days, Zayn,” Harry explains, shaking Zayn until Zayn rips the pillow back and tries to swat Harry with it.  Harry’s quicker, snatching it from Zayn’s weak grip and tossing it behind himself with that cherry-red grin on his lips.

Zayn rolls his eyes at the way that single dimple in Harry’s cheek flexes, brow raised high.

“I’m sure you’re thrilled that place went up in a blaze of glory anyway,” Zayn mutters, upper lip curling in dismay.

“Quoting Bon Jovi will not get you any points with me, Malik,” Harry says, his deep voice curled and annoyed.  Zayn knows Harry’s angry; it’s the only time he refers to Zayn as Malik, something he and Zayn both hate but it always makes the point Harry’s trying to get across.

“I’m sorry,” Zayn mumbles, teeth biting into his lip.

Harry nods, eyes still a bit narrowed.  “But I’ll admit I’m glad that shithole is nothing but ashes now.  It didn’t suit you.”

“It was home,” Zayn counters, winces when Harry’s eyes go small again.

“It was that wanker Max’s home, not yours,” Harry argues, teeth clenched.

Zayn offers a small nod, lips poking out.  He’s quite aware Harry was never a fan of Max.  In fact, no one in his life was, it’s just that Harry openly shared his dismay unlike the others.  He thinks he appreciates that most about Harry – his willingness to be honest no matter the situation.

“Where is that bald-headed piece of shit anyways?” Harry wonders, glancing around the room.

Zayn shrugs, pushes himself up slowly before drawing his knees close to his chest.

“Haven’t seen him in a week,” Zayn whispers, chin settling onto his knees.

Harry groans, smacking a large hand against Zayn’s shoulder.  “Told you to get rid of that wanker months ago.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, rubbing slowly at his shoulder.  “Because you’re not fond of him?”

“No,” Harry hisses, fingers curling into a fist.  “Because he was cheating on you with his ex.  Or because he treated you like shit.  Or because he was a complete waste of time, he smelled bad, and, if I’m being quite honest, he thought every kind of drug was recreational and we both know the shit he did was illegal in seventeen countries in Europe alone.”

Zayn sighs, eyes dropping to his hands.  “He wasn’t cheating on me,” Zayn lies, feels the way Harry glares at him without lifting his eyes.

Max wasn’t cheating on him, technically, since Zayn knew there never was any clear definition on what they were to each other.  Except, Zayn sort of only slept with Max exclusively.  In fact, he only did everything with Max unless he was with Harry, which sort of made it a relationship being that Zayn practically lived at Max’s when he wasn’t crashing on Harry’s couch.

Not that Max saw it that way.

He knew Max still fucked around with his ex-girlfriend.  Max never admitted it, no matter how many rows they had about it, usually ending in Zayn breaking something in Max’s flat, Max shoving Zayn into a wall or a counter or onto the bed and that only led to the kind of sex that left Zayn with bruises, scratch marks along Max’s back, and Max laughing into Zayn’s mouth as he rutted up into him from behind, teeth sinking into Zayn’s shoulder when he came.

But Zayn smelt her cheap perfume on Max’s clothes when he came home most nights.  He saw the small marks she left, right below his collarbone.  Sometimes, he could taste her cherry chapstick along the head of Max’s prick when Zayn went down on him, gagging at the taste until Max promises he’ll make it good for Zayn, promises he’ll love Zayn like no one else, something Zayn snorted at.

Max didn’t love him.  Zayn didn’t love Max.  He loved what he got out of Max – a place to belong.

Zayn focuses his eyes on Harry, lifting his chin to really look on his friend.

Harry’s soft, brown curls are pulled behind a gray beanie, but it does nothing to hide his boyish features.  Those impossibly large green eyes are made of stars, lights, and the shade of forest leaves.  He’s slender, but not skinny.  There’s muscle underneath that partially unbuttoned plaid shirt, something from Topman, Zayn’s sure.  He can see the tattoos peeking out as well, an obsession he and Harry shared though there’s times Zayn thinks Harry’s addiction is something of the unhealthy kind.

“Do you want me to call – “

“Harry,” Zayn hisses, shooting him an incredulous look.

Harry throws his hands up defensively, nodding instantly.  “Okay, okay.  I get it.  Still, you almost died, Zayn.  You don’t think, at least, you should try?  Just this one time in your pathetically annoying life?”

“No,” Zayn sighs out, lifts his chin defiantly.  Harry knew not to press further, the glare in Zayn’s light brown eyes enough.

“You’re a right asshole, Zayn, you know this,” Harry tells him, arms folding over his chest.  “But I love you.  Isn’t that awful?  Bless.”

“What are you doing here, Harry?” Zayn asks again, his voice smaller.

Harry grins solemnly, laying his hand over Zayn’s before giving it a tight squeeze.

“They’re releasing you in a few.  And since your former residence is a big pile of burnt rubbish, you’re coming home with me,” Harry says, no, tells Zayn.  There’s no question behind it and he knows if he fights with Harry, it’ll end pretty badly.  And he’ll still be doing what Harry tells him to.

“Haz,” Zayn starts with a sigh.

Harry shakes his head, squeezes his fingers into Zayn’s skin.  “I’ve done up the couch all pretty for you and, you know, that extra room where I keep my boxes of shit I have no idea what to do with has been waiting over a year for you to move into is still available.”

Zayn sighs again, blinking at Harry before dropping his eyes.

He’s known Harry nearly two years and there wasn’t one thing he thinks he’d change about him.  He’s all smiles, except when he’s in a mood and even Zayn doesn’t bother him then.  He’s generous beyond expectation, never asking for anything other than loyalty.  And Zayn thinks, even back then when he first met Harry at a local coffee shop with his blazer, pocket square, waistcoat, and wild curls that were always tangled into a beautiful mess, Harry was anything but some average kid.  He was some overly ambitious kid, two years from graduating secondary school while Zayn waited tables at a nearby restaurant.  But he was nothing but jokes, deep laughter, stories that took hours for him to tell and he was clinging to Zayn five minutes into their conversation about cars or some girl or whatever the hell it was that had Zayn laughing and Harry grinning with that silly dimple flared and eyes larger than they normally were.

He hasn’t been able to ditch Harry since, not that Zayn ever wanted to.  Or could afford to, really.  Harry was, most days, all Zayn had left.

“I’m not staying with you long,” Zayn states, legs stretching back out before they cramp.  His eyes are insistent before he adds, “Just long enough ‘til I can afford my own flat.  Get things together and get the hell on.”

Harry rolls his eyes, lips pouting.  “You’re not going anywhere.  Even when you do finally get your shit together.”

“Harry,” Zayn says warningly.

“Zayn,” Harry says back, eyes narrowing again in that threatening manner.  “You’re family, Zayn.  Like it or not.”

Zayn swallows, hard, doesn’t realize he’s gripping Harry’s hand tightly until Harry smiles fondly on him.

“Now let’s get you out of this hell hole,” Harry laughs, yanking his hand away.  He gives Zayn a once over, lips tipping downward.  “You need a shower.  And you look completely fucked.”

“The food here sucks,” Zayn frowns.

“I bet,” Harry giggles, pushing himself off of the bed.  He tilts his head, focuses his eyes on something.  “Whose is that?”

Zayn follows Harry’s gaze, turns a little and, fuck, he didn’t mean to sleep curled up to Liam’s jacket but it sort of happened.  And now it’s crumpled next to his pillows, the blue fabric standing out against the white leather of the sleeves.

“No one’s,” Zayn replies flatly, still glaring at the jacket like its offensive.  It sort of is, the way it probably still smells like apples and Liam.  Not that he knew what Liam smelt like, not yet at least.

Harry snorts, scrubbing fingers through Zayn’s hair.  “Payne?  Hmm, you taking in strays while in the hospital, Zayn?  That’s a new low, even for you.”

Zayn jerks his head away, inches to the edge of the bed before slipping off of it.  He steadies his feet on the cold floor, wishing he had a pair of socks.  He snatches up his clothes, nose wrinkling when he holds them up because they’re a little singed and there’s black marks from the ash splattered in the oddest spots.  He can smell the smoke in them but they’re all he has.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” Zayn remarks, slipping out of the hospital gown before yanking on his shirt and sliding into his jeans.  He eyes Harry who’s grinning just a little too sharply.  “He was nobody.”

Harry chuckles, lets it bubble in his chest before it turns into a full-on laugh.  He wipes at his eyes, a little too theatric for Zayn’s taste, before saying, “Right, I’m sure.  A ‘nobody’ who gives you his jacket?  Fucking bullshit.”

Zayn grumbles something, thinks about tossing a plastic tray at Harry’s head but he resists.  He gapes at the jacket for a moment as Harry gathers his other things, still laughing to himself.  Zayn thinks about leaving the jacket behind, maybe mentioning something to one of the nurses.  Liam said he knew most of the staff, right?  They could get the jacket back to him.

His fingers twitch, mouth pushing to one side.  He thinks twice, deep breaths before he’s snatching the jacket from the bed, slipping into it until it’s a comfortable cocoon around him and his eyes slide shut just to breathe in that sharp cologne that feels like its fading.  His skin feels good in the too big material and he has to swallow hard not to think about the way he wants to know if Liam’s too big arms would feel the same way around him.

“Well, at least it looks good on you,” Harry says smugly behind him, grinning from around the corner.

Zayn does throw the tray this time, missing Harry’s head completely and it clangs against the wall before it rattles against the floor.

**

The thing is, Zayn’s fairly attached to Harry’s flat.  It really was home, more so than the one he grew up in as a kid.  He had it all memorized, from the brown leather couch that’s beat up and cushions sunken in against one of the walls to the small kitchen that has really nice appliances but feels suffocating compared to everything else.  There’s the flat screen on the wall, always on even when Harry’s not there, the long stretch of hallway that leads to the back where Harry’s room is and the extra bedroom that Harry’s practically been begging Zayn to move in to for too long now.  Zayn always settles for the couch though, doesn’t know why, but maybe he likes the way it feels so much like a ‘home’ compared to everywhere else he goes.

There’s a marble coffee table in front of the couch, covered in magazines and old newspapers, an Indian rug covering most of the hardwood floor of the living area.  There’s a small dinner table a few feet over, one that Harry never uses unless his mum comes up for a visit.  A stereo sits on a small desk to the left of the telly, CD’s scattered around it with a notepad filled with scribbled lyrics on every page.  A bookshelf lines the wall nearest to the flat screen, only a few books actually in it – they all belong to Zayn because Harry believes reading something over ten pages is some sort of demonic ritual – but the rest of the shelves are littered with hundreds of DVD’s.  Harry is something of an avid film collector, though Zayn is fairly certain even Harry hasn’t seen all of the films in his collection.  There’s an actual beanbag chair in the corner, something Zayn was sure they stopped making at least two decades ago, and funky lamps with blue covers that illuminate the room in soft light.

Framed pictures line one of the wall, some of Harry’s mum, his sister Gemma who, by all accounts, is even prettier than Harry if that was possible, his stepdad Robin, and even a picture of Harry and Zayn grinning while in the streets of London, a trip Zayn still had yet to remember fully after that bender on a Saturday where they both woke up in some older woman’s hotel room, Harry missing a sock and Zayn missing his boxers.

There’s a pile of Zayn’s stuff nearly packed in a corner on the other side of the couch, mostly clothes and shoes, even his leather jacket which Zayn would absolutely murder anyone if they tried to nick it.  He kept most of the things of importance he owned at Harry’s, the shit he could do without always ended up at Max’s because that wasn’t really a home – it was a place to sleep, have sex, and then pretend to be in a domesticated situation with someone who never quite understood the definition of the word.  Zayn thinks he became quite a great pretender living there.

He’s got a stack of notepads, sketch books, colored pens and pencils, plus another bag of his stuff pushed under the coffee table, not that Harry asked Zayn to be neat.  No, Harry was the actual slob of the two, Zayn spending most of his days trying to tidy up after Harry even though Hurricane Styles always managed to touch down by nightfall, dropping off clothes as he kicked through the door and making more dirty dishes than needed for someone who either popped something in the oven or swore over the “bloody piece of shit” stove just to make fajitas.

Harry’s nothing less than a hipster, something he’ll admit to you if you asked him when he’s sloshed, but he likes to think of himself as “artfully inclined,” whatever that might mean.  He’s the kind that likes rock music, volume turned all the way up, but won’t hesitate to slide in a Katy Perry CD or sing along gleefully to Jay-Z or even that ridiculously overplayed “Call Me Maybe” – “I was definitely that guy in the video hitting on the other guy,” Harry once says with a tilted grin.

“I’m gonna hop in the shower and then get ready for work,” Harry cheers, clapping his hands on the back of Zayn’s shoulders before pushing forward to lay a sloppy kiss on Zayn’s cheek.  He nudges Zayn’s hips with his own, slinking by before throwing over his shoulder with a gleam settled into those emerald eyes, “Had to switch shifts with Andy just to get your stubborn arse out of that hospital.  You owe me, Zee.  You know I hate the afternoon shift.”

Zayn snorts, eases out of the varsity jacket.  He pulls it close, fingers digging into the leather sleeves before neatly folding it and resting in on the arm of the couch.  He’ll think about returning it once that sweet smell finally wastes away.  Or once he can stop thinking about the way he likes the crinkle around Liam’s eyes when he smiles.

Harry’s flat is rather large for someone who maintains a living by working at a bakery.  It doesn’t pay well, Zayn knows, but Harry isn’t working there to pay bills anyways.  His mum has done fairly well for herself working under some lawyer, even from back home in Chapel Holmes, and his stepdad adores Harry and Gemma so much that he liters them with money monthly.  In fact, Zayn would go so far as to say Robin bought more than half the things in Harry’s flat, not that Harry didn’t love that sort of attention.

Harry works to kill time, to fill a gap in his life, and, as he puts it, “Because I’m saving up.  One day, I’m going to travel the world.  One day, I’m getting the fuck out of this place, Zayn.  Just watch.  And I want to do it all with the money I made, not what my mum and dad gave me.”  He believes Harry, not that Harry isn’t anything but honest.  It’s the way Harry always says it, his chin held high, a spark in his eyes, and that feeble determination Harry has at his weakest moments doesn’t seem to exist there.

Zayn only hopes that when Harry does finally pack it all up to leave, he’s figured out his own life enough to follow him.

When Harry scurries out the door for work, curls still damp with his arm halfway through his shirt while his teeth gripped his keys in his mouth, a cup of hot coffee in his free hand – and how the hell did he manage to get his apron on before his shirt? – Zayn smiles at him, waves him off from the couch as Harry mutters something about takeaway being in the fridge and not to spend all day moping.

Zayn slips into the shower not long after, scrubbing away that stench of smoke and ash but cautious not to rub too hard because he can still smell traces of apple and ivory-like soap from Liam’s jacket.  He believes it’s a subconscious thing when he thinks, yeah, he needs to trouble Harry for a ride to the store later to pick up a few things like cigarettes, juice, possibly some new shampoo that may or may not smell like green apples or some shit like that.  He steals Harry’s own body wash, nose crinkling at the scent of oranges, before lathering it into his skin to strip away any and every smell lingering from the hospital.

He glares at himself in the mirror after a shave, toying with his hair for a while before tracing his fingers over his lips, the small circles under his eyes.  He sighs, fingertips gripping the counter.  His tongue runs over his lips and that part of you is gone, he thinks, eyes shifting shut as he tries to kick away anything that has to do with that flat, those nights, Max.

He still doesn’t know if he remembers clearly how the thing with Max started.  Some silly chat up line Max used while Zayn was waiting tables, Max’s then-girlfriend in the loo probably freshening up for a night of incredible sex – yeah, Zayn can admit Max was a bit gifted in that department – but Zayn had waved him off, wasn’t really interested in devoting any of his time to any particular person or anything outside of his artwork at the time.  He needed a way out of serving customers, bussing tables, mopping up floors at night.  His art was his escape, making a few quid here and there by selling it to a coordinator somewhere in the heart of London who happened upon his art once while travelling through town.

Max was a distraction, an unwanted one, with his pale green eyes, shaven hair, far too much scruff, and chiseled cheeks that really showed their definition when he smiled.  He was persistent, something that annoyed Zayn until it didn’t and he was pushed up against the wall in the back of the restaurant, Max’s lips marking his neck with warm hands peeling open the buttons of Zayn’s shirt, dipping inside to strike a fire against his skin.  And Zayn liked the way he kissed, full on with nothing sweet or sticky.  It left Zayn’s lips swollen, slick with spit, and Max would always grin against his lips when he got Zayn on the edge, hand in Zayn’s tight trousers with Zayn begging for more.

Max was the sort of lazy person that Zayn enjoyed once a week but hated most of the other days.  He doesn’t think Max ever had a real job, something about modeling jobs that Zayn figured was some sort of cover-up for selling drugs to some of the nearby Uni students and he claimed to be working on some music but Zayn thinks Max was a rather shit singer unless he really tried, which was hardly ever.

They’d lay on the couch, smoke cigarettes for hours until Max decided it was time for Zayn to go, his phone buzzing, and he made those sort of empty promises to call Zayn later, but didn’t.  He’d be a mess when Zayn saw him again, maybe a day or so later, with her scent on him, cigarette between his lips while lighting a thick blunt between his fingers.  The sex would be fast and far from gentle then, Zayn’s knees raw but his body satisfied.

Zayn never had an urge to utter “I love you” to him, though Max did it on far too many occasions after downing half a bottle of Jack and screwing Zayn into that tattered, lumpy mattress he called a bed, Zayn face down with his hips pulled up.  Zayn never believed those words, was sure Max used them like a greeting rather than a promise.  He was the sort of guy everyone knew wasn’t worth the time, but still, it felt sort of incredible when you didn’t feel anyone else gave you that kind of attention.

Zayn pulls some product through his hair, half-styles it into a soft quiff before rubbing absentmindedly at that tattoo on his chest: Walter.  He wonders if his grandfather would think less of him now.  All of those memories, sitting in his grandfather’s lap, going on about wanting to be a teacher or a writer or an artist.  His grandfather would smile, drag idle fingers through his hair until Zayn grinned up at him.

He shakes his head, drags his long fingers off of the ink, trying to rub it away.  He wasn’t that man, not in the way he wanted to be.

Zayn sits with his knees pulled close to his chest on Harry’s deck, taking long drags of his cigarette.  He’s thankful he had an extra pack stuffed into a pair of joggers he left at Harry’s along with a bundle of quid from his last art piece.  He lets his eyes slip shut, head tipped back, exhaling smoke through his nose.  Harry hated the smell of smoke in his flat, unless it was weed which Harry rarely participated in unless he had a truly shit day at work or wanted to celebrate some momentous occasion.

Zayn smiles, thumb rubbing slowly over his bottom lip as he flicks ash away from the tip of his cigarette.  It’s cool outside, September almost faded away and he can almost taste the way autumn is slipping through the wind.  He spots the way the leaves morph from a cool, crisp yellow into auburn, ruddy along the tips.  He hugs to himself, head lolling to the side before chewing on his thumbnail.  Max hated this time of year; Zayn loved it.  He thought about slices of warm pie, dollops of ice cream, warm meals, the way his mum would hum a beautiful tune around the house as she tidied up for incoming family.  His upper lip curls, deep exhale dragging past his lips before he sucked in another sharp inhale from the butt of his cigarette.  He tries not to, but he misses the way his father would drag them all to that oversized couch, Safaa curled in Zayn’s lap with Doniya and Waliyha huddled around each other, forcing them to sit through a game of Manchester United all the while telling them his dreams of playing football professionally, his hopes that Zayn will be the one on the telly one day.  He lets the smoke sit in his mouth, curl around his tongue until the sting of tears at his eyes is from holding his breath rather than memories that feel so faded against his mind.

He curls up to the couch after he heats up the takeaway, takes a sniff at it and grins.  Harry knows Zayn’s affection for Indian food, or anything spicy, taking a slow sip from the neck of the cool beer bottle he stole from the fridge.  He thinks about cracking open that book he hasn’t finished, the one sitting on the coffee table with the gold wrapper from some chocolate Harry had eaten as a bookmark.  He settles on searching through Harry’s DVD’s instead, thumbing through the spines until he’s dizzy with names, colors, film titles, shiny covers.

Harry’s variety in DVD’s in something like his love life – too scattered and varied to ever understand.  He grins when he skims over the collection of Star Wars films, ones that he’s certain Harry never stayed awake long enough to watch but he had them because he went through a phase while dating Greg, or Tom, maybe George, pretending to like geeky things like Luke Skywalker and Harry Potter because Mark – that was his name – liked things like that, something Zayn giggled at.  There’s a variety of musicals like Moulin Rogue, Rock of Ages, and Rent, stuff Harry got while dating Emile.  He owns Sucker Punch because of Will, the last two Harry Potter films for Amelia – who even dressed up in a Hogwarts uniform for some pretty outrageous sex that had Zayn running from the flat with his eyes wide and a hand over his mouth, Friends With Benefits for Julia, and probably Sam too, and even The Artist for some way too intellectual chap, Stewart, who Zayn sort of hated because he always had a way of looking down at Harry in a sweet but condescending way.  Thankfully, that spell only last two weeks and way too many blowjobs where Stewart squealed like a girl and Harry stumbled out of his bedroom shirtless with pink cheeks, tousled hair, and wide eyes.

Zayn snorts when he rubs his forefinger over Fight Club.  It wasn’t that Harry wasn’t forthcoming about his adoration for films like the Notebook or Titanic – Zayn’s pretty certain Harry owns it strictly for Leonardo DiCaprio, despite what he says – but he was good at making people believe he was much more stropping than he truly was.  He knew in the actual Fight Club case was his second copy of Love, Actually, the first one buried behind a stack of action films he threw on for some random bloke just before snogging them on the couch after a few beers.  And Zayn humors him almost every Christmas, cuddling up to Harry on the couch, Zayn’s hand on Harry’s thigh with Harry’s head on Zayn’s shoulder, sharing a bowl of sweetcorn while Harry giggles and fawns over the movie, and Hugh Grant, with bright eyes and cherry lips.

Zayn settles on Iron Man, giving half of his attention to the film, the other half on swiping through his phone, running over unread messages and missed calls from Perrie.  He’s halfway through his takeaway and more than halfway through his beer when he scrolls through his contacts.  He could call Perrie, let her ring his ear off about not calling her when he was in the hospital.  He could dial up Anthony, maybe Danny, find some trouble to fall into later on.  He clicks on Doniya’s name, teeth sinking into his bottom lip, head shaking before he briskly swipes past her name.

He blames it on the buzz from the beer when he’s finally pushing his thumb against the screen, phone lifted to his ear before he knows what he’s truly doing.

“Hello?” comes a sleepy drawl and Zayn freezes up, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“You were sleep,” Zayn stutters out, swallowing thickly.

“Mmm,” hums into the phone before a throat is being cleared.  “Zayn?”

Zayn smiles.  He remembers him, his voice.  “Yeah.”

“Was just having a little kip,” Liam says, his voice still dragging a little.  “Didn’t think you’d call me.”

Zayn nods, knows Liam can’t see it but does it anyway.  He shifts down into the cushions, toes wiggling as he fixes his eyes on the screen; Tony Stark is rambling and Zayn could mouth along to every line if he wanted to.

“I didn’t either.”

“Glad you did,” Liam says.  Zayn can hear the smile through his mobile, heart offbeat and that’s not normal.

“Was just watching a film and I don’t know – “

“What film?” Liam asks, curiosity slipping easily through his voice.

Zayn thinks, head saying ‘None of your fucking business’ but “Iron Man,” comes out instead, brow coming together with his nose wrinkling.

Liam snorts, Zayn’s lips curling.  “Bruce Wayne is better, but I’m partial to Tony Stark’s cheekiness.  Still, I’m more DC than Marvel.”

Zayn squeaks, covers his mouth because, yeah, where the fuck did that come from?  And then there’s silence on the other end, Zayn slouching back before clearing his throat.

“The Avengers was rather brilliant,” Zayn says with as much unevenness that he can muster, still doesn’t know why but there’s something shifting in his stomach, a rush of warmness sinking into his skin when Liam snickers on the other end.

“Yeah, it was,” Liam agrees and he’s smiling even thicker now; Zayn can hear it in his tone.  “I was quite chuffed with the Dark Knight Rises, though.  Saw it six times.”

“Four,” Zayn laughs out, dragging his fingers lightly over his quiff.  He runs his tongue over his lips, rolls his eyes with a smirk when Liam snorts.  He listens to Liam do a poor impersonation of Bane, grins behind teeth while taking another small swallow of his beer.

“Did you call to talk?” Liam asks, his voice dropping curiously low.

Zayn tenses, fingers curling around the neck of his beer bottle.  “Not really.”

“Okay,” Liam says slowly.

Zayn clicks his tongue against his teeth, eyes tracing over the outline of a bird along the edge of his hand.  “Okay,” he repeats, a little more firm.  He’s giving himself a way out; Liam too.

“Mind if I talk then?” Liam inquires, his voice sliding into something vaguely comfortable.

Zayn snorts, tilts his head back.  He watches the ceiling, the way the sun streaks shadows over the corners of the room.  He kicks his feet out, rests them on the coffee table and shrugs again, half-expects Liam to notice even though he’s not in the room with Zayn.  Right along the corner of his mind, he wishes Liam was.  Just so, maybe, he can look in those almond eyes while he speaks, watch the way his lips quirk, the way his hands move right along with his words.

“Fine,” Zayn finally says, mouthing Liam’s name silently just to see if he likes the way it feels along his tongue, across his lips.  He licks at his lips, thinks maybe he’d prefer to see how other parts of Liam feel along his tongue instead.  Sick, Zayn, just sick, he thinks.

Zayn listens intently as Liam goes on about moving away from Wolverhampton, a place he called home since he was an infant.  It was his father’s idea, something his mum was against, her want for her son to finish Uni first, chase another career but his father wanted to be chief, wanted more advancement for Liam and Wolverhampton wasn’t the place for it.  Zayn nibbles along his lip, pulling at pink skin – You were a child, crawling on your knees toward it. Making momma so proud.

Zayn can hear the smirk when Liam talks about Wolverhampton, the way it looked during the holidays, the way snow blanketed the streets in January, running through fields of green in April.  He tells Zayn about his sisters, Ruth and Nicola, Zayn hesitating, biting on the tip of his tongue so he doesn’t say anything about Safaa or go on about Waliyha and her cheeky remarks.  Liam’s a lit fire when he talks about being a firefighter, something he wanted when he was a kid watching his sister’s boyfriend Martin join the ranks of his father, saving lives and being something of a hero to the city.  There’s a few minutes of Liam chatting about wanting to be a teacher, loving kids, and Zayn doesn’t imagine Liam with kids of his own, being that proud father who loves his children whether they were firefighters or silly artists with dreams of painting murals along the streets of London.  No, he doesn’t feel his breath hitch then, fingers digging into his thigh with his head lowered.

Liam chats about his life as a firefighter – his father’s expectations, the few scares where Liam was just a little too close to the blaze trying to be heroic, the way he was sidelined for a few weeks when he sprained his knee foolishly trying to save some poor pup from a small kitchen fire.  Zayn flinches when Liam chats about losing a few mates to the job, some badly injured, some never making it out of a building in time.  There’s no resolute in Liam’s voice, no struggle though Zayn imagines Liam’s probably told this story enough that the numbness has sunk in and all but silenced the tears.

He goes on about his schedule, four days on, four days off; two day shifts, two night shifts.  He complains about training, though Zayn can taste the way Liam grins about it because he likes doing physical things like that.  Zayn shifts a hand over his crotch then, small squeeze that he has to stop before he drags down the front of his joggers and pulls at his throbbing cock at the thought of sweat slipping down Liam’s back, Zayn’s tongue sliding over a nipple, fingers digging into Liam’s shoulders as Liam peppers kisses along Zayn’s neck while thrusting stiffly into Zayn.  Yeah, Zayn wouldn’t mind that at all, index finger tracing the shape of his cock through his sweats with eyes closed, a breathy laugh when Liam asks if he’s okay.

“Keep going,” Zayn says, his voice a little strangled but he hides it well with a chuckle.

Zayn listens with a smile when Liam talks up his best mate, some guy named Louis, who Zayn imagines is probably nothing like Liam.  He rambles about Eleanor, some wickedly funny girl who pretended to date Louis – so Louis is into guys?  Hopefully not Liam, he thinks – and whose far more gorgeous than she deserves to be.  Zayn doesn’t feel his jaw tighten at that because he’s not jealous in the slightest.  Not when he has no interest in Liam, like that.  But he sort of does, when Liam talks quietly about his last girlfriend or the way he’s never really had time to fall in love like he’s certain Louis has a dozen times.  And there’s a small stutter when Liam admits he doesn’t have a type, Zayn grinning when he imagines Liam blushing when he talks about snogging a few guys here and there, but that was usually after a few beers because Liam’s too shy to just do it openly.

Zayn thinks he could make Liam comfortable with that idea, rolls his eyes at himself.  Shouldn’t he be thinking about fucking this poor sod and not imaging what it would be like to tangle his fingers in Liam’s, gold against sun-kissed tan?

Zayn doesn’t know what happens, but he starts to talk about Harry to Liam.  He goes on about their nights on the town, cuddling on the couch when Harry’s too moody to do anything other than sulk, hears the catch in Liam’s voice when he asks, “How long have you too been, you know, dating?”  He laughs, loud and breathlessly, hand clutching his chest.

“Me and Harry?” Zayn asks, breathy snicker still slipping past his lips.  “Fucking bullshit, Liam.  I’d never.  Definitely not my type.  Plus, come on, he’s my best mate.”

“Your type?”

Zayn grins, fingers slipping over the faded blonde streak running through the front of his hair.

“I don’t really have one,” Zayn admits, chewing on his lip.  “Whatever I fancy at the time, I guess.”

There’s a smile in the way Liam breathes easier. “Really?”

“Do you have a type?” Zayn asks suddenly, smirks because he knows he catches Liam off guard.

“No,” Liam replies unevenly, a pause following.  “I don’t think I do.  I just, I don’t know, like what I like.”

“Like what I like,” Zayn repeats slowly, nodding.

“Uh, about what you said the other day,” Liam starts, sharp intake of air that Zayn cocks his eyebrow up at.  “About the date thing?”

Zayn gapes, eyes wide and he nearly knocks over his takeaway and beer with his feet.  He leans forward, incredulous look on his face as he rests his arms on his thighs.  There’s an uneasy shyness in Liam’s voice, in the way his breathing is a bit uneven.

Zayn can’t help it; he grins.

“I thought this was just a chat,” Zayn hums, lips tilting up sideways.

Liam chuckles and Zayn imagines he’s rubbing at the back of his neck again.

“Don’t make any plans for tomorrow night, yeah?” Liam rushes out, words a little tangled together but Zayn slowly picks them apart with a smile.

“Liam – “ He thinks it’s the first time he’s drug the name across his tongue and it feels sticky-sweet right at the tip.

“Meet me at the corner of Lincoln Street and East Falls Place, okay?” Liam requests, his voice a little wavered in that bashful way that even makes Zayn’s cheeks go hot with blush.  “A little after nine?”

Zayn sits back, nipping at his thumbnail.  He can hear Liam waiting, the soft click of his lips falling shut.  He shouldn’t.  Liam’s not like any other person Zayn gets involved with.  He’s genuine, honest, reasonable in ways Zayn hasn’t quite experienced.  There’s a soft kindness to everything he does that makes Zayn’s skin itch, his fingers tremble.  And though he’s fit in the way that looks like he could make Zayn quiver with pleasure, his cheeks are too round, lips too pink, fingers too thick.  His laugh is silly in an almost comical way and, fuck, he talks too much.

“Okay,” Zayn whispers because, yeah, none of those things seem to matter.

He just wants to see Liam, see if that gentleness is contagious and, maybe, sort out whether Liam was possibly the sort of thing he needed around.

**

It’s around his second cigarette that Zayn decides he hates what he’s wearing.  He takes a long haul of it, smoke curling blue around him as he picks at his plaid shirt, black unzipped hoodie over it with the sleeves bunched up around his elbows.  He runs a hand over his light colored trousers, Nike trainers scuffing along the sidewalk.  Maybe it’s the hair, way too much product this time and its standing tall in a quiff, blonde-brown streak standing out.  He shouldn’t have shaved, his face far too soft now, boyish in a way that makes him look fifteen rather than twenty.

Another pull from his cigarette, flicking at the fag until the ashes drop away.  He inhales the smoke deep, pushing it out through pouting lips.  He was early, maybe by a few minutes and when the hell had he ever been early to anything, let alone on time?  He chuckles lowly, blames it on Harry because, even in Harry’s exhausted state, he managed to ask Zayn at least ten questions as he was getting dressed.  Zayn ignored all of the questions, even when Harry slung an arm around his shoulders and tried to drag it out of him with tickling fingers and pushed up grins.

It wasn’t like he was actually excited about seeing Liam.  And the way he nearly turned around three times while walking to that corner Liam asked him to meet up at wasn’t because he might have been a little nervous about seeing Liam.

No, none of it was true.  Well, slightly.  Maybe a little bit.  Fuck, a lot true.

He inhales a final drag of that cigarette, holding it all in this time until his head was dizzy and blurred.  He flicks it away, stubbing it with the toe of his shoe and, fuck this, he wasn’t going to wait around for someone he didn’t have the least bit interest in.  What kind of name was Liam anyway, he wonders, hands slipping into the pockets of his trousers.

He’s spinning on his heels, lips cocking to the side when he spies someone sprinting towards him.  He squints his eyes, tries to focus them on the blur of colors and listens to the labored breaths as they draw closer.  His lips quirk, rocking back on his heels as Liam nearly crashes into him, stumbling as he comes to a stop.

His hands are on his knees, bent over, and Zayn admits that he sort of likes the way Liam’s head is bowed, cheeks puffing and red.  He’s got a thin layer of sweat across his forehead, the street lamp above reflecting silver off of his skin.  The sleeves of his black shirt are neatly rolled up, his fingers clutching a large brown paper shopping bag.  He drags the heel of his Converse along the sidewalk when he rights himself, grinning with flushed cheeks and wide eyes.  Fuck, Zayn hates how much he actually enjoys the gleam in those brown eyes, the way they bunch up when Liam smiles.

“Sorry,” Liam breathes out, hand on his chest as it rapidly rises and falls.  “Had to stop by the station and slide the dispatcher a few quid to take me off of the on-call list tonight.”

Zayn smirks, lips pulled sideways.  Liam skipped out on duty to be with… Zayn.  To spend time with him when Zayn hadn’t even decided he wanted to even be around Liam.

Not until now, at least.

“You could’ve just cancelled, waited until,” Zayn starts but Liam’s quickly holding up a hand.

“No, no.  Wouldn’t miss this,” Liam insists, cheeks pushing upward with a smile.  Zayn quirks an eyebrow, wishes Liam would stop smiling like that.  It’s distracting in a decidedly annoying way.

Zayn nods slowly, lips coming together.  He watches Liam wipe the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, still grinning, and Zayn shrugs, doesn’t find the words he needs to say.

“What are we doing?” Zayn finally asks, glancing around the almost empty streets.  There’s a few cars rolling slowly by, most of the lights from the residents either out or sectioned off to a room or two in the buildings.

It’s mostly quiet around this neighborhood, a place that Zayn only passes through on his way to other parts of the city.  He’s never really given enough attention to it before, but now he’s eyeing the structure of the buildings, the newer bricks and nicer roads than the ones he’s used to walking.  The trees are well taken care of, some of the sidewalks streaked with colorful chalk from the kids.  Even the street lights a mile down look new, going red and amber as quickly as the cars reach them.  It’s the sort of place Zayn imagines his sisters’ raising their children in, eyes looking up to the deep purple sky for small stars that blink through the night.

“There’s a park nearby,” Liam says, toeing the ground nervously.

Zayn eyes him, tongue running his lips and he wants to grin at the way Liam follows the path his tongue runs.  “Yeah?”

Liam shakes visibly, choked laugh as he drags his hand over his shorn hair.  He raises the bag, adding, “I thought maybe we could, I don’t know, do something a little different?  Dinner at the park, at night.”

“A picnic?” Zayn snorts, arms folding over his chest.  “Sort of cheesy.”

“It’s not,” Liam argues lightly, brow lowered.  “It’s not a picnic.  I didn’t bring a fancy cloth to lay on the ground and I don’t imagine picnics include Nando’s and apple juice.”

Zayn bares down on his bottom lip, smirking.  “No sparkling cider?”

Liam laughs loudly, face scrunching.  Yeah, he’s sort of adorable.

“I save that for date number three,” Liam retorts, dragging his hand over the front of his hair.

Zayn quirks an eyebrow, mild smile this time.  “You think you’ll make it that far?”

Liam nods proudly, inching forward.  “I’m confident.”

“Really?” Zayn wonders, stepping forward until they’re nearly pressed together and he watches the blush kiss over round cheeks.  He snickers, Liam’s eyes lowering until his lashes kiss his cheeks.  He thinks about dragging his thumb to meet those eyelashes, feeling the softness that he imagines comes with Liam’s skin.

“Let’s just see how tonight guess, right?” Liam suggests, head lifting again.  He offers a smile that Zayn balks at, wants to run from.  It’s too… heartwarming.

Zayn finally nods, stiffens when he feels Liam’s hand slide over the inside of his wrist, fingers dancing over the yin-yang tattoo before dragging across his palm and slipping between Zayn’s own fingers.  There’s a hesitation, Liam’s actions a little too bold, before he’s linking their fingers and cupping Liam’s hand.

“Come on.  I know a back way to the park,” Liam says, his voice sliding lower, sweeter like butterscotch on the edge of his tongue.  Zayn likes butterscotch.

They’re quiet on the walk, Liam pulling him through trees and back roads that are palely lit but Liam walks like he knows every little dip in the road, the way the ground shifts, the puddles from leaky pipes and spots where they might trip or fall.  The park is fairly quiet except for the occasional couple walking their dog, hand-in-hand like Liam and Zayn were.  Crickets chirp, rattle the silence before Zayn hears the call of ducks, doesn’t really see them until the moon dances off a nearby lake, their feathers flapping and heads ducking beneath the water.

The moon glitters off of the grass, sprinklers drenching the green in soft, dewy like drops.  Liam laughs at a few squirrels chasing each other up a tree, the sound alone tickling Zayn’s own stomach as Liam’s head tips back.  Their arms swing, Liam tightening his fingers around Zayn’s and Zayn scarcely chances a look at Liam, finds the other boy smiling softly at him, the moon reflecting off those dark brown eyes.  He doesn’t return to the smile, snaps his head in the other direction and bites down hard on his lip.

This little, well actually rather muscular and fit, shit can’t be real.  No, no one is this… amazing, right?

“Here,” Liam says, jerking his head toward a pair of twin slides nestled in a sandbox.  There’s a swing set nearby, a rusted merry-go-round along with a large set of monkey bars, the faded yellow paint on them chipping away.

Liam releases Zayn’s hand, Zayn quickly wiping his hand along the side of his trousers to rid himself of the sweat and the desire to have the warmth of Liam’s hand again.  He watches Liam toe off his shoes, slip out of his socks before he’s stepping up onto the wooden plank and dipping down into the sand.

“You’re not serious,” Zayn tells him, brow knit together.  He shoots Liam a disbelieving look as Liam glances over his shoulder with a smirk.

“C’mon Zayn,” Liam insists, waving toward him.

Zayn shakes his head.  This guy is bloody mental he thinks but that smile, soft around the corners of his mouth, pleads with him and he’s grumbling while kicking off his trainers, hopping around as he tries to yank off his socks.  He hears Liam’s giggle, flips him off before stomping into the sandbox and following Liam.

They sit at the ends of the plastic slides, Zayn’s feet folded beneath him while Liam sits wide-legged, pulling various things out of the bag.

Zayn pulls a cigarette from his pack, flicking at his lighter before shooting Liam a glance, those big brown eyes on the flame.

“Is this okay?” Zayn asks, lips curling around the butt.  He doesn’t know why he bothers to ask; he’s only considerate when it comes to Harry, but something about the curiosity lit like the flame at the end of Zayn’s lighter in Liam’s eyes halts him.  “I don’t have to – “

“It’s okay,” Liam says quickly, shaking his head with blush tinging his cheeks in the palest pink color Zayn’s ever seen.  “I’m used to the smell of smoke.  Well, a different kind.”

Zayn snorts, nods.  He takes the bottle of apple juice offered to him, sets it down before clutching onto the box of Nando’s Liam passes him, the other boy’s eyes down the entire time.  Zayn’s thankful for that as he takes a pull from his cigarette – he can’t afford to stare at those eyes for much longer without pushing Liam back on the slide to slot his lips right against Liam’s.

Liam talks again, rattles on about coming to the park more than a few times to talk to the kids in the neighborhood about fire safety and things like that.  Zayn nods along, munches on his sandwich that’s a little bland for his liking but he doesn’t notice it much when he watches the way Liam’s lips move.  He lets Liam chat about the new Man of Steel trailer, his own lips quirking when Liam insists the Green Lantern movie was far greater than it was given credit for.  He rubs at the end of his nose, head ducking when Liam talks about Batman, his favorite storylines, Zayn nodding along and silently agreeing.

Zayn reaches out, steals a chip from Liam’s plate when he talks about music, Zayn finally speaking up to talk about his favorite songs.  Liam likes Frank Ocean, most of Justin Timberlake’s new stuff, and Zayn’s quite chuffed about it all.  He talks about a few hip hop songs he thinks Liam should check, Liam nodding along with bright eyes that Zayn falls into.  His words get a bit tangled and he can feel the blush ravage his cheeks, trying to ignore the way Liam looks on him fondly.  He puts out his cigarette in the sand, leans in to listen to Liam, makes a face when Liam admits to liking some stuff by Demi Lavato and even Westlife, Liam laughing all the while.

Liam’s leaning forward too, his toes digging into the sand with a hand on Zayn’s knee as he talks about dreams of being a singer once – “I almost went on that show… what was it? X-Factor?” Zayn admits – and Zayn barely notices when Liam’s fingers inch higher when he gets excited chatting about football, rugby, and his addiction to Friends.  Zayn’s hand covers Liam’s absentmindedly, sliding over Liam’s knuckles as he talks about Anthony and Danny, the times he nearly got suspended from secondary school for turning one of his teacher’s cars into a living aquarium.  Liam’s laughing, loud and unabashedly, eyes crinkling and Zayn feels some sort of warmth pool at the pit of his stomach.

Zayn lets Liam trace his fingers over the tattoos on his forearm, pull a little at the collar of his shirt to peek at the ones right along his collarbone.  He watches Liam’s eyes – With you by my side, I felt like I’ve arrived – the way they stare with interest.  He’s gnawing at his bottom lip as he runs his thumb along the stereo on the inside of Zayn’s arm, running over the chord of the microphone wrapped around Zayn’s arm.  Zayn spots the four sharp arrows inked thickly under Liam’s own arm, smirks at the words lining his wrist: ‘Only time will tell…’

Zayn scoots forward, his own feet now on Liam’s in the sand, toes running along the inside of Liam’s ankle.  Liam’s going on about Wolverhampton again, Zayn never catching onto any of it.  He’s lightly running the nail of his index finger over the inside of Liam’s arm, fingers tracing over the hairs on his forearm.  He tilts his head, smiling as the moon runs a blur of pale blue over Liam’s face – Don’t speak no more ‘cause your eyes do the talking.

“You’re quite,” Liam swallows, holds the last word in his throat.  “Sorry, I shouldn’t say that.”

“Say what?”

Liam snickers, head shaking, cheeks crimson.  The word finally slips out, tongue heavy: “Beautiful.”

Zayn snorts, lips kicking up.  “I’m not.”

“Yeah,” Liam breathes out, hand lifting and Zayn doesn’t jerk back when it runs the sharpness of his jaw, over the remains of dark stubble.  “You kind of are.”

Zayn pulls back a little, eyes narrowing.  He shouldn’t feel the weight of his thoughts on his shoulders, pulling him down.  What happened to just fucking this wonderfully fit man and moving on?

“Not so bad yourself,” Zayn whispers, inching forward.  His tongue swipes over his lips, Liam watching it again.  “Would you like to see what I look like without so many clothes on?”

Liam balks a little, blinking at Zayn.  His head drops, hand falling away from Zayn’s face.  And, yeah, that hurt; not having Liam’s touch against his skin anymore.

“I’m not that guy, Zayn.  I’m sorry,” Liam tells him, eyes a little harder.  He’s pulling back and Zayn inches forward out of a need he didn’t know he even had.

“I don’t just screw around, let alone on the first date.  Don’t get me wrong, you’d be worth it.  And I thought about you, like that,” Liam admits, swallow quickly as he rubs his hands incessantly on the fabric of his pants.  “But I’d prefer know that you’re going to stick around the next morning.  The next day.  If you’re not, then you probably made a mistake troubling yourself with me.”

Zayn’s mouth snaps shut, teeth clicking against each other, eyes more than a little wide – You don’t have to say nothing ‘cause your eyes do the talking.

Liam drags his hand over his hair, eyes turning away and daft instinct gets the best of Zayn, his hand swiftly reaching out to curl his fingers around Liam’s wrist, pull his hand to him.  He holds it in his lap, feels a bit foolish because this wasn’t like him but Liam’s eyes are falling on him again, focusing on the way Zayn’s hand looks against his.  It’s all sunglow skin against pale honey, Zayn’s thumb sweeping over the back of Liam’s hand.  He presses his fingers into the skin, draws out a ‘Z’ against Liam’s palm, words lodged in his throat.

“I can handle that,” Zayn mutters, his voice impossibly low and he wonders if Liam even hears him.

There’s a finger under his chin, pushing it up and he’s taken aback by the purity in Liam’s smile.

Fuck, he’s in more than a little trouble.

“You sure?” Liam asks, but there’s a slide of warning in his tone.

Zayn nods, slow and jarringly.  He secures his bottom lip behind his teeth, brow raised as Liam’s finger pets along his chin.

“Yeah,” Zayn says smoothly, cheeks lifting with a grin.  He’s impossibly confident when he raises his brow, Liam biting down on his own lip.  It’s quite miserable, the way he’s agreeing to something before he even realizes what he’s doing but, Liam’s not Max.  Liam’s not anyone.  He’s a little bit of everything Zayn wasn’t supposed to have, according to the world, of course.

“What’s your rule about kissing?” Zayn questions, a little less egotistical this time.

“I don’t,” Liam replies flatly, Zayn doing all he can not to let his face drop.  Liam grins, easing forward just a little.  “Well, at least, not usually.”

“Not usually,” Zayn repeats slowly with a small nod.

“You’re probably bad for me, huh?” Liam asks softly, still leaning forward.  His lips are pulled at the corners, smile inviting.

“Probably,” Zayn replies, finally leaning with Liam.  His feels Liam’s toes dragging over the top of his feet, imagines how they’ll feel underneath Liam’s duvet, in his bed.

“I might be bad for you too,” Liam says back, eyebrows waggling.

“Doubt it,” Zayn snorts, fingers cupping over Liam’s knee.  “But I suppose – “

Liam cuts off Zayn’s words, lips rubbing against Zayn’s.  Zayn thinks to press harder, lead the kiss but he doesn’t.  He remains still as Liam works his mouth over Zayn’s.

It’s incredibly slow, the way Liam’s lips glide over Zayn’s.  It’s gentle, slow, and, shit, it’s chasing the breath from Zayn’s lungs like a car wreck.  He shivers; wait, no, he doesn’t do things like that.  Except, he did.  When Liam’s tongue presses at the seam of his lips, he opens up, lets Liam’s tongue run over his and it tickles the roof of his mouth.  He shudders, stupid muscular boy, Liam’s hand grabbing the side of his face to steady the kiss and its all angles, heads turning, lips drawing pretty patterns over each other.

He can smell that apple-scented shampoo, body wash, a different cologne this time that’s sharp like ocean water and citrus.  He nips at Liam’s bottom lip, smiles when Liam anchors into the kiss and their noses nuzzle against each other as they change direction, find a different path to run their lips.  He tastes apple juice on Liam’s tongue, minty mouthwash, a sweetness no doubt that was running through Liam’s damn blood stream.

He thinks it’s probably like London at night, Paris in the winter, the beaches in Madrid during the summer.  It’s all a bit silly, the way he compares Liam to all the kisses he’s had before and can’t find the right one to match.  No, Max didn’t kiss like this, not even on his best days.  Shannon was sloppy with her kisses, all braces and tongue.  Aiden, oh, Aiden was quite magnificent with his kisses, but his kisses were never on Zayn’s lips, but along other parts of him that left a tingling against Zayn’s senses.

Liam kissed like something he’d never quite forget and that alone was more than daunting.

“Sorry,” Liam whispers when pulling back, keeping their foreheads pressed together.  He’s breathless, Zayn a little winded but he sees the smile curl over Liam’s lips.  His eyelashes are stuck together, cheeks flushed and Zayn feels the flame of Liam’s fingers etching along his cheekbone.

“Why?”

Liam snickers, exhaling a deep sigh.  “I don’t want to stop.”

Zayn grins, angles inward again but Liam has a hand pressed to his chest, stopping him.

“But we should,” Liam insists, teeth gripping his bottom lip.  “I’ve got the early shift tomorrow and, well, I don’t want you to think I’m willing to break my rules already.”

Zayn’s lips twist sideways, finally pulling back.  Why would anyone bend a rule for Zayn?  They never did before.

“Okay,” Zayn says, swallowing as Liam’s hand slips away from his face.

“But I can call you, right?  Sometime?” Liam wonders, shoulders slumping.

Zayn thinks otherwise.  Maybe he shouldn’t, but he nods, smiles out, “Yeah.”  He sort of wishes he could swallow the words back down, the way Liam shifts a little nervously, fingers digging into his own thighs.

Liam smiles back, his skin turning pink again.  And that’s it – Zayn shouldn’t want this.  Liam’s attractive, yes, but he’s so innocent and kind and, no, he’s too good for Zayn.  He’s the kind that deserves a pretty woman who wants to follow him around like a puppy, have his children, move into one of those nice houses right outside of the city with a dog and pray with their kids every night that their father gets home safely from another night fighting fires.

That was so far from Zayn.  He wanted tattoos, smoking, passionate sex that ended up in the shower afterwards for a little more sex.  He wanted rough kisses, fingers dragging down his back, foul language and someone who got his art not for what it was but for what they saw in it.

But, really, maybe he did want someone who smiled like Liam, who ran their fingers over the side of his head like Liam was doing.  Someone who kissed like Liam – the sort of kisses that had meaning and substance rather than flash and emptiness.

He watches Liam clean everything up, stuffing it back into that brown paper bag before shoving it all into a nearby trash bin.  And he’s neat about everything, dusting off his pants and helping Zayn up before clasping his hand, walking Zayn back to their shoes even though they were, what, a few dozen steps away?  He lets Zayn steady himself on Liam’s shoulder with a hand as he slips back into his socks and trainers, sits on the wooden plank to slip back on his own.

He doesn’t hold Liam’s hand when he guides them back from the park to the main street.  He doesn’t kiss Liam back when Liam leans down to settle his lips against Zayn’s, but he can’t hold his straight face when Liam pulls back, smirk on his lips.  Zayn smiles back, stupid move, because there’s something that flashes in Liam’s eyes like he genuinely enjoys seeing a smile on Zayn’s lips.

“See you then?” Liam sort of asks but it comes out as a promise.  “Soon?”

Zayn shrugs, eyebrows lowered.  “Probably.”

Liam nods at that, tight smile on his lips.  He’s waving shyly, fingers doing this absolutely cute thing that Zayn grumbles at.  He doesn’t do fucking cute, okay?

He shakes his head, turns away from Liam before he gets out of sight.  He kicks at the ground, sighs heavily.  He yanks out another cigarette, lighting before taking a small drag.  He puts it out before getting halfway through it, cursing lowly.

Okay, he’s not completely against seeing Liam again.

**

Zayn’s stretched out on the couch, neck resting against the armrest with his feet flexing along to the music streaming from the stereo – We called it off again last night but this time, I’m telling you. I’m telling – black-framed glasses pushed up on his nose as he thumbs through a page of his latest book.  He tugs at the beanie on his head, fingering a few stray strands of his shadowy dark hair, nose scrunching when Niall sings along a little too loudly, Irish accent way too thick from the two beers he’s already downed – We are never, ever, ever getting back together.  Zayn snorts, head shaking but his eyes stay transfixed on the pages, curling deeper into that damn varsity jacket, the warm scents starting to fade but if he tilts his head right, he can still sniff apple along the collar.

“Why are we listening to this?” Harry asks as he drops down into Zayn’s lap, Zayn letting out an audible yelp as Harry forces himself into a comfortable position while lounging on top of Zayn.  Zayn grumbles, feels Harry’s curls tickle against his face for a moment before Harry’s sliding into the small portion left on the edge of the couch by Zayn’s smaller body, his leg and arm hanging off.

“Because it’s sort of brilliant?” Niall offers, mouthful of pizza mumbling his words.

Harry makes a face, eyes rolling.  He taps his long fingers along his bare chest, over the varied tattoos stretching over his skin and Zayn peeks to his left, watches the way Harry mouths the words – with some Indie records that’s much cooler than mine – even though Zayn knows he disapproves of the song on unreachable levels.  In fact, he loathes the song more than he hates the person, which Harry has made a point to tell any random stranger who will listen.

“You know this song is about me,” Harry declares, head still tipped back, his bare feet tapping against Zayn’s to the beat.

“Is not,” Niall argues, gulping down some of his beer, some low budget Irish brand that Zayn refuses to sniff let alone drink.  “It’s about some other guy.  One of those Jonas guys?  Maybe that John Mayer fellow.”

“It’s about me,” Harry insists, head turning to look on Niall.  His eyebrows pull together, lips fixing into a pout and Niall’s rolling his eyes, scooping up another slice of pizza.

Zayn snorts, licking his thumb before turning the page.  He knows how this will go – Harry will go into a long, drawn out story about meeting some blonde, blue-eyed American girl on holiday, sweeping her off of her feet, screwing her royally at her parents’ cabin in the woods, spending a few days chatting up her friends before shrugging off her random fixation for him and his accent to hop a plane back to London.  Not that Zayn doesn’t believe him, it’s just the part about the girl being Taylor Swift even though Zayn’s certain there’s well over a half a million random blonde, blue-eyed American girls in the world and how did Harry Styles happen upon one named Taylor?

“It’s true,” Harry hisses, sitting up and swinging his legs around to face Niall.

“’s not,” Niall bites back, brow furrowed.  Zayn rolls his eyes, keeps his head low before pizza starts flying.

“Whatever Nialler.  You weren’t there,” Harry sighs out – Like we are never getting back together. Like, ever.

“You’re bloody mental Styles.  I want proof,” Niall demands, flipping open the pizza box and his mouth drops unceremoniously.  His eyes go wide, his face crumpling into a wounded one.  His head snaps in Harry’s direction before he’s whimpering out, “Are we out of pizza?”

Harry groans, pushing himself off the couch.  He pulls up his sagging jeans, smacking the side of Niall’s head as he passes.  Niall doesn’t have a chance to whine before another box of pizza is slung his way, smacking his chest and Zayn wonders if that was a pepperoni that just flew by his eyes?

The thing is Harry and Niall love each other, really.  Ever since that day Zayn stopped by the bakery and Harry introduced him to that blonde-haired, bright blue-eyed kid from Mullingar with the braces, ridiculously contagious smile who went on and on about the Eagles, his addiction to Nando’s, and, well, anything that was related to food, Zayn sort of liked him too.  He was sickeningly happy, all the damn time.  And he told the best stories, even better than Danny and Anthony, because all of Niall’s weren’t just dirty stories, but funny ones that had Zayn laughing and clinging to Niall.

He worked at a coffee shop down the road from the bakery, always complaining and drolling on about the pay being shit, but he likes his co-workers and giving everyone hell in the morning because who could live without coffee?  Though it’s not the best coffee in town – that title belongs to sweet old Mary’s café three streets over, with her fresh baked biscuits and steaming tea that Zayn has singed his tongue on more than one time just to get a taste of that lemon and orange mixture sliding down his throat.  But Niall takes on any shifts he can at the coffee shop to take care of bills and fund the small band he and Harry were a part of, which really just consisted of the two, plus Perrie, and a drummer named Josh who clung to Niall like a pair of Harry’s jeans.

Not that Zayn had noticed the way Josh looked at Niall like he was everything.  Niall didn’t either, too smitten with Cher, another one of Harry’s friends who works at the supermarket with Jade and Craig, who used to work at a biscuit factory and who might, admittedly, be a bit obsessed with Harry.

“You’re wearing it again,” Harry sighs, hands on his hips as he looks down on Zayn.

Zayn glances up, eyebrow quirking up before he catches the way Harry makes a disapproving gesture toward his jacket.  Wait, no, Liam’s jacket, not that Zayn was giving it back anytime soon.

Zayn shrugged, pulled the jacket closer as he lowered his book, pout slicking his lips.

“Wait, is Zayn fucking somebody new?” Niall asks suddenly, picking at a few pepperoni before stuffing half of the slice of pizza in his mouth.  “Shouldn’t we be celebrating something like that?”

Zayn quirks an eyebrow at Niall, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead.  “Shouldn’t I be dating someone new?  Not screwing?”

Niall snorts, cracking open another beer.  “You don’t date.”

Zayn nods along, mouthing out, “I don’t date.”

“You don’t,” Harry confirms, hands thrown up.  “And, no, that twat Max doesn’t count.”

“There was that time he brought Zayn leftover takeaway.  That shit smelled awful,” Niall says with a scrunched up face, lips wrapping around the tip of his beer bottle.

“It was vile,” Harry groans, falling onto the ground next to Niall.  He snatches a piece of pizza from the box, snickering.  “So was he.”

Zayn sighs, eyes rolling before lifting his book again.  He rereads the same passage three times, unable to find his concentration as Harry and Niall whisper, giggle about some of the daft things Max had done over the past year.  It’s annoying at best, Zayn trying to focus on the music instead – Say my name. And every color illuminates.

“So who is he?” Niall asks, elbows on his knees as he leans in Zayn’s direction with large azure eyes.

“Some firefighter, I think,” Harry answers before Zayn can, folding his pizza and stuffing it into his mouth.  He licks away the oil from his fingers, sucking on his thumb as Zayn gapes at him, eyes a bit unfocused.

“What?” Harry hisses, shrugging.  He scoops up another slice of pizza, ignores the way Niall smacks at his hand before pointing the tip of at Zayn, “You should really change the lock on your phone, you know.  Found his name, did a little Google research – “

“You didn’t,” Zayn says flatly, mouth dropping open.

“Might’ve tried to friend the kid on Facebook but, as it turns out, he hasn’t updated that thing since like, the year he graduated secondary,” Harry tells him, ignoring Zayn’s glare.  He smiles behind the slice of pizza, “He’s quite dishy though, Zee.  I’ll shag him if you won’t.”

Zayn squints his eyes at Harry, jaw tense and he thinks he could rip the book in his hands in half if he really needed to.

“Firefighter?” Niall questions, trading glances between Harry and Zayn, Harry smirking while Zayn scowls.  “Not really your usual thing.  Got a new kink?”

Zayn sighs, flipping off Niall before turning back to his book.  He worries his teeth along his lip as Harry falls into wild laughter, Niall stuffing his mouth with more pizza and beer.

He hasn’t exactly talked to Liam in days, not that he expected to.  It was just some silly date, not something Zayn thought about at least five times a day until he almost deleted Liam’s name from his phone just to rid his mind of the temptation to call Liam and see if he can hear his lips twitch into a smile through the phone.

But then came the text two days later: Sorry.  Wrking my tour of dty.  Can we go out again??? xxx :)

Zayn had done well ignoring the text most of the day, well, turning off his phone so he wouldn’t have to look at the text.  But he couldn’t concentrate on his new piece, scribbling lines across a fresh white page until it looked like… nothing.  And then when he tried with colors, his fingers immediately grabbing the browns and blacks, working into the paper with his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth until all he had sketched was a crinkled brown eye that looked something like – he tore up the paper before he could even think it.

But then later on, when he tried to shower, it rushed back to him again.  This guy, from Wolverhampton of all places, wanted to see him again.  And Zayn had made Harry pick up some sort of apple-flavored shampoo from the store which was a terribly cheap brand, smelt nothing like the stuff he’s certain Liam used, and Zayn was groaning, jerking out of the shower and stomping to his phone with his hair still dripping into his eyes and feet smacking loudly against the hardwood floors.  He clicked his phone on, ignored the six messages from Harry about some random girl he’d met before scrolling to that dumb message from Liam, simply messaging back: Yes ;).

He definitely thought about erasing that emoticon but the message was sent and Harry’s looking at him lopsided, towel clinging around Zayn’s waist with water leaving a small puddle on that precious Indian carpet.

“Fuck off,” Zayn had grumbled before Harry could utter anything, pushing past him back into the bathroom and he wants to drown out that sound of a muffled laugh from the other side of the door but he can’t.

And then came the call, way too early one morning and Zayn nearly chucked his phone across the room at the damn telly Harry had left on all night until he spots Liam’s name on the caller ID, eyebrows lifting and he’s clicking the green button before he knows what he’s really doing.

“Sorry, I know it’s early,” Liam yawns out, voice dragging.

Zayn makes a sound, something that sounds like “yeah” but it probably didn’t when it was muffled into his pillow.

“Thursday good for you?” Liam merely asks, a slowness to his voice reminding Zayn of Harry.

“What?”

“Thursday,” Liam repeats and there’s a shuffling on the other end of the phone, keys jiggling.  “I’m thinking we could go somewhere.  Maybe with friends?”

It sets in, though Zayn’s mind is still foggy – Liam’s finished his shifts at the station.

Zayn rolls to his back, arm thrown over his eyes and, fuck Harry Styles for purchasing the thinnest set of curtains available to cover that large window leading out to the deck.  The sun is shifting in the sky, streaking the pinks in the clouds with orange and yellows.

“Friends?” Zayn asks, doesn’t even know why because he can’t really focus.

“Yeah.  I’d like to meet some of yours, maybe bring Louis along for you to meet,” Liam offers.  Zayn can hear that sweet grin on the other side and, yeah, his own lips are quirking up.  “Sound okay?  Let you pick the place this time.”

Zayn nods along, sighing lowly.  Meeting friends; that was like meeting the family if you didn’t have a family, right?  A little much for the second date and, Zayn’s scratching at his temple because, when did this become a ‘dating’ thing?  Zayn doesn’t date.

“Ten good for you?  I know a bar my friends play at,” Zayn sighs out, eyes still heavy and he draws out a low “fuck” when he thinks he’s actually considering this silly idea.  Shouldn’t this be a little more private, like just Liam and Zayn?  He’s not all that interested in Liam meeting Harry, or Niall, nor does he think he’s going to like this Louis guy much.

“Perfect,” Liam smiles out, Zayn’s stomach tightening.  “See you then.”

Harry’s snapping fingers in front of his face and he’s falling back to reality, lowering his book back to his chest.

“Daydreaming about your knight in shining armor?” Harry teases, lips a deeper shade of red and Zayn knows it’s because of that strawberry soda he’s been slowly sipping on all night.

“Wait,” Niall drawls out, eyes growing even larger, if that’s possible.  “Firefighter?  Is he the one who saved you?”

Zayn swallows hard, eyes growing the size of Niall’s, Harry joining them with a curling smirk on his lips.

“You little shit!” Harry squeals, falling back with laughter.

“He’s like, I don’t know, some sort of superhero or something, eh?” Niall wonders, head tilting sideways.

Zayn’s tempted to flip him off again but he saves that for Harry when he hears, “Fuck, Zee.  You’re dating Batman or something.  That’s bloody fantastic.”

Zayn slumps further into the cushions, nipping at his bottom lip.

If he really thought about it, it was sort of true.  He really hates Harry.

“Oi, when do we meet Sir Payne?” Niall asks with a barking laugh, tickling his fingers along Harry’s stomach until Harry’s a mess of giggles and shaking limbs along the carpet.

“Thursday,” Zayn mutters, thinks twice about the invitation because, honestly, he doesn’t think Liam should meet Harry and Niall.  They’re an awful combination.  Shit, they’re quite awful by themselves actually.

“Really?” Niall’s eyes sickly bright with interest.

“Bringing him to the gig?” Harry asks, sitting up suddenly with a grin, a few gasps of laughter still breaking past his lips.

“You’re playing an open mic night, Haz.  It’s not a gig,” Zayn sighs out, eyes rolling with Harry waves his hand at him.

“Free food for the band,” Niall announces, lifting another slice of pizza in triumph.

Harry nods quickly, smiling sideways.  “And a wonderful selection of older women and Uni gents to choose from.”

Zayn groans, hides his face behind his book.  This might be the worst idea he’s decided upon in years, even worse than some of those dodgy haircuts he tried in Tenth Year.

And maybe it wasn’t the worst idea, crowded into a small booth at Walsh’s, a rundown pub where the owner had stopped investing as much as he should into it but Zayn loved it because the music was good, the beer always tasted fresh, the atmosphere was as laidback as it could be for a place that was frequented by a few Uni students, some of the locals, and the occasional group of tourists looking for good pub grub and cheap drinks.  The manager, Paul, was always welcoming when he spotted Zayn with Harry and Niall, sliding Niall free plates of chips and always topping Harry’s drinks off with an extra dash of vodka.  And Zayn got on pretty well with the bartender Matt, who wasn’t really great at making anything other than cranberry and vodka or rum and pineapple juice – something some poor girl found this out the hard way when she asked for an Apple Martini that came out pink and tasted more like gin than anything else.

Perrie stops by their booth, leaning over to press a kiss to Zayn’s cheek that leaves behind a smeared red stain she rubs at with a grin.  She’s all crystal blue eyes, magenta and pink hair with platinum blonde roots, carefully arched eyebrows, thick mascara lining her eyes and blood red lipstick against her full lips.

“Zayn has a date,” Niall announces as some form of greeting because that was their way of communication – random facts blurted out instead of “Hello’s.”

Perrie arches an eyebrow, looking to Harry first.  “Not that asshole Max, right?” she hisses, her top slipping lower with her breasts bunched up underneath.

Harry laughs, dragging his long fingers through those unruly curls.  “That fucker is gone.  Bless.”

Perrie nods, turns her attention back to Zayn with a mild smile.  “So you won’t be calling out his name later on when we’re screwing, right?”

Zayn rolls his eyes, blush feathering his cheeks.  It’s not that he ever did, say Max’s name in bed, nor did he actually have sex with Perrie but it was a game they’d started a year ago when Harry introduced Zayn to Perrie, her snarky remarks just enough for him to ask her out and after a few dates, realize they were better friends than anything else.

That didn’t stop them from sharing a bed on more than one occasion, Perrie usually too drunk off of Jägermeister to complain about the way Zayn’s hands felt on her hips, her head on his chest.  And maybe she was some sort of replacement for Max when he wasn’t around, drunken kisses that went nowhere and she offered more than a few times to suck his cock with a slurred voice and a giggle, but it always ended up with them clinging onto each other while Perrie sniffled into his chest, longing for some ex that moved away to Dublin while Zayn nodded along, tried not to mention how he sometimes, just maybe, misses Max.

Harry’s watching the door every few seconds, peeking around some of the crowd and constantly asking, “Is that him?” even when it was some older gentleman escorting his way too posh younger date through the door.

“You’re a dick,” Zayn laughs out, lips wrapping around the neck of his beer, slowly sipping on it as Harry shrugs.

“You don’t have a type Zayn,” Harry declares, saluting him with his cranberry and vodka glass, ice cubes clinking on the inside.

“Yes he does,” Niall argues lightly, munching on a plate of chips.  Zayn arches an eyebrow when Niall grins.  “Anyone who sucks, has bad manners, and probably treats you like shit?  Oh, that’s definitely someone Zayn’s taking home.”

“Sod off,” Zayn snaps but there’s a laugh chasing his words.  His lips quirk up, Niall shrugging before waving a chip at Zayn’s face.

“That’s him,” Harry hisses, fingers digging into Zayn’s forearm and Zayn follows Harry’s gaze to the door.

Zayn smiles softly at the way Liam ducks his head a little when they walk in, pulling the hood from his head before lightly running his fingers over his hair, the length showing as his fingertips sink into it.  Those chocolate eyes are searching the scene, standing in one place until a shorter man bumps into him from behind, hands thrown up wildly and he looks to be complaining but Liam’s not paying him any attention.

“Oi, that’s him all right,” Niall teases, fingers waving at Zayn’s face.  Zayn’s wishing that damn blush would fade away from his cheeks.

Zayn’s much cooler than this.  He doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve and he’s certain Harry and Niall have found other ways to notice Zayn’s interest in someone.  But he’s probably more than obvious when Liam’s eyes meet his, a goofy grin spreading over Liam’s lips until his round cheeks push up and Zayn’s nervously drumming his fingers on the table top.

Liam’s shrugging out of his hoodie with the denim jacket over it, cradling it in his arms and Zayn loves the way his knit jumper pulls tightly around his muscles, those shoulders deliciously toned and that chest pulling at the fabric of his shirt to show every curve of their definition.  He’s got a little more scruff now, just along his jawline, black jeans hanging idly off of his hips.  When he stretches right, Zayn can see the Superman boxers peeking out, Liam’s shirt riding up a little as he moves.  His tongue slides over his lips, thoughts of trailing that tongue over Liam’s navel, right along that thick tuft of hair leading into his pants making everything in his own pants impossibly tighter in the best way.

“Oi, this place had better have strong drinks,” Zayn hears from behind Liam, peeks around that solid body to see an older man step from around Liam with an annoyed expression, lips turned up.

He’s got blue eyes, fairer than Niall’s but the right shade of the ocean that Zayn sort of likes.  He’s a bit pretentious with his blazer on but there’s a white t-shirt underneath, ‘Killers’ spelled out in silver writing, with trousers that are unhealthily tight, making Zayn squirm a little.  His brown hair is slicked back, a light dusting of scruff along his face and those blue eyes nearly pierce through Zayn when they fall on him.

“Oh God, say it’s the one with the curls because I’m so snogging the ones with the tattoos,” he whispers up into Liam’s ear, but he’s far too loud without meaning to.

Zayn ducks his head a little, blush settling in again and it nearly matches the shade that’s waltzes along Liam’s cheeks.

“Excuse me?” Harry says, his voice clipped.

“This is Louis,” Liam offers before Louis can respond, hand gently covering Louis’ mouth before the words fall out.

Zayn snorts, leans back in the booth before waving a hand in front of Harry and Niall.  “Ni and Haz, this is Liam.  And Louis.”

“Lou, eh?” Harry wonders, leaning forward in the booth with that dimple settling into his cheek.  He sweeps a hand through his curls just as Zayn drags his hand through the front of his own hair, grinning up at Liam who’s rocking side to side on his feet.

“Don’t you even dare,” Louis warns with a finger held up.  “It’s Louis.  Louis Tomlinson,” Louis says slowly, eyes narrowing at Harry who’s still smirking in that incredibly cheeky manner.

“Right, Louis,” Harry says, deepening his voice and rolling every syllable in Louis’ name until it sounds like some form of sexual harassment rather than something cheeky like Zayn’s certain Harry had meant for it to be.

Louis nods proudly, upper lip curling again when Harry roams his eyes over Louis.  He sighs loudly, rolling his eyes.

“And what do you do Mr. Tomlinson?”

Louis brightens a little, hands clasping in front of himself.  “I am one of the best event coordinators this side of London, actually.”

“Is that a nice way of saying you’re a caterer?” Harry wonders dryly, eyebrow arched.

Louis balks at him, grips Liam’s forearm tightly and Zayn’s certain it’s some sort of defense mechanism.

“And what do you do Harry?  Bag groceries at the local supermarket?” Louis hisses back, leaning forward just a tiny bit so that his eyes are level with Harry’s.

Niall snorts loudly, leaning back into the booth while Harry shoots Louis a face.

“I’m a musician,” Harry boasts proudly, slow sip of his watered down drink.

“You’re in a band,” Niall adds with his own brow raised.  “Paying unpaid gigs.”

“And you work at a bakery,” Zayn tacks on, slick grin on his lips because he owes Harry for earlier.  And for a few other things, not that Zayn was counting.

“Ha!” Louis barks out, snickering.

Harry rolls his eyes, smoothing his hand along the worn wood of the table.  “I’m certain we could make beautiful music together, Lou.  Give it time.”

It’s only when Harry’s truly interested that Zayn can see the specks of blue in his green eyes.  He could name at least three shades of blue lining Harry’s eyes when he leers at Louis.

“Don’t mind him.  His mum mistakenly gave him the middle name Edward instead of Douche.  She was quite high on painkillers at the time,” Zayn declares for Louis, grinning behind his knuckles when Harry’s eyes widen.

Louis snorts, laying a hand on Liam’s shoulder.  “I like him.  Take the curly-haired one instead,” Louis begs with batting eyelashes and pleading eyes.

“No,” Liam squeaks, shrugging Louis hand off while giving him an incredulous glare.

“Prat,” Louis whines, tongue stuck out at Liam.

“Trust me,” Harry says, his voice deepening once more and Zayn’s biting at the smirk on his lips when Harry lays a hand on the one Louis has pressed against the rocky old table, “I’m much better in bed than he is.”

Louis’ eyes go wide again, mouth falling open as he fucking stares at Harry like he’s rubbish.  “What are you?”

“The guy you’re waking up to in the morning?” Harry offers.

“More beer please,” Niall calls out as Katie, the waitress with the bored expression and empty tray, passes by their table.  She waves him off with a nod, Niall barely settling back into the booth before Harry and Louis are going back and forth again with raised voices, Harry smiling while Louis does his best not to toss Niall’s plate of chips on his head.  Niall quickly scoops them away.

Zayn scoots over, pushing Niall further into Harry and Liam watches, looks a bit resigned until Zayn pats at the empty space, a silent invitation.  Liam smiles quietly, eyes blinking into tiny little spots of glittered brown, easing down into the booth and Zayn doesn’t know why he slides an arm around Liam’s shoulders, but it happens and part of him thinks he wants everyone to know that, yeah, this fit bloke is sort of here for him.

“Oh Christ,” Louis groans, tongue clicking against his teeth as he looks on them, Zayn grinning.  “He’s quite possessive, yeah?”

“Not,” Zayn replies before Liam, his arm tightening around Liam.  Okay, maybe he is.

“I need a drink,” Louis announces, turning toward the bar.  He glances over his shoulder, eyes turned down toward Harry before he’s saying, “You.  With the curls and that stupid smile.  Follow.”

Harry shoots him a glare, brow knit together and he’s looking at Niall, then Zayn to ask “Is this guy fucking serious right now?”

Louis takes a few steps before turning again, hands on his hips with his brow lifted.  “Are you coming or not?”

Harry grumbles, fingers trying to dig into the wood of the table before he’s flicking his hair back, snatching up an empty beer bottle and stomping up to Louis, shouldering past him toward the bar but Louis’ grinning wickedly, skipping behind him.

“I wonder what film Harry will be screwing him on the floor to,” Niall says lowly and Zayn chokes on his beer, coughing loudly with wide eyes set on Niall.  Niall shrugs, slips a few chips into his mouth before licking the salt away from his fingertips.

He wishes it was the alcohol that’s giving him this sweet buzz but he’s only finished one whole bottle, the other sitting warmly on the table with condensation slicking down the side of it.  No, he’s pretty certain it’s Liam and that’s nothing he wants to sort out.

Louis’ squeezed into the other end of the booth now, sticking mainly to conversations with Liam and Niall, the two finding some sort of similar sense of humor that has them ordering drink after drink, hands slapping on the table about something incredibly unfunny yet they laugh about it for a few beats before slipping into another conversation.  Louis doesn’t really say anything to Harry though Zayn spots the way his eyes trickle over Harry’s hands, the way his lips curl around one of those tiny black straws as he sips on his drink while listening to Liam talk about life at the fire station.

Niall grins when Louis buys him another plate of chips, not once flicking at Louis’ hand when he reaches for a few, popping them in his mouth as he throws the usual questions at Zayn: “Where are you from?” “What are your intentions?” “Do you have a brother that I might be able to coerce to the dark side?” Well, that last one is not typical but it does make Zayn snicker, head falling into Liam’s shoulder and he breathes in green apples and cologne, nuzzling his nose there until he thinks Harry’s eyes are on him.  He jerks back, does his best to answer Louis’ questions in the vaguest way possible, little nods and crooked smiles that never tell Louis enough, he can tell.  Louis’ eyebrows are shifty, watching Zayn but he brushes off his responses when Liam leans into Zayn, slinking back with his head on Zayn’s stretched out arm.

Zayn likes the warmth, tongue running over the edge of his lips and when did his hand start to run over the top of Liam’s head?  Those bristles are soft against his fingertips, fingers sinking until he reaches Liam’s scalp and he rubs there for a beat, listening to Harry go on about Fight Club with Niall smirking knowingly.  Zayn joins in, chewing on his lip and he doesn’t stiffen immediately when Liam’s hand rests on his thigh underneath the table, little drags of his blunt fingernails along Zayn’s jeans until Zayn imagines their imprints right along his skin.

The music’s thrumming somewhere way past ten, the crowd getting thicker.  Louis’ working through his second gin and tonic while Niall has a nice collection of beer bottles crowded around his plate of hamburger and even more chips, compliments of Harry this time who seems to be trying to find a way through that mock gate of beer bottles to steal of piece of the burger, Niall grinning pleasantly when he fails.

Zayn turns his eyes on Liam who’s lost in a chat with Paul, who brought said plate for Niall, about West Bromwich and some rugby match in Manchester that Liam would love to attend in a few months when his seventh tour is up and those eighteen days of holiday kick in.  Zayn watches the way his smile quirks up, the way he moves his hand, everything coming so naturally.  Zayn’s nothing like that when he first meets people, well except Louis but Louis’ made it pretty hard to have any sort of barrier up with his invasive questions and looks that dare you to be anything other than yourself.

Zayn nibbles along his bottom lip, the corners of his lips pulling up when Harry looks at him, a little weary before there’s adoration rushing through those green eyes – Stuck in a moment of emotion I destroyed. Is this the end I feel?

He barely notices when Liam’s head shifts, turns on Zayn and there’s that same sweet adoration circling Liam’s eyes.  It’s uneasy, the way it sticks to Zayn’s skin, leaves him incredibly vulnerable when he doesn’t do that emotion, not with complete strangers.  And Liam, he’s still sort of a stranger, right?  He thinks so except the way those eyes halo light, the way they crinkle, his lips sliding into a smile that’s sickeningly inviting with the kind of gentleness Zayn usually runs from – All of the laws I broke and loves that I've sacrificed – he’s breathing in quiet breaths, just studying Liam.

But Liam’s leaning up, fingers tightening against his thigh and Zayn thrums with the buzz now.  He leans downward, meets Liam halfway – I’ll wrap my hands around your neck so tight with love, love, love – this kiss is just as gentle and slow as the first one, chaste even in the way Liam licks at his lips but never slips his tongue inside Zayn’s mouth.  Their lips just linger against each other’s, sharp inhale of air as Zayn slips his hand behind Liam’s neck to hold him still.

Zayn always hated that Max’s kisses would sometimes taste like strawberry bubblegum or root beer; traces of what’s-her-face again but Liam’s taste like caramel, he thinks, tongue swiping over Liam’s just to be sure.

“Oh, that’s gross,” Louis remarks, his nose turned up at Liam and Zayn with his upper lip curling.

Harry snorts, head shaking, his curls moving slightly with the action.  “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

Louis smiles, leans in Harry’s direction.  “Coming from you, my dear prick, that’s a compliment.  I’ve been called much worse… in the bedroom.”

Harry gapes at Louis while Niall nearly spits his beer across the table, laughing loudly while patting Harry on the back.

Liam pulls back slowly, sucking in his bottom lip and Zayn wants to run his thumb right along his lip, against his teeth, letting Liam’s tongue flick out and taste what Zayn’s lips are dying to taste.  He settles on running his index finger over the slope of Liam’s nose, right along the bridge as blush rifles its way across Liam’s cheeks.  Zayn’s lips twitch upward, his eyes going dark and he wonders if Liam’s this shy when he’s naked.

When Harry and Niall scoot out of the booth, Niall stumbling just a little while Harry pats Louis’ head playfully, the older boy scoffing and swatting his hand away, the crowd in front of the stage is incredibly large.  Some of the drunken Uni students are making catcalls when Perrie slips onto the stage, her eyes rolling before she’s waving across the bar to Zayn.  Niall’s slipping onto a stool, fixing his guitar in his lap while Josh settles behind the drums, Perrie at a set of keyboards.

Harry shakes out his curls, his hands doing a quick swipe-swipe-sweep to fix them before he’s leaning into the mic stand, patented smirk over cherry lips.

“We are White Eskimo,” Harry announces, grinning at the cheers from more than a few of the female attendants.

“You are fucking kidding me, right?” Louis asks, head snapping in Zayn’s direction.

Zayn shrugs, smirking as he eases out of the booth, Liam joining him until they’re scooting past a few patrons to the back of the crowd, Louis sighing loudly before joining them.

They do mostly covers, Harry wailing through a few classic rock songs like “Cryin’” by Aerosmith and “Heart Shaped Box” by Nirvana before his voice slips a bit deeper, crooning through a David Bowie set, throwing in a few songs by the Fray and even doing a wickedly slow cover of “Teenage Dream” that has Louis gasping, Zayn grinning as he watches Louis’ go star-bright watching the way Harry clings onto that mic, eyes closed, sweat matting his curls to his head with his lips kissing the mic.  Definitely My Best Friend’s Wedding, Zayn thinks while smirking.

Harry finds a stool to sit on when Perrie moves up to the mic, her thick voice easing through a few covers by Alanis Morissette and “Big Girls Don’t Cry” that has Zayn smiling softly, Liam inching up behind him.  She’s singing to a few random faces before finding Zayn’s, head tilting when Liam curls his arms around Zayn’s midsection, swaying with Zayn before she’s grinning at them, turning her eyes away.

Zayn thinks if this had been anyone else, he’d slide out of their arms, find an excuse to get to the bar but really he’d just ditch them and head home for a good wank by himself.  It doesn’t happen with Liam.  He lets a hand cover the ones Liam has pressed against his stomach, doesn’t shrug away when Liam’s chin rests on Zayn’s shoulder, inhaling sharp cologne and the world goes a little sideways when Liam’s cheek brushes against his, fingers interlocked over Zayn’s stomach and Zayn’s leaning back, letting Liam’s arms swallow his body like that jacket Zayn refuses to give back does.

Harry and Perrie trade off through a few original songs, the ones Harry’s written sounding like something off of Indie radio while Perrie’s are a bit more commercial, her pink hair swaying as she shimmies over the stage, flirting playfully.  Their songs are good, really, Zayn tapping a foot along while Liam’s fingers drum along his stomach to the melody Josh bangs out.  Niall’s harmonizing with them, strumming merrily and Zayn can tell he’s blitzed off of the alcohol, not that anyone else would notice because Niall’s always this incredibly happy.  It’s just Niall.

When Perrie settles behind the mic stand, Harry behind the keyboards now, Zayn feels all of Liam’s warmth envelope him.  There’s a small kiss right behind his earlobe, Zayn’s fingers tracing up and down the hairs on Liam’s forearm.  His heart seems to be in rhythm with Josh’s drumming, painfully slow to the point that Zayn’s not sure if he’s even breathing until Perrie’s lips part to sing -- I know you're out of my league. But that won't scare me away, oh no.

Liam’s swaying back and forth, Zayn hesitantly moving with him until his eyes settle shut and he lets himself sink into this feeling.  It’s rough, the way it ruts against his skin, peels back at things Zayn’s done so well to build up.  His brow wrinkles, Liam’s lips right against his cheek, whispering along – You’ve carried on so long, you couldn’t stop if you tried it.  It aches, the way it moves over his insides, Liam capturing his hand and vining their fingers together.  But he lets it happen, gives up resistance just for a moment.

He’s not ready, not fully, when his eyes blink open and Louis’ looking on him with his lips twisted to the side, eyeing them with a tinge of distrust before his features soften at the way Liam smiles against Zayn’s cheek.  He swallows the words caught in his throat – You’ve built your wall so high that no one can climb it, but I’m gonna try – exhales heavily as Liam rests a hand on his hip, grips it as he brushes his cheek, his temple, along the side of Zayn’s neck.

Harry’s singing along now – Would you let me see beneath you’re beautiful – that deepness linking around Perrie’s alto voice until something ghosts right along Zayn’s senses.  And Liam’s lips, chapped but still soft, dance across his jaw, up to the corner of his mouth before slipping back to his ear – Take it off now boy ‘cause I wanna see inside.  And Harry’s smiling behind the mic, Niall’s head lolling back and forth happily, Perrie’s eyes closed as she throws everything into it and Zayn, he thinks his heart stops.  He thinks this is wrong, all of it, but he can’t seem to find a way out.

Zayn’s more than a little uncomfortable under Louis’ glare when they leaning on the bar, Zayn waiting on a beer for Harry and a water for Liam, while Louis waits on some cocktail that Zayn’s almost certain is going to be more tequila than anything else.  He’s chewing on his bottom lip, trading glances to Matt, whose back is to Zayn as he mixes drinks, and Louis, who won’t quit looking him up and down like he’s waiting for Zayn to speak but, honestly, Zayn doesn’t do small talk and he’s only here for the liquor, not to earn Louis’ trust.

“He comes off as a tough guy,” Louis finally says, his voice a little loud over the clang of the music in the old speakers of the pub.

Zayn quirks an eyebrow up, picks at the bowl of peanuts near the edge of the bar.

“I mean the whole firefighter thing, daddy’s little boy, doing what he thinks is best for his family.  He’s a tough guy, most days,” Louis declares offhandedly, fingers inching along the worn out wood of the bar.  His eyes drop to the tattoos along Zayn’s arm, smirking.  He looks up, eyes a little wide.  “You’re nothing like he’s dated before.”

“Meaning?” Zayn asks flatly, rubbing at his chin.

Louis snorts, ignores Zayn’s defiance.  “He’s fragile, honestly.  He’s got this rough exterior because that’s what he’s been raised to be.  His father wanted him to be a man’s man.  Martin wanted him to be a tough guy.  Liam just wants to be,” Louis chokes on his words a little, Zayn reads it in his eyes, “Liam just wants to be Liam, but he hasn’t quite figured out how to.”

Zayn nods slowly, takes in the way Louis’ eyes drop away again, emotion riding his expression.  There’s concern there now, wrinkling Louis’ brow, trapping his eyes on the scratches in the wood rather than Zayn’s face.

“I like him, I think,” Zayn admits, his voice decidedly low.  He watches Louis’ fingers, the way they spell out things in the wood.  “I don’t know.  It’s all a bit different for me, too.”

Louis nods, eyes still down.  “I can tell.  You’re not very good at this bad boy thing.”

“I am,” Zayn snaps, fumbles when Louis’ head lifts with a disbelieving grin on his lips.  He can see why Harry likes the guy so much, not that Harry admitted that to Zayn in the loo, slurring his words just a little.

“He volunteers at hospitals.  He goes to schools to talk to the kids.  Fuck, he was one damn kidney and doesn’t get anywhere near pissed unless you slip vodka into his fucking Coke and, even then, the guy is impossibly sweet and brilliantly funny in the weirdest way,” Louis rattles out, fingers trying to dig into the wood as he speaks.  And that concern that rings around blue eyes leaves Louis’ pupils blown wide, teeth nervously dragging along his bottom lip.

Zayn feels helpless for a moment.  What was he thinking?  Why this guy?

“He makes me smile,” Zayn says even lower, eyes looking away to Matt who’s sliding him a beer and a bottled water with a smirk before uneasily inching a green drink in Louis’ direction, shrugging.  Zayn drops a few quid on the counter, nodding at Matt but they don’t move away from the bar.

Zayn sighs, dragging his fingers through his falling quiff, nipping at the edge of his lip.  “I can leave him alone, if you want.  It’s just he… fuck, he saved my life, you know?  And then he opened his mouth and I sort of liked what he said.  I liked that he wasn’t an asshole, not like me.”

Louis grins, taking a small sip of his drink before making a face.  “I like you, Zayn.  Loads.  You’re… different.”

“Different,” Zayn repeats slowly, hating the way it feels along his tongue.

Louis nods happily, snatching the beer from Zayn to chase away the taste of cheap tequila.  Zayn’s certain Harry won’t be pleased about that.  He’s also very certain that Louis doesn’t give a shit.

“The other guys he’s dated were a bit of a bore.  Oh, and his last girlfriend, as sweet as she was, was so full of herself.  A complete pain in my arse, that one was,” Louis drawls out, hands waving around as he talks in the most endearing but annoying way.

Zayn’s certain he’s supposed to take it all as a compliment, smiles brilliantly before saying, “Thanks,” sighing when Louis downs half the beer with one gulp.

“Don’t fucking hurt him Zayn,” Louis says suddenly, his tone not in the least bit threatening but it’s forceful, direct with his small blue eyes narrowed at Zayn.

“I didn’t plan to,” Zayn replies, tries to believe his own words.

“Good.”

“So then we’re okay?”

“We’re sorted.”

“Right,” Zayn nods back, not really sure what Louis means by that but he’s not in the mood to ask.  “Want to get back to the others?”

“If by the others you mean that fantastically annoying giant you call a best mate, well then, possibly,” Louis grins back, swiping up his abandoned drink, sniffing at it before shrugging and swallow a fourth of it, gagging immediately.  “Shit bartender.”

“Makes a mean cranberry and vodka.”

Louis laughs, slapping Zayn’s shoulder and nearly knocking over what’s left of Harry’s beer.

“Bless.  That’s precious,” Louis sighs, swaying to the music as it fills the pub – And I’ve been spending the last eight months thinking all love is does is break, and burn, and end.  “Oh, I love this song.  She’s bloody brilliant.”

Zayn snorts, following Louis back to the table.  He thinks maybe he’ll tell Harry that story someday, when Harry’s sober enough to remember he was fancying some guy in a blazer, with tight trousers, no socks, and slicked back hair.  Yeah, Harry will like that tremendously.

They’re stumbling through the door to Liam’s flat with giggles.  It’s not that they’re drunk – Zayn’s only had two beers, too busy watching the freakishly entertaining show that was When Harry Met Louis, while Liam had only taken a few sips of Zayn’s leftover beer – but there’s some sort of buzz still lifting them off their feet.  And there was nothing but kisses, not nearly enough, on the drive back to Liam’s in the car, Zayn’s hand on Liam’s thigh as he drove, sneaking little glances and soft presses of lips at every traffic light.  Zayn’s dizzy by the time they get to the door and, wait, he’s trying to remember why he decided to go back to Liam’s flat in the first place?

“Yours or mine, Lou?” Harry slurs, arm hooked around Louis’ small shoulders and Harry’s eyes are tracing lewdly over every inch of Louis’ curvy body.

“Are you fucking mental?” Louis growls but doesn’t shrug Harry off.  He looks to Zayn, who’s leaning on Liam outside of the pub, sticky grin on his lips.  “This guy is for real, yeah?”

“Afraid so,” Niall says first, grinning.  He hiccups, no, burps out a giggle, throwing a hand over his pink lips quickly.

“I’ll take him back,” Louis sighs, circling an arm around Harry’s back before nodding toward Niall, adding, “That one too.  Do ensure my best mate gets home safe, yeah Zayn?”

Oh.  It was all Louis’ fault.  Unintentionally, but still, Zayn’s going to completely blame Louis.  Not hormones, or the way Liam’s eyes lit up at the suggestion.

Liam’s flat is quite amazing, well, loads better than Harry’s if Zayn had to make a comparison.  He should’ve known by the drive, passing through some of the older neighborhoods into the better ones, the ones with well-lit street lamps, a thick quietness that you can cough in and half the neighborhood would know about it.  It’s a bit intimidating, honestly, but Liam doesn’t make it that way.  He makes it feel like any other neighborhood in a small town with nothing better to do than drink a few beers, laugh with friends, and chase fires.

It’s incredibly clean, something he expects from Liam.  The living space is the size of Harry’s plus the kitchen, not that Zayn’s measuring or anything.  There’s a couch, one that looks incredibly comfortable but probably never sat on unless it’s Louis plopping down on it.  A glass coffee table sits in the middle of the room, carefully spread out magazines and paperwork covering it.  The flat screen is relatively small, though Zayn imagines Liam doesn’t spend much time watching it.  There’s framed artwork from various films like The Dark Knight, Iron Man, even a Thor one and who says Liam’s a DC kid, yeah?  And the dining table is made of cherry wood but there’s nothing on it, not even one of those vases full of fake flowers.

The kitchen is definitely larger than Harry’s, not by much.  It’s got marble countertops, a sleek black fridge, dishes drying in the rack, and Zayn notices the small dog bowl of food and water on the floor before something comes scampering into the kitchen, yelping with excitement as it dances around Liam’s feet for a minute before trying to jump on Zayn’s legs.

Liam bends down to ruffle the dog’s ears.  It’s nothing but a pup, large ears pointed up with a black and white coat.  Zayn eyes it, something like a husky but it’s more like one of those Alaskan dogs, standing a little tall but Zayn can still see it’s young by its perky walk, the way it doesn’t do everything gracefully but the way its tongue hangs out for Liam tells Zayn they’re nearly inseparable.

“Rescued him from a building the other day,” Liam explains before Zayn can ask, scrubbing just behind the dog’s ear.  He grins down at the pup, tipping his head back when he tries to leap up and lick Liam’s face.  “I haven’t named him just yet.”

Zayn nods, watches the dog sniff at his feet before sitting in front of Zayn, tongue hanging out.

“Think he likes you,” Liam mutters, patting the soft coat.  “He absolutely hated Louis the first time.  Chased him all over the house.”

Zayn snorts, imagines not too many people are fond of Louis on the first meeting.

“I was thinking of something like Timber or Bob,” Liam says with a shrug, standing again.

“Bob?”

Liam snickers, rubbing at the back of his neck.  Zayn’s heart does not skip a beat at that.  No, it skips two beats, he thinks.

“I don’t know,” Liam replies with a shrug, patting at his leg until the dog scampers away from Zayn and nearly collides into Liam’s leg.  “I’m not very good at naming animals.”

Zayn drags his fingers through his hair, twirling the ends until they stand a little higher as the pup sniffs around the kitchen mischievously, searching for something until he’s barking at the cabinets, lifting his small paws to scratch at them until Liam’s shuffling him back with his foot.

“I keep hiding the treats and, somehow, he keeps finding them,” Liam explains, nipping at his bottom lip as the dog lets loose a small bark.  “Sneaky little bastard.”

“Loki,” Zayn blurts out, eyes a bit wide.  Didn’t he really just try to name Liam’s dog?

Liam blinks at him for a moment, smirk shifting over his lips.  He nods slowly, wheels turning behind his eyes.

“Loki,” he repeats lowly, rubbing at the back of his head.  “I like that.”

Zayn bites down on his bottom lip, hard, hides his smile.  He wonders who really was more trouble – the dog or Liam himself.

“Thirsty?” Liam asks, shifting the silence away.

Yes, but not for anything in your fridge, Zayn thinks but bites gently on his tongue to stop himself.  “No,” comes out, rubbing idly at the scruff lining his chin as Liam leans against the counter, Loki marching out of the kitchen with his head high.

“Oh,” Liam whispers, shyness taking over.  Zayn traces his eyes over him, the way his clothes fit, the way his face is soft under the kitchen lighting, the way his knuckles turn white from grabbing the counter a little too tightly.  His tongue slips, wets his lips, licks against the back of his teeth.

“I don’t have to stay,” Zayn says suddenly, hates that he does because Liam’s face falls just a little.

It’s silly, really, the way he moves closer to Liam, fingers reaching out and running a small path along Liam’s neck, tracing over the birthmark there, just beneath Liam’s shirt to run over his collarbone.  He’s being comforting when he’s not really sure how to, Liam’s hand running up his side before securing fingers around Zayn’s hipbone.

“You don’t have to,” Liam breathes out quietly, thumb pushing at the hem of Zayn’s shirt until the pad rubs idly over Zayn’s skin.  They shiver together.

“Right,” Zayn says with a nod, but he doesn’t move away.  He jerks his head in the direction of the door, smirking.  “I can catch a cab back.  Or call Niall, have him nick Hazza’s car.  Wouldn’t be so bad.”

Liam nods, leans forward until his forehead presses gently against Zayn’s.  His other hand finds the bottom of Zayn’s shirt, tugs gently at it until it’s up above Zayn’s navel, more skin exposed for his fingertips to run over.  Zayn’s breath is a little shaky when it leaves his chest this time.

“I could drive you back,” Liam offers, eyes not on Zayn’s.  They’re on Zayn’s lips, watching the way they part, the way the tongue runs over them every few seconds just to wet them, do anything but talk.

Zayn’s decided talking is a very bad thing.

“Or you could stay here a little while longer?” Liam suggests, head tilting just slightly.

“I could,” Zayn agrees, head telling him, No, you really can’t.

“You could,” Liam whispers back, dragging the shirt higher, thumbs dragging over Zayn’s nipples, fingers tracing the ridges of his ribs.

“I shouldn’t,” Zayn says with a swallow but he’s got fingers digging into the skin of Liam’s neck, massaging, while his other hand runs over the waistband of Liam’s pants, light touches that aren’t too incriminating.  At least, he thinks they’re not until Liam inches forward and something firm presses to Zayn’s hip.

“You shouldn’t?”

Zayn laughs, deep and low, watches the way Liam’s eyes flutter when Zayn’s fingers stroke his stomach through the fabric of his shirt.

“You have a rule,” Zayn replies, watches the drag of Liam’s tongue this time as he wets his own lips.  Fuck, he wants that tongue right along the small of his back, dipping tragically lower.  His nails dig a little too firmly, small crescents pressed red into Liam’s neck, dragging until Liam’s chest rises and falls a little quicker.

“I like the rule,” Zayn gasps out, head pulling back just a little and that shirt is tugged off, dropped onto the counter.  He lets his eyes slip closed when Liam’s warm hands slide up his chest, over his collarbone, head dipping to run soft kisses over his tattoos, soft moans coming from either Liam or himself; he’s not really sure.

“It’s a very important rule,” Liam mutters against his skin, tongue licking out to run over every strip of Arabic along his collarbone.  “But Zayn – “

“Liam, you don’t have to,” Zayn says quickly, his hands shifting on the back of Liam’s head, unable to find purchase which he’s not completely angry about.  He really doesn’t want those kisses over his chest to stop.

“Zayn,” Liam whispers again.  It’s quite sinful the way it feels in Zayn’s ears, hips rolling forward just to get some friction across his cock, shaking when Liam grips his hips forcefully, holds him still with fingers digging in.

Zayn’s leg lifts a little, curls just behind Liam’s leg, head dropping and his nose is buried in the prickly hairs, breathing in apple shampoo, sweat, the heady scent that is Liam.

“Zayn,” Liam says once more, head lifting and he’s curling fingers around the back of Zayn’s neck, pulling him closer.

“We can stop babe,” Zayn heaves out, trying to make himself believe his own words.  He’s a bloody fantastic liar, but this is not one of his more believable occasions.  “Your rule.”

“Applies to the first date,” Liam say suddenly, thumb running over the hoop earring in Zayn’s ear, right down to the corner of his jaw.  His lips ghost just over Zayn’s, hands a little more possessive.  “This is not the first date, Zayn.”

It’s all Zayn needs to hear before he’s got arms thrown around Liam’s neck, lips fastened to Liam’s as Liam pushes him back against the counter, the marble digging into his back, cold and unforgiving, but Zayn just doesn’t care.  He feels Liam’ tongue slip inside, gasping around it before his own tongue licks at it, tastes the bitterness from the beer, the salt from the chips he’d managed to nick off of Niall’s plate, the sweetness like slow dripping honey right at the back of Liam’s throat.

His fingers are usually more coordinated, but they fumble with Liam’s belt, struggle with the zipper of his trousers and, somehow, he misses it when Liam undoes his own pants, pulling open the flaps and dragging them down until they’re tangled around Zayn’s thighs.  They only stop kissing long enough to breathe, panting laughs as they look on each other with some sort of silly amazement like they can’t believe this is happening.

Like Zayn can’t believe he’s letting this happen.

“You’re incredible,” Liam whispers against Zayn’s neck, fingers digging into Zayn’s hips, lips leaving small red bruises just below his collarbone before they’re inching up and sucking gently on Zayn’s neck.

Zayn whishes Liam would shut up, would stop making him feel like something greater than what he knows he is.  Something he’d learn long ago he is.  He made his own rules, remember?

Liam’s dull fingernails are gentle when they drag down Zayn’s back, Zayn’s smaller nails a little more savage as they scratch over Liam’s neck, down right along his hips before he pushes Liam’s pants down, letting them pool around his ankles until Liam toes off his shoes, steps out of his pants clumsily.  Zayn laughs into his ear, breathy moans before Liam’s grinning against his skin, pushing him further into that counter.

“Get yours off,” Liam demands, fingers digging into Zayn’s hips again until he’s lifting Zayn up, seating him on the counter.  His lips find Zayn’s before Zayn can complain about the cool surface, teeth nipping at Zayn’s bottom lip.  “Now, Zayn.”

Zayn nods into the kiss, struggles to push his pants down far enough but then Liam’s helping him, untying his shoes, jerking the offensive clothing off and tossing it back until it slaps against the wall loudly, Loki barking somewhere far off.

His hands are on either side of Liam’s face, holding him in the kiss as Liam’s hand folds over his crotch, pulling, palming him through his white briefs.  Zayn’s a mess of pants, needing more than the sparks behind his eyelids to cool this burn right along his skin.  He slips his legs around Liam’s hips, scoots closer until he can hook his ankles and Liam’s pushing up on his tiptoes just to reach Zayn’s lips for a kiss.

“Bedroom?” Liam suggests between kisses, everything else he says muffled by Zayn’s lips and tongue.

Zayn nods, doesn’t pull back from the kissing because, shit, Liam’s lips taste incredible.

“I’m going to lift you,” Liam warns him, tongue swiping over Zayn’s teeth as his arms encircle Zayn’s midsection.

It doesn’t quite set in, Liam’s words, but then he feels it, Liam’s muscles going taut as he pulls Zayn off the counter, holds him secure and close to his own body and Zayn’s eyes go more than a little wide, pulling back from the kiss.  Liam’s grinning below him, Zayn’s arms wrapping tightly around Liam’s neck and there’s an inch of fear crawling up his spine until Liam’s kissing along his chest, tongue swiping over a nipple, teeth dragging over skin and Zayn’s there again, kissing Liam’s forehead.  He’s working his hips downward, sliding just a little in Liam’s grip, working any inch of his body possible over Liam’s length and, Christ, Liam feels thick and long in those damn Superman boxers, everything tenting and stretching fabric.

Liam’s room is too dark for Zayn to truly make out but it looks lived in.  It’s the one place in the flat that looks like Liam actually spends quality time there, with clothes strewn over an old armchair in the corner, the bed unmade, a half-drunken bottle of water on the nightstand next to the bed.

Liam drops Zayn onto the mattress, Zayn sitting up to complain but then Liam’s blanketing Zayn’s body with his own.  Somewhere, Liam had snatched off those damn boxers and his lips fasten to Zayn’s neck again, grinding purposefully against Zayn until Zayn feels exactly how hard Liam truly is.  And the kisses, oh, they’re sticky sweet now, incredibly slow with Liam’s hands tracing every angle of Zayn’s body.

Zayn’s legs spread, welcome Liam in between, hands scrambling along his back, trying to leave marks that Liam will see in the bathroom mirror in the morning.  Liam’s snickering into the crook of his neck, nipping playfully as he pulls at Zayn’s tight briefs, snapping them back against Zayn’s skin until Zayn’s whining – something he hasn’t done since that drunken night with Max and, yeah, the sex was pretty good that night.

“You sure?” Liam asks and Zayn’s more than sure he should be asking Liam that question.

“Lee-yum,” Zayn mewls, rutting his hips up against Liam’s until Liam’s grinning, burying his face in Zayn’s neck again.

“You’re not going to run away tomorrow, are you?” Liam wonders, slowly pulling down Zayn’s briefs.

Zayn swallows, I was thinking about it, he thinks but he shakes his head.  He’s pretty sure he wouldn’t, not now.  Not when Liam’s kisses feel like a dusting of safety over his skin.  Not when this damn bed feels, oddly, like home and that’s not a feeling he’s expecting.

Their kisses last a little longer before anything happens.  Zayn’s smiling into them, rolling around on the bed, tangling their bodies in the brown duvet, in the cream sheets, knocking pillows off the bed with snickers and lazy kisses.  Zayn’s stroking Liam, thumb playing along the slit until its sticky and wet with Liam’s precome.  Liam’s dancing kisses along his shoulder, teeth scraping the skin before he’s nudging Zayn’s head back for more access to skin he’s probably licked at a dozen times now but keeps going back like it’s a fresh spot.

“Take this damn shirt off,” Zayn complains, wanting more skin to touch, to run his tongue over.

“Can I fuck you?” Liam asks suddenly, lips right along Zayn’s Adam apple and Zayn shivers.

He’s quiet for more than a minute, letting Liam grind down against him, fingers tiptoeing over the back of Liam’s neck, pressed under this comfortably heavy weight of muscles and adoration.  He blinks at the ceiling, waits until Liam’s lips are at his, brown eyes looking down into his with worry.

“Yeah,” Zayn says after a beat, lets it all sink into his senses.

“Yeah?”

Zayn nods quickly, doesn’t give himself time to regret it because he knows if he does, he’ll be out that bed, yanking his clothes on before stomping out the door, trying to forget how the world seems to go impossibly bright in Liam’s eyes.

But then he’s pulled back to reality, fingers clenching those soft sheets with two of Liam’s fingers pressed inside of him, twisting roughly before rubbing gently against the clenching walls.  And Liam’s tongue, oh, it’s licking teasingly at his balls, Liam looking up at him through gold lashes.

Zayn’s feet are planted firmly against with mattress, hips thrusting into the air, sinking back down onto those fingers and he’s completely destroyed with the way Liam’s looking on him with fascination.  He shuts his own eyes tightly, can’t take it, shivering sigh passing over his lips when Liam adds a third finger, the lube sticky along the back of his thigh, dripping down from his hole.

“I’m not too,” Liam catches himself and Zayn can imagine the blush seizing Liam’s cheeks in that moment.  “I mean, a guy or two may have said I’m a bit – “

“How many?” Zayn asks, no, snaps.  He’s not jealous.  Okay, he is and maybe he’s showing it but Liam’s so innocent, so gentle.  He doesn’t want to imagine anyone having this, in this bed, with this man that Zayn’s truly a bit taken aback by.

“They didn’t matter,” Liam says, crawling up Zayn’s body with his fingers still lodged in Zayn’s body, searching until they press against something lovely that has Zayn’s next exhale of air stripped right out of his lungs.

“You say that to all of them?  The girls too?” Zayn asks with a breathy laugh, but he sort of means it.  None of them deserved Liam.

He thinks he doesn’t either.

“No,” Liam whispers and it’s the first time Zayn realizes Liam’s lips are right along his jaw, tongue running over the rough stubble.  His eyes blink open when Liam’s lips trace over his, mouthing them but never fully sinking in.

“They don’t?”

“No,” Liam promises.  Zayn believes him.  “You?  You’re something else.  Something – “

“Different?” Zayn wonders, brow arched.

“Huh?”

“Nevermind,” Zayn says back, sighing.  He reaches up, steals a few kisses before Liam’s lips crush against his, move with purpose, dragging pieces of Zayn away with every stroke of their lips.

When Liam pulls back, fingers slipping out loudly, reaching blindly for the condom, more lube from that silly purple bottle, Zayn’s pushing him back.  Fuck, he wants that stupid shirt off but he settles for the thrill of knowing Liam wants him too much to even bother taking off all of his clothes.  Hell, even his socks were still on but that was another kink Zayn would have to explore later.

“Let me,” Zayn pants between words, still pushing at Liam, “Get on top.”

Liam blinks at him, mouth agape but Zayn’s smirking, rolling Liam over on to his back before throwing his legs on either side of Liam.  He settles himself, trying not to put too much weight on Liam and he snickers at the way Liam’s still propped up on his elbows, watching Zayn.

“Rubber,” Zayn says breathily, snapping Liam from the daze he’s in and he’s scrambling to tear at the foil, taking at least three times to figure out which end of the condom to use before he’s rolled it on, Zayn squeezing a small portion of lube onto Liam’s cock to slick it, his strokes deliberately slow until Liam’s gripping at the sheets, Zayn’s thighs, panting uncontrollably.

Zayn bites down hard on his bottom lip when the head slides past his ring.  He’s done this enough times, with enough guys, to know how it goes.  But the sting is still there, eyes shifting closed with his palms flat against Liam’s chest.  He shudders as he sinks lower, the thickness stretching him and Liam’s got steady hands on Zayn’s hips, thumbs stroking gently in some comforting manner.  Zayn sort of likes the way it feels, Liam holding him, never letting him move too fast, gentling him onto Liam’s cock like he doesn’t want to hurt Liam.

That hurts more than the burn.

“Shit,” Zayn hisses, struggles for a second or two but then he’s bottoming out, he’s feeling Liam deep inside, the head stroking gently on that spot that has Zayn’s breathing stuttering.

Liam’s lying back on the bed, eyes on Zayn but his lips are parted, quiet moans slipping past.  Zayn smiles down on him, head tilted with a thin coat of sweat across his forehead.  His hair is probably fucked, he knows, but so is everything else inside of him.  The moon is slicking through the room, painting it silver and ivory and Liam’s glowing beneath him, fumbling with a smile as he tries not to thrust up into Zayn.

“I’m good,” Zayn whispers, shifting just a bit to fit Liam right along that spot.  He hums lowly, teeth sinking into the flesh of his lip.

Liam nods, doesn’t move and it’s sort of adorable, but Zayn doesn’t tell him.  He merely lifts up, lets his hole adjust to the stretch before sinking back down.  And a groan finally breaks past Liam’s lips, loud and his eyes shift shut quickly, fingers digging into Zayn’s hip.

There’s a pounding in Zayn’s head when he starts to really move.  His lifts his hips, drops them down quick, let’s the fullness strike fire against his skin.  It’s something like that music Harry blares loudly in the car - A constellation of tears on your lashes. Burn everything you love then burn the ashes - speakers rattling with every bang of the drums.  His heart races a little too fast, body thrumming, sweat sliding slickly down his spine until it reaches the small of his back.

Liam’s hands are tight, leaving behind marks as they move from his hips to his ass, rubbing before trying to drag up his back but its all slick skin and rapid movements.  His head is tilted back, neck exposed and Zayn focuses on the veins as they appear, Liam groans hoarse and drug out as Zayn bounces on him.  And Zayn’s fingers, they’re digging into the fabric of Liam’s shirt, pulling at it until he thinks it’ll tears, his muscles relaxing and tightening just as quick as he tries to grow accustom to Liam inside of him.

“Zayn.”

Zayn crumbles a bit at the way Liam says his name, losing some of his rhythm but then Liam’s hands are right there, getting him back into the groove, back into the pace he set.  His mouth falls open, nothing coming out but shallow pants – In the end everything collides.  His cock, sticking up and out, slaps his stomach a few times before he settles on just grinding down onto Liam’s erection, letting his cock slide slickly over Liam’s stomach, leaving behind sticky smears over Liam’s tan skin.

“C’mere,” Liam pleads, fingers carding through Zayn’s hair before dragging him down, their lips fastening together like they were never supposed to part.

Zayn pants against Liam’s lips, shivers when Liam kindly smacks a palm against his ass, grinning when Liam apologizes.  He shakes his head, bites at Liam’s lip until Liam finally let’s go, thrusting up into Zayn and the sting of the next slap doesn’t feel as restrained as the last.

Zayn’s head snaps back when Liam finally forms a tight grip around Zayn’s cock, pulling at the foreskin, thumb running impatiently over the head.  He grips at Liam’s shoulders, tries to remain steady but he’s not, he knows it.  Liam’s doing most of the work now, rutting up into him until Zayn’s a mess of breathless gasps and fumbled words that stick heavily to the tip of his tongue.

“It’s okay,” Liam whispers, his voice barely getting over the sounds of skin smacking skin.  “I’m not going to let you go.”

Zayn’s eyes go wide at that, sees some sort of unbreakable promise in Liam’s eyes and it hurts more than it comforts.  He bites down on his lip, nods, his brow furrowed and there’s a shudder in Liam’s last thrust, something unyielding in the way he won’t stop staring at Zayn.  Like he wants him.  Like he needs him.  Like Liam actually thinks Zayn is the world – My songs know what you did in the dark. So light ‘em up.

Zayn nearly collapses on Liam when his thumb strokes the head once more, releasing himself on Liam’s stomach, streaking his shirt and Liam’s thrusting roughly, striking those nerves over and over until Zayn’s sobbing, supported only by his elbows on either side of Liam’s head.

“Li,” Zayn gasps, way too sensitive as Liam strokes him with a determined look on his face.  “Fuck, Liam.”

Liam’s head snaps back, body going stiff and Zayn gasps, feels Liam shake beneath him with his eyes clenched shut.  And he doesn’t really know why but he leans down, gentle kisses around Liam’s parted lips, comforting fingers stroking Liam’s cheek, his nose nuzzling Liam’s for a moment until Liam comes down from that high and they’re both breathless and sweaty.

Zayn rolls off of Liam, hisses when Liam slips out, tangling himself in the sheets as Liam stumbles off the bed.  He trips into the bathroom, the one that’s connected to Liam’s room, flicking on the light and Zayn hears water running, catches glimpses of Liam’s naked flesh from the partially open door.  His lips part, stares just a little too long before Liam’s peeking back out with a grin, blush lighting his cheeks in a pink hue.

“Stay?” Liam requests, clicking off the light and Zayn’s grateful because he doesn’t know if he can take looking in Liam’s eyes right now.

“I don’t know,” Zayn says, worrying his lip with his teeth.  His fingers dig into the sheets, breathing in that heady scent from the sex and, Christ, they smell like Liam.  “Your tour at the station starts in the morning and – “

“Stay,” Liam says with more confidence this time, finding Zayn’s hand in the dark and folding their fingers together.  “Just tonight.  You don’t have to call tomorrow and promise you’ll stick around.  Just tonight, Zayn.”

Zayn swallows, nods though he doesn’t even know if Liam can see him.  He doesn’t move when Liam curls up behind him, pulling pieces of the duvet over them and Zayn grins when he finally feels Liam’s naked chest against his back, spots that stupid shirt pooled on the floor outside of the bathroom door.  He tangles his legs with Liam’s, feels Liam’s toes brush over his ankle, Liam’s lips on his shoulder, right along the skull tattoo.

“Thank you,” Liam whispers, arms circling Zayn’s body and pulling him backward.

Zayn lifts his brow, doesn’t look over his shoulder though he’s tempted to.

“For what?”

Liam mumbles something that Zayn never makes out before his breathing evens out, sleeping soundly with Zayn in his arms.  It takes Zayn a while to follow, a bit stiff in Liam’s arms.  His heart thumps in his chest, the warmth of Liam’s solid weight doing little to ease his mind.

He can’t.  He can’t do his.  Not to this guy.  It’d be so much easier if he was a prick, or some random stranger, or Max even.  But he’s not and it aches along Zayn’s fingers.  It leaves him dragging shaking hands through his hair, trying to be anything other than comfortable in Liam’s arms.

But then Liam’s lips kiss at his neck, Liam snuggling tighter and it just settles.  Everything goes quiet in his mind, even the sound of his heart dulls.

He takes in a deep breath, fuck, he wants a cigarette.  Maybe that’ll remind him being with Liam isn’t such a brilliant idea.

Yet, it sort of is.

In the morning, when Liam drops him off after a cup of tea at Liam’s flat and a rather short repeat of the night before in the shower, Zayn’s dragging his feet just to make it inside of Harry’s flat because it’s way too damn early and what gave Liam the right to work at a such unholy hour of the day?

Harry pops up from the couch when Zayn pushes the door open, hand gripping his head with lidded eyes and his curls are tangled everywhere.  He gives Zayn a sheepish look, glancing down to where Niall is still passed out on the floor and curled up around an empty bottle of Coke.

Zayn sighs, carding fingers through his hair as Harry’s lips quirk, pull into a smug grin that Zayn sort of hates in the best possible way.

“He’s way better than Max” Harry admits with a shrug, sinking back down into the couch.  “I like him.”

Zayn nods, kicks off his shoes before tiptoeing over to the couch.  “I think I do too.”

“Mmm, that’s not good,” Harry whispers, his voice deep with lingering sleep.  He opens his arms, Zayn smiling before sinking down onto the couch and letting Harry pull him into a friendly cuddle.

“It’s the worst thing ever,” Zayn mumbles into Harry’s shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of Harry’s t-shirt.

“Probably not,” Harry says into Zayn’s hair, vining their legs together.  He strokes Zayn’s ear, chin nuzzling against Zayn’s temple.  “Maybe it’s about time someone like him came around.  Maybe it’s about time you found a little happiness.”

“Don’t deserve it,” Zayn whispers, curling closer to Harry.

“No, you don’t,” Harry snorts, tugging at Zayn’s hair.  “But that’s only because you’re an asshole.”

Zayn pinches Harry’s side with a snicker, head shaking.

He knows Harry doesn’t mean it, but part of him believes it.  After all, he spent more time looking out for himself than others for too long.  Why would he deserve Liam?  Wouldn’t it all just fall apart, like his family fell apart?  Like his life fell apart.

**

Zayn’s picking up dirty dishes, sniffing at clothes when he pulls them from under the coffee table, from between the cushions of the couch, making a face a few times before snatching up a pile and walking them to the hamper in Harry’s room, stuffing them inside.  He’s wiping down the kitchen counters when Harry leans against the doorframe of the kitchen, eyebrows lifted with his lips twitching.

“Are you cleaning?” Harry asks as if it’s not apparent and Zayn tries not to snap.

“Possibly,” Zayn hums out, scrubbing at a particularly rough spot until he gives up and slides a coaster over it.

“But why?  You only clean when I’m not here,” Harry jests, arms folding over his chest and his head is sort of leaning to the side to watch Zayn.

“Liam’s coming over with Louis in a few,” Zayn announces, Niall peeking up from where he is planted on the floor, tongue licking his upper lip of sugar from his Danish before he’s fully invested in another round of Halo.

“Why?” Niall asks before Harry’s lips can form the words he needs.

“No, not why,” Harry hisses, eyes narrowing at Zayn.  He ignores it until Harry growls, “What the fuck?  I do not need that self-righteous little shit in my flat.”

“That’s not entirely what you were saying last week at the pub,” Zayn declares with a grin, dodging Harry’s glare as he slides out of the kitchen to fluff the cushions on the couch.  It doesn’t do much and Zayn settles on fixing all of his art supplies into a neat corner of the room.

“He’s right,” Niall says around a Danish, lips smacking together with a grin.  He groans when he loses another round, setting the controller down to swallow back a healthy gulp of orange juice.

“I was shitfaced,” Harry grumbles, kicking at the wall.

“You were flirting,” Zayn sings back, flopping down onto the couch.

“You were horny,” Niall adds, grinning up at Zayn who smirks and nods.

“You two can go fuck yourselves,” Harry snaps, spinning on his heels before stomping towards his room.

“Ten quid says he’s going to shower and comes out with that terribly smelly cologne he always wears when he wants a shag,” Niall offers, head cocked to the side to admire Zayn.

“Twenty says Louis doesn’t fall for it,” Zayn says right back, hand extending for Niall.

“You’re so on,” Niall chuckles, shaking Zayn’s hand before plucking another sticky Danish from the box Harry had brought home from the bakery.

Zayn’s quite certain that he’s winning the bet by the time Liam and Louis arrive.  He’s barely pressed a gentle kiss to Liam’s lips before Harry and Louis are stealing deathly glances, barking at each other every time the other ones so much as breathes too loud.  And Niall’s a fit of laughter on the couch, wedged to one end with Liam and Zayn taking the other one.

Harry whines when Louis steals his bowl of sweetcorn, Louis nearly dumping a glass of wine over Harry’s head when Harry makes a remark about how Louis’ ass looks in his trousers.  And they’re both shooting Niall wide-eyed glares when he makes a remark about not wanting to see them fuck right in front of them, tossing fresh popcorn at his head until he’s cowering behind Zayn, Zayn laughing into the crook of Liam’s neck.

“You had better not be a shit cook,” Louis demands as he follows Harry into the kitchen and Harry’s spinning on his heels a little too quickly, Louis slamming into his body with his arms wrapping around Louis to steady him.

Fuck, Zayn thinks, Niall’s eyes lighting up as Louis and Harry stare at each other for a long breath, mouths gaping open and, for once, there’s not hateful words spewing from their lips.

“You’re a pesky little shit, you know that,” Harry declares and there goes Niall’s bowl of sweetcorn as he groans and Zayn grins.

It’s all cussing, the loud banging of pots and bowls, and Zayn thinks, at one point, Harry chucks the spatula at Louis’ head.

“I think Lou might have a thing for your mate,” Liam whispers into his ear, arm secured around Zayn’s smaller shoulders and Zayn can’t help but lean into the touch.

Zayn snickers, watches Louis hop onto the counter and sip slowly on his wine while watching Harry sweat over the stove, hair pushed back and there’s something lingering in Louis’ eyes as he watches Harry’s shoulders underneath that thin tank top he’s wearing.

“How could you tell?” Zayn snorts, hand sliding into Liam’s lap until he finds Liam’s fingers, tangling them together while Niall starts up another losing game of Halo.

Harry fixes a chicken dish that’s surprisingly really good, being that all Zayn’s known Harry for is breakfast, the occasional bowl of pasta, and his self-proclaimed “world famous fajitas.”  It’s got the right amount of spice that has Zayn smiling around his fork and Liam reaching for a bottle of water every other bite.  Typically, Louis complains the whole time but he’s finished his plate before the others, pushing it aside and curling into Niall’s lap to chat about some silly song he’s quite in love with, stealing glances over his shoulder at Harry like no one notices but they all do, including Harry who keeps his eyes low.

They decide against Niall’s suggestion of a Halo tournament, balk at Harry’s idea of playing Truth Or Dare even though Louis seemed mildly amused by the concept, and settle on watching a movie instead.  Niall wants Battleship, Louis argues in favor of Notting Hill which Harry makes a face at even though, secretly, Zayn knows Harry’s probably grinning on the inside.  Zayn and Niall all but rebuff Harry’s suggestion to watch Chicago, though they both see the spark that lights up in Louis’ blue eyes and Zayn doesn’t want to imagine Louis standing on top of the coffee table, flick kicks and sultry looks as he bellows out “Cell Block Tango.”

They settle on a vote and Zayn and Liam win, obviously, Liam popping Captain America into the player before squeezing in next to Louis, practically laying in Zayn’s lap with his head tipped back against Zayn’s shoulder, Zayn’s arms curled around Liam’s waist and wide shoulders.  He breathes in sweet apples, Liam pressing his nose to Zayn’s upper arm and he wonders if Liam can smell the smoke there, lips kissing gently at the skin on the inside of Zayn’s arm.

They only make it about halfway before things sort of fall apart.  Harry and Louis are sitting cross-legged on the floor, passing the wine bottle back and forth and Zayn doesn’t even want to know what they’re whispering to each other that has Harry’s eyes wide and Louis’ cheeks a brand new shade of red, but Niall’s behind them on the couch, humming and singing – The day I first met you, you told me you’d never fall in love – until Harry’s reaching back and smacking his knee.

Zayn’s has his back leaning against an arm of the couch, his knees pulled up almost to his chest, Liam sitting on his feet, still engrossed in the movie as Zayn sketches.  His hands are a swift blur of strokes, catching almost every detail, the softness in the cheek, the slope of the nose, the way Liam’s eyes get particularly large during certain scenes.  His fingers curl around one of the pens when Liam’s mouth quirks into a smile, laughing at something and Zayn’s breathless for a moment.  He’s quite perfect and Zayn doesn’t think that’s possible.  But it is.

Liam’s chewing his bottom lip when he turns to Zayn, tries to peek over his knees to Zayn’s sketchpad and Zayn pulls it close, head shaking with a grin.

“Is it me?” Liam asks, his voice a little awe-stricken.

Zayn shrugs, presses the pad back against his thighs to fix the shape of Liam’s eyebrows.  “Could be.”

Liam grins politely, fingers lingering on Zayn’s knee, watching the way Zayn’s fingers grip a colored pencil, quick strokes along the paper catching just the right hue under Liam’s chin where the shadows darken his skin.  Zayn grins back, teeth sinking into his lip, Liam mimicking the action while rubbing at the back of his neck.  He tries to catch the way Liam’s eyes crinkle in the corners when his smile expands, doesn’t bother adding the blush easing across Liam’s cheeks.  He strokes out the lashes, gentle when he shades in the birthmark and he can hear Niall whispering into Louis’ ear this time – Let me give your heart a break.

Louis’ a bit of a drunken mess when the credits stare to roll, Niall snuggled to his end of the couch, snoring away as Harry tips his head back, watching Louis spin around the room with the sort of love that only comes with someone completely intoxicated.  Or Niall once he’s fed, but Zayn finds Louis far more amusing.

“He’s right sloshed, yeah?” Harry asks Liam who’s watching Louis with wide eyes, barely nodding because Louis’ actually doing the fucking samba to the end theme music to Captain America, which really isn’t upbeat or the least bit rhythmic but Louis’ finding a way to make his own melody.

“Now what were you saying the other night about wondering how good I’ll look under your sheets?” Louis asks, sauntering over to Harry and Liam’s throwing a hand over his mouth, Zayn biting into his own knuckles when Louis drops down into Harry’s lap, tangling fingers into his curls.

Harry’s wide-eyed now, mouth open and the way Louis looks at him, sinful and devilish, makes Zayn blush.

“This is our cue,” Liam whispers to Zayn, his breath hot against Zayn’s ear and Zayn nods slowly, tries but can’t take his eyes away as Harry’s hands slide up Louis’ hips and Louis makes a sort of purring noise, dipping down lower until he’s completely seated on Harry with his knees on either side of Harry’s hip.

“Fuck, I think I just lost twenty quid,” Zayn mutters as Liam hauls Zayn off the couch, drags him down the hall to the bathroom, a muffled moan breaking through the closed door before Zayn’s certain he hears a hand smacking a face.

Liam’s breathless with laughter, leaning on the sink while Zayn crowds into Liam’s personal space, grinning into his neck.  It’s weird, the way it feels like this is where he should be, with Liam.  It’s crossed his mind one time too many over the past week, not seeing Liam once since that night because Liam’s on call or working his tour.  But Liam calls, sometimes at night, sometimes way too early in the morning with a hushed voice that’s apologizing until Zayn rolls over on the couch, sighing awake.  He’s certain Liam shouldn’t be calling while doing things like cleaning the fire truck or right before a workout with his crew members, but he does anyway, talks to Zayn until Zayn’s sort of in love with Liam’s voice, the way it’s warm and ridiculously happy like Zayn does this to him.  And they don’t talk about anything really, Zayn avoiding anything that may revolve around how he feels about Liam and Liam’s fairly good at not asking Zayn too many personal questions, keeps it simple.

He knows it’s unfair but his guard is still up and, as much as he wants to, he doesn’t know how to feel about Liam.

He likes the way Liam’s hands spread over his back, fingers splayed and gentle while Liam’s lips press quiet kisses to his temple.  It’s all a bit chaste, nothing dark and lustful like the other night.  Zayn’s fingers spread over Liam’s hips, hold him still as he pulls back a little, head lolled to the side to grin at Liam until Liam’s drifting forward, closing the distance.

Liam tastes like Coke, spice, and lingering sweetness.  His tongue swipes over Liam’s lips, doesn’t slip in until Liam moans, begs for it.  His fingers dig into Liam’s hips when Liam’s strong arms circle around his neck, draw Zayn in closer.  There’s a muffled groan, something sexy and distracting, that Zayn swallows and he’s kissing a little rougher to pull that sound out of Liam again.  He’s pushing Liam’s shirt up, stroking his thumb along the definition of Liam’s abs, briefs feeling way too small with the way his cock is pushing at them.

“Babe,” Zayn whispers, nipping lightly at Liam’s bottom lip until Liam pulls at the cotton of his shirt, dragging him even closer to crush their lips together.  “Can I see you?  Want to taste you.”

Liam gasps, his breath drenching Zayn’s lips in warmth, eyes blown wide when he looks on Zayn before shaking his head, fingers tugging at the front of Zayn’s joggers.

“Let me,” Liam whispers, involuntarily thrusting his hips against Zayn’s until Zayn bites down on his lip, feels the full length of Liam through his jeans.  “Let me take care of you.”

“But – “

Liam swallows Zayn’s moan with a kiss, lips pressing firmly until Zayn’s nodding, sinking into Liam’s touch as he pulls Zayn’s aching cock out of his black briefs.  His nails scratch along Liam’s forearm, pants leaving his lips and invading Liam’s mouth.  His toes curl in his socks, tugging at Liam’s shirt because he wants it off, off right fucking now but he can’t function properly with Liam dragging his palm along his dick before pulling off, spitting into his hand and then, oh then it’s replace with sweet rapture and slickness.

And Liam, fuck, he’s whispering things he shouldn’t in his ear: “You looked amazing that night.” “Fuck, do you know how many times I had to jerk off thinking about how good you felt.” “Next time, will you fuck me?  Show me what else you can do in the bed.”

Zayn’s nearly climbing up Liam, hands everywhere, leg shaking and Liam’s lips are on his neck now, sucking a little too long and Zayn grins, knows there’s going to be a mark.  Liam can be just as possessive as he is, Zayn thinks, eyes rolling as Liam’s teeth grate along his collarbone.  His fingers pinch at hair until he finds a nice tuft, pulling Liam’s head back and then it’s rushed kisses from there, Zayn barely holding on as Liam pulls the foreskin back and gives particular attention to the head of Zayn’s cock.

“Come in my hand,” Liam whispers, his voice even deeper and it’s filthy the way he sounds.  Zayn likes it.

“Mm,” Zayn hums, lips pressed together to hold in a moan.  He’s a little certain Harry and Louis are getting a little louder, even though a hurricane couldn’t wake up Niall, but he’s not going to chance them hearing him and Liam.  He has a little more dignity than Harry.

“Let me see what you taste like,” Liam adds, right up against Zayn’s ear with his fingers wrapped tightly around the head of Zayn’s cock and his own prick pushing impatiently against Zayn’s hipbone.

Zayn shudders, a breathy moan pushing past his lips before he can swallow it and he’s shaking as he comes.  He’s gripping Liam’s shoulders tightly, trying to hold on because Liam won’t stop tugging on his cock, not even when Zayn’s way too sensitive and the sounds of his come slicking between Liam’s fingers becomes wet and squishy.

It takes him more than a moment to come down from his high, eyes peeking open to catch Liam flicking his tongue out to take a quick swipe of the thick white fluid between his fingers, Liam making a face and Zayn has to bite down on his lip to stop from laughing.  He clutches Liam, drops his head against Liam’s chest and when there’s soft kisses pressed to his forehead, he feels cold.  He feels the after-effects, the ache.

Harry’s wrong – he doesn’t deserve this.  He hasn’t earned this kind of attention, affection from Liam.  Liam doesn’t know everything, doesn’t know his past, doesn’t know the things he’s done just to live life by his own rules.  And if Liam did, he’d probably give Zayn as much respect as someone like Max did.  Why would anyone want someone who’s left a trail of hurt like he has?  Someone who’s so… different.  Someone who’s made a good living off of not giving a shit.

“Do you want me to go?” Liam asks lowly, lips to Zayn’s ear as he wipes his hand off on a nearby towel.

“No,” Zayn lies, his mind screaming ‘yes, please.’

“Do you want to talk about it?” Liam wonders, arms curling around Zayn’s smaller frame.

Zayn tries not to choke on his words, easing his arms around Liam and breathing into that warming embrace.

“Not now,” Zayn says against Liam’s chest, feels Liam nod and it’s enough.

**

“You know, all these sweets aren’t good for you.  They’ll make you fat.”

“This coming from the lad who eats chocolate in bed,” Zayn grins out, sliding his fingers over the glass case displaying rows upon rows of desserts.  He shoots Liam a smirk over his shoulder before adding, “And after sex too.”

“Sex is a workout,” Liam argues kindly, slipping an arm around Zayn from behind, chin on Zayn’s shoulder as he looks at the wide variety, pointing to a few.  “Especially when it involves you.”

They’ve been doing this for more than a month now.  Casual dates, lazy kisses when no one’s around, holding hands, quite a few nights – and some rather splendid mornings – having sex in Liam’s bed or the back of his car, once on Harry’s bed with Liam blushing and Zayn refusing to ever admit it to Harry even though Harry questions why his sheets smell like cigarettes and apples a week later.  They’re not boyfriends, at least, that’s not what they tell each other but Zayn’s heard Louis say it a few times when he thinks no one’s paying attention, Liam’s cheeks turning scarlet with Zayn’s brow raised.

He’s not keen on that idea, having a boyfriend, not that he ever really knew what that was like.  A girlfriend, yes, even though those relationships were a little too short and in secondary school with girls who were more interested in the fact that he was nothing like the other guys around to know he was definitely nothing like the other guys around.  But his relationships with men were more about sex, having someone to hold him, the occasional date where he ended up paying and never really enjoyed himself.  Even with Max, it wasn’t a relationship, but he’s still not telling Harry that.

But he spends almost every moment he can with Liam, or talking to Liam on the phone, sending him little texts when he knows Liam can’t answer while working but he does so anyway to get that message hours later, when he’s half-sleep on Harry’s couch: Miss you Z :))) xxx

Niall calls it a relationship, Harry calls it a matter of convenience and Zayn calls them both wankers, grinning when they toss pizza crusts at him.  But Liam makes him different.  He doesn’t want to say better, even though Perrie does when she helps him paint that spare bedroom in Harry’s flat he’s spent so long avoiding.  She helps him moving his art supplies in there, decorate the doorframe and pieces of the wall leading up to the ceiling in blue and white Christmas lights.  With the commission he gets from that drawing of Liam – “This is one of your best pieces yet.  The look on this boy’s face is… promising,” the art guy tells him while handing Zayn a sizeable check – he buys a desk and a nice telly, though he still doesn’t have a bed.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Harry says one day, leaning in the doorway as Zayn adds a few strokes of midnight blue and light gray to the black walls, “but I’m a little proud of you.”

“For?” Zayn ask, tongue sticking out as he tries to concentrate on not hitting the corners while painting.

“I don’t know,” Harry replies with a shrug, inching in the room.  “For being okay with being happy.  For growing up.  For finally putting your shit in this room, making yourself at home.”

“Your landlord is probably going to kill me for painting in here,” Zayn points out, smiling as he strokes a small ‘H’ near the ceiling.

“Fucking bullshit.  The cheap bastard can go to hell,” Harry declares with a laugh, embracing Zayn from behind.  He presses a messy kiss to Zayn’s cheek, Zayn shrugging him off with a squealing laugh.

“This is your home, Zayn,” Harry adds, his voice firm.  Zayn tenses just a little, eyes shifting shut.  He feels Harry’s curls brush the side of his face, Harry’s arms going tighter around his middle.  “Don’t you forget it.  You’re my family.”

Zayn nods, his throat clenched and he can’t do anything else to acknowledge Harry.

And maybe that’s why he’s here now, with Liam, half past midnight looking at desserts at a diner run by a kind older man named Wagner, who happens to be friends with Mary and is never really heard from unless it’s early morning.

Zayn glances over the selection of cakes, finger squeaking against the glass as it circles around the red velvet, slipping when he spies the carrot cake.  He can see Liam’s face in the reflection of the glass, that high smile that pushes his cheeks up, teeth sinking into his bottom lip with small slits revealing the brown in his eyes.  He smiles back, tipping his head to the side until it brushes against Liam’s, leaning further down to look on the lemon cake, tongue running his lips when he thinks about the strawberry cake staring back at him, maybe sneaking a piece home to Harry.

“I think I want a chocolate milkshake,” Liam tells the girl behind the counter who’s twisting the ends of her thick brown hair with a finger, the Phoebe on her nametag scratched out by a thick marker and replaced with ‘HOPE’ in bold letters.  She shrugs, turns from them and hums along to the music above – Old friend, why are you so why? Ain’t like you to hold back or hide from the light – pushing her hair back as she slides beautifully into the music.

Zayn runs a thumb over the case, eyes the pies, tongue licking over his lips as Liam giggles into his ear, too focused on the way an elderly couple are feeding each other bits of cheesecake with their teas steaming lovely white clouds to pay attention to Zayn.  He runs his fingers through his hair, considers his choices and it floods him all at once.  The scent, the way his mum would hum along to the radio as she neatly folded the crust, added the filling, gave him an extra dollop of ice cream when it was done, warning him it was still too hot when he dug his spoon into his bowl.  His skin feels cold, shrugging deeper into his denim jacket while Liam presses a gentle kiss to his cheek, humming along to Phoebe’s voice – We were born and raised in a summer haze. Bound by the surprise of our glory days.

He tries to shake away the cool sensation running over him when Phoebe hands Liam his shake, smirking sideways at them.  Zayn’s rubbing at the back of his neck – when did he become Liam? – as Liam nearly swallows half of the straw trying to suck the thick contents from the glass, grinning at Zayn with his head cocked to the side.  Zayn snorts, running his fingers through Liam’s hair, loving the way it’s thickening at the top, almost a smaller version of Zayn’s own quiff.

“Want some?” Liam offers, thrusting the drink at Zayn.

Zayn’s shaking his head, studying Liam for a second.  He snickers, his hand hesitantly lifting before he’s wiping at Liam’s nose, gathering the smeared chocolate on his thumb – Never mind I’ll find someone like you. I wish nothing but the best for you, too.  When he goes to lower his hand, Liam’s wrapping his fingers around his wrist, holding it loosely before his tongue swipes out and licks the chocolate away, sucking on Zayn’s thumb for a moment, chewing on the nail with a smirk around Zayn’s thumb.

Zayn smiles back, eyes crinkling, though he knows he should pull away.  But, see, Liam always did things like this.  Always finds a way to catch Zayn off guard, throw him off the path he’s been so used to walking, unsettling everything he built with brick walls and steely armor.

“Stop making me smile,” Zayn sighs out with a laugh, jerking his hand back.

Liam shoots him a hurt look, hand thrown against his chest.  It’s all dramatics, Zayn knows, but he can’t help but laugh at it.  And then Liam’s eyes are crinkling, the pale light of the diner striking them and they look more bronze than brown now, Zayn’s breath hitching.

“Have you decided on a dessert?” Phoebe asks suddenly, still smirking at them like she knows.  He wonders if the whole diner knows it too.

Zayn’s mouth opens but snaps shut the moment he hears the voice: “He’ll take a slice of the Treacle tart now and a slice of the blueberry for later.”

Everything inside of him stops, his heart catches on a beat, he takes in a deep inhale, his fingers shake, and his stomach coils around itself.  He can’t swallow, tries to twice before giving up, slowly turning on his heels and his eyes are wide, his vision a bit blurred, and it takes everything inside of him not to just run out the door.  He can’t take this, not now, not with Liam right next to him.

“I’m surprised you didn’t just call mum and have her bake you something.”

“Doniya,” Zayn stutters out, his tongue heavy and mouth dry.

She smirks, lips quirked like Zayn’s, brown eyes large and framed by long lashes.  Her hair is swept behind her shoulders, a yellow beanie on her head with rosy cheeks and she’s just as he remembers her; cocky expression in the silliest way with nothing but a wide smile, inviting arms, jacket buttoned and pulled closed to her body, and that same stance his mum has when he’s done something wrong.

“You don’t call much anymore,” Doniya declares, taking a small step forward and Zayn’s inching back, bumping into the glass display.  Liam’s looking between both of them, studying her before giving Zayn a worried look.

“What are you… What are you – “

“Saf asks about you all the time,” Doniya says with a hint of firmness, gets close enough to lay a hand on Zayn’s shoulder.  It burns in the most incredible way.  “Waliyha, well, she sort of watches the driveway all the time hoping you’re going to come by.  Mum doesn’t make any empty promises.”

“Your sister?” Liam finally asks and Doniya’s eyes shift from Zayn to Liam, eyebrow arching like their mum’s would and Zayn’s suddenly wishing her eyes were on him again instead of on Liam.

Doniya curls her upper lip with a smirk, examining Liam without hiding it.  “He’s quite fit.”

“Doniya,” Zayn whines, feels like a six year old again, Doniya picking at his hair.

Doniya shrugs, tongue rolling over her lips before she takes her eyes away from Liam.  She sighs, Zayn catching the way she falls into a resigned state and everything inside of him thinks he should reach out, drag her into his arms and cry on her shoulder.

“She doesn’t hate you, Zee,” Doniya insists, her voice a little choked.  She scoops up sections of her hair, folds it behind her ear with her chin ducking.  “None of us do.”

Zayn nods, bottom lip trembling as he eyes her.  His fingers tremble too much to reach for her.  “Safaa?”

“Oh gosh,” Doniya snickers, her voice still choked and Zayn sucks in a tight breath when he spots the tears lining her eyes.  “She’s so big, Zee.  She’s still every bit a mini-Waliyha, but she gives Liyha a run for her money.  She gives our cousins shit all the time.”

Zayn chuckles, feels his vision go a little bleary and he wants that wet sheen to go away.  He tips his head back, eyes blinking rapidly to hold them in, to hide it from Liam but he’s doing a rather shit job at that because Liam’s laying a hand on his shoulder, his other hand curling fingers into the fabric of Zayn’s jacket.  Liam wasn’t supposed to see this, to even know about this.

“Your hair is getting long,” Doniya remarks with a chuckle, dragging her fingers through the thickness, musing it.  “You need to eat.”

“You need to get a hobby,” Zayn shoots back with a smirk.

“Wanker.”

“Twat.”

“I’m telling mum.”

“I’m telling – “

Doniya thrusts her arms around him then, burying her head in his chest with a wet sob and he’s trembling, unsure what to do until his arms finally lift and he’s holding her close, tipping his chin down to shush her.  It’s the first time since… it’s the first time in too long.  He just holds her, having a few inches on her height-wise even though she’s got a year on him age-wise.  And he buries his nose in her beanie, feels his shirt getting damp from her tears, rocking her while humming – I hate to turn up out of the blue uninvited but I couldn’t stay away, I couldn’t fight it.

Liam’s hands never leave him, not even when Doniya’s fingers dig into his back, brush against Liam’s and her breath catches, pulling back with mascara blackening her eyes.  She offers Zayn a trembling smile, wiping at her face and he helps, his thumb running her cheek, coming back smudged with grays and blacks as she pulls at her coat, clears her throat.

“He someone special?” Doniya asks lowly, head jerking in Liam’s direction.

Zayn exhales heavily, praying the thick drops lining his eyes don’t fall.  “I think so.”

Doniya nods, grins until her cheeks rise high on her face and her eyes wrinkle, pushing out more tears.  She rubs at her nose, pulling back further from Zayn.  He can hear her sniffles as she fixes her hair, does her best to gather herself.  She licks away tears from her lips, Zayn’s hands still shaking until Liam grips one, holds it impossibly still.  Doniya smiles down at that.

“You should come visit mum sometime,” Doniya advises, walking backwards towards the door.  She peeks past Zayn toward Liam, grinning.  “Bring him along.  I’m sure Saf and Liyha would love him.”

She’s out the door and around the corner before Zayn remembers how to breathe – Don’t forget me, I beg.  He’s pulling away before Liam gets the chance to encircle him in an embrace, already anticipating Liam’s actions because that’s what good people would do, right?  They would try to comfort the ones they cared about and Zayn’s quite certain he doesn’t want Liam to touch him right now.  No, he keeps his back to Liam because he knows that’s what Liam wants to do and he can’t allow it.

“Zayn,” Liam says firmly but Zayn won’t turn.

“Can you take me to Harry’s?” Zayn requests, his voice a little wobbly and, fuck, he hates that.  He clears his throat, hands shoving into his pockets before adding in a small voice, “Can you take me home.”

The drive back to Harry’s flat is mostly quiet other than the radio, Zayn tuning everything out to listen to the buzz in his head.  He thinks about the tears soaking her cheeks, the way her smile is just like their mum’s, even when she’s terribly angry or upset.  He can feel her hands on his back, clinging, begging him to come back.  He sniffles lowly, barely flinches when Liam rests a hand on his thigh and he lets it sit as some sort of consolation for Liam, not himself.

He nearly jumps out the car when they pull up to Harry’s building, stays long enough for Liam to promise to call, but he doesn’t let Liam kiss him goodnight, doesn’t give Liam a chance to question him.  He’s taking the steps two at a time, breath clinging to his lungs and it burns.

He should’ve stopped smoking months ago because he’s completely out of breath, cheeks flushed and eyelashes nearly stuck together when he pushes through the door.  Harry’s eyeing him from the dark hallway, most of the flat draped in shadows from the night with a spoon hanging out of Harry’s mouth and a carton of ice cream in his hand.  He looks a bit ridiculous Zayn thinks with his pink and white polka dot boxers, one sock on, the other foot bare, and his curls are tied back by a headband.  He’s lifting his brow, giving Zayn a once over before the tears finally breaking through Zayn’s lashes.

“I saw Doniya,” he whimpers out, fingers clutching into tight fists when he feels the first warm tears slice across his cheeks.  “Fuck, Haz, I saw her.  Hugged her.”

Harry’s quick, the spoon falling from his mouth and clattering on the floor, the carton of ice cream soon joining it and Zayn doesn’t know why he thinks about how he’ll be the one that’ll end up cleaning that mess up but then Harry’s crowding him, clutching his arms around Zayn and Zayn barely has time to take a breath before all of the tears slide down his cheeks and soak Harry’s bare chest.  His fingers are digging into Harry’s back, Harry wincing for a moment before pulling Zayn in closer until the whimpers start to subside and the tears burn a little less against his eyelids.

Harry’s dragging him back toward Harry’s room, lightly shoving Zayn inside before pulling him down to the bed, letting Zayn cling to him a little longer with smaller tears slipping out the corners of his eyes.  He’s holding on, nudging his chin to the top of Zayn’s head and Zayn’s eyes are clenched shut, jaw trembling until his breathing evens out.

There’s a fumbling, Harry pulling his mobile from beneath him and he’s clicking quick fingers against the phone while pulling the duvet over them.

“What… What are you doing?” Zayn asks through quiet sobs.

“You were with Liam, yeah?”

Zayn nods slowly, the heel of his palm wiping roughly at his eyes.

“Then I’m apologizing,” Harry replies, eyes still on his phone as he clicks away.

Zayn nods again, thumps his forehead on Harry’s chest because it’s the only way he can communicate gratitude to Harry.

Harry’s the only person that knows, well, the only person Zayn has willingly told about it all.  Not for anything other than Harry was the most persistent person Zayn’s ever met, not including Louis, and maybe Zayn was a bit sloshed on beer that night when he broke into Harry’s room, interrupted quite the scene between Harry and some random girl who was humming the opening song to Kill Bill –  “Really Hazza? Bang, bang?” – when he finally fell onto Harry’s bed and let the tears run harshly down his cheeks.  It took an hour of questioning and Harry clutching his hand before Zayn finally pieced all of it together for Harry, the younger boy nodding the entire time until Zayn finished.

It wasn’t supposed to happen, Zayn admitting to his baba that he sometimes felt stronger feelings for lads rather than girls.  It’s not that his relationship with him was strained, not at first.  Not until Waliyha came along, then Safaa, and suddenly Zayn wasn’t the proud, strong man his baba wanted around.  No, Zayn was into art, loved to sit for hours in the corner of his room reading or sing at the top of his lungs until Yaser kicked the door in and threatened to toss him out if he “didn’t find a career that a man could be proud of.”  It hadn’t been that Yaser wasn’t very favorable of Zayn’s friendships with Danny and Anthony, though he wasn’t and it clearly showed by his choice of silence when Zayn entered the room with his ears pierced, high top trainers, and oversized t-shirts rather than something his mum had purchased for him from Topman the year before.

But it happened, the year before Zayn was to start Uni, when he was decidedly going to dedicate his life to impressing his baba.  The morning of Thanksgiving when his mum was making pies in the kitchen, Safaa was dancing in front of the telly, and Doniya and Waliyha were regrettably trying to torture each other, and everyone else, by calling each other’s crush and going on and on about their worst habits.

“You’re not bringing a girl home today?” Yaser asked, brow raised as he looked on Zayn with those eyes that were always slightly disapproving.

“Baba, I think,” he didn’t know if the courage was there but there was something about the way Yaser shifted, that look that almost lit a fire inside of Zayn, “I think sometimes I’d rather bring a boy home for you to meet.”

The way his baba snorted, shook his head before slowly folding his newspaper, patting Safaa on the head and walking out said things that Zayn never wanted to hear.  The silence Yaser gave him at the dinner table, choosing to engage in conversations with Waliyha rather than set an eye on Zayn tore him apart.  And when he went to hug his baba later on, when some particularly pretty girl named Catherine came to escort him to a nearby party, his arms wrapped tightly around Yaser with his head pressed to his baba’s chest, Yaser merely patted his back twice before pushing him away, climbing that large staircase to his room before slamming the door.

Zayn didn’t come home that night.  Or the night after.  He didn’t come until a week later, when Yaser had died suddenly in his sleep.  And he can still remember trying to wipe all the tears from Safaa’s face, can still feel the way his fingers trembled while trying to hold onto a clutching Waliyha, the way his mum was inconsolable for hours.  He can still feel the mark his teeth left from chewing at his lip when his Uncle looked on him with disgust, whispering to another relative, “What is he doing here?  Sleeping with other boys is probably what killed his father.”  He can feel the kick in his heart when his mum wouldn’t lift her head to look at him, only rubbed his head as he cried in her lap.

He remembers standing in the back of the crowd at his baba’s funeral, fingers clutching at that stupid suit he borrowed from Danny that was a little too big for him, wiping roughly at his eyes because his baba didn’t want a son who cried.  His baba didn’t want someone weak.

His baba, just like everyone else, didn’t want Zayn to be Zayn.

Maybe that’s why Zayn’s eyes stung for so long – he still believes his baba doesn’t want his son to cry.  But Harry did.  Harry wants Zayn to cling to him, to hold on until it’s all out and he can breathe again.  And Harry’s rubbing his back, making the daftest of jokes in attempt to make him smile but all of the jokes go on for too long until Zayn’s laughing through a sob just to shut Harry up.  He’s wiping Zayn’s eyes for him, deep laugh in his chest shaking Zayn as Harry talks about Louis, or Niall finding some old nosh in the fridge and praying to the Food Gods he doesn’t die from eating.  And Zayn’s as certain as he is that Harry’s only really loved two women, the two posters of Cheryl Tweedy and Frankie Sandford framed and hanging on Harry’s wall, – and, really, how did anyone want to fuck on a bed with those two looking down on them? – he knew Harry wouldn’t let him go until he knew Zayn was smiling again.

**

Zayn really does love sleep.  He remembers a time when he could fall asleep almost anywhere, on the metro, in the backseat of a car, during some of the most interesting classes during Ninth Year, on a shoulder, once during a school holiday concert in the back row with his feet kicked up on a few empty chairs while some poor sod screeched his way through “Christmastime Is Here.”  It’s just something about a good kip, a few hours on Harry’s couch here and there, even those days when Harry didn’t bother to wake him before he ran out the door for work, Zayn stretching and yawning loudly, glancing at his phone to see the time: 3:00 PM.  He always smiled those days, falling back on the couch with his eyes drifting shut until Harry kicked him awake, Niall already halfway through a bag of Nando’s.

It’s been days since he’s had that kind of sleep and he feels more than a little bit like a zombie.  He’s looked at his phone no less than five times an hour, considers calling Doniya, maybe seeing if the old number he had for his mum still worked.  He watches for the phone calls from Liam, not really bothering to answer but he’ll shoot him an apology text later to which Liam will reply with all caps and a few sad emoticons.  His grammar will be shit but Zayn knows what Liam’s trying to say without even trying; he misses Liam too.

He’s lazy about his art, starting on something before ripping it up viscously and screaming into one of Harry’s cheap, lifeless throw pillows.  He goes through two packs of smokes in three days, every drag less satisfying than the last.  Even Harry’s stories don’t seem to lull him like before; they only annoy him and he usually ends up stomping out of the room into his own room, sitting on the cold floor in a corner until Niall slips in, flicking on those twinkling Christmas lights and joining Zayn, arm slung around Zayn’s shoulders with a slice of pizza as a peace offering.

He stares at the ceiling more than closing his eyes, hands folded behind his head on the couch while watching the lights from the passing cars outside paint the white ceiling in yellows and bright amber.  He watches the shadows chase the light, feet tapping against one of the arms of the couch, teeth chewing at his lip until its raw and sore.  He watches the telly, old black and white movies he knows his mum would cuddle up to his baba to, her head on his shoulder and stealing the remote before he can change the channel.  Zayn clicks off the television and sits in the dark for a few hours, the silence and darkness comforting until Harry stumbles in yawning, clicking on the telly but never looking at it as he starts a pot of coffee and mumbles something about hating Louis William Tomlinson.  Zayn wants to ask how Harry could know someone’s middle name and hate them so passionately but Harry’s flipping him off the moment Zayn gives him that incredulous look, waving his hand around dramatically before grumbling something about a shower.

It takes Zayn six days before he breaks.  He thinks it actually only takes Harry, but his tolerance level and lack of sleep have hit an all-time low before then.  But maybe it is Harry because he’s spending a little less time coddling Zayn and leaving the flat to go on dates, not that any of them really work out because Zayn’s fairly certain Harry’s more than smitten with Louis now.  No, it’s the way he can’t even cuddle to Harry in his bed some nights because there’s a random female in there trying to blow Harry but he won’t let her.  There’s some bloke at the front door, Harry kindly pushing him out as he asks when Harry’s going to call but Harry won’t.  He won’t even answer the question truthfully: “Soon babe.  Just give me a few hours rest.”

Zayn’s scribbling through his sketchbook, trying to work out a picture of a girl in a field of green, way too big blue eyes with long dark hair and round cheeks.  He can’t get any of the angles right, the way her hair falls, the brilliance of her eyes when he realizes it’s been too long since he’s seen this face to even know if that smile is still that wide when she grins.  He’s chewing on his thumbnail, sighing, kicking the book away so he doesn’t have to look at it.  He yawns, seated on that cold floor in his room and he knows that even if he tries, he won’t be able to fall asleep here.

He’s not even halfway to the couch when he stops cold, a shiver running over him.  That was not Louis moaning Harry’s name.  That was not a can of whipped topping on the coffee table.  Those were not Louis’ hands tangled in Harry’s curls, pulling teasingly and, fucking bullshit, those were not Harry’s overly large hands pulling Louis’ trousers down with a smirk.  And, come on Lou, that was not Sandy singing “Hopelessly Devoted to You” on the telly, was it?  Was he really going to owe Niall twenty quid over Grease?

“Oi, I thought you said he wasn’t here,” Louis barks, kicking Harry back with wide blue eyes staring at Zayn rather than the wounded expression on Harry’s face.

“Christ,” Harry grumbles, doing his best to fix his curls before they just flop and fall into place on their own.

“Sorry,” Zayn mumbles, eyes still large with blush tiptoeing across his cheeks.  “Just need,” Zayn can’t find words when Louis stands up, erection obviously pushing mercilessly against his boxers, and he’s scurrying into the room to snatch his pack of cigarettes from between the couch cushions, slipping into his trainers as Harry tries to offer some weak explanation, yanking up that varsity jacket from the floor and he’s out the door before Louis can finish harmonizing with Olivia Newton-John – But now there’s nowhere to hide.

He makes it through three cigarettes before he realizes where he’s walking to.  It’s more than a little cold tonight and pulling that varsity jacket closer to his body is doing little to keep him warm, though it’s comforting in the most unintentional way.  His legs sort of burn, a little out of breath, when he finally reaches the building and, he nods when holding the door open for one of the older tenants, her knowing grin towards him leaving him a little flushed.

“He’s a lucky boy,” she says with a hinting snicker, fingers over her lips as she adjusts her handbag and pats his shoulder.

Zayn snorts, fisting the jacket closed again as a rush of cold air smacks against his back.  His ears ring, he’s sniffling quietly, and he doesn’t even know why he’s here.  He knows Liam’s not here, not that he’s kept a running track of Liam’s schedule but he sort of has.  He knows this is Liam’s fifth or six tour of duty, just a couple of more before that much needed break.  He knows that this is the Amber Watch’s last shift, knows the Blue Watch is on call and he can imagine Liam’s buddies from the White Watch are down at some pub having beers and watching a game on the telly.

He settles onto the floor, leaning heavily against Liam’s door, legs pulled up close to his body with his head leaning on the doorframe.  Even from this side of the door, he can feel the way this place has started to feel like home.  He sighs, thinks about walking right back out for another drag of a cigarette, maybe he could make it all the way back to Harry’s flat before it got too cold.  He could probably walk to Niall’s flat which isn’t too far away, but Zayn’s certain enough that he’s hasn’t been to Niall’s enough to really know the way there.  Niall’s spent more time at Harry’s than he’s done at his own and neither Zayn nor Harry has ever thought to say a thing about it.

He chews on his bottom lip, settles into a comfortable position and waits.  He doesn’t know how long it lasts, eyes heavy and they slip shut only for a few minutes before he’s stuttered back away, shaking and clutching at the jacket.  There’s always a sigh breaking through his lips after that, settling on playing Flick Kick Soccer for a few minutes until he’s bored or until his eyes start to droop again, thoughts of texting Liam, apologizing, making up reasons for why he’s a complete asshole other than the fact that his life has never gone entirely the way he’s wanted.

But who’s has, he thinks, sinking further down the door.

Maybe Liam won’t want him there.  He probably hates Zayn; Zayn sort of does.  Liam would probably be polite, inviting him in for a proper cup of tea before kindly telling Zayn to get the fuck out of his life.  He would imagine Liam would find a way to do it with a smile that’s not condescending or hurtful.  Zayn laughs to himself, heart sinking, because Liam would probably even give him a hug, offer to drive him home.  That was the sort of person Liam was.

It was the sort of person Zayn wished he could be.

“Zayn?”

He’s shaken from that dusting of sleep once more, teeth immediately digging into his bottom lip when his head snaps upward.  Liam’s standing over him, yawning, rubbing at the back of his neck and those once bright eyes look heavy, painful exhaustion rounding those cheeks.

Zayn pushes to his feet immediately, dusts at his pants while Liam adjusts the bag on his shoulder, arms flexing underneath that thick jacket, the one with Liam’s fire station’s name on the breast.  He runs his tongue over his lips, words that were once so put together in his mind nothing but scattered thoughts colliding off the walls of his skull.  His fingers keep playing with the buttons on his jacket, Liam’s jacket, Liam blinking at him for a moment.

“I haven’t been able to sleep,” Zayn blurts out when he sees Liam’s mouth coming together to form words.

Liam’s brow drops, eyes squinting as he looks at Zayn with his mouth slowly closing again.  Zayn feels small, shrinks a bit as he leans against Liam’s door.

“It’s a little early in the morning for you, yeah?”

Zayn snorts, thinks to look at his phone but last he checked it was a little after four in the morning.  He swallows a bitterness in the back of his throat, wants to run his fingers through Liam’s hair but the way Liam’s jaw flexes, the way his eyes haven’t shown an inch of life since he looked on Zayn, leaves him motionless.

“I’ve tried,” Zayn says lowly, unsure if he’s talking about sleep or something else.  “I don’t know.  I just can’t.”

Liam nods along, adjusts his bag again, drags his foot along the carpeted floor.  He pulls his keys from his pocket and Zayn’s more than sure this is the part where Liam puts on the tea, where he tells Zayn to leave.

“Come on,” Liam says, his voice dragging on exhaustion as he nudges Zayn aside to jam the key in the door and open it.

“I can call Harry to come get me,” Zayn says, not ready for the rejection that’ll happen eventually when Liam’s gathered his thoughts enough.  “He’s with Lou.”

“Really?” Liam asks, a little surprised as he looks over his shoulder at Zayn.

Zayn nods, laughs nervously.

“Come on,” Liam says again, nudges the door farther open.  He reaches back, slips his hand into Zayn’s so naturally that Zayn’s breath catches on an inhale.  Those thick fingers fit into the spaces between Zayn’s thin ones, hold tightly to Zayn and pull him with Liam into the flat.

Liam drops the bag by the door, keeps a hold on Zayn’s hand as he walks around a yapping Loki, tugging Zayn all along.  He shrugs out of his coat, Zayn instinctively slipping out of his own varsity jacket, the one time he actually releases Zayn’s hand before they’re clasping again, Zayn’s palm growing sweaty from the warm contact.  He doesn’t fight it though – He said, ‘If you dare, come a little closer’ – lets Liam lead the way through the darkness until they’re at the couch.

“I don’t have to,” Zayn starts, throat a little caved in.

Liam shakes his head, eases down onto the couch before pulling Zayn with him.

“Stay,” Liam insists, eases them both back until Liam’s on his side, Zayn in front of him with his back to Liam.  “Just stay here.”

Zayn nods, tries to look into Liam’s eyes over his shoulder but Liam’s moving around, kicking off his shoes before toeing off Zayn’s.  He’s pulling Zayn backward, his chest pressed to Zayn’s back, his legs tangling with Zayn’s.

Liam has an arm under Zayn’s head, the other one slung over Zayn’s hip and all of that tension falls away from Zayn’s muscles when he exhales.  He chews on his lip, eyes shifting shut when Liam snuggles closer, pulls Zayn until they’re one large heap of breathing muscle.

He’s at ease in Liam’s arms.  His breathing moves in synch with Liam’s, fingers tangling with Liam’s until he feels Liam smile against his shoulder, hears Liam mumble something but he can’t make it out.  He doesn’t want to.  He just wants to listen to Liam’s breathing, he wants the darkness and the silence to comfort him in a way he hasn’t been in too long.  He wants Liam’s warmth, the way Liam’s arms hold onto him until his breathing is stuttered by that bliss, to strip him of this clinging fear he’s had for too long.

Liam’s humming, whispering soft lyrics against Zayn’s ear as Zayn’s eyes slip shut every few seconds – It’s not much of a life you’re living. It’s not just something you take; it’s given.  He inhales deep, misses the scent of cologne, apple shampoo, the way Liam smells in the morning.  He buries his nose in Liam’s forearm, the hairs their tickling, lips pressing warm kisses against Liam’s skin.  It’s soft, silken comfort and he doesn’t quite know how Liam does it, but he’s willing to breathe it in if Liam will let him.

“You don’t have to tell me about it,” Liam whispers, legs shifting and Zayn’s tightening his thighs around Liam’s leg so that it can’t shift too far away from him.

“I know,” Zayn shudders out, reaching back to run his hand over Liam’s hip.

“One day you will, yeah?”

Zayn nods.  He truly believes himself this time.  He will, one day.

There’s a smile against his neck, a kiss that fits so brilliantly against his skin – But funny you’re the broken one but I’m the only one who needed saving – and Zayn thinks about turning over just to look into Liam’s eyes.  He can’t, not with Liam’s arms tightening around him, his breathing finally evening out.  He watches Loki prance up to them, turning around in circles before settling on a spot on the floor in front of them, eyes blinking sheepishly before he’s drifting off to sleep.

Zayn smiles, everything inside of him warm and he feels it streak over his skin.  He yawns quietly, Liam nuzzling his nose to the back of Zayn’s neck.  His eyes blink, barely stay open and, for once in too long, he knows he can finally sleep.  He knows here, in Liam’s arm, everything else manages to fall away.

“Stay,” Liam mutters again in his sleep, pulling Zayn closer.

Zayn nods, doesn’t answer with words.  He merely pulls Liam’s arms further around him and lets his eyes drift shut.

He’s not going anywhere.

**

The hot water feels like fire against his skin, or maybe that’s from Liam’s lips.  It’s dancing over his skin, head tilted to the side with Liam running gentled kisses over his neck.  He’s scrubbing his hands through Liam’s hair, breathing in that strong, overwhelming lovely scent of apples as Liam’s hands slip gingerly over his golden skin.  He scrubs the shampoo into Liam’s hair, grins when Liam ducks under the water to wash it away, Zayn helping him.  He catches himself before his breathing stutters, grinning when Liam pecks at his chin.

He feels alive, ready to breathe in every bit of the world.  He doesn’t know if he’s left Liam’s flat in the past three days to do anything other than grab some takeaway with Liam and pick up a few pieces of clothing from Harry’s, flipping Harry off when Harry takes a piss at him for letting some silly firefighter bring out that lovesick side Zayn’s done so well at hiding.

He really hates Harry for being so honest.

He’s certain Louis had called no less than six times that first day, Liam too fixated on lying around the flat naked with Zayn, on the couch, in the bed, even at the dinner table which was a bit disturbing but Zayn shrugged it off when Liam fed him takeaway from a carton with a grin, lips tasting like cherry Coke when Zayn kisses him.  Liam even ignores Louis’ pounding on the door the next morning with threats of showing his crew members some very incriminating photos of Liam during some holiday in Glasgow if he didn’t answer the door, but Liam merely rolled over, sent Louis a quick text before snuggling back up to Zayn, sniffing at his skin with a smirk when the pounding finally ceased with a loud, “You little shit, you had better not tell him about that!”

Zayn sits on the stoop outside of Liam’s flat when Liam goes for his run every morning, complaining the first day because, fuck, it was way too early in the morning for someone to be awake, let alone running around the neighborhood.  And it was cold, too.  That sort of uncomfortable cold where no matter what you did, your toes were still cold, fingers aching, and you’re sniffling every single time a breeze of wind brushes at your skin.

But the next day was a little better and by the third day, Zayn merely took longer drags on his cigarette with hollowed cheeks, waiting for Liam to come jogging back, pulling the earbuds from his ear, still humming Bruno Mars.  There’s sweat slicking his forehead and his jumper clinging to his body, heavy pants but he’s not breathless, Zayn knows.  It’s a small part of a workout that Liam went through every day just to stay fit as a firefighter.  And that grin on Liam’s lips every time he spotted Zayn sitting there, like he can’t believe Zayn’s still there, leaves Zayn’s lips quirking in the most annoying smirk because, shit, he can’t help it.  Liam does this to him, all of the time.

“I think I may be a bit obsessed with you,” Liam whispers into his ear, the water pounding off of his skin and Zayn’s pushing his thick hair back, smiling.

“Liar.”

Liam snorts, his fingers rubbing delicately at Zayn’s hips, slinking around to trace the shape of Zayn’s ass.  “’m not.”

Zayn thinks he wants Liam to, lie that is.  He’s almost certain it’s because he’s feeling the same way.  He can’t quite get enough of Liam or that smile, that adorable nose, the way his eyes look on Zayn like Zayn actually belongs to Liam.  Not that Zayn liked being anyone’s property, but maybe he’s a little willing to brush that off in favor of Liam.

“Kiss me,” Zayn demands, roughly dragging fingers through that thicker portions of Liam’s hair, grinning when Liam’s head snaps back, water bouncing off of his shoulders.

“Mmm.”

“Come on, Li,” Zayn insists, eyebrows wagging when blush creeps on Liam’s cheeks.

Liam nods, licks away drops of water before inclining in.

Zayn snorts, nips at Liam’s lips before his own lips slip on, welcoming Liam’s tongue the moment their lips slide together, slipping from the sheer wetness created by the water.

They stay like that until the water starts to cool a little, Liam kissing him with a passion while Zayn does it lazily, dragging it out because he’s sure he doesn’t want it to end.  He doesn’t want Liam’s hands to stop tracing over his skin, fingers drawing out each tattoo over his arms, his chest, that silly heart tattoo on his hip that Liam likes to bite at when they’re in bed, seconds away from the kind of fuck that’ll leave Zayn’s legs weak and his body more than a little sore afterwards.

“One day I want to show you everything,” Liam whispers when Zayn pulls back some.

Zayn blinks at him, head tilting to try and understand him but Liam merely smiles fondly at him.

“I’ll show you,” Liam promises, fingers gripping Zayn’s hips before he’s turning Zayn around, pushing him underneath the warm spray of water coming from the showerhead.

Zayn gasps a little when Liam rubs his hands over his skin, soaping him up and washing away that thick layer of distrust Zayn’s done so well to melt against his skin.  He shifts, shivers a little with his head rocking back and resting on Liam’s shoulder as Liam scrubs at his skin with bare hands.

“And you’ll tell me everything,” Liam adds, lips just on the edge of Zayn’s ear, fingers sliding down Zayn’s stomach.

Zayn nods, needs more of Liam against his skin.  He needs those fingers to wrap around his cock, the one that’s incredibly hard and curved up against his belly.  Liam’s fingers shift through his hair, scrub against his scalp until Zayn’s eyes flit shut, his upper lip curling.

“It’ll be just you and me,” Liam smiles out, nuzzling his nose to Zayn’s ear, “And Lou, Harry, and Ni but that’s because I don’t think they’d make it without us.”

I won’t make it without you, Zayn wants to say but he bites on the tip of his tongue instead, reaching back to run his hand over the back of Liam’s head.

He doesn’t say anything else as Liam runs rough kisses along the curve of his neck.  The water turns cold, ice against his skin but he’s way too hot to notice, back arching when Liam’s fingers drag over his entrance, teasing in that wonderful way.  He lets Liam fuck him right there, up against the shower wall, making promises in his ear that burn against the lining of his heart while Liam’s skin lights a fire against Zayn’s.

**

He thinks he hates mornings almost as much as he hates anything else in the world.  It’s like forgetting you’ve already smoked that last cigarette when you really need one because something massive has happened.  In fact, he thinks he should petition anyone waking before eleven every morning to be kicked out of the country because, fucking hell that was just unholy in the worst sort of way.

But mornings like this, he doesn’t mind at all.  Not when he’s in Liam’s bed, the sun leaving bright streaks over the room, painting different spectrums of color into the air with Liam writing beneath him, moaning, and Zayn’s head between his legs.

Maybe it as Zayn’s fault, but he’ll blame Liam if anyone asks.  The way he snuggled to Zayn while they slept, sleepily nudging something firm, something stiff into the small of Zayn’s back and Zayn couldn’t help if his body had an automatic reaction to it.  He knows it’s quite natural to have morning wood, in fact, he’s known to have them morning, afternoon, and late evening, but the way Liam moaned sleepily, dragging his hips over Zayn’s backside with his fingers digging into Zayn’s hip, Zayn couldn’t do anything but roll over and peel the sheets back.

It was something about the way Liam kept stringing his fingers through Zayn’s hair, the thickness tangling around Liam’s fingers more than enough times that Zayn’s grown accustom to the pull because Liam doesn’t do it on purpose.  But it’s kinky, the sharp tug, the way Zayn’s jaw goes a little slack and Liam shifts his hips until he’s pushing further into Zayn’s mouth.  Zayn tries to smile around Liam’s prick, fails, but his mouth gets a little wetter when Liam draws his cock back, leaving the tip in until Zayn licks around it one too many times.

“Fuck,” Liam hisses when Zayn sinks a little further, eyes watering at the thickness but he can taste Liam just along the back of his throat.

Liam doesn’t swear.  He’s not impolite.  He’s even quite proper in bed, always checking on Zayn before doing anything rough, before thrusting too hard, before pulling his fingers out of Zayn’s hole and replacing them with his cock.

But when Liam finally does let loose, most times on accident, Zayn feels his cock twitch and he wants out of these damn boxers he borrowed from Liam.  He wants Liam pressing him back onto the bed and slipping inside of him without asking for permission first this time.  He settles for rubbing nimble fingers over Liam’s balls, letting Liam set the place with his hand on the back of Zayn’s head, guiding his mouth over Liam’s cock.

His other hand, the one he let Liam lick at earlier before he slipped two fingers between his own lips, coating them thoroughly with his own spit, is working slow fingers in and out of Liam.  This isn’t the first time.  That was a week ago, across that damn couch while Harry was at work with Liam hissing and biting into Zayn’s arm as Zayn cautiously opened Liam up with his fingers… and then his tongue.  But it’s so much better now, Liam welcoming him with his muscles clenching around Zayn’s fingers.  The sunlight is streaking Liam’s face, setting a glow to all of his features and the way his face is pained with pleasure, eyes clenched shut with his teeth doing something sinful in the way they’re biting at his lip, Zayn knows this is much better than the last time.

“Right there,” Liam gasps, Zayn nudging with short nails and Liam’s involuntarily sliding his cock further into Zayn’s mouth until Zayn’s moaning, eyes shifting shut.

Zayn pulls back with a pop, grinning through pants as he looks down at the shiny cock laying against Liam’s stomach, throbbing and twitching for more attention.  He scissors his fingers until Liam’s mewling, a thin coating of sweat glistening off Liam’s forehead, right along his chest where Zayn can see the faint patches of hair.  He watches Liam’s legs spread, asking, no, inviting Zayn to do what his cock is aching to do.

“Oh babe,” Zayn says with a smirk, thrusting his fingers in further.  “You look beautiful.”

Liam’s blushing, his whole body turning a bright pink under Zayn’s stare and his breathing, the lift of his chest, moves like the slow strum of fingers against the keys of a piano.  He bites on a finger, eyes lidded as he looks up at Zayn, lips parted but nothing escaping except for shallow pants, low keening.  Zayn’s in more than a little awe of him.

“Come on Zayn,” Liam breathes out, shifting until he’s pushing down on Zayn’s fingers.  His teeth bite down onto his lip, eyes blinking shut again.  “Come on Malik.”

Zayn freezes.  His goes completely stiff, eyes large and round as he looks down at Liam before they’re narrowing and he’s jerking away, careless about the way he pulls his fingers out of Liam until he hears the yelp from Liam and the other man is rolling away with a scowl.

“What the fuck Zayn?”

“What did you just call me?”

“Zayn,” Liam hisses like he can’t believe Zayn just asked him that.

“No, before that,” Zayn demands, rolling off of the bed.  He’s snatching his jeans from under the bed, never taking his eyes off of Liam who’s shooting him a confused look.

“What?”

“You called me Malik,” Zayn snaps, his voice loud and ringing.  His chest is heaving, fingers curling into fists once he’s yanked on his jeans, zipping them quickly.  “You called me Malik, Liam.  My last name.  The name I never told you.”

Reality sets in quickly, Liam’s lips forming an “O” and Zayn’s stomping around the room, trying to find one of his shirts but, shit, there’s nothing but Liam’s clothes scattered everywhere and he wishes Liam would put some of them on instead of standing there, naked, with that damn hurt expression crumpling his face.

“Zayn, I – “

“What did you do?  Ask Harry?” Zayn demands, stopping to glare at Liam.  “I’ll kill that fucker.”

“I didn’t ask Harry anything,” Liam says quickly, his tone darkening.

Zayn snorts, head shaking.  “The fuck you didn’t.”

He catches how his words scar Liam, the way his brow wrinkles, upper lip curling, the anger setting his shoulders.  Part of him wants to apologize but his own irritation is resisting.

“I fucking looked it up, okay?  There aren’t that many Doniya’s or Zayn’s around, you know.  You wouldn’t tell me anything.  We’ve been doing whatever this is for almost three months now and you won’t even tell me your last name or why the fuck seeing your sister had you so fucked,” Liam spits out, finally slipping into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt.

“Because,” Zayn starts, his voice raised, but he stops.  He can’t.  He slams his fist into the wall, knuckles and fingers throbbing but it takes away some of the pain of hiding everything from the one person who looks at him like… like he’s in love with Zayn.

“Because what?” Liam asks, his tone finally mellowing, growing soft.

Zayn inhales sharply, feels that sting right around his eyes again.  He shakes his head, turns his back to Liam.  He shakes his hand, the ache coming quicker now and it’s sharp, needles digging from the tips of his fingers to his wrist.

“You won’t get it,” Zayn mutters, shoulders slumping.

“You won’t even let me try,” Liam argues, the hiss of his voice gutting Zayn for a moment.  “You can’t expect me to stay around if all you do is keep everything to yourself.”

“You’re right,” Zayn growls, spinning on his heels.  He blinks until he thinks the tears subside but when he licks out his tongue, he tastes the warm, salty liquid.  “I never expected you to stay.”

Liam’s taken aback, Zayn watching the way his face drops.  He’s panting, his fingers aching now to run over Liam’s face, to rub away the hurt that’s lowering his brow, leaving his cheeks sunken in, his eyes drooping.  He swallows, bites at his tongue and Liam’s head drops, head shaking.

“Did you ever want me around Zayn?” Liam inquires, his voice too low.

Yes, Zayn thinks but the word never passes his lips.

“Or did you want something to take your mind off of whatever it is you’ve been avoiding?”

“You don’t know me,” Zayn tells him.  He wonders if Liam can hear the plea in his voice but it’s Liam who turns away this time, shrugging.

“You don’t want anyone to know you.”

“Maybe,” Zayn whispers, stooping down to grab one of Liam’s shirts from the ground.  He slips it on, tries not to let the overwhelming scent of Liam’s cologne draw him back into Liam’s embrace.

Zayn pulls at his own emotions for a beat, Liam not saying anything but he thinks he hears a sniffle.  He ignores it, frustration still rampant and he’s stomping out of the room, shuffling past Loki as he follows Zayn toward the door.  He slips into his Nike’s, dragging his fingers through his hair before slipping on a beanie.  He takes a glance over his shoulder, wonders if maybe Liam will be there asking him to stay again.

He’s not there.

Zayn nods, knows he can’t afford to turn back.  He never should’ve let Liam this far into his life.  He wouldn’t understand.  He’d never give Zayn what he’s quite sure he’s not missing.

When his fingers grip the doorknob, give it a small turn, he thinks that just maybe, for once, he’s wrong this time.

**

He’s at the bakery sketching, adding a few fine details to the girl’s face, the flow of her dress, with Niall troubling Harry for free sweets and Cher popping her bubblegum while leaning on the counter, looking completely and utterly bored with it all, when Louis bursts through the door.  It’s something out of one of those films Harry made him watch, but Zayn knows Louis has a thing for theatrics and overdone scenes.  He barely lifts his eyes until Louis slams his palm flat against the table Zayn’s at, knocking pencils onto the floor and rattling the cup of coffee Niall had brought Zayn earlier.

“You little wanker,” Louis growls, his voice high-pitched but deep at the same time and Zayn wonders how does he do that?

“Oi, save the pet names for the bedroom, eh Lou,” Niall calls out with a snicker, trying to reach out and snatch a fresh roll from Harry’s long fingers.

“Horan, shut it for a moment, yeah?” Louis says over his shoulder, eyebrow arched.

“Babe, what’s wrong?” Harry asks, his head a little tilted.

“Babe?” Niall wonders with a wide grin and big, bright eyes.

Blush rushes Harry’s cheeks and he turns away, pretends to clean behind the counters or check the money in the till, anything not to look up at Niall.

“Not now Harry,” Louis whines, eyes still fixed on Zayn until Zayn lowers his sketchpad to the table, jaw tensing.

“Oi, who is this little shit?” Cher asks, spinning on the heels of her Adidas with her arms folding over her chest.  She’s always been a bit protective of Zayn, Niall too, leaving Harry to fend his own battles but that was probably because any trouble Harry got into, she figured he deserved.

Louis’ finally turning now, arms over his own chest and his stance is a mirror of hers.  Zayn snorts at that.  A row between those two would probably be quite entertaining.

“You my dear,” Louis says with a finger raised, “are quite scrumptious.  Harry, love, why have I not met this little tart before now?”

Cher balks at him while Niall slaps the counter with laughter, gripping his stomach with knees weakening.  Louis shoots her a cheeky grin, winking before spinning back around to Zayn, his grin fading into another well-placed scowl.

“Lou,” Zayn sighs, leaning back in his chair, rubbing impatiently at his temple.

“Don’t you even fucking dare,” Louis warns him, his finger still pointed and Zayn shakes his head, eyes rolling.

“You don’t know the full story,” Zayn starts, pulling his fingers through his hair.  He hadn’t bother to do it today, instead letting it sit in a pile of tangled spikes and product-free softness.  He pulls some of the fringe from his forehead, watches the way Louis’ eyes go even smaller.

“How could I?  How could he?  You don’t tell anyone shit.  You just pop up, steal my best mate’s heart and won’t even let him in,” Louis hisses, both of his hands flat on the table now as he leans into Zayn.  “I told you not to hurt him Zayn.”

“You hurt him?” Niall wonders, his tone a little weary.

Harry sighs heavily, sliding Niall a plate of sweet rolls.  They both know he’s going to need them.

“Hurt who?” Cher asks, looking between Niall and Zayn with a raised brow.

“Liam.”

“Liam,” Harry sighs out.

“Liam,” Louis repeats with a little more emphasis, but his eyes are on Zayn and Zayn only.  “Liam Payne.  Remember him?  The one you haven’t called in a week?  The one you won’t even bother to pick up your mobile to respond to?  The one who’s a bloody mess over some little piece of shit who wouldn’t even bother to tell him his last name.”

“Zayn has a last name?” Niall says with a lifted brow, Cher smacking his arm instantly.  Harry smacks his own forehead, sinking back behind the counter.

Zayn shakes his head, wants to push his chair away and walk right out of the bakery.  He didn’t owe Liam anything, definitely didn’t owe Louis an explanation.  But, somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he did because he liked Louis.  He liked the way that, despite the fact Harry’s denied it on more than one late night chat, Louis’ managed to settle Harry.  He’s managed to make Harry smile even when he’s trying not to.  And he’s been wonderful to Zayn, clinging to him and making Zayn pull pranks on a sleeping Niall which were pretty damn funny even if Niall didn’t think so.

“You don’t understand,” Zayn sighs, fingers playing with the edge of his sketch, folding the bottom corner of the paper.

“You’re right, I don’t.  Your father died, mine too.  You don’t talk about it, you don’t see your family and, Christ, you think this is the right way to deal with things,” Louis rattles out, Zayn going stiff once the words are out.

“Zayn had a – “ Cher’s hand smothers Niall’s words before he can finish.

Louis slips a hand over Zayn’s, fingers tightening around it when Zayn tries to snatch his away.  He sighs, face folding into a softer expression that Zayn glares at.

“I don’t know everything and, I’m sure, you don’t want me to.  But I do know my best mate cared enough about you to try to find out what it was that makes you like this.  I know he’s fallen for you when he probably shouldn’t have but he’s some sort of hopeless dork like that,” Louis explains, his voice teetering on breaking this time.  Zayn doesn’t try to pull away then.

“I can’t fix it.  He can’t fix it.  But maybe, if you let him, he can help you figure out how to let it go,” Louis adds, his voice a little pleading and, if Zayn really listens, he thinks he can hear Cher sniffle quietly or the loud pounding coming from Harry’s chest.

“I’m fucked Lou,” Zayn says, his voice a little shaky.  He lets his eyes drop, watches the way Louis’ fingers rub gently over his knuckles.  “I don’t want him to be fucked too.”

Louis snorts, tapping his thumb over the outline of a dove on the back of Zayn’s hand.  “Too late, kid.  That poor lad is already wrecked over you.”

Zayn nods, lets out a wet laugh.  He rubs slowly at the back of his neck, pictures Liam doing the same thing somewhere.  It hurts right along the side of his chest, his fingers numb until Louis pulls his hand away, adjusting his suspenders and, really, who dressed this guy?

“You lot are better than watching a marathon of Hollyoaks,” Cher remarks with a quirked up smirk, easing an arm around Niall’s shoulders.

“Honestly, Harry, where have you been keeping this dish?” Louis asks, leaning over the counter, smiling at a blushing Harry.

“She’s quite brilliant, yeah?” Niall says, wagging his eyebrows at Cher until she’s elbowing him hard in the side, rolling her eyes when he doubles over.

Zayn slouches back into his chair.  He pulls his phone from his pocket, shifting through it.  It would be just that easy to click on Liam’s name, send a message, wait until later when Liam’s not busy on his shift to reply.  He could say it all in a message or five, explain everything and be done with it.  Liam could accept it or write him off, as long as he got it all out.

He sighs before pocketing the phone again.  He couldn’t do it that way.  He taps his pencil against a blank page, lips twisted sideways.  He kicks a foot up into an empty chair, listens to the way Niall takes a piss at Harry until Louis’ defending him and Cher’s joining in, laughter crowding the room and bouncing off the walls.  He wonders if Liam would join them, tease Harry until he’s a red mess of dimples and silly grins?  Maybe he’d press a kiss to Zayn’s temple, be his muse for a little while before dragging him out of the bakery, back to his flat so he can sketch his tongue across Zayn’s body.

He clicks his tongue against his teeth, eyes shifting shut.  This was only day one of the Amber Watch’s tour, right?  He didn’t know anymore but he’s fairly certain he could figure it out.  He’s pretty sure that meant three more days until Liam was off, three more days for him to gather his words, gather his thoughts, put together everything he hadn’t said in so long just so he could say them to Liam.

**

Zayn doesn’t watch the news.  In fact, he doesn’t watch much television at all, preferring to bury his nose in a thick book for hours.  But when he does, it’s definitely not the news.  He didn’t even think Harry had cable for the first three months he crashed on Harry’s couch because there was always some DVD playing, some CD blaring too loud for Zayn to pay attention to the telly, the white noise just the background soundtrack to the chaotic world that was Harry Styles.

Today, though, it catches him off guard when Harry’s pulling out his scratched copy of The Vow – “Damn Ni and his stupid dates with Cher.  Can’t let him nick anything off of me again,” he grumbled – to slip in the Lord of the Rings when Zayn catches the flashing images of a building on fire with flashing lights, water spraying into the midday air, and flames rapturing every piece of landscape available.

“Wait,” he hisses the moment he recognizes a few of the red trucks, that emblem so familiar.  Harry pauses, glancing at the screen, then Zayn, brow raised.

“It’s not him,” Harry insists, dropping the DVD case before settling onto the couch next to Zayn.

Zayn does his best to believe Harry but then he catches a few faces he knows from the station like Ronnie, Gary, even Paul.  He recognizes them by face, that one time Liam had forced him to come by the station during one of his tours and Liam didn’t do anything to hide his affection for Zayn around his crew members, each one of them making Zayn feel very much a part of their team while Liam took him on a tour of the station.  And then there’s the smoke, black as coal, circling through the air on the television as the flames rise higher and Zayn sort of tunes out the world for a moment.

He doesn’t let Harry turn up the volume, prefers everything in hushed tones as he grips a pillow, eyes never leaving the screen, not even for a commercial break.  He’s sort of stuck there, for hours, sunken into the couch cushion, flipping to various channels to find more coverage as the blaze goes steady for a long time.  He never once catches a glimpse of Liam, though he sees a few other members of the Green and White Watch on the screen, each being interviewed but Zayn never really hears a word they say.  His fingers just dig tighter into the pillow, teeth gnawing incessantly at his lip until he thinks he can taste copper on the tip of his tongue.

Harry offers him tea, coffee, some food but Zayn just shakes his head, stares ahead until there’s no more coverage and then he just watches a blank screen, body too tense to do anything.  He doesn’t reach for his phone when it buzzes the first time, or the sixth time, Harry finally mumbling something and snatching the phone up to take a call from Niall, then Perrie, then some random person looking to buy Zayn’s art.  He only adjusts himself to pull his feet from beneath him, his muscles cramping and bones cracking before he’s settling into almost the same exact position, this time with his knees pulled closer to his chest.

Harry walks by him a few times, concern rimming his eyes but he doesn’t say anything.  He makes a few phone calls, dipping into the hallway and whispering but Zayn merely blinks at him when he stands in front of the television with his hands on his hips and his curls falling over his narrowed green eyes.  When he reads the fatality count across the screen, sees the tears of neighbors, the anguish in a few of the firemen’s faces, Harry lays a hand on his shoulder and presses a kiss to the top of Zayn’s head.

It feels like a moment he’s had before, rolling in his sleep and his eyes going a little sideways when he hears the buzz of his phone on the nightstand.  He’s at Anthony’s, nudging at Ant until he stops snoring, reaching blindly for his phone just after it stops vibrating.  It’s his fourth missed call, all from Doniya and before he can call her back, it’s buzzing again.  He barely gets a sleepy greeting out before he hears the whimper in her tone, the crying in the background, the way his heart rattles in his ears.

He’s a little numb when Doniya drives by Anthony’s to pick him up.  They don’t say anything in the car, the low roll of the radio lulling whatever they’re both not saying to each other.  When they get to the hospital, his heart is already sinking.  His mum is already in the room and when the doctor comes out, when he says it, “I’m sorry,” Zayn’s breaking apart in front of him.  When Doniya clutches to his arm, he can’t comfort her.  When his mum lifts her head, tears washing away her makeup and staining her cheeks, he can’t find the words to console her.

The sound of his own whimpers, tears sliding like warm rain on the valley, drown out everything.

“Oi, shove over.”

Louis’ voice snaps him out of his daze, head jerking up to see Louis pushing not so kindly at his shoulder until Zayn’s making room for him on the corner of the couch even though there’s plenty of space on the other end.  Louis settles down next to him in a baggy jumper, pajama pants and his hair is wrecked like he’s been sleep.  Harry’s sweeping by, an apologetic smile on his lips as he drags impatient fingers through his curls.

“Don’t give him that look,” Louis warns, cuddling close to Zayn.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” Harry whispers, a small sigh passing through cherry lips.  “You wouldn’t move.  Or breathe.”

“That’s enough Harry,” Louis says, waving him off.  Zayn’s eyes go a little wide when Harry merely stumbles off into the kitchen, starting a pot of coffee.

Zayn inhales deep.  He definitely needs a cigarette.  Louis smacks his arm, hard, and, yeah, he needs a cigarette.

“Snap out of it,” Louis hisses before dropping his chin onto Zayn’s shoulder.

“Is he okay?” Zayn asks, the only thing he’s been silently thinking for hours.

Louis offers him an uncomforting shrug, lips pursing.  “I sent him, like, a dozen texts.  Called down to the station.  Rung his dad.  No one’s really answering right now.”

Zayn nods slowly, understands that.  His teeth dig a little further into his bottom lip, the static in his head still way too loud to think clearly.  And it does nothing to ease the way his stomach is twisting, caving in on itself while his heart races, the thudding loud like the drums of a marching band.  His fingers, they twitch and tremble, and he thinks maybe if he had a cigarette between them they’d calm down.  He knows they won’t, but it’s a somewhat helpful thought.

“How can he do this?  All the time,” Zayn wonders in a hushed tone.  He shakes his head, anger rising.  “All the fucking time.  Risk his life for someone else.”

Louis chuckles softly, fingers sliding between Zayn’s balled up ones.  “That’s a rather ironic question, don’t ya think?  He saved you.”

“I didn’t deserve to be saved,” Zayn hisses, his jaw tight.

Louis blinks at him for a moment and Zayn hears the rattling of dishes, a cup dropping against the counter.  Harry hates that.  He hates what Zayn’s said.  He hates what Zayn feels but rarely says aloud.  Harry’s a happy guy, nearly as happy as Niall without the mental spasms of joy.  But when he’s angry, it’s never hidden under a veil or disguise.  It’s known for miles.  And he can usually walk it off, shake it off, talk through it but there were moments, like now, where even Zayn doesn’t think Harry will just let it fall away.

“Two spoons of sugar and a little cream babe,” Louis calls out toward the kitchen, ignoring the way Harry’s slamming cupboards shut.

“I’m sorry,” Zayn whispers, to Louis, more so to Harry.

“You believe that, don’t you?  That you don’t deserve him, huh?” Louis asks rather defiantly.  His lifts his chin, daring Zayn to lie to him.

Zayn nods slowly, wincing when Harry drops a spoon harshly into an empty cup.

“I do hope that it’s decaf love,” Louis sighs out, glancing over his shoulder to the kitchen where Harry’s cursing lowly at the damn coffee pot.  He turns his eyes back on Zayn, head tilting to the side.  There’s no pity in his eyes though Zayn half expects there to be.  There’s… understanding.

“Tell me,” Louis insists, running his fingers gently over Zayn’s forearm

Zayn swallows, inhales sharply before he does.  He tells Louis everything.  He talks about his father, clenching the pillow in his hands until it loses its shape.  He tells Louis about his mum, his sisters, about letting them all down.  He nearly chokes through his stories about growing up, being different, hating himself for being anything other than what the other kids were with his darker skin, his beliefs, his personality.  He doesn’t spare Louis the details, let’s all the little things he’d forgot to tell Harry flood from his lips until Harry’s sitting on the coffee table across from them, fingers gripping Zayn’s knee while passing Louis a cup of coffee.  He laughs through tears when explaining Max and everything that went along with it, Harry smirking while Louis merely sips on his coffee, nodding.  It comes out in a rush until Zayn’s breathless and, for the first time, not wanting to take any of it back.

“Oi, I swear,” Louis whistles, lowering his cup before leaning back into the couch.  “I see why the poor sod has fallen for you.  You’re quite fantastic and tragic all at once.”

“He wouldn’t be Zayn Malik unless he was,” Harry says with a smirk, emerald eyes on Zayn rather than Louis.

There’s a low buzz; it’s not Zayn’s phone this time.  Louis pulls his out, smiling down at the message before batting his lashes at Zayn, drawing in close.  Zayn’s breath catches and he can read it all in Louis’ expression.

“Where do you want me to tell him to meet you?  I’m sure the bloke is right knackered, but they’re letting him leave duty early,” Louis says, pulling back as he mashes a bunch of things in his phones.

“The pub?” Harry offers with a shrug.

“Ooh, your old building?  How tragically romantic would that be?” Louis squeals, feet kicking into the air and nearly catching Zayn’s chin.

“Lou,” Harry says lowly, eyebrow cocked up with a smile.  “You’re quite pathetic.”

“Says the chap who invited me over to watch Love, Actually with him tomorrow.  Honestly Harry, is that what you call a date or a diversionary tactic to fuck me?” Louis asks, blush sliding sweetly over Harry’s cheeks.

Zayn wants to answer for him, leans back to see the way Harry’s looking down at his hands rather than Louis.  He snorts, thinks he should give Niall thirty quid just he can take Cher out for guessing this one.  He’s also fairly certain he’s going to have to get a bed soon because the way Harry and Louis have been looking at each other lately, he’s pretty sure the couch has become some sort of erotic one-stop for whatever trysts the two have had.

“I know a place,” Zayn says quietly, snatching the phone from Louis’ loose grip.  He ignores Louis protest before clicking a few buttons and sending the message.  He tosses the phone back to Louis who catches it easily, leaning back into the couch with a smile.  Every bit of the sting and numbness from earlier sort of fades away, leaving Zayn to wonder how he’ll ever be able to keep anything from Liam ever again.

**

He’s halfway through his third cigarette when he reaches that oversized sandbox at the park.  He sniffs the night’s air, the smell of autumn slowly lifting through a light breeze.  The trees are painted scarlet, gold, the slightest hint of brown with green doing its best to do an encore performance for the birds and squirrels.  He can hear the crickets, a loud symphony of echoing noise, his ears perking when he hears a few of the ducks splashing around in that lake far too far away from him to watch.  It’s not bitter cold like he knows it’ll be in a month or two but there’s enough chill in the air that he pulls on the material of his hoodie, slips his beanie lower on his head and the smoke settling in his chest doesn’t do much to warm his fingertips.

Zayn smiles around his cigarette when he spots Liam’s shoes sitting on the wooden step leading into the sandbox, one laying on its side with the laces undone.  He peeks up through his long lashes, doesn’t spot Liam sitting on that plastic slide.  It sinks in that maybe he’s been dreaming it all along.  Maybe this life that he’d done so good at running from isn’t the one for him anyway.  But maybe he’s being an asshole.  He’s done rather well at that, the asshole thing, for a good portion of his life.  Not when he was younger, but later on, when things were a little too heavy and a lot less carefree.  He wonders how Niall does it sometimes – lives as if the world is nothing less than sunshine and excitement.  Liam does it too, but only to a degree.

The wind shifts uncomfortable, racing against the back of his neck and he stubs his cigarette along the wood before toeing off his shoes, resting them next to Liam’s.  He smiles down at that.  It feels like something he wouldn’t mind seeing often; their shoes together in one place.  Their coats hung on a rack together.  His pack of cigarettes next to Liam’s keys; his art supplies tucked away in a corner next to Liam’s work bag.  Maybe even his shirt wrinkled at the end of the bed with Liam’s favorite sweats, his body curled around Liam’s.

Zayn sinks into the sand, the cool grains shifting between his toes.  He shivers a little, hugging himself, wishing he had finished all of that last cigarette.  He grins when he sees a trail of imprints in the sand, following each footstep until he reaches that old set of swings, Liam moving lazily back and forth with his head hanging low.

Zayn clears his throat to grab his attention, Liam’s head snapping up immediately and Zayn’s heart hiccups.  Liam looks… exhausted.  His eyes look heavy, cheeks pulled down, the color a little drained from his face.  But when his mouth twitches, slipping from where it rested between his teeth, that smile shocks life into brown eyes and Zayn sinks into the way he’ll never be able to forget the colors dancing through those eyes.

“Hey,” Zayn says softly, taking a few steps further into he’s almost directly in front of Liam.  His feet dig into the sand when Liam shifts a little awkwardly in the swing, mind telling him not to run.

“I suppose a greeting is in order, yeah?” Liam laughs out, the sound a little hoarse.

Zayn nods, smirks back, his tongue pressing against his teeth.

“I hope you didn’t ask me here to apologize,” Liam says dryly, rocking back a little before swinging forward.  “I think you’d be greatly disappointed by my response.”

Zayn sighs, nodding again.  He inches his hands into his pockets, chin lifting when the wind kicks from the left this time.

“I came to explain,” Zayn offers, his voice painfully shy.

“Explain,” Liam repeats, dragging the word out like he’s unsure of the definition.

“Unless that’s not what you want.”

“What do you want?” Liam asks suddenly, his brow crinkling.  He’s stopped swinging, just sitting there now and Zayn hates the way Liam’s face goes from a smile to a frown just that quickly.

“I want you,” Zayn says, the only thing his heart allows him to.

“Really?” Liam says flatly, reclining back on the swing and the collar of his blue jumper slips down, exposing purplish skin from the side of his neck down beneath the material.

Zayn inches forward quickly, instinct getting the best of him to press delicate fingers to Liam’s skin until he’s hissing.  He jerks away, Zayn’s own fingers pulling back like a shock has gone through them.

“You’re hurt.”

Liam shrugs, pulls at his collar until the bruises are hidden again.  “Debris fell on me while we were trying to free a few people.  I lived.”

Zayn nods, teeth gripping his bottom lip for a moment.  He watches the pain sink into Liam’s face but it’s not from the bruises, he can tell.  He watches Liam’s fingers tighten around the chains of the swing, head lowered and, if he could without Liam totally snatching away, he’d lift that chin and press a kiss to his lips just to ease some of that pain.

“Well,” Liam starts, rocking a little in the swing, “are you going to stand there or explain?”

Zayn smiles a little.  He can hear it in Liam’s voice; he’s trying to corral in the anger but there’s something sad underneath it.  Something that doesn’t want Zayn to just walk away.

“Where do you want me start?” Zayn asks, taking a full step back but then Liam’s reaching out, body moving jerkily before he’s got his fingers wrapped around Zayn’s wrist, squeezing tightly while wincing from the pressure put on his shoulder.  Zayn’s brow lifts immediately, catches Liam lifting his chin with desperate eyes before Zayn’s taking that step forward again, Liam still pulling.  He’s unsure of what Liam’s trying to say until Liam sighs, pulling Zayn closer and moving his hand up until he grips Zayn’s hoodie, yanking Zayn down until he stumbles into Liam’s lap.

“Are you fucking mental?” Zayn asks, the swing set rocking a little before settling, the chains rattling.

Liam laughs lowly, steadies Zayn until he’s seated in Liam’s lap.

“I want you to start here,” Liam says quietly, arm circling Zayn’s hips, preventing Zayn from standing.  “Okay?”

Zayn studies his face, the way those eyes are as sad as Loki’s whenever Liam’s about to walk out the door.  He nods for Liam, teeth nipping at his bottom lip.

“Okay.”

“All right,” Liam whispers back, shoulders slumping before he’s leaning his head on Zayn’s shoulder.  “Go ahead.”

And Zayn does.  He tells Liam everything, just as he did with Louis.  He doesn’t let the tears run down his face, not because he can’t, but he doesn’t think Liam could take it.  He holds them in, breathes out shaky sighs until Liam’s rubbing the back of his hand comfortingly, his own hand running over the soft prickles on the back of Liam’s head.

Liam listens like Louis did, like Harry did, but instead of small nods when Zayn reaches the more painful parts, he presses kisses to the back of Zayn’s hand, across his cheek, the corner of his mouth, finally to his lips with a finger gently wiping at Zayn’s eyes just before the tears can break.  He stops Zayn before his voice can crack, whispering encouraging words, gentle things that Zayn wants to remember but can’t when his mind is moving too quickly to remember his own name.  And Liam’s holding him, securing him against the wind, against his own emotions which are betraying in the most suffocating way.

When his voice catches, finally talking about his baba, about his family, Liam kisses him quiet.  He lets Zayn’s lips shiver against his, Zayn’s hands on the side of Liam’s face, pushing him back gently to look into those eyes, the ones that seem to be just a bit wet with tears.  The ones that are offering Zayn promises all over again.  The ones that save Zayn when, fuck, he wasn’t supposed to be saved.

“It was just supposed to be a job, you know?” Liam offers when Zayn’s breathing slows some.

Zayn gives him a curious look, brow raised with his lips tipping.

“What?”

Liam lets out a shaky laugh, head shaking.  His thumb strokes the curve of Zayn’s cheek, flirts along Zayn’s eyelashes, peeling them apart.

“I was just supposed to go in, check the premises and get out,” Liam explains, head pulling back to look at Zayn fully.  He smiles softly, Zayn’s heart cracking.  “Then I saw you.  I stopped and, shit, I saw you in the corner Zayn.  I could’ve called for backup, followed procedure but I didn’t because all I thought was I couldn’t let anything happen to this beautiful bloke.  And then, look what you did.  You pulled me out of the fire.”

Zayn snorts, helpless grin creasing his pink lips.  He rubs at his nose – What if I wanted to break – slides his fingers along Liam’s jaw, across his ear, down that round cheek.

“You’re an idiot,” he teases, laughing with his eyes crinkling, nose wrinkling, lips parting when Liam fakes a hurt expression.

Liam leans up, grin tipping his lips upward and Zayn smiles down at him, nodding when Liam pauses, eyes questioning before he moves.  He lets Liam gently press their lips together, hand slipping to the back of Liam’s neck, rubbing softly as Liam angles his head to deepen the kiss – Come break me down. Bury me, bury me.

Zayn sighs into the kiss, head pressing forward until their foreheads are against each other.  Their lips break, eyes on each other, Liam shifting until his nose strokes against Zayn’s.  Zayn dips forward, stealing another kiss before Liam’s smiling, fingers digging into the small of Zayn’s back.

“We’re better?” Zayn wonders, nervously worrying his lip with his teeth.

Liam nods, skin rubbing together.  “There’s one more thing.”

Zayn lifts his brow, watches the smile shift a little on Liam’s face.

“And I can go with you,” Liam offers before he explains himself, Zayn pulling back to question him.  Liam swallows, blush riding his cheeks.  “You have to go see him.  All of them.”

His heart stops.  Well, it skips a beat.  He studies Liam’s face, the seriousness suffocating that smile but Liam’s interlocking their fingers, that comfort still lining his face – You say you wanted more. What are you waiting for?  He blinks at Liam, knows better than to consider the offer.  He’s thought about it, more than once, but he doesn’t think he’s ready.  He’s not until he sees that flicker in Liam’s eyes, the one that says he knows Zayn’s about to run.  And his eyes begin to lower, his grip loosening on Zayn’s hand.

“Okay,” Zayn says quickly, scaring himself at the way that one word rips at his lungs.

Liam’s head pops up, surprise shifting his expression in the hollowed light of the moon.

“Okay?”

Zayn nods, biting at a smile.  “’kay.”

Liam blinks at him for a beat, disbelief sliding over his face.

“You’re sure because I didn’t really expect you to say yes and we don’t – “

Zayn darts forward, slots his lips to Liam’s and all the words he tries to speak are licked away by Zayn’s tongue.  His fingers dig roughly into the small of Zayn’s back, his other hand cupping Zayn’s chin and Zayn’s eyes slide shut.  He lets Liam take control of the kiss for a moment, breathing in apple-scented shampoo, sweet cologne, the rough scent of smoke he remembers all too well from his own clothes. He breathes in Liam, the scent he misses most against his clothes.

**

It’s a bitter cold that morning.  He has to pull on a scarf, his beanie, and he even borrows one of Harry’s nicer coats.  The ground is a bit stiff when he walks on it, the grass moving with the breeze and he pulls the coat closer to his chest, head a little lowered.  And maybe it’s the way everything is so quiet when he walks, the wind barely howling with the sky the right shade of gray that it almost looks silver.  Maybe he’s cold because each time he passes a headstone, he tries not to calculate the age when he reads the date of birth and the date of death, wincing when he finds a few of them a little too close in years.

Liam’s next to him, chin up, picking at the collar of his coat before running a hand over his hair.  It’s thicker, right at the top, and though his crew gives him shit about it, Zayn loves it.  He loves the way his fingers can drag through it when they’re lying on Liam’s couch, watching Toy Story for the eighth time because Liam loves it and Zayn tolerates it because Liam refuses to bother Zayn when he’s sketching or reading a book he told himself he’d finish but never does.  He thinks it’s more so on those nights, laid across Liam’s bed with Liam on his knees, the skin painfully red there even though Liam never complains, Zayn’s fingers tugging gently on that thick hair as he thrusts up into Liam from behind.  Liam whispers dirty things to him later on, admitting he likes the length too when Zayn drags tired fingers through the front of it.

His feet stumble a little when he sees them gathered around that same place he hasn’t seen in years.  He can remember the exact footsteps it is from poor Grace Dickens headstone to the one with the pretty script on it that says ‘Yaser Malik.’  He’s never bothered to read the words beneath the name, never bothered to get close enough to know if that stone was truly gray or a marble material.  He’s never been close enough to know what kind of flowers anyone’s left on it or whether the ground sinks in some spots, stiff in others.

His hands shake, Liam immediately grabbing one, forcing Zayn to walk when his feet halt a little.  He’s quick to slip his fingers between Liam’s, head turning a little with a plea but Liam is determined.  He’s smiling quietly, nodding at Zayn, trying to offer some sort of silent courage that Zayn could run from so easily if it wasn’t Liam.  And then he’s clearing his throat, willing tears to stay steadfast until a small girl looks up at him with brilliantly bright blue, almost lilac-colored eyes and an irresistible smile.

“Zayn!”

His stomach tightens at her voice, heart shifting a little to the left, and when Liam releases his hand he wants to call out to him until she comes bounding up to him, throwing all of her weight at him until he nearly topples over trying to embrace her.  He kneels to give her a better reach, knees sinking into the still damp grass without a care.  He feels her tears against his neck, small arms circling his shoulders as best she can and he’s kissing the side of her head, squeezing tightly until those small sobs subside.

“Don’t cry Safaa,” he whispers, nudging her head with his chin until she pulls back with a frown.  He smiles, his thumb wipes tears from her cheeks.  “You’re too pretty to cry.”

“She’s too much a brat not to cry.”

Zayn’s head snaps up immediately, his heart swelling when he finds Waliyha smiling down at them, small tears lining her own eyes.  He knows she’d be too proud to admit that those tears were from sheer joy rather than anything but the icy chill in the air.  In fact, she’d probably say it was her contacts though he knows her vision is perfect.

“And what are you?  The Princess of Bradford?” Zayn teases, eyebrow cocked up as she rolls her eyes.

She tosses her hair back, tightening her scarf before settling her hands on her hips.

“I’m something like that,” Waliyha shoots back with a smirk so reminiscent of their mother’s.

“Get down here you little shit,” Zayn demands with a laugh.

Waliyha’s a petulant child just that quick, pouting before dropping down and throwing her arms around both of them with a sob.  Zayn gladly pulls her in, lets her tears slide against his cheek as she presses a kiss there, whimpering into his ear.  He grins when he spots her clutching onto Safaa, the smaller girl releasing Zayn to hug onto her sister.

“See, I told you they didn’t hate each other,” Doniya teases, nudging her hips against an older woman, an older version of Waliyha with her hair streaked ruby, clutching a handkerchief with wet eyes that are crinkled at the corners, a trembling bottom lip, and brown eyes that could be almond like Liam’s in the right light.

“Maybe they just missed him?”

“Oi mum, please,” Doniya giggles, wiping away her own tears.  “Who could miss that wanker.”

Zayn inhales deeply, disentangles himself from Waliyha and Safaa before standing.  He dusts at his pants, his chest tightening before his mum is nodding at him, fixing her shaking lips into a gentle smile.  He watches her take a hesitant step forward, head shaking as if she’s rethinking it all and his fingers clench at his side.  He nibbles at his lip, eyes dropping away before she’s closing that distance and throwing her arms around him.

Everything bursts just that quickly.  His head spins, he feels nauseous and overwhelmed all at once.  His eyes blink repeatedly, fight with sticky tears as she clings to him, sobbing into his chest.  He can see Doniya turning away, Waliyha wiping at her eyes while Safaa watches them curiously, tears still slipping down and over her round cheeks.  His hands are shaky when he lifts his arms, rubbing gently at her back until her breathing settles, refusing to pull back from him.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she whispers through whimpers, clutching tighter.  “Oh Zee, it wasn’t you.  He loved you.  Even after, he loved you.  You were his everything.”

Zayn nods, tries to believe her though he knows it’ll take time for him to understand it all.  Still, it’s enough.

When she does pull back, Zayn helps to wipe the tears that have streaked her face.  He nibbles on his bottom lip; he’s five years old again when looking down at her.  He smiles when she sighs heavily, helps to push her hair back from her face.  She hasn’t changed.  She’s still some glittery piece of sunshine that broke away from the heavens far too long ago.  And that smile, his heart thumping too loudly against his chest, is the best kind of remedy to too many years of pain.

“Who’s this?” she asks, peaking around Zayn.

Zayn can’t help the way his cheeks fill with blush, the corners of his mouth peeking upward, carefully glancing over his shoulder to where Liam is walking up with a quiet look on his face.

“This is Liam,” Zayn pauses when Liam stands next to him, his fingers naturally trying to link with Liam’s.  He catches the way his mum watches their hands rather than their faces.  He clears his throat, courage breaking through.  “This is Liam, my boyfriend.”

The feel of it on his tongue, the way it clinked against his teeth, the way his heart played jump rope on the tip of his tongue when it escaped his lips – he’s smiling without trying.  And his fingers, index and middle, twine with Liam’s, his hand swinging gently by their sides with Liam grinning, eyes wide.  He’s as surprised as Zayn and that tickles Zayn right along his veins.

“Someone special,” Doniya says lowly with a giggle, arms thrown around Waliyha’s neck from behind.

“Why does Zayn get a boyfriend and I don’t?” Safaa whines, pulling at her mother’s jacket.

She smiles, head tilting to look at Zayn and Liam, a small nod of approval is all she offers.

“Because you’re ten and a brat,” Waliyha fusses, giving Safaa a playful shove.

Safaa stomps her feet, tongue sticking out at Waliyha before she’s pouting.  Liam laughs, full and broad, head leaning on Zayn’s shoulder.  Zayn eases an arm around Liam’s back, grinning as Safaa chases Waliyha around the grass, Doniya holding onto their mother as she continues to watch Liam and Zayn, grin spreading.

It takes them awhile to leave, Zayn’s mum and sisters having long left.  His mum offers them dinner and time with Zayn’s cousins later, to which Liam accepts for them because Zayn’s too busy looking at her with large eyes and mouth gaped.  He accepts kisses on the cheeks from his sisters, a shaky hug from his mum who whispers sweet words into his ear, moving over to wrap Liam into an embrace with a smile, a quiet “thank you” before he lets them walk away.

They stand in silence, Zayn reading every letter scripted onto his father’s headstone for the first time.  He’s run his fingers over the cold marble surface more than one time, shivering and blaming it on the wind but he knows it’s something greater.  He asks for some sort of forgiveness quietly, bottom lip trembling until he can’t look at the name anymore, turning his eyes away.  Liam lets him shed silent tears into the crook of his neck, quiet words from Liam hushing him before his emotions completely envelope him.

He wants to, but he can’t seem to walk away from it all.

“Fucking hell, it’s cold out here.”

“I don’t think you’re allowed to use foul language in the cemetery, Lou.”

Zayn peeks over his shoulder with his eyebrow arched, catches the way Louis shoots Niall an incredulous look.

“Look here sunshine, I am the Tommo,” Louis announces loudly, clinging to Harry who has an arm wrapped around Louis’ shoulders as they walk up.  “I can say whatever I bloody fucking want, yeah?”

Niall whistles lowly, head shaking.  “I’m clearing the path when lightning strikes.”

Harry’s laughing, his cheeks pinkish and nose red from the chill as Louis grumbles lowly into his arm, “Fucking leprechaun and his stupid beliefs.  He has no bloody idea.  I am the Tommo.”

Zayn grins, turning with Liam when they get close enough.  He peeks at Liam with a raised brow, spots the shy smile that crosses Liam’s lips.  He knows Liam invited them, probably begged Louis to leave the comfort of his flat to come out here because Louis hates the cold, even more so than Zayn does.

“When do we eat?” Niall wonders when the silence settles in uncomfortably.

“There’s plenty of hot meals for you in hell,” Louis mumbles, Harry’s long fingers slipping over his lips.  Zayn can spot Louis grinning behind them, wiggling his eyebrows toward Liam.

“What are you going to do with your eighteen days off?” Harry asks Liam, hand jerking away when Louis’ tongue licks out at a few of them.

Liam snorts, Zayn gripping his hand with a small giggle.  He can feel Liam’s eyes linger on him for a moment, suddenly the cold turning comfortably warm inside of him.

“I can think of a few things.”

“Fantastic,” Niall sighs, hands sliding into the pockets of his coat with his knees dipping.  “Sex talk instead of food.”

“We’re going to Wolverhampton,” Zayn announces suddenly, grinning when Liam’s hand grips his and he can see from the corner of his eye that Liam is gawking at him with his mouth open.  Zayn turns a little, head sliding to the side with a smirk.  “I want to see where you grew up.  What made you the way you are.  I want you to show me everything.”

“Oi, how romantic,” Niall sighs dryly, grumbling when Louis’ elbow jabs his ribs.

“What a shit way to spend a vacation,” Louis declares, blue eyes shiny with a pleased grin on his lips.

“I think it’s brilliant,” Liam says lowly, smiling softly at Zayn.  Zayn watches the way those eyes start to crinkle and his nose scrunches with a grin of his own.

“So,” Harry drags out, grinning at Zayn, “who brought the bourbon?”

“Oi, babe, you know I’m a rum kind of bloke,” Louis whines, snuggling closer to Harry.

“I’ll take the whiskey,” Niall offers up with a wild grin.

“Water.”

“Christ, Liam, grow a pair,” Louis sighs, the others falling into an echoing laughter that dances up into the gray skies.

Zayn smirks, inches into Liam’s touch.  He lets his teeth pull at the corner of his lip as Niall and Louis argue over the finer points between whiskey and rum, Harry pressing his nose into Louis’ hair with a grin.  Liam attempts to join in with insultingly awful jokes, grinning when Louis’ rolls his eyes.  Zayn sighs, stepping back slightly to swat a playful hand against Liam’s ass, fingers lingering as Liam looks over his shoulder with a surprised expression.  Zayn shrugs, fingers still lingering on the fabric of Liam’s jeans to feel the definition of Liam’s ass before letting Liam swallow him into a hug, soft kisses rut against his lips.

When they pull apart, Liam rubbing at the back of his neck, Zayn exhales a cloud of smoke from his lips, the air on the right side of cold.  He smiles at Liam, looks into those chocolate eyes and tries not to feel like the most important thing in the world.  But the way Liam looks at him, he can’t help but feel that way.

It kicks back against his lungs, deep inhale and he feels that rush everywhere.

“I love you,” Liam says softly, leaning in.

Zayn grins, ignores Louis’ rampant complaining, the way Harry rattles on about how annoying they are, the sound of Niall begging for a homecooked meal.  He meets Liam halfway, some sort of feeling of safety and home in Liam’s eyes.

“I love you too,” Zayn whispers, his words breaking into the air in the form of a cloud of smoke that circles around them as Liam kisses him, stealing that last bit of oxygen he was holding inside of his lungs.