Archive of Our Own

Liam is certain that if any of his mates saw him, in this moment, they’d think him mental.

That is if Liam had any real mates besides, well, Harry. Or that cheeky agent of his, he reckons.

Still, he’s confident he probably looks a bit ridiculous. Out of his bloody mind, but ―

The burst of half-sleepy giggles Jasmine releases from her high chair while Liam dances about the kitchen, shirtless with just a pair of jogging bottoms on, makes it all worth the embarrassment.

The Temptations are blaring from his iPad and he’s fairly sure he’s burnt the second batch of pancakes on the griddle.

He doesn’t care.

Liam sings to the flat end of the spatula, shimmying his shoulders, pulling goofy faces just to draw another round of bubbly laughter from Jasmine. Just for the way her eyes shine like freshly born stars when she watches him.

It’s just their morning routine ― Liam burning breakfast, shuffling around while old tunes hum through his flat, his daughter wide-eyed and filled with contagious laughter. It’s as if he does it all without thought. Anything just to catch her lips lifting into one of those uncoordinated smiles because she’s still too young to be cheeky.

In retrospect, he supposes he should’ve pursued that dream of auditioning for X Factor rather than being some barely-known novelist, yeah?

But that doesn’t matter, either.

It’s just the sun and burning pancakes and the ache of her snickers in his ears.

He swivels his hips, peeking over his shoulder at Jasmine with a grin, just before flipping the mostly ruined pancakes. He taps a bare foot on the floor to the music, keeping a secret smile to himself.

(He’s learned ages ago that this is the only way Liam can fool his daughter into eating a jar of baby food or his shit cooking early in the morning ― by serenading her with old tunes his parents used to love and dancing like a right idiot in the middle of his small kitchen)

The sun spills into the room like the aftermath of a nuclear bomb ― all harsh orange and everything glowing ultraviolet.

Liam sets a saucer of toast with jam and cereal puffs for his daughter to toy with while he dumps a bag of Twinings into his mug. He’s a bit grateful for moments like this ― where Jasmine is too distracted by food to interrupt his morning cuppa.

(Not that he would mind entertaining her ― she’s the one brilliant certainty in his life these days.)

Liam takes a second to admire her ― big, bright toffee eyes, rose blush and freckles flicked across her button nose. A fluff of hair on her head that always sticks up funny in the morning. She’s just as soft and neon as the day he adopted her.

(that warm flutter in his heart, like he never tires of this, always tastes best in the morning with his tea)

“Birthday in a few weeks, babe,” he grins, stealing a slice of her toast. “Turning the big one, yeah?”

Jasmine cocks her head curiously at him. She’s so brilliant, he swears, too mature for her age. He sighs happily into his tea.

“Not too excited, eh?” he teases, passing her a warm bottle to down.

She sighs back, tiny feet kicking back and forth, shrugging like she understands him. And he’s sure that nearly every parent swears their child is a genius but, honestly, he thinks his daughter truly is. Too clever for eleven months, he promises.

“Big party, Jas. Just,” Liam pauses, scratching at his morning scruff, blinking hard. “Well, you and me, huh? Maybe Uncle Haz?”

Jasmine sucks noisily at her bottle, wiggling contently in her chair. Unaffected by their small, ordinary life. Dull life, Liam thinks, sometimes. Just the two of them.

(And Liam isn’t sad about it all, but it might cross his mind.)

(How this isn’t exactly the way he pictured his life.)

Liam finishes his cuppa, dropping it in the sink, pushing a hand through his hair. He exhales softly. He knows better than to get caught up in his thoughts. He needs to get his day started. Life moves on.

There’s a soft, then loud, rattling at the door. Liam wrinkles up his brow, confused. It’s only half nine in the morning. It’s too early for anyone to bother visiting ― except, well, Harry. It’s not likely because Harry always teaches a morning class during the week, popping over around noon just to chat shit and stretch out on Liam’s sofa.

Probably just someone at the wrong flat.

Liam scoops up Jasmine, dropping her empty bottle into the sink next to his mug.

He shuffles through the messy lounge, stepping over a wreckage of toys and crumpled papers with writing notes on them.

(a bunch of plots and characters he’ll probably never write ― he tries not to frown at the thought)

Liam tugs open the door and ―

Oh.

It’s definitely not Harry.

But it’s some striking bloke who’s all sharp cheekbones and soft hair fluffed around his face. Zayn. Liam remembers him without thinking.

He looks a bit sheepish, leaning in the doorway, one hand braced on the nape of his neck. His teeth are pulling absently at his lower lip. Briefly, his eyes drag over Liam.

Liam flushes on instinct. Top job, Payne. Answer the door ― shirtless.

“Sorry, mate,” Liam fumbles out, adjusting Jasmine higher up his hip. “Was just ― ‘m really, um.”

Zayn shrugs, looking genuinely unbothered. “Y’ don’t look terrible, mate.”

Liam bites back a groan. He wants to shove his head through a bloody wall. It’s quite the sight ― trying to hide all of his stupid blush.

Zayn sniffs, wrinkling his nose a bit. He swallows, looking nervous with the silence. He bites at his lip like he’s got a mouthful to say but he hasn’t. Not another word.

It all makes Liam noticeably uncomfortable.

“Sorry, right,” Zayn laughs, the noise tight in his throat. “Um, well, I live across the hall and ― ”

Liam knows. They’ve passed each other a time or two.

(Or a hundred, really, but Liam’s not keeping count. Not on purpose.)

“ ― and it seems me flat has flooded while I was out. Bad pipe or summat.”

Liam nods. He likes this building, honestly, but the upkeep isn’t spectacular. He still hasn’t sorted out his air conditioning unit in the summer.

Zayn scratches at his stubble, sighing. “S’gonna take about two weeks to renovate it all. Building manager was a bit of a dick about it.”

Instantly, Zayn cringes, slightly, raising his brow at Jasmine like he’s been caught.

Liam shoots him a half grin, amused. “She’s heard worse, mate,” he says, assuredly.

Zayn gives a nod. He looks a little more relaxed now, finally losing the wilting tension in his shoulders. “Think it could take, like, three weeks, actually? Gonna try to get them to fix me shower pressure, too.”

“Cheers,” Liam says, chewing at his own lip, absently running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to tell Zayn it won’t work. His has been shit since his first week here. “Good luck.”

Zayn nods, again, shuffling from foot to foot.

“Don’t want to ask, but,” he swallows, looking down, “like, I really don’t wanna stay at a hotel for that long. Not exactly in my budget, y’know? Plus I hate how strange those places can be. Not very homey.”

Liam inhales a deep breath, holding it. Honestly, he can’t stop staring at Zayn ―

(It’s not the first time they’ve had a chat, though, Zayn probably won’t remember:

Liam was quite shitfaced that night. A bit heartbroken, too. And Zayn was dripping all over the hall from the evening rain, fumbling for his keys, his leather jacket swallowing him up back then.

Stupidly drunk from a bender with Harry, Liam remembers leaning against the wall, chatting at Zayn. His flirting was poor enough that Zayn didn’t notice. Just making a complete arse of himself, like he always does.

And Zayn, bless him, just smiled in that absently cheeky way, waving Liam off. Offering a paracetamol and tea in the morning if Liam needed it before disappearing into his flat.)

“I dunno,” Liam mumbles, glancing down at Jasmine. “I mean, I’ve got her ― ”

Zayn sniffs, smiling weakly. “Course. Bit rude of me? You’ve probably got a bird or a wife? Might have a problem with me staying around?”

Oh.

Zayn doesn’t remember. He’s probably forgotten all of it, really. Not a bit of Liam’s horrible flirting with him that night or the uncomfortable way Liam shrugged past him the next evening on the way to drop a load of laundry downstairs.

Right. Quite forgettable.

Liam swallows, shifting Jasmine around, trying not to look embarrassed. “No, like. None of that. ‘m in a relationship or summat. Quite single, cheers,” he rushes out like he’s scared of leaving the wrong impression. He looks away just as quickly.

Honestly, he doesn’t want to know how Zayn is probably studying him.

“Just might be a bit uncomfortable, wouldn’t it? She wakes up at odd times and ― ”

Zayn chuckles softly, patting at Liam’s shoulder.

“S’cool, mate. I get it,” he replies, smoothly. “Could bunk up with that one Irish fella down the way, right? Seems chill or whatever.”

Liam makes an indignant face. “Y’mean Niall.”

Zayn gives a sharp nod. He smiles like he’s not troubled by Liam’s annoyed tone. “Right ― him. Proper cool lad, hmm?”

Liam shrugs, even though he knows Niall is. He brought by a batch of burnt homemade biscuits and a bottle of low budget wine the evening Liam first came home with Jasmine. It was odd but, Liam thinks, so perfectly Niall.

“But he’s in a band and ― ”

Zayn licks his lips, twitching up a smile. “Cool. Yeah, love music. It’ll be smashing.”

Liam blinks a few times. He thinks Zayn doesn’t sound very convincing but Liam doesn’t really know Zayn. He cocks his head, wrinkling up his brow. “Y’sure, ‘cause I can ― ”

Zayn smirks widely. It’s cheeky and devastatingly attractive.

“Nah, ‘m a bad influence, anyway. Be terrible to have me ‘round this pretty little one. It’s cool.”

Liam frowns, only for a moment, before schooling his expression. He’s certain that’s not what he meant to imply.

Zayn flashes him a bright smile that shoves all the way into his eyes. “S’cool. Hate to spoil your good time, mate,” he says, mockingly, dropping a hand on Liam’s shoulder. He gives it an empathetic squeeze.

Liam’s skin burns from the contact. He’s ridiculous, he swears.

“Oh,” Zayn drags out, clucking his tongue. “Got a bit of breakfast in, like, your hair.”

Liam freezes, the echo of Zayn’s laugh in his head as Zayn shifts back. He watches Liam, looking easy and far from judging, waving a few fingers at Jasmine in this obnoxiously adorable way. He winks at Liam, still chuckling as he moves down the hallway.

He waits a beat before brushing a hand over his hair ― shit.

Jasmine’s sticky fingers must’ve drug a bit of jam in his hair, just above his ear. He feels flustered and a bit annoyed, too. Because Zayn is, well, beautiful. And an asshole.

It’s all so brilliant that Liam finds him embarrassingly attractive in a completely shallow way.

Jasmine gets restless in his arms, fussy from being still for too long.

Liam pulls a face at her, leaning in to peck a kiss to her nose. She giggles softly and he kicks the door shut, stumbling through his flat for a pacifier on the old coffee table sat in the middle of the lounge.

He finds her favorite stuffed frog (a silly gift from Harry) on the way, stowing it into her spread arms.

The sun, bright and warm, drags over the mess of his flat and Liam sighs. He’ll clean it, eventually.

“Someone needs a kip,” he says, pressing the words over the shell of Jasmine’s ear, smiling. “And daddy needs a cold shower.”

Jasmine tilts her head, too curious for her own good, Liam swears.

He bites at his lip, whispering, “I’ll explain it to you one day, babe. When you’re twenty-one.”

She blinks at him and he pushes down a giggle. She’s honestly just so curious about everything, it amazes him.

“Nope. When you’re forty.”

|+|

Pete was a good lad, for the most part. Terribly clever, that one. Very critical. He overanalyzed all of Liam’s favorite superhero films, made faces at Liam’s obsession with Batman.

But he had a kind smile and brilliant hands. Always made a smashing cuppa in the morning before Liam’s classes.

The kind of bloke mums adored ― in fact, Liam’s mum did love Pete, since she was the one who introduced them.

He made Liam feel in love. A strange, almost clinical love but still. It was something, wasn’t it?

Maybe it was because Liam was still just a fresher at university and Pete had a degree. Already a professor well before thirty. Fantastic with his words. He taught Liam how to dress smart (not that Liam minded a good pair of joggers and a loose vest when he was strolling through campus) but Liam always felt a bit out of depth in Pete’s crowd.

A lost pup.

But Pete was so reassuring in that almost sympathetic way Liam never noticed. Not until later.

He wanted Liam to move in to his flat, always so fondly chatting about marriage. About adopting and having a proper domestic life.

And then, a few weeks before he could sign the adoption papers, Pete convinced himself that he wanted to see more of the world.

With a bloke smarter than Liam.

He still thinks about it ― barely finishing university, alone. Searching for the least expensive flat he could find from the listings. That sweet social worker, Caroline, from the adoption agency who liked Liam.

She liked his kind smile and his determination and the way Jasmine instantly clung to him the first time he held her. After weeks of observations and meetings, Liam feeling something like an exhibit under a microscope, she granted Liam custody. And her blessings.

(It felt, strangely, like Pete’s final gift to Liam ― breaking his heart so Liam would soothe it with something else; something better.)

Distantly, Liam wonders now if that’s why he keeps getting stuck while writing. That awful bit where two characters are supposed to fall in love.

It should be easy. Simple.

Liam’s been in love, right? That maddeningly feeling in your blood, all of the dopamine surging. Shouldn’t be that hard to write about it.

Yet, he’s stuck. Right here. He has been for weeks and he doubts his publishers want a novel where the hero skips the romance bit and just saves the damn world instead.

That kind of thing nearly never happens, right?

|+|

“Breathe, Liam. Deep breaths, in and out.”

Liam listens to the thick, soothing drawl of Harry’s voice. He tries to find his calm. Or, at least, a quiet place in his mind. It’s a tad ridiculous but there’s something about the drag of Harry’s voice that allows him to follow Harry’s lead without putting up a fight.

“Now ease into the tree pose.”

Or, maybe not.

Liam groans gruffly. He flutters his eyes open, watching Harry stretch and flex his body into a position that seems, well, inhuman.

Harry is a bit outrageous, long and thick curls pushed back by an oddly-printed bandana, this wide, calm smile stretched over his face. He’s always been a contrast of milky skin and silly tattoos but it stands out a bit more in his loose vest and yoga pants.

Liam huffs, dropping his hands to his sides. “Haz,” he sighs, unable to help his own grin when Harry blinks one eye open, scanning Liam’s defeated stance. “M’not flexible like that, bro.”

Harry fumbles out a cheeky smirk. “Not even in the bedroom?”

Liam blushes, hard. His skin prickles with the heat and he swats at Harry’s bum. Out of retaliation. Or just to make Harry stumble out of his absurd stance.

Harry’s yoga space is some gutted out and renovated ballet studio. It’s all soft wind chimes, colorful mats, and floor to ceiling mirrors everywhere. Honestly, it’s not the sort of thing Liam expected from Harry after university ― this infinitely cheery lad who downs seaweed smoothies and leads daily yoga classes.

Not after fresher year, where they spent more time downing Carlings than studying.

“Nearly walking, that one, then?” Harry asks, nodding at Jasmine as she crawls merrily over the mats.

Liam’s mouth smooths into a gentle smile as he watches. Absently, he can’t help himself.

“She tries all the time,” Liam exhales. “Gonna be a right terror around me flat soon.”

Harry passes him a bottle of water and they flop down to the floor, spines pressed to one of the mirrors. It’s lazy and nice, one of the reasons Liam visits Harry whenever he can.

“Exciting time, yeah?” Harry smirks, eyes wide like twin meadows. He tangles his hair into a messy knot on his head ― a move he’s practiced far too many times before finally getting it right. He stretches out like a sleepy starfish, slumping down the mirror.

Liam gives him a small nod, exhaling, “Yeah.”

“How’s the book coming?” Harry asks, conversationally, taking a healthy sip of water. He scrubs the dripping excess from his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving the cross inked to his skin shiny.

Instinctively, Liam makes a face. He bites at his tiny frown, looking away. He hates being obvious but ―

“Still stuck?”

Liam winces, swallowing a groan. He thuds the back of his head to the mirror, hoping for a concussion. It’s unlikely.

His whole life, everything but the bits with Jasmine, feels stuck. Motionless.

“Can’t get past that one part,” Liam says, gesturing his hands around like he and Harry haven’t had this discussion a half-dozen times before.

It always the same and he tries not to look annoyed with it all.

He watches Jasmine crawl up, smacking her tiny hands against Liam’s socked-feet. Always so playful, Liam thinks, grinning fondly at her.

“Still haven’t considered just writing around the romance bit, mate?” Harry wonders, taking another sip.

Liam swallows down a mouthful of water. He shakes his head stubbornly. He shuffles his feet over the floor to keep Jasmine entertained, biting over his helpless smile.

“S’not my method, bro,” he sighs.

Harry shoots him a doubtful glare that Liam routinely ignores.

(They’ve done this enough times that he’s not all that bothered by Harry’s exasperated expressions)

Liam’s just not one of those writers ― the kind that can skip over details or plot points, coming back to them later. He can’t just work around things. He has a plan; an outline. When he’s stuck, he’s stuck. That’s it.

Harry gives a carefree shrug. “Can’t live off the pounds from your first book forever, Li,” he comments. “No matter how well it did.”

Liam groans softly, wrinkling his face.

He knows it; he lucked out with his first published novel. Got a nice following from it, some decent reviews. It’s daft, honestly, getting the key to the city back home because he was one of the few people from Wolverhampton to get his face into the London papers ― for about a week.

Now, he’s just some shit writer, struggling with a second book. Ready to fail. Brilliant job wasting away all those years in uni, he thinks, regrettably.

Harry sniffs, knocking their shoulders with a grin like he’s caught Liam getting too lost on his own thoughts.

It’s this uncanny thing Harry can do ― stop Liam before he overanalyzes every little mistake.

“Bet your mum is rather cross with you for taking so long,” Harry smirks.

Liam nips over his bottom lip, trying to suck the frown off it.

“A bit,” he replies with a sigh.

Harry nods slowly and they don’t talk about it.

(It’s another quality about Harry that Liam can appreciate silently.)

They rarely chat about Liam’s parents, a little something Harry learned as Liam’s roommate at university.

Maybe it’s because Liam’s not too fond of the subject. Or how his mum has always been a bit clinical with her love ― always a bit black and white. These high expectations of Liam as a writer because she’s some sort of respected publisher out in the States.

Or how she left his father when Liam was sixteen, determined to make her career a priority.

(His dad is still a bit torn up about it, even if he never mentions it and Liam doesn’t push the matter.)

She’s been a bit disappointed that Liam doesn’t write more ‘serious’ pieces. He’s disappointed she barely visits England anymore. Just brief calls from her office in New York and unmarked Christmas gifts (probably from her assistant or an intern) in the mail for the hols.

But they don’t discuss it, he and Harry, and Liam’s so grateful for it.

“She’s not bad,” Liam finally exhales.

Harry nods, again, offering a smile that doesn’t feel sympathetic or placating like Liam expects others would give him.

“It’s that uptight agent of mine,” Liam moans, even if it comes out slightly fond, slouching down against the mirror.

He shoots Harry a crooked smile. “He wants me to hurry up and get done. Told him to get bent.”

Harry cackles, this throaty noise that rattles in the open space of the studio. He stretches out on the mats like a cat, his feet against the mirror and his head by Liam’s ankle.

“Is he still arsed ‘cause I won’t date him?” Harry wonders.

Liam grins warmly, like he can’t help but roll his eyes at his best mate.

Harry’s always been a bit daft when it comes to dating. It’s not his thing. He wants (expects) some sort of spiritual connection first. Something memorable, on a higher level.

Liam thinks Harry just needs a fantastic shag.

(Admittedly, Liam needs one too. Terribly. But he’s got priorities ― his daughter and writing. In that order.)

Harry coughs out a small laugh and Liam watches his throat bob as he downs more water, upside down, nearly drowning himself like an idiot.

He absolutely loves Harry.

“S’not about Pete, is it?” Harry asks, wrinkling his brow.

It’s a bit sudden, the way Harry changes subjects. Liam flinches and chews the inside of his mouth to control his facial features. It’s quite uncomfortable.

“Is that, like. It’s not why you’re stuck?” Harry inquires.

Liam wrinkles his nose on pure instinct. “I’m over it, Haz,” he affirms.

He nudges a toe at Jasmine as she starts to crawl away, curiously chasing the sun as it shifts over the room. So easily amused, Liam always ponders, tilting his head to study her.

“I’ve got Jas. M’better for it. Cheers,” he adds, dimming the volume of his voice.

Harry nods as best he can from his odd position.

Liam pushes out a small smile. “Besides,” he hums, lips twisting up, “Should make it easier to write about love, right? I mean, the experiences and all.”

Harry lifts his eyebrows, comically. “Wouldn’t know, love.”

Liam tips his head back with a laugh that rattles. He feels loose again. The calm he was searching for.

He stretches to scoop up his daughter, peppering kisses all over her soft, plump cheeks until she’s an absolute fit of giggles.

Liam can always breathe easier with her laughter in his ears.

|+|

It’s fairly late. The city outside has gone into a hush and the pulse of stars high overhead barely tint the black from the sky. Liam is sat in his lounge, snuggled onto the sofa, writing.

Well, he’s trying to write.

Instead, he’s tapping his felt-tip pen over a blank notebook page, over and over. Occasionally, he stares at the blue of his laptop screen for a few minutes.

He hasn’t accomplished anything in hours.

Mostly, he’s just scribbled Batman symbols in the margins and watched mindless YouTube videos. He’s made a cup of Twinings that’s gone cold on the coffee table, where his feet are propped.

That’s progress, yeah?

Liam sighs and pushes his glasses up his nose. He spares a glance to his left ― Jasmine curled into a ball under a fuzzy lavender blanket, breathing softly.

He smiles when she shifts about ― she’s never really comfortable if he’s not having a lie-in with her. It’s his fault, he knows, always so terrified to put her down in the crib when he first got her. Always letting her spend hours bundled in his arms while he studied her.

Too tiny, too squirmy to take his eyes away.

There’s a dull thump at the door. Soft, like it was never there. Liam thinks to ignore it but ―

Again, louder. A rattling knock like Morse code. Like an urgency can be felt with each tap.

Liam rubs at his face, sighing. It’s probably Harry or Louis, in from a weekend bender. He shoves off the sofa, careful not to wake Jasmine, already plotting to shave off Harry’s curls or punch Louis’ bullocks for troubling him so late.

He’s a little too hopeful, he supposes, because he’s not expecting Zayn at his door. Not at this hour. Or at all, really.

It’s just ―

Zayn looks rumbled, soft and moody at once. Shadowy rings sit under his eyes, like he’s knackered. Like he hasn’t had a proper lie-in for weeks.

Liam chews at his thumbnail, blinking at Zayn leaning in the doorway. The dingy yellow hallway lighting glares unkindly off the side of his face as he tips his head. There’s a duffle at his socked feet and Liam feels anxious. Curious, really.

Zayn exhales roughly.

“Um,” he starts, biting over his slightly chapped lower lip. He looks apologetic, nervous, when he says, “Don’t mean t’ come by so late.”

Liam keeps staring and he hopes it comes off as an unconscious action. Gradually, he nods, like he wants to mumble ‘go on’ but can’t.

Zayn’s shoulders sag a little. “Don’t really know what ‘m doing, honestly.”

Liam nods, again, keeping his face settled. He doesn’t want to rattle Zayn but it is late and he’s horribly distracted at the thought of Jasmine waking up, about the writing he should be doing.

“But, like,” Zayn sighs, looking frustrated, “Niall’s quite a cool lad and stuff. But he’s been on a bender with his band for a week and it’s always so loud at his flat, so ― ”

Liam cocks his head and, well, it’s not like he hasn’t heard the muffled noises from Niall’s flat every night before. Late practices and constant music.

But Niall’s polite about it all, always apologizing to him in the halls the next morning, as if he’s kept Jasmine up every night.

She’s a heavy sleeper, more now than before, and Liam always brushes Niall off with a fond smile.

Zayn ruffles his already wrecked hair. It crowns softly around his face like inky clouds. His teeth pull at his bottom lip before he adds, “Can’t get any proper sleep over there. And I ― like.”

It all comes out in a strangled breath.

Liam wrinkles his brow at Zayn. He feels impatient for a moment, wanting to get back to his writing.

(or his failed attempts)

But Zayn looks up through his thick lashes, wide-eyed, losing some of his confidence, and something hot molds itself around Liam’s gut.

“Could stay for just a night, um,” Zayn stutters. “Then I could crash at a hotel. It’s just, it’s late.”

Liam licks over his lips, schooling his face into something thoughtful. He peeks over his shoulder at Jasmine curled up on the sofa ― a purple cloud, unaware. He hesitates, briefly, turning to look over Zayn but ―

It’s all a bit mad, innit?

There’s something about Zayn’s dewy gold eyes, heavy from the lack of sleep, and the way he keeps biting at his chapped lip. The exhaustion in his stance, how he shuffles from foot to foot, waiting on Liam.

Liam is an absolute tit, he knows, but he pulls the door open with a soft exhale. He jerks his head towards his flat and there’s a small relieved smile rolling over Zayn’s mouth before he drags his duffle inside.

“Don’t have much,” Liam mentions, scuffling into the mostly dark lounge, motioning towards the sofa. “S’not bad. A bit old, I s’ppose. Roomy, though.”

Zayn grunts, nodding stiffly, pushing out a lopsided smile that presses his tongue against his teeth. It’s all rather genuine, Liam thinks.

Not that he’s noticing. Not at all. He imagines it’s the lack of sleep that makes Zayn like that.

“Could do worse,” Zayn teases.

Liam giggles under his breath. “Probably not,” he shrugs, leaning down slow and careful to scoop Jasmine into his arms ―

(she’s so much bigger, now, heavier than when he did this ages ago, when she was but a few months old)

“Make y’self at home,” Liam suggests, keeping his voice low, moving around the furniture to carry his daughter out of the room.

He ambles around in the dark towards his bedroom. To be fair, he doesn’t listen for Zayn to comment when he walks away. Liam stays focused on not jostling Jasmine in his arms, keeping her tiny head cradled in his palm.

He settles her into his bed rather than her crib ― she’s always a bit moody when she wakes up too far from Liam. He thinks she’ll be right cross with him in the morning if he’s not close by.

(and, maybe, he needs her nearby too ― that little handful of sunshine and the way she always crawls up his chest to wake him with wide eyes, like ‘hello I’m ready to make you smile’)

Liam fiddles through his flat, feeling anxious. He doesn’t know why. Harry’s been for a night over a dozen times before. Even Louis has popped over to weather a hangover on Liam’s sofa a few nights.

Zayn is ―

He’s just a neighbor, isn’t he? Just a lad having a kip in Liam’s flat or summat.

It’s nothing particularly extraordinary. At least, Liam tells himself that; repeatedly.

Liam riffles through the hall cupboard for an extra pillow, mostly clean linen (he sniffs at it for that lemony scent rather than that awful dust and dewy smell he remembers all the blankets at his nan’s house being like) for Zayn.

He kicks off his thoughts. It’s nothing. He’s just being kind, the way he’s always been.

He bundles everything into his arms, stumbling around the flat (because, daftly, he hasn’t thought to turn on any lights) and he exhales softly when he makes it back to the lounge.

Zayn is already stretched over the sofa, nearly passed out. He’s sprawled out like a broken toy, hair gone flat and his lazy smile crowded by silver light from the slash of moon leaking in the flat through the windows.

For a moment, Liam smiles dopily at him but he quickly wipes it away when he remembers ―

He’s just doing Zayn a favor, alright?

“Haven’t wasted any time, have you?” Liam sneers.

Zayn blinks rapidly, the lines of his smile going soft and cocky. He gives a careless shrug in return.

“S’not too comfy,” he says.

Liam rolls his eyes, unable to lick away his smirk.

“Told you,” he mumbles, rounding the couch, tossing the duvet over Zayn before flicking the pillow at Zayn’s face.

He rubs at his lips (an old childhood habit) while watching Zayn struggle into a comfortable position. It’s amusing, he’ll admit, the way Zayn kicks and flails before fluffing the pillow, flopping onto his side.

“Good?” Liam wonders.

Zayn sighs, sniffing. “Smells like a baby,” he mutters, wrinkling his nose.

“Yeah, well,” Liam hums, staring down at his feet. He wiggles his toes over the spotted carpet. “Can’t help that bit, eh? Some of her stuff gets mixed with mines in the wash and ― ”

“Leeyum,” Zayn grins, embellishing every letter on purpose. “S’cool. Cheers. Thanks, mate.”

Liam’s startled by how incredible Zayn’s smile is and how soft his eyes, all the wrinkles around them, look in the dark.

It’s overwhelming ― like watching an attractive stranger in the middle of the airport, the thoughts coming in waves.

“Right. Well,” Liam stutters, turning on his heels. He shuts off his laptop, rubbing at the nape of his neck. The skin underneath his palm is so warm, feverish. “She wakes up at half seven, usually. Early bird and all, so ― ”

Zayn groans mournfully, hiding his face under the pillow, kicking stubbornly at the duvet.

It’s so petulant and mostly adorable ―

Christ.

Liam drags his feet towards his bedroom. He doesn’t want to focus on any of that. How stupidly fond he feels, briefly. He tries not to picture Zayn curling around a pillow on the sofa, his brow scrunched as he finally gives into the exhaustion and ―

He just wants his bed and to wipe those thoughts away.

|+|

Liam’s kitchen is bright with morning sun and foggy with smoke from burnt toast.

There’s an echo of ‘we’re caught in a trap I can’t walk out because I love you too much baby’ on his iPad today and Liam shakes his hips off rhythm to it while Jasmine claps happily ―

He’s done his best to keep quiet with Zayn still tucked away on the sofa but, honestly, it’s his flat. He’s not changing their morning routine for Zayn.

(and he’s not a bit lost on how soft Zayn looked while sleeping this morning, his face half pushed into the pillow and his body twisted awkwardly in the duvet)

Liam pulls a chair up to Jasmine, sliding her a bowl of overdone porridge and thin slices of toast he’s tried scrapping the char off of.

She makes a face at him, reaching for her bottle instead.

“C’mon, now,” Liam sighs, humming to the music. “S’not all bad.”

She frowns away from the spoon he offers her, shaking her head. Jasmine gives a yawn and Liam slumps down in his chair, defeated.

“She’s quite brilliant, that one.”

The rough voice, garbled from too little sleep, comes with a bright laugh and Zayn’s leaning in the entranceway when Liam looks up. He looks messy, hair sticking up and clothes wrinkled, but somehow he glows against the sunlight.

That’s weird, right? Liam thinks so. Definitely. It’s an anomaly, he’s certain.

“Quite the moves, though,” Zayn adds, cocking his head, dragging his eyes over Liam.

It’s not instant, the hot flush down his skin, not until Liam processes all Zayn’s mumbled. But then ―

Liam frowns, looking away.

“It’s the only way I can get her to eat,” he explains, trying to push a spoonful of porridge past Jasmine’s determined pout.

She sputters it back at him, laughing.

Liam groans, dropping the spoon, using the hem of his shirt to clean away the mess from his cheeks.

It’s just some worn-soft Batman shirt. Ages old; he doesn’t mind, really.

“Maybe you’re just a shit cook?” Zayn offers.

Liam scowls at Zayn, shaking his head. “That’s not it.”

Zayn shrugs and shuffles barefoot into the kitchen. He pads about, riffling through all of Liam’s cupboards and drawers. It’s like he’s at home ― the smug bastard.

But Liam can’t stop staring at him. Just the sleight of his frame and his bare chest scarred with all this intriguing artwork. His lips tilt up at the madness of Liam’s kitchen and Liam should be offended but ―

Actually, he’s not. He’s just a bit distracted by how dull the sun seems compared to Zayn’s skin.

He’s only at it for a few minutes, Zayn biting his bottom lip, humming to Elvis and smiling. It’s a soft one, memorable, Liam thinks.

Liam turns to watch Jasmine instead, still catching glimpses of Zayn in his peripheral. He’s too curious to keep his eyes away.

Jasmine observes Zayn, too, like she can’t look away either ― but for different reasons; much different reasons.

“Have a try,” Zayn smirks, sidling up to them, carefully pulling the bottle from Jasmine’s tiny hands.

She doesn’t put up much of a struggle, lips puckered as Zayn crouches down to her height, offering her a spoonful.

Jasmine glares at it, curious, before parting her lips, small teeth dragging the mushy contents off the spoon.

“She might ― ”

Zayn grins before Liam can finish, eyeing the way Jasmine instantly makes grabby hands at the bowl.

“Mashed banana with a little honey and cinnamon,” he explains when Liam stares at him. He offers Jasmine another spoonful, the lines around his mouth smoothing and his smile going pliant. “My mum used to make it all the time for me sisters.”

Jasmine sighs contently, making a mess of herself while Zayn feeds her. She wiggles excitedly in her chair, reaching out for more.

Zayn’s lips twitch higher, the corners knocking his cheeks into his eyes, tiny slits of delight. He wheezes out a laugh, short and breathy, cocking his head to admire her smile.

Liam wants to frown, honestly, but he feels warm all over watching her. She’s only got a few teeth but her face is so bright and carefree.

It’s hardly a thing he can look away from.

“Could use a few more spices ‘round here,” Zayn mentions, offhandedly, passing the bowl over to Jasmine to finish. “Not much to work with.”

Liam lifts a quick eyebrow. He’s not ― this is not Zayn’s flat.

“Thanks, sure, cheers,” he grunts, finding a clean bib to wipe at Jasmine’s face. “I’ll think about that next time ‘m at Tesco or summat.”

It’s not meant to come out so flat and dry but Liam’s a bit moody. Or annoyed.

Zayn raises his brow, looking a bit indignant before he shrugs thoughtlessly.

“Just need a quick shower and then I’ll leave you, alright?”

Liam eyes Zayn as he moves away, still humming to the music, distant.

Honestly, he has no idea what he’s doing. He feels ridiculous, absolutely mad because his mouth goes a bit dry. There’s words on his tongue he doesn’t like the taste of ― so, daftly, he spits them out.

“Maybe you can stay?”

He sounds like a right fool.

“For a bit.”

Like a bloody fumbling idiot.

“I mean,” he pauses, blinking at Zayn’s blank stare, the way he drags his bottom lip under his teeth. “It’s not too much, like. Don’t want you to suffer at some miserable hotel for weeks, y’know?”

Zayn stands still, mostly. He’s wiggling his toes over the cold kitchen tiles and drumming his long fingers on his thighs but his expression doesn’t give him away.

Not yet, at least.

“You care?” he asks, his mouth pulling up a little crookedly. A bit smugly, the asshole.

Liam rolls his eyes, chewing out, “Barely.”

Zayn shoots him a wide smile, toothy with a flash of pink tongue, and Liam can’t decipher if it’s genuine or just manipulative.

(probably the latter, if Liam’s instincts know any better)

Liam groans under his breath, freeing his messy daughter from her high chair. He fits her high on his hip, pecking a kiss to her temple, crossing the kitchen in easy strides. Her sticky fingers brush across the cotton of his shirt and he tries not to make a face, amused by how clingy she always is after a meal.

“But,” he sighs, rounding Zayn, plucking a ciggy from behind his ear, “smoke outside.”

Zayn pushes out a pout for him. Liam, promptly, ignores it.

“And no mates over,” he warns, trying to sound stern, his tone non-negotiable. “Keep it quiet when me daughter is trying to sleep, too.”

Zayn hums a response, narrowing his eyes, lips flicked up into a challenging smirk.

“Anything else, mum?”

Liam sighs quietly, moving around Zayn, keeping his eyes up and away from Zayn’s narrow hips or the length of his torso.

“Yeah,” he exhales, frowning. “Put a shirt on. Christ.”

There’s a sharp flush that blooms in Liam’s cheeks, flooding down his neck, over his shoulders when he scoots away from Zayn. He resolutely overlooks the breathy giggle Zayn lets out. It’s all a bit embarrassing, he knows.

(and he swears he’s not going to imagine Zayn or all his ink, his nice build if he decides to toss off in the shower later, okay?)

At least, Liam thinks he’ll try not to.

|+|

Liam loves how even when London is pale and wolfishly grey, his flat still lights up with leftover morning sun just before noon. It’s warm and intoxicating ― like a snuggly pair of new socks, he thinks.

Jasmine is sat in the wreckage of toys in her playpen, clutching her favorite stuffed frog, a pacifier cradled between her shiny red lips. She’s always a bit knackered after breakfast, fighting sleep to watch everything around her.

From the sofa, Liam finds it all so amusing. He props his feet on the coffee table, glasses askew on his face, looking over notes from his editor when Zayn stumbles in.

He looks freshly-scrubbed pink with his dripping hair hanging limp. Liam thinks he appears, well, happy. It’s not that weird, he reckons, as Zayn rounds the table to flop down next to Liam.

Liam’s barely noticed Zayn carrying two steamy mugs of tea, one for him and the other for Liam, until he places them down next to Liam’s feet. It’s amusing, watching Zayn sink into the cushions, stretching out some, grinning contently.

He’s not exactly staring (observing, he thinks, cautiously) but he finds Zayn a bit fascinating ―

In a pair of loose jogging bottoms and some comfy-looking jumper, the sleeves cut off, one of those vintage MTV logos on it.

“Wasn’t sure how you fancied it,” Zayn says, nodding towards Liam’s cuppa.

Liam blinks down to his feet, then back up, watching Zayn.

He cradles his own mug with both hands, blowing a thick cloud of steam off the top, taking a sip.

Liam bites at his lip, studying the way Zayn’s eyelashes fan over the tops of his cheeks as he drinks. The little hum of ‘mmm’ he exhales, looking chuffed at the taste. It’s all painful, watching how intriguing Zayn can be.

Liam looks away, criminally obvious when Zayn titters next to him. He frowns, reaching out for his mug, giving Zayn a small salute when their eyes meet.

“Three sugars,” Liam mumbles, sniffing. The headiness of the earl grey is enchanting. “Cheers.”

He watches Zayn over the mouth of his mug, hissing at the heat when it brushes his tongue, shocked by the flavor.

It’s still tart, the way he likes, but there’s a buzz of something else ―

“Honey and a dash of sweet cream,” Zayn admits, sheepishly. “Not very cultured. I’m shit at a good builder’s tea, sorry.”

― that Liam wants more of.

Liam hums, nodding, pretending to look down haughtily at the tea before taking another long sip.

“S’different,” he says, apathetically, shrugging.

He’s not ready to admit to Zayn (or anyone) that it’s absolutely fantastic.

Instead, Liam watches the way water flicks from the ends of Zayn’s still damp hair when he shrugs back. How his teeth keep absently tugging at his lower lip. His long fingers wrapped around the mug of tea. How Zayn’s kit is so loose it almost swallows his sleight frame.

“Alright?”

Liam blinks away the daze, cheeks heating instantly at Zayn’s cocked eyebrow, his crooked smirk.

Well, fuck.

“You’re quite good,” Liam mumbles, half into his tea, trying to settle his nerves, “at flavors? I mean, like. In the kitchen?”

It’s quite frustrating how thick his tongue feels in his mouth or how he’s suddenly incapable of a casual chat.

Zayn smiles, soft and serene, tucking his lip between his teeth while looking down.

“Yeah, like. Studied a bit of culinary. S’what I do, actually,” he says, between grins and tea. “There’s this small halal café, right? Not too far. I work there, most days.”

He seems reserved, quieter, Liam thinks. Almost nervous with it all.

“But, like, I really want me own kitchen one day. A quite sick place where I can create my own stuff,” he continues, pitching his voice softer. “A cool place for kids like me who don’t have many options.”

Liam nods, lifting his brow, deep wrinkles set into his forehead.

“Kids like ―”

“I’m half-British but also half-Pakistani,” Zayn admits, casually, but his shoulders wind tightly as he continues. “Best of both worlds, I s’ppose. But there wasn’t ― not too many of the kids back at school looked like me, y’know?”

Liam flicks his tongue over his lips, chasing the flavor, offering another small nod.

“And, so,” Zayn sighs, leaning back, “Think it’d be proper sick to have a kitchen. Or a restaurant somewhere, for people who want t’ get a bit of both? My cultures, right? Just a place for people to get to know kids like me.”

He looks embarrassed, bottom lip bitten over, but there’s something proud rounding Zayn’s eyes. He keeps peeking past Liam, over at Jasmine, fumbling odd smirks for her.

It’s barely distracting, except Liam keeps getting lost on him and he doesn’t know why.

He’s certain it’s not because he enjoys Zayn’s company or the hum of his accent (Yorkshire, he thinks, like Louis), the way he talks with this crooked smile all the time.

“Do I sound daft?” Zayn wonders, after a beat. He tilts his head at Liam.

“Nope.”

Liam tries to sound calm but he’s sure he stutters that last bit.

Fucking hell.

Zayn hums, lips pushing down into a tiny frown. “Me parents think so,” he says, voice going softer, ducking his head. He huffs at his tea even though Liam’s quite certain it’s gone lukewarm by now.

“Not too proud of me, actually. They wanted me t’go to university to study medicine. Or something brilliant ― a teacher?” he explains. “No one in me family’s ever, like, made a difference, I s’ppose?”

Liam watches the way Zayn curls up. Ashamed, he thinks, never quite lifting his eyes when he talks.

His own hand itches to reach out, just to brush up Zayn’s forearm. He wraps it around his cup, instead.

“Do you ever see them? Are they here, in London, or ― ”

“They’re in the States, man,” Zayn grins. It looks forced and awkward. “Left a year or so back, for my baba’s job. I stayed behind for school and ‘cause this is home, y’know? ‘m good in England.”

Liam bites over his lip (this habit he can’t break but it feels ― easier, knowing Zayn does it too) and slouches down. He doesn’t nod, flinching out a tiny shrug.

He gets it, he thinks. When his mum left, he couldn’t imagine being anywhere but Wolverhampton. And then, London for university. Right here, in his tiny flat, with Jasmine.

This is home. Always has been, he reckons.

“So,” Zayn sighs, put upon smile still massive over his face.

He looks ready to crawl out of his skin for a moment before relaxing. Like he just wants to stop chatting about himself.

(Liam gets that, too, on another level)

“You’re a writer?” he inquires.

Liam lowers his tea and tilts his head. He’s not shocked but ―

Zayn laughs, nudging a foot at Liam’s knee.

“You’ve notes all over the flat, man. Loads of drafts, too,” he explains, waving a hand about, still half-giggling. “Plus I spotted a stack of your novel by the door? L.J. Payne?”

Liam flushes, all hard pinks, wrinkling his nose.

“My mate, Hazza, thought it’d be a right funny gift to buy out all my books ‘round the city last Christmas,” he sighs, grinning fondly.

Harry’s terrible at gifts and his sense of humor has always been bloody horrible.

“That’s sick,” Zayn chuckles.

Liam lifts his eyebrows, lips tugging up into an abashed smile.

“M’sure my publisher was happy with the sales increase,” he shrugs.

Zayn beams, honest and genuine, finishing the last of his cold tea.

“S’that what you wanted to be?”

Liam feels something brilliant spread fuzzily over his organs.

“No,” he laughs. “When I was a wee one, I wanted to be a firefighter.”

He doesn’t miss it ― the way Zayn drags his eyes over Liam’s body, slow and a bit deliberate. Inappropriate, honestly.

“I can see that.”

Liam exhales roughly, darting his eyes away. He’s not flustered; not one bit. And that’s not blush assaulting his cheeks and that loud thump definitely isn’t his heart throttling his ribs. He dismisses all of those thoughts, as best he can.

He coughs, fixing his glasses, mumbling, “Always been a bit decent at writing, I s’ppose. My teachers thought so. Mum, too. Guess it’s just in my blood?”

Zayn brushes drippy, damp strands of hair from his forehead, grinning.

“Sounds ace.”

Liam sighs, soft and long, biting his lower lip raw. “Don’t really know, like,” he pauses, furrowing his bow. “Been pretty shit at it lately. Can’t really get anything going.”

Absently, he watches Zayn pull his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on them. He looks so young, thick dark hair crowning his face, drying fluffy, and his mouth so pink, wriggled into an empathetic little smile.

“Yeah. But you’re chasing your dreams, right?”

Jasmine makes a low noise from her playpen ― just a breathy hum that interrupts their words. It makes them go quiet, watching her push a few toys around.

Liam smiles at her without thinking.

“Yeah, kinda,” he replies.

Liam feels one of Zayn’s cold toes nudge at his hip. It tickles more than it annoys, Liam thinks. He hadn’t realized they were this close until he flicks his head up in Zayn’s direction and ―

Oh.

He might love the way his flat lights up like a flare in a pitch black sky but that gold kaleidoscope around Zayn’s eyes is a bit breathtaking.

(that’s shit, he swears ― terrible rainy day poetry that he’s never been fond of)

“What about her?”

Liam watches the way Zayn nods gently towards his daughter.

“Jasmine?”

Zayn grins, wide and amused. “Like the princess in Aladdin?” His voice is a tease that Liam absorbs guiltily. He feels bashful, for a moment, looking at Zayn before staring down into his lap.

(and he doesn’t comment how Zayn is a bit like Aladdin ― horribly unaware of how charming he can be without trying)

“Yeah, like ― ”

“It’s my favorite Disney film,” Zayn interrupts, his voice low and smooth.

Liam lets out a short, embarrassingly sharp giggle that echoes in the room.

Fuck, is he fifteen now?

“Is her mum still about?” Zayn asks, after a beat of awkward silence that fills in too much.

Liam blinks up, his brow wrinkled, his mouth terribly dry while Zayn waits patiently.

“No,” he whispers. “Um, I adopted her. Just me.”

Zayn hums, his chin still on his knees, studying Liam curiously. He tightens his jaw, almost as if to ask a question, but he’s holding it in. Liam can tell.

Liam licks at the frown on his own mouth, his resolve just a slow burn in his belly now. He takes another glance at Jasmine, his nose twitching. His mind is reeling because ―

He doesn’t know Zayn. Not enough to tell Zayn all of his secrets. He doesn’t owe Zayn a thing.

Except, his thoughts moves quicker than his brain and he’s mumbling, “S’not much to tell. Got me heart broken. Got a lovely little girl out of it. Seems like I lucked out in the end, eh?”

Zayn stays quiet, the wrinkles in his forehead pronounced, like a low-rising morning tide. He’s studying Liam a little too intently, most of his focus around the crinkle of skin between Liam’s eyebrows, and it all makes Liam want to run away.

Just to feel safe. He hates being this exposed.

He tugs off his glasses, sitting them next to his mug, pushing off the couch with little effort. “S’pose none of its worth chatting about, anyway,” he says, leaning over Jasmine’s playpen to lift her up.

Liam’s a little fond of the way she always stretches her arms out at him, this excited ‘pick me up’ she can’t mutter yet.

“I oughta give her a change. Put her down for a kip.”

He doesn’t spare Zayn another look. There’s this silly knot in the middle of his stomach ― this loud reminder: Zayn’s not staying forever.

Liam might as well get used to that, too.

|+|

It’s weird having Zayn around his flat. Not in that strange way Liam imagines, like having a stranger about or when family stays for too long, but it’s a bit odd. Having someone else around besides Jasmine all of the time.

He’s used to the quiet, outside the hum from his telly or another day of London rain or Jasmine cooing at nothing.

Liam’s not quite used to the distractions while he’s trying to write.

Like now, when Zayn plops down noisily onto the sofa, right next to Liam.

He looks well knackered from a long morning at the café. Soft, thick hair is pushed off his face and his shirt is wrinkled and stained from cooking. His eyes are half-drooping while he lazily toes off his boots to kick his feet up on the coffee table.

Again, it’s feels weird. Out of sorts, he supposes.

Liam makes a face at Zayn (even though he’s done the same a hundred times before, after a day of entertaining Jasmine), frowning.

He raises an eyebrow at Zayn, ignoring the cockily broad smile smoothing over Zayn’s lips.

“Alright?” he sighs.

Zayn gives a brisk, stiff nod. “Well tired, mate. Busy crowd this morning.”

Liam hums, pushing his glasses up his nose. He steals a look at Jasmine on the carpet, using the end of the coffee table to pull herself up on unsteady feet before flopping back down on her bum.

Liam giggles to himself. She’s been trying to walk for a week now and Liam is so fond of the way she always has a proper strop when she fails.

(And it hits him ― how fast time moves on. How she was barely crawling a few months ago and her proud, giggly smile the first time she got around the room without him giving her a little nudge.

He’s not torn up about it but ― time moves so brisk, he misses it all.)

“So,” Zayn drags out, biting down on half of his smug smirk, “What’s got you so hung up? You look stuck?”

He taps a finger at the blank space on Liam’s notebook for emphasis.

Liam gives a halfhearted shrug. He doesn’t really know Zayn and while Zayn is brilliant to look at (and that’s Liam very unbiased observation), Liam’s certain Zayn is just being conversational. Just a chat to leek the tension out of Liam’s system.

He doesn’t need it ― not even if Zayn makes him feel fairly comfortable.

Zayn narrows his eyes, flicking a curious look at Liam. He hums questioningly.

“Writing should be easy.”

Liam scrunches his nose, his face pinched into a scowl.

Zayn shrugs, one-shouldered and lazy.

“It’s not.”

“Should be,” Zayn sighs, stretching out, pushing soft hair away from his forehead. “If y’know what you’re talking about, I guess.”

“Well,” Liam exhales, looking down into his lap. “I do. It’s just ― ”

He feels the words tangling up like wires in his throat and Zayn is so attentive with his eyes. Like he’s interested in every little thing Liam mumbles out.

“Just having a spot of trouble with this bit about love ― ”

Zayn snorts, soft and reproachable, folding his arms behind his head.

Liam rolls his eyes, glaring down at his notebook. He taps his pen furiously over the empty page, waiting for Zayn to go quiet again.

“Maybe,” Zayn croons, pausing until Liam looks up once more, “Y’ never been in love? Not like ― it’s hard to write about something y’ never really felt.”

“That’s bullshit,” Liam mutters, winching just a little because Jasmine is still in the room.

She’s humming around the pacifier shoved between her lips, sat with her back to them, shuffling toys about the carpet.

Liam sighs, chewing over his lip. He hates the absolutely broad smirk Zayn shoots him.

(he’s a bit of a dick but somewhat charming when he’s this confident about something ― and Liam has no clue why he thinks that)

“I’ve been in love,” Liam challenges.

He’s trying to come off as smug or convincing but there’s a wobble in his voice at the last word.

“But, like,” Zayn starts, leaning over, nicking Liam’s notebook from his lap, “was it honest? Not just a feeling or a word, mate? Did it happen without you knowing it? Did it feel weird? Not like in those cheesy films but ― ”

Liam wrinkles his brow, a tight little crease in the center, while staring at Zayn’s mouth. It’s the way he wraps his lips around every word. The thoughtful way his teeth keep biting his mouth red and swollen.

It’s fascinating.

“Was it mental how natural all of it was?”

Liam sniffs, leans back, dipping down on the sofa.

He hates how he considers it all, briefly, all of his relationships tumbling in his mind like a cold wave before sunrise. All of the patterns and how he felt afterwards. That overwhelming feeling, like a kick to your stomach.

Everything turns like a lapping sea meeting shore.

“Yeah,” he stutters, flushing all over when Zayn cocks a distrusting eyebrow at him.

“Honestly?”

Liam scrunches his face.

Yes. Of course. Head over bloody heels. He’s been in ‘that kind of love’ before, alright?

Zayn laughs, gently, each breath low like they’re unintentional. He studies a few pages of Liam’s notebook, scanning over the words.

“Doesn’t seem like you have, mate,” he shrugs. “It’s gotta be natural, Leeyum ― ”

(Liam hates the thickness of Zayn’s accent wrapped around his name ― at least, he wants to hate it)

“It’s not really a feeling ― it just kinda happens.”

Liam scoffs, yanking his notebook away from Zayn’s hands. He ignores Zayn’s cackle because, well, he might like how genuinely delighted Zayn sounds.

(or how, around the corners of his sharp eyes, there’s these soft crinkles that match the ones around his mouth; how he shakes with every snort and kicks his feet happily)

Zayn is an asshole ― a poetically beautiful asshole.

It steals all of his focus, thoughts turning over and over in his mind, until Jasmine whines impatiently from the floor. It startles him, Liam shuffling off the sofa, moving around the table to pull her up into his arms.

“Duty calls?” Zayn smirks.

Liam groans under his breath, shushing Jasmine, kissing at the fuzz of hair on her head.

Her fingers tighten into the cotton of his shirt, hiccupping sobs going quiet when he cradles her head. She needs a change and a kip, probably.

(Liam wouldn’t mind one himself, actually, just to get away from Zayn for a moment.)

(it’s a sad thought ― having to run away in his own flat, just for awhile)

“Hey,” Zayn calls out, already stretching out over the sofa like a proud cat. “Try to be quiet ― think ‘m gonna have me a long nap.”

Liam scrunches his nose, scowling. He flips Zayn off even if he knows Zayn’s not looking.

(It stirs a delighted hot pool of lava in his belly ― that feeling he gets whenever he’s having a playful banter with someone he fancies.)

(No, wait ― absolutely not.)

He hurries off to his bedroom and hopes all these daft thoughts wash away the moment he tucks himself and Jasmine into the waves of linen thrown over his bed.

|+|

There’s something about the London offices that makes Liam uncomfortable. He feels stiff and nervous and ready to jump out of his skin, actually.

It’s the clean atmosphere. All the minimalist furniture in the lobby. All of the modern art paintings lining the walls and the staff mulling about in their pressed suits, shooting him these pitiful stares.

Like he doesn’t fit in a place like this, he reckons.

His flat is messy and always smells a bit like Jasmine’s bubble bath. There’s stains in the carpeting, clothes hanging off any piece of furniture available. Always an empty tea mug on the coffee table.

Liam can wear loose joggers and an ugly jumper, his hair fluffed and unkempt, and feel safe, warm.

It’s cold and sterile here. Liam hates it.

“Why does it always take you ages to come visit me?” Louis asks when his secretary escorts Liam into his massive office.

Liam smiles a little ruefully, shrugging, feeling a tad more relaxed when he spots Louis grinning from behind his desk.

It’s warmer in here, with all the footy memorabilia and the pictures of Louis’ family strewn all over. Louis is always so casually smart in his half-suits. His hair is barely-styled, ink running up both forearms, his late morning stubble a bit thick.

“Don’t really fancy you shouting at me most times,” Liam teases.

Louis rolls his eyes on cue, sighing. “Whatever, you tosser,” he grins, making grabby hands at Jasmine like he’s hardly offended by Liam’s words. “You’re a prick for keeping this little princess from me.”

Liam exhales a breathy giggle, gently lowering Jasmine down onto the carpet, letting her crawl about freely.

“She’s right knackered,” Liam warns when Louis plops down next to her.

Louis nods sharply. He cups a hand around the back of her head, rubbing a thumb across her scalp like a quiet little ‘hello’ while he admires her curious eyes.

“She’s bigger,” he comments.

Liam smiles unabashedly. It feels like he never adjusts to any of this ―

Thinking of Jasmine as nothing but a tiny ball of marvel. How she’s gotten longer, more mobile, curious about everything.

“What’ve you got for me?” Louis wonders, pulling Jasmine up into his lap. He passes her a teddy bear dressed in a dreadful Rovers kit. Liam frowns at it.

(It’s typical Louis Tomlinson, Liam thinks, just the right side of affectionate about it)

“Not much,” he groans, shoving a stack of papers at Louis, pouting. “Still can’t ― ”

“Payno,” Louis sighs and Liam winces at the harsh disappointment threaded through his tone. “You know I can’t keep the publishers off your back f’r long.”

Liam nods, chewing absently over his lip. He flops down on some hideously maroon leather chair. It squeaks loudly and Liam hates it on instinct.

“M’ trying.”

There’s this filter of broken light from outside that always spills all over Louis’ office. Just these gold shards of the sun that make the size and distinctness of the room less intimidating. It’s cozy. The way Liam imagines Louis always wanted an office to be ― chaos in an oversized box.

The fractured bits of sun brush over Jasmine and Louis, softening the lines of Louis’ face.

Liam keeps his eyes low, watching his daughter rather than looking over Louis’ expression. He knows it, blindly. It’s the same one his mum tosses at him whenever he visits her ―

“You’ll get it,” Louis insists. He wraps his fingers around Liam’s ankle, giving it a squeeze. “I’m counting on you.”

Liam snorts. He thinks to tell Louis to join the queue ― right behind his mum and his readers and Jasmine, too.

“Maybe you need to get out? Too much time in that right gloomy flat of yours,” Louis suggests.

Liam scrunches his nose indignantly, shaking his head.

“I like it there,” he huffs, seconds from a proper strop. “And, like, I’ve no time, bro.”

He motions a hand towards Jasmine even though he knows he doesn’t have to. It’s obvious. Louis gets that.

“But ― ”

Liam lifts his head, studies the way Louis looks careful and thoughtful.

(Two things Louis Tomlinson is not naturally, Liam knows. He has since after university, meeting Louis at some event and deciding he loved Louis’ ruthless sarcasm and his quick tongue.)

(and how they both love footy, a good cuppa any time of day, all of those early Adam Sandler films that were genuinely amusing)

“You should just have a night out, mate. A date or summat,” Louis adds, determined. “A one-off, maybe? There’s loads of lads in the city that would gladly suck ― ”

“Tommo,” Liam moans, flushing, feeling pathetic.

Louis’ smirks is so clever and certain. “Think about it.”

“I won’t,” Liam laughs, licking at the absently fond smile on his lips. “Jas keeps me busy.”

“And celibate,” Louis sneers. He reaches up to tug his cuppa off his desk, taking a long sip of tea. He beams at Liam when he lowers the cup. “Do you at least find time to have a good wank?”

Liam blushes from the apples of his cheeks to the middle of his sternum. He doesn’t answer Louis. Not verbally but his shy eyes look down at his lap where he’s wringing his hands together.

He’s definitely a proper definition of pathetic.

“Well, then.”

Liam hates coming here, he swears.

“Top lad, you are, Payno,” Louis cackles into his tea. “Least you’re still finding time t’ get off. Now write a book about it or summat.”

Liam exhales loudly, slouching down the slippery leather, hiding his face behind his sweat-damp palms.

He thinks he made a dreadful decision ever letting Louis into his life.

“Have I told you how fit your mate Harry is?” Louis asks. He’s fantastic at changing subjects, always has been, anything to make Liam relax a little and climb back into his skin.

Liam rolls his eyes, waving him off.

“It’s true,” Louis adds, draining the rest of his tea, plunking the empty cup onto the carpet. “You’d be blind ― ”

“Haz is not interested,” Liam grins. It’s the same chat they’ve had more than a dozen times a week ― and Louis never seems to be anything other than stubborn about it.

“I can win him over,” Louis says, lips already quirked.

Liam lifts an eyebrow, humoring him, just because he knows it comforts Louis.

“I don’t see how.”

Louis scoffs, pushing his chest out, tipping his chin high like he’s offended.

(he’s not, really ― Liam has seen Louis on the pull and knows he’s more than capable of chatting up any lad or bird with just those deceitful blue eyes but Liam more than enjoys taking the piss out of Louis)

“Mate,” Liam beams, “He’s a bit daft about you. Like, he’s not huge on love.”

“What about a good fu― ”

“Tommo,” Liam hisses, his eyebrows pinched together.

Louis rolls his eyes, leaning back against his desk. “Think he’d be up for it, then?”

“No.”

“He’s a twit if he doesn’t see the opportunity, mate,” Louis comments.

“Ouch,” Liam laughs, wrinkling his nose. “S’my best mate you’re chatting shit about.”

Louis shrugs, careful with the lift of his smile this time. It’s all overcompensation, they both know, but neither of them will call Louis out on it.

“Whatever,” Louis sighs.

Liam bites at his smile. “Gonna give him another call later?”

Louis stiffens his jaw to disguise his absently huge smile. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Liam repeats, finally dropping down onto the carpet, tugging Jasmine up between his legs.

She wobbles as she tries to stand, tilting her head, eyes heavy with sleep.

“One of us needs to get shagged properly, Christ,” Louis sighs.

Brilliant. Liam’s never coming back to these offices if he can help it.

|+|

It’s always terribly quiet at the Whole Foods Market just around the corner from Liam’s flat. It’s a blessing, really. Distantly, Liam thinks it’s why he prefers finding groceries here over the Tesco or Sainsbury’s down the road ―

for the calm, the fresh feel in his lungs ―

(Truthfully, he blames Harry for his affection for this place ― ‘You’ll love it, Li. Everything is so healthy and good for you. Always a sale on kale, too.’)

Actually, he thinks it’s just the friendly atmosphere of it all. He never feels like a stranger here.

He’s pushing the trolley lazily around all the fruit displays. Jasmine coos from the top basket, Zayn following idly next to him up each aisle.

Zayn seems right knackered from another morning shift at the café, yawning every few steps, looking wrinkled and lethargic.

Jasmine watches him like a tiny owl ― wide eyes blinking constantly, a slight tilt to her head.

“Not proper to stare, babe,” Liam whispers with a wheezing giggle.

She ignores him and he settles down the laughter bubbling in his chest when Zayn lifts a curious eyebrow.

“Nothing,” Liam mutters.

Zayn shrugs, yawning louder, stretching his hands above his head, the hem of his shirt riding up. There’s a few more tattoos visible along his hip and this fuzzy strip of hair running from the lip of his jeans to the curve of his navel.

(Liam wonders, stupidly, if that hair would tickle his tongue while he was mouthing his way towards Zayn’s dick.)

(fucking hell, that’s dreadful)

He looks away, flushing pink, reminding himself that Zayn is just objectively pretty to stare at. And Liam’s a bit horny these days.

Plus, Zayn’s kind of an asshole.

(a well-fit one, but ― )

Liam pretends the nutritional facts on a box of cereals is the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen, just to calm his silly thoughts for a minute.

Zayn grabs spices and vegetables Liam’s never heard of, dropping them into the trolley. He hums while walking, twisting his lips up when Jasmine blinks at him.

“She reminds me of my sister Safaa,” he remarks. “Always inquisitive. Massive eyes.”

Liam scrunches his brow, a knot between his eyes.

Zayn sighs a short laugh out. “It’s not an insult, babe,” he promises, plucking a few more items off the shelves. “She’s got a bit of your smile, though.”

Liam thinks that’s ridiculous. He’s read up on how, sometimes, adoptive children take on characteristics of their new parents but ― well, he doesn’t want to hear that from Zayn.

(Or, possibly, he doesn’t want to admit how that thought makes his heart stamp out a loud beat of affection. He doesn’t want to give Zayn that much credit.)

“We need milk,” he says, instead, guiding the trolley away from Zayn.

They amble around the market and Liam listens to Zayn chat about this being his favorite place. How often he comes by. All of the little bits and bobs he always picks up because he’s constantly running out ingredients.

(and it doesn’t get past Liam how they could’ve met a dozen lifetimes before, right here, and Liam’s sure he still wouldn’t have fancied Zayn all that much.)

(well, maybe, but not much)

“So,” Zayn smiles, pulling in his lower lip with his teeth. “You’re into lads?”

Liam freezes in the middle of the dried pastas and sauces. No one’s looking but ― he feels like the whole wide world is watching.

“Um,” he stutters, furrowing his brow. “Not that it matters ― ”

“It doesn’t,” Zayn says, casually. “I am. Was just thinking.”

“About?” Liam chokes out.

(he’s never been this frustratingly feeble with another bloke before)

Zayn smirks, shrugging. “Nothing.”

Liam swallows thickly, shoulders wound tight. He stumbles a little while pushing the trolley, glaring determinedly at anything other than Zayn. There’s a sale on zucchini ― they need some. Or not, but he pretends that matters right now.

The bundle of bananas for less than a pound is the most fascinating thing he’s seen all day, okay?

“That wasn’t, like, a no, right?” Zayn asks.

Liam ducks his head, wincing at how hot his skin gets. It’s sickening.

“I mean, you’re into blokes, yeah? Or is it both?”

Liam wrinkles his nose and, suddenly, inviting Zayn to the market a fortnight ago was probably a dreadful idea. It was rather daft of him.

“I mean, well, yes,” he hisses, the blush spreading.

This is stupid. He’s not twelve. And he’s proud of who he is; how much effort he put forth to be comfortable with fancying lads, telling his family about it. Liam loves that bit about himself.

Zayn hums contently, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Something around his smile softens and Liam hasn’t registered what it means yet.

They stay quiet, moving about the aisles. Liam forgets half of the items he needs ―

(they’ve passed the milk three times now and Liam knows he’ll need something for breakfast with Jasmine in the morning but his mind is reeling, fogged with static)

“That wasn’t ― I wasn’t trying to chat you up or nowt,” Zayn clarifies when they’re in the queue for checkout.

Liam nods, stiffly. Wonderful. It’s the last thing he wants. He’s not interested. At all.

“S’just, like, it felt like the thing to get out the way,” Zayn continues.

“Was it?” Liam asks quietly, inching the trolley forward.

For a moment, he wonders how cold he must sound. The brusque huff of his tone and the way Zayn flinches, just slightly, when Liam blinks up.

Zayn shrugs mildly while chewing at his lip. “Yeah, sorta,” he mentions. “Back home, me mates weren’t all that cool with me. Y’know, fancying lads and all. It wasn’t too comfortable of a chat, okay?”

Liam hums but it’s far from condescending. It’s attentive, he hopes.

“Probably ‘cause I waited until I was off at uni to bother letting ‘em know, yeah?” Zayn says with a snipped laugh.

Something softens around his mouth ― like admitting any of this is showing off a battle scar he tries to keep hidden.

“We’re okay, me and my lads,” Zayn adds.

Liam nods, his mouth sliding into an unintended frown. He doesn’t quite know that feeling. He’s always been himself around the ones that mattered back home, he reckons. All the others ― well, he’s gotten enough scrapes on his knuckles and bruises on his skin from the ones that didn’t fancy him too much.

He presses a small kiss to Jasmine’s forehead (a reminder, he thinks) and glances up at Zayn’s fond smile before turning away.

There’s a warm hand smoothed over the small of his back, fingers fitting into the shallow dimples just above his arse. Slow, lazy circles of Zayn’s thumb on his spine provide an anchor.

“C’mon, babe,” Zayn laughs against Liam’s ear, nudging him forward.

His breath over Liam’s skin is ― nice. It flusters Liam. He feels so lost on Jasmine and Zayn and the way all of the shoppers keep smiling at them like they’re one of those cozy little families he sees on the telly.

It’s disturbing and he’s never inviting Zayn anywhere again.

|+|

Liam thinks watching Zayn cook is ― well, it’s bloody fascinating is what it is.

There’s soft worry lines in his brow, his thick hair gone flat and sticking to his head as he busies himself over the hob in Liam’s kitchen. He keeps making these amusing faces, adding fragrant spices to a massive pot. It makes the whole flat smell warm, cozy.

Zayn hums to himself, constantly. His teeth pull anxiously at his lower lip. He frets over the vegetables and swears softly when he can’t find a spoon or a knife.

Liam’s not sure what he’s cooking (some sort of soup, innit?) but the scent is overwhelming. There’s a low rumble in his stomach from the aroma but Liam dutifully ignores it to scan his eyes over Jasmine.

She’s sat in her high chair, scooping up cereal puffs with her chubby fingers, shoving them in her mouth and missing most of the time. It’s all so messy and comical, Liam thinks, but she stares at Zayn like she’s dazed.

(and Liam gets that, really, no matter how embarrassing that is to admit)

Zayn pushes the sleeves of his loose button-up (and it looks oddly familiar ― like Zayn might’ve nicked it from Liam’s laundry) to his elbows and puffs at the steam swirling over the pot.

He wrinkles his nose, mumbling, “Needs somethin’ else.”

Liam grins, absently, because he doesn’t see how. Zayn’s nearly cleared out all of Liam’s cupboards for spices and dumped an armful of vegetables into the stew.

“Alright?” Liam snickers.

Zayn frowns. “Shut it. ‘m focusing.”

“Y’look a bit mental, mate.”

It’s subtle, but Liam’s teasing tone draws the corners of Zayn’s mouth up just slightly, an unintentional smirk that makes all of Zayn’s features stand out.

Zayn gives a mild shrug. “Don’t want you to say me cooking is shit.”

“M’ still gonna say that,” Liam grins. “Just ‘cause I don’t like you.”

“Good,” Zayn sighs, the tension in his shoulders rippling away, his whole body relaxing. “It’s mutual.”

Liam feigns being wounded, for a moment, reaching out to swat playfully at Zayn’s arse. “Don’t be rude.”

Zayn giggles, the edge of his tongue caught by his teeth, lashes fretting over his cheeks like he’s ― a bit bashful?

Nope. That’s not it. And there’s certainly not a hint of fondness in the curve of his mouth or shining across his sharp eyes either.

Liam’s hallucinating. That’s it. He’s inhaled too many lovely spices.

Zayn serves them stew with a side of rice, delicious pieces of naan. He perches on the counter, watching Liam carefully like he’s being judged. Casually, he offers Liam a spoonful, searching Liam’s expression as he feeds him.

It’s spicy. Liam thumps at his chest instantly, ears burning and eyelashes caught together from dewy tears. He pleads for a glass of water and Zayn shoots him this nervous smile.

“Too much?”

Liam chokes out a laugh. He shakes his head, dragging the back of his wrist over the tears speckling his cheeks. “S’good,” he gasps. He spots the way Zayn’s grin pushes deep into his cheeks. “Was hoping it’d be horrible,” he adds, still panting.

Zayn kicks out at him, ducking his head. Liam swears there’s a slash of blush high over his cheekbones but it fades so quickly.

“It’s a stew?” he wonders, having another spoonful. The shock of spice is duller this time but he still feels warm all over.

Zayn nods enthusiastically. “S’called khadi.”

Liam tries wrapping his mouth around the word, repeating it over and over, failing to match Zayn’s smooth accent.

Zayn giggles from the counter, looking soft and sweaty.

Liam grins sheepishly, his mouth stretched wide, when he finally gets it right. Their eyes linger on each other and ―

It’s the stew, he swears, that makes him feel absently feverish all over.

Zayn looks away first, sucking in a quiet breath. He rubs at his neck, passing Liam a small bowl with something else in it.

“Thought she might like this,” he explains. He shrugs, shoulders wound tight again.

It’s a potato curry, the savory scent incredible. Liam scoots closer to Jasmine, spooning up a bit for her. She pouts at Liam, cherry lips puckered, her face wrinkling.

Liam sighs happily, half-laughing at her expression. She’s so stubborn. He wonders, unconsciously, if he was ever the same at this age.

“Alright, babe,” he finally whispers, shaking his head.

He knows what she wants ― it always starts with a low hum, Liam trying to find a tune, swaying his shoulders. It’s a soft ‘hey baby I wanna know if you’ll be my girl’ that he croons just for her.

After a beat, Jasmine claps happily, giggling, popping open her mouth when Liam circles the spoon around her lips, making those horrible airplane noises his dad loved to make when Liam was smaller.

There’s waves of warmth washing over him the moment she mushes the food around her mouth. Staring at her is a bit like watching ― well, Zayn.

He’s lost on it.

(Fuck. That’s horrible. It’s inaccurate. It’s shit.)

“You’ve got a nice voice,” Zayn comments from the counter. “It’s a shame you’re such a shit writer.”

Liam turns his head to snort into his shoulder. He focuses on Jasmine, instead.

“You’re terrible.”

“M’not,” Zayn laughs, hopping down. He shifts around Liam and there’s a light brush of fingers against the clipped hairs high on the nape of Liam’s neck.

“I made you stew.”

Liam rolls his eyes but his skin pulses a fervent red where Zayn’s fingers had been. He doesn’t register how much he wants them back until ―

Zayn hums softly, matching Liam’s earlier tone, not quite as loud but just as earnest as Liam was. It’s beautiful, actually. Just the timbre of Zayn’s voice and the kitchen fairly quiet except for their unintentional harmony.

Liam stops, abruptly, furrowing his brow. Jasmine tilts his head at him and he winces guiltily.

“You’re doing the dishes,” Zayn says, offhandedly.

Liam jerks his head up. “But you made the mess!”

Zayn sighs. “And I’m too tired to bother.”

Liam scowls, sucking in his lower lip. “You bloody ― ”

“I made you stew,” Zayn repeats, grinning, stealing a bowl for himself, a bottled water from the fridge.

He disappears from the entryway and Liam grumbles to himself, finishing off two more bowls of khadi after Zayn leaves.

It’s fucking humiliating because Jasmine watches him the whole time, like she’ll keep his secret. Like she’s onto him.

He’s bloody ridiculous and only his daughter will ever know.

|+|

On a Thursday, before the sun beats like a glowing red beacon and while Jasmine is still breathing softly in a tiny ball at the center of his bed, Liam pads over the cold floor of his flat with this blissful feeling coating his gut.

It’s Jasmine’s first birthday but it feels like Christmas. No ― New Year’s Eve, where you’re drunk on uncertainty and anticipation.

He spends most of the early morning at the breakfast table, having a cuppa and doing a shit job of wrapping an armful of gifts.

Not that he thinks Jasmine will notice, but he’s anticipating the stars in her massive eyes at all the new toys and books he’s bought her.

Liam busies himself cleaning up the kitchen before she wakes up ―

Zayn sneaks out between sunrise and Liam making another cuppa, mumbling a rough ‘g’morning’ while waving Liam off, pulling on his apron and ducking out the door for an early shift

― but he can’t seem to burn off all this anxious energy collecting under his skin.

He piles the gifts on the lounge floor and burns the first batch of pancakes and ―

Shit.

Liam bites roughly at his bottom lip, scrunching his face, feeling his heart freefall all the way into the acid of his stomach.

He’s forgotten a cake. Bloody hell.

There’s no cake and no tiny candle for her first birthday and ―

Liam flops down on the sofa, burying his face in his hands, muffling a groan against his palms. He’s a bloody terrible father, he reckons.

Jasmine wakes with a whimper and Liam swipes a quick text to Harry ―

‘no cake! Im a terrrrible father :( the worrrst! shes gonna hate me!!’

― while changing her nappy and wiggling her into a tiny Manchester United kit (that Louis glared vindictively at on his last visit), brushing down that fuzz of hair at the top of her head.

“Better?” he smiles.

She pushes out a cherry pout before he tickles a giggle out of her, poking a finger at her soft belly.

It’s an hour before Harry messages him back ―

‘You’re daft. She’s 1 mate! And she loves you’

― but it doesn’t feel like comfort. It feels like calm, sage Harry. Like always.

(and Liam sort of loves him for that, of course)

Liam groans softly, tossing his phone. He’s still shit. And it’s far too cold today, a late October morning where the wind screams and London looks like a faded newspaper, for a walk down to the nearest bakery.

“I’m dreadful,” he says to no one in the kitchen.

Jasmine watches him with an inquiring tilt to her head and he can’t help himself. A smile soothes over his mouth. Harry’s right ― he’s daft. He’s just being a bit dramatic about it all.

“Breakfast then gifts?” he offers with a grin.

She coos into her palm, shrugging like she understands him ― and it’s just another thing he loves about her.

Jasmine is right stubborn at the burnt pancakes and milky porridge until Liam hums along to old Stevie Wonder in the background. She eats with a scrunched nose, sighing, glowing like a piece of fallen stardust.

Liam can’t look away the entire time.

“Poser,” he teases, cleaning her face with a damp flannel.

She mashes pancake bits into his hair with a squeal ― brilliant retaliation tactics, he thinks.

They sit on the floor in the lounge to unwrap her gifts, Skyping Liam’s dad (because his mum is in meetings and ― well, he didn’t expect her to take his call anyway; her assistant’s already sent over a bundle of professionally wrapped gifts from Harrods) so Geoff can shout goofily at Jasmine just to make her wiggle with laughter.

She barely makes it through half of Toy Story, yawning softly repeatedly until Liam finally puts her down for a kip late into the afternoon.

Later, Zayn knocks through the door, looking rumpled and cold, his hair soft and uneven around his face. His nose is that right side of pink from the wind, cheeks flushed and it’s all sort of adorable ―

Stop. Horrible word choice. Bloody awful, Liam reckons.

“Need a shower,” Zayn grumbles, rubbing at his eyes.

Liam raises his eyebrows sheepishly from where he’s sprawled across the sofa.

“And loads of quiet,” Zayn sighs. “No talking.”

He drags his feet across the floor after kicking off his boots, his shirt stained, his scruff darker like he hasn’t had a proper shave.

Liam flinches a shrug. He turns his eyes back to the telly, flipping through channels mindlessly. It’s all he’s done for an hour.

“And you better budge over when I get back,” Zayn adds, huffing. “You’re in my spot.”

“Keep it down,” Liam calls when Zayn passes around the sofa, “the birthday girl is napping.”

“Oh bloody ― ”

“Language,” Liam warns, clearing his throat.

“Thanks, Captain America,” Zayn says softly and Liam is an absolute victim of his own misery because his lips quirk up at the sound of Zayn’s giggling down the hall.

|+|

“I forgot the cake,” Liam admits, soft and ashamed, while they’re sat on the couch watching old cartoons.

Jasmine is wedged between them, slouching, sucking noisily at a pacifier. She’s content, right here, and Liam thinks he is too.

Zayn still looks warm and bruised pink from his shower. His hair is pushed off his face and it’s impossible not to stare at all of his features like this.

Not that Liam can’t look away. He has, several times. It never lasts, though, and that’s pretty awful, too.

“Hmm?”

Liam ducks his head and wishes he could just keep things to himself. Except, admittedly, he hasn’t had many people to talk to since Jasmine came around. There’s Harry and sometimes Louis, when he’s not being cross with Liam for not meeting another deadline.

But, honestly, Liam’s so busy with raising his daughter and his writing that it’s all he really has. He’s not lonely but ―

Liam groans, sliding down the couch like Jasmine, glaring vindictively at the telly.

“No birthday cake,” he mumbles. “I’m a dreadful dad.”

Zayn’s whispered chuckle creates this itch under Liam’s skin ― he wants to pout. He wants to have a strop because Zayn is taking the piss out of him. Again.

“You’re not dreadful,” Zayn says, stretching to ruffle Liam’s hair.

His fingers card through the tangles and brush over Liam’s scalp. Liam wants to push back into the touch because ―

He hasn’t felt that pleasant sensation in too long. Not from anyone other than Harry. Not since Pete, he considers.

Instead, he pulls away some, puckering his lips into a half-pout. He’s satisfied with that.

Zayn clears his throat and Liam flicks his eyes over him. He can’t quite read his expression before Zayn sighs, wiggling off the couch.

“Idiot,” he mumbles.

Liam’s not sure if it’s directed at him or if Zayn’s talking to himself but he stares curiously as Zayn stomps off to the kitchen, not bothering to say anything else.

|+|

“What are they?”

Zayn smiles, eyes scrunched but it’s all painfully shy, before he flops back down on the sofa. He presents a saucer filled with tasty sweets.

He’s been away an hour or more, Liam and Jasmine stretched lazily over the sofa, laughing mindlessly at Goofy and Donald Duck.

“They’re called chomchom,” Zayn replies warmly.

“Um,” Liam grins back, rubbing at the nape of his neck, breathing in the delicious scent. “It’s for her?”

Zayn nods, still hovering in his bashfulness. “It’s not a cake but,” he pinches at a corner of his bottom lip with his teeth, “it’s summat. I’m quite shit at baking― ”

Liam inches an eyebrow when Zayn, comically, tosses a hand over his mouth, cheeks reddening.

“Language, right?” Zayn asks when he pulls his hand away. His tone is mocking but kind.

Liam gives him a halfhearted shrug, beaming. “Shut it, you prick.”

Maybe it’s the angry crimson fireball of a sunset outside, or just this swell of happiness in his belly, but Liam swears something bright and affectionate washes over Zayn’s eyes. There’s rippling crinkles at the corners from the force of his cheeky grin.

(it’s obviously not meant for him because Zayn blinks away so quickly)

Liam steals a sweet from the saucer, popping it in his mouth. It’s terribly indecent how fantastic it is. He hums around the taste, cocking his head at Zayn.

“It’s incredible,” he says. Zayn’s half-cocky smirk flusters him and he adds, “Is that ― ”

“Coconut flakes. A bit of saffron,” Zayn interrupts.

Liam nods, shocked. He hadn’t even known they had all those ingredients.

“Should we sing for her?”

Zayn makes a face, scratching at his temple. He rips apart a chomchom to feed Jasmine, instead.

“Salgirah mubarak,” he says to her in a casually soft tone.

She chews at it hesitantly, mushing it around her mouth, before looking at Liam excitedly. Her eyes remind him of a gathering of stars circling Jupiter.

Jasmine reaches for a few more chomchom from the saucer and Zayn can barely hide the thrum of his laugh as he helps her break them apart.

Liam feels so warm, so overwhelmed. He sinks down into the sofa, pushing a content smile across his knuckles. He feels so honestly grateful for Zayn, just for a moment.

The feeling will pass (he hopes) and it’ll lose its momentum like everything else in his life.

(but maybe he’ll palm it for a just a little longer, out of a necessity)

It’s inexplicably predictable that, when Liam’s feeling pliant and Jasmine’s half in Zayn’s lap seeking more sweets, Harry stumbles through the door with a bundle of balloons tangled around him and a box of cupcakes in one arm.

He’s looks crazed (which, honestly, Liam is quite used to) but those massive green eyes keep tracing over Liam and Zayn and Jasmine. Over and over, eyebrows raised like ―

Just like all of those shoppers down at the market. Christ.

“Um, happy birthday?” Harry says, still dragging his eyes over them.

Liam tilts his head, confused. He doesn’t get it. It’s just him and Jasmine on the sofa like any other night ― with Zayn.

Both of them close, knees touching, Jasmine wedged between their thighs, sneaking chomchoms while Zayn’s arm is slung awkwardly around Liam’s shoulders ―

Oh, bloody hell.

Harry clears his throat, kicking the door closed. “You said you didn’t have a proper cake but Jas is so tiny so I reckoned cupcakes,” he rambles, lips twisting up when he stares at Zayn, “and, ‘lo, ‘m Harry ― Liam’s best mate.”

Zayn cackles like he can’t quite believe Harry and Liam blushes maddeningly red.

He doesn’t know whether to kick Harry out or shove Zayn off the sofa to make room for Harry.

“I’ve known him since university,” Liam says, instead. He pulls Jasmine into his lap. “He saved me life ― ”

“More times than this twat will admit,” Harry grins.

Liam wrinkles his nose. “You were horribly boring without me.”

“Me?” Harry squeaks.

Liam laughs and he barely notices the softness of Zayn’s snickering until he looks up at all the wrinkled lines around Zayn’s eyes. He’s genuinely amused by it all, Liam can tell.

“This wanker is a right freak without me in his life,” Harry sighs, moving closer.

Liam clucks his tongue but doesn’t disguise the affection in his grin.

“He spoils my daughter far too much.”

“She’s a princess,” Harry whines. He steps clumsily over the coffee table and Liam budges over just enough before Harry flops down between him and Zayn.

Liam allows Harry to pull Jasmine into his lap, lopping an arm around Harry’s wide shoulders.

“Thanks, Haz,” he smiles.

Harry nods, releasing the balloons to pluck at Jasmine’s nose, dusting coconut flakes from around her mouth.

“And you?”

Liam leans forward to watch the way Harry looks (stares, but that’s always been Harry’s informal greeting for strangers) at Zayn.

Zayn tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, tensing just enough in his jaw that Liam feels ― guilty? When did he start ―

“Zayn,” he says before Zayn can get a word. “Me neighbor, ‘member?”

Harry hums, delighted. “Across the hall? The quite fit lad who ― ”

Liam groans obnoxiously, knocking a sharp elbow into Harry’s ribs while slouching further into the abyss of sofa cushions.

Zayn’s lips slide halfway into an interested smile. “Salaam,” he greets, stretching out a hand.

Harry perks up, nudging Liam in a way that’s certainly meant to be discreet but Harry’s never been such a thing.

“Such manners,” he coos at Liam and Liam rolls his eyes on cue, tucking his head to mumble how much he hates Harry against one of Jasmine’s soft, chubby cheeks.

It’s awkward ― the four of them mashed onto the sofa. Harry watches Zayn carefully. A bit protectively, Liam thinks, the way Harry’s been about all the men in Liam’s life. But that’s ridiculous.

Zayn’s just ― he’s Zayn. Nothing of importance, Liam supposes.

“Should clean the kitchen a bit?” Zayn says, pushing off the sofa with a hand wrapped gently around the nape of his neck.

Liam tilts his head back to watch, wrinkles setting in his forehead with how quickly his eyebrows shoot up.

“I thought you cooked and I cleaned the mess?” he teases.

Zayn chews the inside of his cheek and shakes his head with this knowing little flinch to his lips.

“Wanker,” he mumbles, laughing, turning away.

He flips Liam off over his shoulder, something sheepishly pliant in the way he holds his mouth, shuffling off into the kitchen.

Liam chuckles to himself and he wonders if Zayn feels that same static in his blood like Liam does for a millisecond.

He can feel Harry glaring at him without looking up. It makes his brow crinkle.

“What?”

Harry shakes his head, the curve of his lips so obvious. He pops a chomchom in his mouth, passing Jasmine a shred, humming mockingly at Liam.

“Epic,” he mumbles with a mouthful of sweets.

Liam swears he absolutely doesn’t understand anyone anymore, except for Jasmine.

|+|

The laundry room in the basement of the building always feels a bit cozy ― and it stinks of dust and cheap fabric softener, but Liam doesn’t mind.

It’s small, almost always empty, one of the machines constantly rattling, left unattended with a load of clothes still inside. It’s a common ground for all of his neighbors, just a hello-and-goodbye sort of atmosphere.

Liam rather fancies it. Simple. The kind of place he can gather his thoughts or just be alone for awhile.

Except, Niall pops his head in one afternoon, looking sleep-happy and snug.

Liam likes Niall ― his hair this beach-bleached color to match his fair skin, his easiness so readable all the time. Always ambling through the halls, wailing old Eagles tunes while playing air guitar.

The sort of lad that reminds Liam of an old comfy shirt ― washed so many times it feels overly-soft when you tug it on.

“Gotten big, that one, hasn’t she?” Niall comments.

Liam grins, helplessly. Jasmine is sat in an empty laundry basket, playing by herself. Perpetually content without anyone to entertain her.

He laughs, nodding.

Niall waggles his eyebrows, sliding inside, bopping around Liam. He stuffs an abandoned washer with clothes, not even bothering to separate his colors or whites. There’s this contagious easiness about him as he overflows the machine with lemony detergent, thumping the lid closed.

Always so habitually carefree, the idiot.

He leans against another machine, arms crossed, chapped lips pulling into a grin.

“Seen the Malik fella creep in yours the other night? S’that what he’s gotten off to?”

Liam sniffs, turning away. He nods slowly, shrugging thoughtlessly.

Nothing to be ashamed of, he muses.

“He’s just in ‘til his flat’s finished, I reckon,” he says, pulling a hot pile of clothes from a tumbler.

Niall nods sharply back. His smile seems to shift into something cheeky, like he’s holding in a secret. It reminds Liam of Harry, oddly.

“Haven’t gotten out much since she came along?” he wonders.

Liam chews at a frown that stammers over his mouth before he realizes it. Niall swallows, adding, “Just an observation, mate. Nothing by it.”

Liam snorts, dragging a hand across the back of his neck. Of course. It never is, meant to be offensive, that is.

“Not much to do when you’ve got all you need right here, is it?” Liam asks.

Niall shrugs and chuckles at once. “S’ppose not,” he exhales. “Maybe a proper date now and again, mate.”

Liam winces ― a bit more like Louis, isn’t he?

“Malik’s fit, right?”

Liam chokes, sputtering like a mad idiot. He can’t help the way he instantly makes an awful face that Jasmine mimics from the basket.

She’s honestly too brilliant for him.

“He’s right terrible and not me type,” Liam says around a loud swallow. He wipes a hand down his face and it’s all a bitter taste in his mouth.

Zayn’s hardly worth that sort of effort, he’s sure.

He keeps folding clothes, ducking his head some, trying not to absorb a thing Niall mentions. It’s all ridiculous. Or tactical and Liam scrunches his brow some because ―

“But if you fancy him ― ”

Niall holds up a hand, barking out a laugh, shaking his head. It all echoes in the small space, startling Jasmine, making Liam wince.

But Niall’s red-faced and hacking out another cackle before relaxing against the empty washer. He hops up on it, swinging his legs back and forth.

“Not my deal, bro,” he says just as easy as before. “I’m ace.”

“Ace? You’re good?”

Another snort, this one softer, Niall’s eyes just tiny blue ponds instead of massive oceans from earlier.

“Asexual, mate,” he explains, lifting his hand, pointing excitedly at a shiny black ring on one of his pale fingers. “Not at all into Malik, thanks. Or blokes, at all. Birds, either. I’m a miserable flirt but I don’t t’ink of anyone in that way, y’know?”

Liam nods slowly, schooling his face into something blank.

Niall fits a hand over his mouth to muffle his next laugh. He leans back, this effervescent ball of casualness, like all of this is just banter between lads.

It makes Liam relax, all of the stiffness in his shoulders receding. He smiles, a small one, at the way Niall ruffles a hand into his mangled hair.

“So you don’t ― ”

Niall grins before Liam can finish. “Not interested.”

(Liam’s not certain why that floods something else under his skin ― like it’s all he wanted to hear when it’s the last thing he wants Niall to say ― but he doesn’t let it show.)

(He tries not to let it show ― his poker face has always been a bit shit.)

“Right,” Liam mumbles.

“Right,” Niall echoes, his lips still quirked into that carefree grin.

Liam sighs, pushing fingers into his own mangled hair, peeking down at Jasmine. She’s lost in humming to herself and chasing the flicks of sunlight that pour in through a shoebox-sized window high on the wall. Just glittery dust and cracks of gold sprayed across her palm.

“Should come out sometime, mate,” Niall suggests, jumping down. “Come to one of me band’s gigs. We’re feckin’ legendary.”

Liam giggles, watching Niall thump a fist on each tumbler as he passes.

“Just might.”

“And if yer not into Malik, like that, I’ve a couple-a friends that would bloody well love t’ snog that bloke,” Niall adds, leaning in the doorway. “Have ye seen his cheekbones?”

His laugh rattles in the room even though he’s clear down the hallway, already starting up on a Fleetwood Mac tune like this building is his concert stadium.

Liam exhales a loud breath. Everyone he knows is bloody mental.

He leans down, scooping Jasmine up, pressing a noisy peck to her temple. She needs a kip and Liam needs a ―

Well, he just wants to close his eyes and not think about a thing, that’s all.

|+|

The worn cushions of the sofa lull all of this restless energy inside of Liam. He feels lazy but bright ― like a meteor descending in his belly. His hands wander idly over his body and there’s a semi twitching heavy in his pants.

He wriggles into the cushions for comfort ― to forget about the way his cock fattens up each time he shifts.

Chances like this are rare ― no distractions, his flat gone quiet, the opportunity to get off. To have a sweaty, dirty wank without a hint of guilt about it.

His life is deadlines and his daughter.

(and definitely not in that order)

He lets his fingers slide over the cushions, an anchor to keep his mind from reeling, but it plays in his mind ― touching himself. Wrapping warm fingers around his thickening dick. The thrill beats loud in his blood. It’s a wolf’s howl in his ears.

Liam shifts about, lifting his hips, tugging down his joggers and wriggling around when his cock springs up. He bites anxiously at his lip, curling his fingers around the shaft. His thumb pulls the foreskin back and forth ― he’s slick already.

He knows it’ll be messy but his thoughts slip away when he peeks down at the pink head ― shiny without the foreskin hugging it. He pulls his hand to his mouth, the scent musky and arousing, dribbling saliva into his palm to help with the glide.

Liam blames this on Niall. Louis, too. It’s the whole world, actually, reminding him that he’s single. Not exactly lonely but ― he hasn’t had a good shag since Pete.

His hips twitch towards his hand, pushing at that loose grip he has around the base of his dick. Wiggling and flexing until the rhythm becomes familiar.

All of his thoughts go crazy, except for one: Zayn. He keeps thinking about how different Zayn is compared to Pete. It’s a bit unfair but there’s all of this ink and sharp smiles to Zayn. A softness to his voice when he’s unsure. A full and pink lower lip, rarely chapped because he’s always licking at it.

Long fingers and a slight frame that still beats with strong definition to his muscles.

Frustration builds like the heat in a kettle. Liam groans, turning his face to shove the noise into a pillow, his thumb slick with precome as he works it across the head. His spare hand teeters between his legs, fingertips skimming the soft skin behind his balls ― just a tease.

His hole puckers at the thought, though.

He’s not meant to think of Zayn while tossing off. Not one bit.

Liam knows he could queue up some decent porn on his laptop. He could think of that last time Pete yanked his knees apart, swallowing Liam without much effort, pressing his thighs back until Liam felt overexposed and ready to push down onto Pete’s dick ―

Honestly, there’s no time. He’s wasted away enough minutes and he’s uncertain when his daughter will wake from her kip.

Just another deadline that encourages his hand to twist a little more urgently around the tip of his dick.

He’s not arsed about it but ― Liam is so comfortable. The arousal is spiking like adrenaline. He feels so incredible with a hand wrapped around his cock.

A shudder ripples down his spine like a cold snap in winter and his toes curl, his teeth biting his lip sore.

Liam loves the slick noises his cock makes. Tugging at the foreskin, spreading the precome around, the slit constantly spitting out more. He’s warm and just on the edge of sweating but he focuses on how wet his hand is.

His spine curls into a soft arch, hips pushing his cock into the overly hot ring of fingers.

“Ah.”

Liam’s nerves heat up and his eyes flutter closed when he changes the angle.

He loves the soft gasp at the back of his throat ― the one that echoes through the room.

Except, it’s not from Liam’s lips this time.

It’s Zayn.

He’s leaning against the closed door, flushed pink like fresh spun sugar, blinking his wide eyes rapidly.

Liam freezes, fingers curled around his shaft, his skin starting to crawl with blush and sweat. After a beat, his spare hand scrambles for a pillow to cover himself with. He thinks to run off, duck into the loo, wait out his embarrassment and frustration but ―

Zayn lifts a finger to his lips. Like he’s telling Liam to stay quiet. Stay calm, stay still, even.

Liam feels all of his muscles go tense. His jaw stiffens and all of the apologetic words bubbling in his throat never make it to his tongue.

He watches Zayn like he’s discovering a new planet.

Zayn toes off his boots, yanks off his apron, never breaking eye contact with Liam. He stumbles over to the sofa, standing over him.

There’s a nervous hand hovering near Liam’s face and he thinks to swat it away. He doesn’t want a second of Zayn’s sympathy ―

A damp palm stretches over Liam’s cheek and Liam is shocked by the softness. By how much he likes it there, settling him. A thumb skimming over his temple, fingers dragging into his hair.

Steady, steady, steady.

Liam reacts so quickly, so instinctively. He doesn’t jerk away. There’s a moan (the only noise his body can produce) garbled in his throat, his eyelashes fanning over his cheeks. Comfort, he thinks.

He sighs helplessly and there’s a fuzzy tingle just under his navel that preoccupies him.

“Keep going.”

Zayn’s voice is a hiss. It’s dark and honeyed, just that right hint of scratchy like he’s still not sure how to react to all of this.

(it makes Liam feel on edge and filthy and this buzz gets louder in his ears)

Liam obliges, thoughtlessly, to Zayn’s words. Out of need. Out of this hot coil in his belly because Zayn’s eyes have gone a rich espresso color in the bright afternoon.

His fingers drag over Liam’s scalp, catching in tangles, pulling just enough ―

It’s too much. Liam pauses, breathing hard. He frets his hand away, smudging precome on the inside of his thigh. A whimper banks and almost slips past his lips.

“D’ya need somethin’?” Zayn asks.

Liam moans softly, too wound up. His skin flushes a pale pink because all of the blood is still rushing his cock. It’s gone harder, sitting curved on his belly, leaking into all the fuzzy hair there.

Absently his hand glides back up, fingers brushing over the sticky tip. He strains not to just nut all over his shirt.

(it’d feel like such a missed opportunity ― or embarrassingly teenaged of him)

“Tell me what you need,” Zayn exhales.

His words feel so loaded and Liam squirms just a fraction, swallowed by arousal. His voice cracks before he can speak so he settles for dragging his eyes over Zayn’s jeans, where his stiffy pushes uncomfortably at the denim.

Zayn licks his lips (accidentally obscene, Liam reckons) with hooded eyes. His dick twitches so noticeably against the dark material before he tugs at the zip.

It’s tucked and twisted in the fabric of his briefs but Zayn fishes around, chewing at his lip, pulling his dick over the band.

Liam shifts into an awkwardly uncomfortable position and Zayn shuffles forward ―

He waddles into a position that’s just near enough for Liam to angle his mouth ―

Yes.

The sting at the back of his neck is bearable. It feels like a tidal wave ― twisting around just to get Zayn’s cock between his lips. Flicking his tongue over the slit, gathering the precome, his mouth flooded with that sugary anticipation.

Liam slurps around the tip, trying to stay quiet. He pulls off faster, reckless about his technique. It’s been so long.

Zayn’s heavy across his tongue. His lips stretch around the base, the neat curve of Zayn’s dick. He likes the tangy flavor of the precome. A constant chant of ‘fuck, fuck, more, more’ in the back of his head as he sinks lower.

He loves the fingers in his hair and the way Zayn’s scent is muskier the further he takes Zayn inside his mouth. His cheeks hollow, pure instinct, before he pulls back. A wet cluck of his tongue while he admires the shiny head.

Inside, he thinks, over and over, mouthing his way back down Zayn’s cock.

He’s incredulous ― swallowing down until Zayn’s pushing at his throat. Shameless. Just the tease of Zayn fitting into his airway makes him hiccup a moan.

Zayn’s hips shift anxiously like he’s trying not to fuck Liam’s mouth.

(‘you could, you could, please’ rattles around in Liam’s ears)

Like Zayn’s on the edge.

Liam feels so full and starved at once, wanking himself furiously. He feels his orgasm banking before pulling his hand away, breathing erratically, trying to calm himself. He teases himself back up, toes curling, his thighs stinging from strain.

“Fuck.”

(it sounds like his voice but it stutters like Zayn’s and Liam’s floating on this buzz)

Zayn gasps above him, tangling hair around his fingers, pulling.

Liam mewls. He fights against Zayn’s tug, lapping around the head of Zayn’s prick. He chokes, quietly, when Zayn fumbles forward and he keeps sucking.

(his voice is going to be fucked and his jaw numb but ― yes, more, c’mon)

Zayn comes with a hiss, a telltale twist in his hips like he’s unsure whether to push deeper or draw away from Liam’s lips. He spills over Liam’s tongue, keening.

The taste is salty, thick but it’s all Liam needs.

Just the way Zayn tries to be soft and quiet while flooding Liam’s mouth. How he doesn’t pull away, even when he’s oversensitive and shivering.

Zayn lets Liam suckle his softening dick, curling his fingers around the back of Liam’s skull, holding him until Liam comes messily over his knuckles and wrist.

“Shit. Ah, shit.”

He mouths at Zayn’s hip, overstimulated, creaming over his belly. He twitches and wants to curl in on himself but ―

Zayn rubs a thumb across his damp brow, smoothing away all the wrinkles. He gives Liam a blank expression when Liam finally blinks up at him. They don’t look away but they don’t speak and Liam thinks it’s weird.

(or comforting in a very unhealthy manner)

Zayn sniffs, nodding. He tucks his dick away. He’s flushed and sweaty before he stumbles away towards the loo.

Liam remains motionless on the sofa, gasping for a breath. There’s still surges, aftershocks, dragging across his nerves. His eyes feel heavy, his bones gone liquid. He could have a good, long kip right here ―

Except Jasmine whines from the bedroom.

It startles Liam before his next clean breath. He staggers off the couch, trying to clean up, yanking his joggers back up to his hips. He drags his clean hand down his face.

“Bloody fuck,” he mumbles.

There isn’t a second for reflecting or thinking. Or checking on Zayn, either. He jogs off towards his room and does his best to forget the sour taste of Zayn’s come still at the back of his throat.

|+|

“So you gave him a blowjob?”

Liam yelps, whacking Harry’s shoulder and scowling. He motions to Jasmine next to him, sighing.

Harry grins recklessly, brushing a hand over Jasmine’s fuzzy hair. There’s nothing apologetic about his smirk.

“S’not that bad,” he hums.

“It’s awful,” Liam counters, his voice pitched into a whine, his skin already turning pink. He takes a long sip of his espresso and looks away from Harry.

They’re sat outside their favorite non-franchise coffee shop (the one Harry adores for their pastries and Liam is quite fond of the scenic view, their strong-brewed cuppas, too) with a breakfast of tea, warm muffins, and wild berries for Jasmine.

Its Liam’s favorite little nook of London for writing. The view of the sun cast behind greyish clouds and all the cracks in the pavement like a mad artist’s design. The scent of coffees and marigold leaves.  This sharp tip of a cold breeze that makes his nose and cheeks tingle pink.

Honestly, he feels so inspired here.

“He’s quite fit,” Harry comments, lips turned up cheekily.

Liam furrows his brow, burying his lips in steamy espresso.

“Don’t wanna talk about it.”

“But you brought it up, mate,” Harry counters, his voice accusing but his smirk incredulous.

He’s always been a corner piece trying to fit into the center section of a jigsaw puzzle.

Liam scoffs, keeping his eyes off Harry. “Had to get it out, Haz,” he explains even if, technically, he does want to talk about it. Just not to Harry. Or Louis.

He needs professional help, actually.

“Forget it,” he mumbles. He feeds Jasmine a berry, lips lifting into a smile when the juices spill down her chin.

Her little grin is filled with fascination, pushing into her eyes, small teeth visible. She’s all Liam wants to think or chat about.

“Still not walking, this one?” Harry wonders and Liam’s always loved Harry’s ability to synchronize conversations with Liam’s failure to finish a thought.

He never makes Liam feel like he’s retreating ― even though they both know he is.

“She’s trying,” Liam says, gently. He reaches over to thumb excess juice from around her mouth, giggling when she flashes all of those baby teeth like a carved pumpkin.

“Can’t quite get it down yet,” he adds.

Harry nods, looking sage and thoughtful.

“She will,” he assures, stretching across the small table to cup a large hand over Liam’s knuckles. His palm is soft, like it always is, and it’s comforting.

The squeeze he adds after is like a confirmation ― a cherry floating at the top of a thick milkshake.

“Oi, Payno, quite the tosser, you are,” Louis crows from a distance.

Liam’s a bit startled, eyeing Louis as he strolls up to their table, stealing a chair from another table, flopping down. He looks a bit worse for wear ― unshaven and rough, like he’s still recovering from a night on the piss. Like an expert, he undoes his waistcoat with one hand, cocking up an eyebrow at them.

Louis shoots Harry a flirty grin, like a cheeky ‘hello’ that Harry dismisses. He nicks Harry’s tea for a short swallow, making a face instantly.

“Tea and toothpaste,” he gags. “What a way to wake up.”

Liam rolls his eyes but Harry giggles into his hand like a schoolboy.

Louis grins, a bit proud, completely arrogant as he crosses his legs.

“Tell me, Styles,” he hums, leaning closer, “Payno trying all his horrible chat-up lines on you or summat?”

Liam kicks Louis’ ankle under the table while Harry snorts. To be fair, Liam wants to laugh too. But he doesn’t ― on principle, of course.

“Actually,” Harry says in that tone Liam hates, “he’s saving those for ― ”

Liam squawks, kicking at Harry’s ankle this time, rougher. Harry wheezes happily while rubbing at his sore skin.

Louis, already petulant and pouty, trades scowls between them.

“Are you two shagging?”

Another kick, to Louis this time, the table shaking and knocking over the sugar. Liam wrinkles his nose, exhaling heavily.

“Me daughter is at the table, okay?” he groans.

“That’s not an answer,” Louis points out.

It’s not, on purpose, Liam thinks. Deflection or maybe he just likes taking the piss out of Louis whenever the opportunity presents itself. Either way, he drags a hand down his face ― they’re terrible mates and he should consider auditioning for new ones.

“We’re not hooking up,” Harry insists, still trying to catch his breath from all the laughter.

“So I’ve still got a chance?” Louis asks.

“No,” Liam quips, reaching for his tea.

Harry smiles, pleased but soft just around the corners of his mouth, like he’s considering.

“Doubtful.”

“You hesitated,” Louis notes.

Harry wriggles his eyebrows. “I did.”

Liam swats at Harry’s shoulder, wrinkling his brow at how easily Harry smiles for Louis. It’s all so dreadful to witness, Liam thinks.

“Hmm,” Louis grins, finishing Harry’s tea. “Well, you’ve a deadline,” he says, pointing at Liam, a stern slant to his eyes. “Think you can be just a bit timely?”

“No,” Harry giggles before Liam can part his lips.

He sighs, wrinkling his nose in his cup. There’s a frustrated little wrinkle between his eyebrows and he’s certain the tension in his shoulders has start to spread down into his spine, up into the set of his jaw.

“Been busy,” he mumbles.

“Busy with well fit neighbors,” Harry grins cheekily.

Liam shoots him a discouraged scowl that Harry refuses to flinch at. He’s a bastard.

“Whatever,” Louis scoffs, leaning back, waving them off. “Y’need to get out, as I’ve said before. Have a proper date. A nice dinner and some flowers and a brilliant screw.”

“Christ,” Liam hisses, reaching to cup his hands around Jasmine’s ears.

Harry nods, chuckling, and Liam wants them both to bloody go away.

“This princess needs to see her dad proper happy,” Harry mentions.

Louis leans on the table, something crooked and obvious about his smirk. “I can provide all of those things,” he preens. “You reckon you’re up for that?”

There’s a pause ― another moment of indecision that Liam can read without looking.

“Maybe,” Harry smiles, the shape so broad that his dimples look like half-moons around his mouth.

Louis gives Harry a lazy smile and Liam glares at them with wide eyes. He slumps down while Louis stands, fixing his half-suit, curving his grin up a bit devilishly.

“Well, then.”

“Text me,” Harry shrugs, like an afterthought.

“I’ll ring you up, instead,” Louis promises, his grin stark and wide like a predator.

He turns to Liam, wagging a finger, his expression smoothing into something serious. “Two weeks. ‘S all I can promise,” he says, trying to sound scolding but it’s slightly sympathetic. Liam’s grateful for it.

Louis walks away, hands shoved into his pockets, his profile softened by the slash of sun backed by the clouds when he gives Harry one more look.

Harry ducks his head, blushing, trying not to look at Liam.

Laughter spills out of Liam. He whacks Harry for good measure, wiggling a disapproving finger at him.

“Mate,” Liam says, teasingly. “Thought you didn’t do the love thing?”

“I don’t,” Harry says, going for a stern tone but he flounders at the last second. “I’m experimenting.”

“Quite dangerous, innit?” Liam smiles around his cuppa.

“Dunno. Give it a go with your neighbor and let me know,” Harry mocks.

Liam’s face wrinkles into something unpleasant before he turns to Jasmine. He’s put off being proper cross with Harry about the suggestion, even if it keeps nagging him.

Instead, he feeds Jasmine a few more bits of fruit, ignoring Harry. It’s a practiced move. Besides, he’s decided Harry’s a complete idiot when it comes to this love thing.

|+|

It’s quiet, the sort of hush Liam fancies when it’s nearly midnight and he’s trying to write.

He’s cuddled into the cushions of the sofa, a wooly duvet tossed around his shoulders, his laptop warm across his thighs. Zayn’s picked up a late shift at the café and Jasmine’s tucked into his bed under a tiny square blanket, swimming in her dreams.

Liam stares blankly at the bluish glow of his laptop screen, attempting to write through the madness of his thoughts. There’s a feeling ebbing in his stomach and it won’t pass. He considers just binning everything, out of frustration. A sigh brushes past his lips ―

The door clicks open, Zayn sneaking in, stepping out of his boots. He looks a bit guilt-stricken when he notices Liam sat, curled around his laptop, on the sofa.

They trade nervous stares for a moment, eyes flitting up and down. Liam breaks first ― smiling goofily. He can’t help it. Zayn looks so small and knackered, rumpled from a long shift and ready to collapse.

“Sorry,” Zayn mumbles, sheepish, almost like he’s meant to explain something else ―

They haven’t spoken much since ― well, since Liam sucked him off. Just casual looks, quick nods ‘hello’ in the morning. But Zayn gives a small smile back and it feels like the tension is starting to fray.

Zayn shuffles further inside, a ciggy tucked behind his ear, a hand rubbing anxiously at his stubble. “M’not keeping you, am I?”

Liam shakes his head slowly, lip between his teeth, considering. He holds up his laptop for Zayn, like a silent explanation. He roots it back to his lap, his index finger pushing his glasses up his nose, lips still fixed with a goofy smile.

He shouldn’t be this helpless ― but it’s late; that’s his excuse.

“Can’t write?” Zayn inquires, moving around the table.

Liam’s shoulders lift a bit haphazardly. He bites over his plump lower lip and slouches down.

Zayn grins back at him, something yielding and fervent washing over him. “I know how to fix it,” he insists.

He shuffles socked feet back towards the door, grabbing at something, scurrying back to the couch. He collapses down, budging in close to Liam.

Their hips brush and Liam tries not to react.

Zayn drops a massive brown bag onto the coffee table and it’s the first time Liam’s noticed it.

“Help y’self,” Zayn offers while nicking Liam’s laptop.

Liam pulls an exaggeratedly annoyed face for a moment before pulling cartons of food from the bag. He pops the lids, breathing in spicy and sweet aromas. Hypnotic, he thinks, smiling. The scents diffuse the way Zayn smells like Marlboros and sweat, sat this close to Liam.

“Chutney,” Zayn says, pointing to a few of the smaller containers. “And chops I accidentally burned. There’s curry, too.”

Liam inhales it all, ducking to hide his grin. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth anticipating the flavors.

“I gave it a go at korma today,” Zayn adds, waving a hand about. “Think me boss liked it.”

Liam blinks up at Zayn. Under the dense swell of shadows in his flat, Zayn looks almost bashful as he talks. Squinty eyes and a crooked smile. The bluish glow from the laptop makes him a pale gold and Liam likes that.

He likes this abashed stare Zayn flashes him with wrinkles in his forehead and teeth pulling at his lower lip.

“Thanks,” he mutters.

Zayn shrugs, tension caught tight in his shoulders, queueing up a film on the laptop.

“Oi, Christ mate, you’re bloody mad,” Liam laughs thickly, trying to hollow out the noise so he doesn’t wake Jasmine. It turns into a bloody embarrassing cough, instead.

Zayn hums happily. He’s put on Stranger than Fiction, scooting closer to share the screen while they pass the leftovers back and forth.

“This is not a good idea. It won’t help,” Liam says between giggles.

“Shush, you,” Zayn admonishes. “You don’t know that.”

Liam groans, giving in. He makes more room for Zayn, their feet perched on the coffee table, ankles skimming. They fumble with the containers, eating with their hands, licking excess sauces from their fingers.

“Alright,” Liam sighs. “It’s a fairly funny film.”

“Comical,” Zayn agrees. “But, like, it’s deep, too?”

Liam stuffs his mouth with spicy chicken, nodding, grinning goofily.

Zayn snorts, keeping their shoulders pressed together.

Liam fancies the warmth. He likes that their feet keep brushing, the softness framing Zayn’s mouth as he eats. All the bits that Liam finds funniest, Zayn laughs just as hard at, burying the echo into one of his hands or the round of Liam’s shoulder ― just to spare Jasmine.

Halfway into the film, Zayn tucks his head onto Liam’s shoulder and he barely notices.

(he doesn’t knock Zayn off, either)

“Sometimes,” Zayn starts, yawning, “just gotta not think about it, mate. Just chill out.”

“Done loads of that,” Liam fusses.

Zayn turns his head, nosing Liam’s shoulder before biting at it. He scowls. “Don’t ruin it.”

Liam cocks a wary eyebrow up at him. “Ruin what?”

Zayn rolls his eyes, tucking himself back into position, relaxing.

“Get inspired, you twat.”

Zayn goes quiet and Liam decides to keep his words to himself. He squints at the screen and passes Zayn the rest of the curry.

He’s not sure what provokes it but Liam curls an arm around Zayn’s shoulders, lazy and comfortable. Zayn hums and goes pliant. Liam noses into Zayn’s wrecked hair and ― okay. He can do that.

He can let the inspiration happen.

|+|

They shuffle through more films (all Zayn’s selections, of course) while the night crawls tepidly into the dawn. It all becomes white noise to their soft banter between scenes. Liam enjoys the way Zayn’s accent drags a little more when he’s sleepy. They fill their mouths and stomachs with all the leftovers, fighting exhaustion throughout the Lego Movie.

Neither of them survives to the credits.

It’s after sunrise when he startles awake. Stretched out over the sofa, Zayn’s head snuggled to his chest, his legs vined around Liam’s.

The sun is an angry orange burst against his eyelids and he can hear Jasmine crying, distantly. He feels wrung out but ―

Wow.

Even Zayn haphazardly coiled around him is pleasant. It’s like ― he doesn’t have a word yet but he wants to find one. He wants to use it over and over when he writes. An adjective ― no a verb. This feels like an action or a state.

An occurrence he’ll never tell Harry about.

“G’up,” he moans, poking a finger at Zayn’s shoulder.

Zayn swats at his chest, hissing, turning his face away.

“C’mon,” Liam sighs, the uncomfortable pressure of needing a wee and that tingly lifelessness in his bum from being in the same position too long.

Zayn finally turns over, nearly budging Liam off the sofa.

Liam staggers to his feet, rubbing at his eyes, trying to find a bit of gravity.

Zayn’s already fast asleep again, his back to Liam, curled around a pillow. It’s quite annoying.

Liam lets out an exasperated sigh, moving blindly through the flat towards the noise of Jasmine’s whimpering.

It’s all instinct, he knows, even if part of his mind is still sunken between the couch cushions and Zayn’s warm body.

|+|

“Vanilla or chocolate?”

They’re in the middle of the frozen sweets aisle at the market, Liam holding up two cartons of ice cream for Jasmine to look over.

Zayn lifts up a skeptical eyebrow at Liam, wrinkles settling into his forehead.

Liam huffs. “C’mon, babe,” he coaxes, determinedly ignoring Zayn, leaning in to peck a kiss to Jasmine’s tiny nose. “What d’ya want? Vanilla or chocolate?”

Zayn lets out a sharp laugh when Jasmine frowns back at Liam.

Liam scowls instantly.

Zayn flashes him a loaded grin. “Probably wants her baba to stop being so boring, babe.”

Liam frowns, pulling back. “I’m not boring,” he says under his breath, pulling open the glass door to toss the cartons back in. “That’s rubbish.”

“Hey, c’mon now,” Zayn says, still half-giggling. “Just a bit of fun, innit? Live a little.”

“She likes chocolate,” Liam pouts. He runs a hand through his hair to unsettle his annoyance.

He doesn’t mean to sound so cross or to let Zayn see his frustration but ―

Jasmine likes chocolate. And he’s not boring. At all.

Zayn’s mouth lifts into a lopsided smile. “Alright,” he hums, shuffling around Liam, tugging open the freezer door. “Close your eyes and grab somethin’ else.”

Liam feels defiant, for a second, and Zayn is an absolute donut. That’s a very daft idea. He’d be a right idiot to do something so ―

He exaggerates a sigh, loud and pitchy, fluttering his eyes closed. He’s the biggest arse in the world for trusting Zayn, he swears.

Zayn leads him closer to the selection of ice creams, a soft hand low on Liam’s spine, his warm breath over Liam’s ear when he whispers, “Y’can have whatever you like.”

His voice has this deep drawl to it and it stirs a reflexive reaction in Liam’s belly (in his dick, too) before he quickly tugs out a carton of ice cream just to get away.

“Brilliant,” Zayn cheers.

Liam blinks one eye open ― mint choc-chip. His mouth curls up a bit. He hasn’t had a proper spoonful of this since he was a wee bit, huddled at the kitchen table in his parents’ small brownstone, back when they were a little more in love.

“Smashing choice,” Zayn adds, his hand rubbing these comforting circles into the small of Liam’s back.

It tingles up his spine, tiny jolts of dopamine. Like a soft spark. It terrifies Liam how much he wants that feeling to be permanent ― but maybe from someone other than Zayn.

He pulls away, dropping the carton into the trolley, exhaling a breath. Distractedly, he leans down to snuffle kisses over Jasmine’s cheeks until she’s a fit of giggles. That feels easier to inhale.

In his peripheral, he can see Zayn watching them with a fond smile.

He doesn’t know what to do with that.

“Thought maybe we could watch a film later?” Zayn offers as they move about the aisles, closer to the checkout queue. “Your choice this time,” he adds, beaming, his cheeks pushing his eyes into tiny slits of amusement.

Even in the softness, Liam can spot the hint of arrogance, he promises. He bites at his lip until it’s sore and throbbing.

“Can’t,” he coughs, clearing his throat. “Need to spend my time writing. I’ve a book to finish. A deadline. Can just laze about all day.”

Zayn hums, ducking his head out of view, almost looking wounded ― but that’s not possible.

Absently, Liam notices there’s a cold ache at the bottom of his spine where Zayn’s hand used to be.

He doesn’t know what to do with that either.

|+|

“Y’should be writing,” Zayn mentions, rubbing fingers across his crooked smile. He cocks his head at Liam, expectantly.

Liam ignores him, scooping up another spoonful of ice cream for Jasmine.

He’s still so fascinated by her reaction ― the full body shiver she gives when she drags her tiny teeth across the melting ice cream before she giggles excitedly, clapping her hands. It rips a shudder from him until he’s laughing breathlessly.

They’re sat on the floor in the lounge, passing the carton back and forth, Jasmine plopped in Liam’s lap. He uses one of Zayn’s shirts to wipe her mouth clean and pretends not to notice the playful glare Zayn shoots him every time he does it.

The night sits full and dark outside, the moon brushing silver into the flat but all Liam recognizes is how long Zayn’s eyelashes look from this angle.

(And, stubbornly, he’s aware how weird that is ― so he stops thinking)

“I don’t wanna write,” Liam pouts.

Zayn blurts out a giggle. He shovels ice cream between plush pink lips and licks the spoon clean.

(it’s infuriatingly attractive, Liam can admit)

Liam wrinkles his nose and resolutely ignores how his dick twitches every time Zayn does that. It’s a bastard move.

Zayn points his spoon accusingly at Liam. “You’re acting like princess Jas,” he smirks.

“You’re acting like a dick,” Liam mumbles. Instantly, his shoulders slump and there’s a defeated curve to his mouth. “Sorry.”

Zayn nicks back the carton, stretching awkwardly to feed Jasmine this time. She’s lost that hint of hesitation at him, popping her mouth open happily for the spoon.

“S’cool.”

“No, I mean ― ”

“Leeyum,” Zayn whines, grinning, absentmindedly dragging out every letter until it’s far too irresistible for Liam to look away. “S’alright, man. So you’re a bit cranky. You’re allowed to have a strop.”

Liam crinkles his brow, puckering his lips like ―

Bloody unbelievable, he is a child.

He argues, “I’m not having a ― ”

Zayn hums, staring curiously at Liam. “You’ve freckles on your nose,” he says a bit mindlessly, smiling soft and weird.

Liam deepens the wrinkles in his forehead. “Your tattoos are horrible,” he grunts, as if they’re having a pissing contest or summat.

And he’s losing to Zayn quite miserably if he’s being honest. Because he’s quite fond of Zayn’s tattoos. And his hands. The sharp cut of his jaw.

It’s frustrating and Liam feels so determined not to stare at Zayn for a bit.

Zayn laughs, gentle and low. He fiddles with the ice cream for a second.

“Yeah, I guess,” he shrugs. “My ears are funny. And I’ve got this horrible scar on me eyebrow,” he adds, dragging the handle of his spoon across a faint cut in one eyebrow, “from trying to be a Power Ranger as a kid. My mum nearly went bloody mental. Spent a good amount of time in the A&E but it was worth it, y’know?”

Liam smiles, uneven and wide. He knows. Pretending to be Buzz Lightyear and launching himself off his mum’s ratty couch didn’t always end heroically.

“But I mean,” Zayn sighs, licking at his lips (another habit Liam likes) before mumbling, “I fancy them. Your freckles. It’s odd but, like, nice.”

“Odd but nice,” Liam echoes.

Zayn nods, beaming, and Liam tucks his chin to hide his nose ― and his blush, too.

He feels Jasmine wiggle around, pushing up onto wobbly legs. She steadies herself, barely, like she always does, except ―

She’s so tentative with the first step. Liam’s half-expecting her to flop down on her bum again but she jostles one foot in front of the other, over and over.

Jasmine walks, quite clumsily, the small distance to Zayn and the ice cream carton. There’s a quiet all through the flat except for Liam’s tiny sharp breaths when she stumbles all the way into Zayn’s arms.

“She just ― ”

Zayn’s voice turns to static in Liam’s mind.

Jasmine tugs and plays happily with Zayn’s thick hair, still standing on shaky legs.

“Did she ― ”

Liam exhales, an uncontrollable grin pushing into his cheeks, crinkling his eyes.

“Her first steps,” he says, more to himself than Zayn. He pulls his knees to his chest, watching Jasmine coo at Zayn’s hair.

Zayn ducks his head to escape her hands, laughing. “She looks a bit like you when you’re in from the piss,” he teases.

Liam crooks up an eyebrow, interested.

“Excuse me?”

Zayn snickers, large hands circling Jasmine’s hips, keeping her from falling.

“That night, remember?” he smirks. “You were in from a bender, I think? Could barely keep y’self up outside me door. You tried to chat me up in the hall, but I thought ― ”

There’s a pause and Liam wants to shout at Zayn to finish. No. He wants to run from the room, actually.

Zayn peeks from around Jasmine. “You were a bit gone and I didn’t wanna, like. You were quite adorable out there but I didn’t wanna get caught up in having a one-off ‘cause you were hammered. Wanted to, like ― just seemed a bit inappropriate.”

Liam rubs a finger over his scruff and tries not to look shocked.

Except, his jaw has gone slack and his eyes are large planets and he’s almost certain he’s breathing too loudly. Or not at all.

Brilliant job, really. Harry’s right ― he should just skip the romance bits when he’s writing because he’s absolutely horrible with emotions.

Zayn giggles, shy and awkward, looking down. “Sorry to disappoint, babe ― ”

“I thought you were the most amazing person I’d ever seen,” Liam blurts.

Again, top lad. Full marks on that whole love thing. Fuck.

Zayn wheezes out a laugh. “You were bloody pissed off yer arse ― ”

“No, no,” Liam sighs, frustration burning in his belly. It’s building like that heavy layer of blush on his cheeks. “Before that. Nevermind.”

He takes a moment to recover, staring down at his hands. They’re shaking. He looks up, feeling weary, deep waves bored into his brow.

Zayn’s chewing over his lower lip and there’s nothing distinguishable about his expression except his affectionate smile. It’s wide and slanted and Liam just manages to mimic it before they’re both laughing at each other.

Just a bit punch-drunk on stupidity, he supposes.

|+|

There’s a hum in his flat, the soft buzz of the refrigerator and Jasmine’s sighing breaths from where she’s asleep on the sofa but it’s all drown out by the giggling in his ear.

The huffing laughter he exhales between kisses he shares with Zayn.

And each one is incredible, if not poorly aimed. Clumsy. On almost every kiss, their noses collide or Liam presses a peck to the corner of Zayn’s mouth, Zayn’s lips smacking into Liam’s chin.

It’s silly and childish but Liam’s drunk on it. Every bad angle. Every laugh smothered when their lips meet. It’s the opposite of one of those dreamy storybook kisses.

No, they’re like a natural disaster.

They bound down the hallway, knocking into walls, shushing each other like they’re keeping a secret.

Anxious hands pull at their kits, arms and heads getting tangled in the fabric. Liam waddles around with his jeans around his knees and Zayn’s down to just his pants by the time they nearly topple onto Liam’s bed.

There’s no hesitation to make them pause. Zayn wraps strong arms around Liam’s middle, lifting him up, sinking down to the springy mattress.

“Christ,” Liam huffs.

“Ouch.”

Their foreheads collide and it makes Liam a little dizzy, seated under Zayn, blinking up through crinkled eyes.

“You’re shit at this.”

Liam squawks, smacking a firm palm to Zayn’s bum.

“S’not me. You’re the dreadful one at ― ”

Zayn gasps incredulously before Liam can finish, tugging at the band of Liam’s boxers and jeans like they’re offensive.

“I’ve gotten plenty of compliments in bed, babe,” he insists, splaying himself across Liam, a purposely slow twist of his hips shocking something up Liam’s spine.

Truthfully, Liam can see how people might be a bit gone on Zayn’s technique.

Zayn scrapes sucking kisses over Liam’s throat and jaw, lazily with his lips. His fingers scratch over Liam’s scalp before he tugs gently at a tuft of hair, tilting Liam’s head back and stretching the line of his neck for a better angle.

It’s the right sort of pain. The kind that makes his thighs flex and his toes wiggle.

Liam’s hands start to shake as they explore Zayn ― the width of his shoulders and his narrow waist, the definition in his back. Quiet muscles coming alive in his arms. This thick band of biceps pulsing under Liam’s fingertips.

“Get ‘em off,” Liam whines, tugging at the elastic of Zayn’s pants.

He absolutely hates feeling the outline of Zayn’s dick through the thin material. He’s far too sensitive, the cotton skimming over his own cock, his toes curling into the wrinkled duvet.

“Make me,” Zayn taunts.

Liam keens, putting up a lazy struggle.

(he knows he could do this a lot more effortlessly ― toss Zayn clear across the bed, yank off his silly underwear with just his teeth but he’s quite into this play of Zayn’s)

Zayn carefully pins Liam’s wrists above his head, fingers digging into skin, and ―

Okay, Liam’s cock has never jerked like that before.

Quite honestly, he’s never been into being held down or dominated either, far too focused on satisfying someone else in bed but ―

Alright. He wants this.

Zayn wiggles out of his pants one-handed, looking awkward and comical while having a go at it. Liam barely restrains a wheezing laugh before Zayn swallows it up with a kiss, a retaliating scrape of his teeth over Liam’s plump lower lip. Liam shivers up for more.

“Shut it.”

“Make me,” Liam breathes.

Zayn narrows his eyes, challenging, wriggling his eyebrows. He puts enough pressure between their hips, brushing their cocks together in this figure-eight motion, Liam whimpering helplessly at the ceiling.

“Could fuck you hard,” Zayn offers, smirking.

“When did we establish that I would ― ”

“Liam,” Zayn says, dark and brilliant. “I could fuck you hard.”

It’s a second, just for the oxygen to expand his lungs, before Liam stutters, “Yes.”

“Want that?”

Liam scrunches his brow stubbornly. He lifts his hips up in response. He hardly wants to just frot with a fit lad in his bed all night but he doesn’t say that out loud.

Zayn rolls his eyes, ducking his head to bite a stinging pink mark to Liam’s collarbone. It’ll be swollen and maroon by morning but Liam doesn’t seem to care. He’s determined to give Zayn a good struggle.

He’s clear out of his mind, gone mental from the pressure of Zayn splayed across him. He wants more.

Their kisses turn cautious, lingering. Still teasing but with a hint of something warmer ―

Like Liam’s running out of words and Zayn’s trying to test the volume of Liam’s needy whimpers.

(around the edges, he acknowledges he’s starting to submit ― but he refuses to let Zayn in on that)

He’s sweaty and overwhelmed when Zayn rolls away. Liam motions for the lube tucked into a drawer and they bicker over how cliché (‘boring’ Zayn calls him, snickering) that is.

“What? Would you prefer I kept it in the kitchen? In the loo next to me shampoo?” Liam pouts.

He pushes onto his elbows to watch Zayn retrieve the bottle. The scattering shadows skim over Zayn’s frame as he knees his way back up the bed, closer.

Liam slides his legs apart, making room for Zayn, knees bent, feet flat on the mattress.

“I’d prefer,” Zayn sneers, the white of his teeth just a distraction as he slides a cool, lube-wet finger into Liam, “you tell me when you’re about to nut.”

Liam yelps, muscles adjusting reflexively (not that he hasn’t done this a few times before ― fingering himself from an awkward angle while tossing off in the shower) but the burn takes a few minutes to teeter off.

“Sorry,” Zayn mumbles.

Liam shakes his head, easing into it. He gasps, eyes fixed on the ceiling. He can feel it ― when Zayn’s in to the second knuckle.

Zayn pulls out carefully. He circles the rim like he’s waiting for permission. Patient. Smearing the wet around like Liam’s dripping for him.

“Please,” Liam says, under his breath, ashamed.

“Again,” Zayn smiles.

Liam sniffs, turning his hot cheek into the cool sheets. “Please.”

Zayn palms the back of Liam’s thighs, pushing his legs up. Briefly, it’s graceless, Liam’s knees against his chest, until Zayn fits a pillow under Liam’s bum and ―

Better. So much better.

Liam relaxes into it. He barely reacts to the nudge of Zayn’s finger, too ruined by the excitement of it all. He’s buzzing the moment Zayn spreads over him, kissing at his temple, guiding his finger back in.

“Oughta tell me if I get close,” Zayn mouths over Liam’s damp brow.

“Close?”

He feels Zayn’s smile over his skin when he sinks two fingers in.

Zayn hovers his mouth over Liam’s cheek, skimming his nose to Liam’s temple. Sly kisses that never stick ― frustrating Liam in a way he’s certain Zayn enjoys. Twisting blunt fingers inside, his rim catching on Zayn’s knuckles, everything blurring out.

It’s an easier stretch, one Liam wriggles his hips into. He licks salty sweat from his upper lip and pushes down so willingly. Zayn’s got his wrists shoved to the sheets again, this time with one hand, keeping Liam steady.

Liam barely flinches to get away. He stays still.

“Alright?” Zayn asks, another kiss to Liam’s temple.

Liam’s cock flexes across Zayn’s abdomen, his slit pushing out more precome.

“Might be,” he exhales. His eyes flutter shut. “Feels alright.”

“That’s a shame,” Zayn laughs. “Want you to feel incredible, babe.”

“High expectations,” Liam sighs back.

The curve of Zayn’s mouth is relentless. He plays it along Liam’s jaw, back up, soothing Liam’s hot skin. It’s tragic, honestly, how Liam leans and sways to follow Zayn wherever he goes.

A pup wanting to be cuddled, he thinks.

Zayn crooks his fingers, all the way in, brushing just over ―

“Shit.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Zayn says, smugly.

Liam kicks out when Zayn adds more pressure, arms fighting against Zayn’s strong grip. A thrashing starfish.

“Oi, Zayn, you’re right on my ― ”

Zayn hums, nodding. “Feel like y’ need to come?”

Yes.

His dick throbs and there’s this sharp feeling in his stomach. It tingles too brightly and he wants to jerk away but he bites his lip ruthlessly instead. His cock gives a pathetic pulse before the tip leaks out a messy stream of precome.

Liam flushes all over. He buries his face to the inside of his bicep, hiding.

“Fuck, me mates will have a right laugh at me for having a wee in bed with some fit bloke’s fingers up me arse,” he mumbles.

Zayn chuckles into the hollow underneath Liam’s jaw.

“Just a bit excited, is all. Just a bit of precome,” he grunts over Liam’s bobbing throat.

Liam’s watery eyes glare at the ceiling with a spiteful grin splitting his lips.

Zayn jerks back, suddenly, his mouth curved up. “Think I’m a fit bloke?”

Liam groans, turning to hide half of his face again.

“Get on with it.”

“But ― ”

Liam moans, frustrated, his skin prickled from the blood and sweat.

Zayn curves his fingers once more and Liam’s dick is bloody helpless. It throbs incessantly, the foreskin pulling tight around the flushed head. His spine bows, pretty and arched, his body chasing Zayn’s fingers as they slip out.

“Best to get to it,” Zayn suggests.

Gasps keep flitting past Liam’s lips, tiny tremors all over. “Right,” he agrees, breathless. “Can’t come before you get in me.”

Zayn presses a kiss high on Liam’s cheek. “Y’could.”

Liam frowns, shaking his head. “You’d take the piss out of me.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, smiling goofily. His lube-sticky fingers wrap carefully around the base of Liam’s cock and Liam flails.

“Could take the edge off,” Zayn offers. “Might make you relax.”

“Doubt it,” Liam huffs but his mind shouts ‘yes’ in this booming voice he finds hard to ignore.

He settles his eyes on Zayn and that feels like a mistake. The night crowds around the thickness of his eyelashes, the broad width of his shoulders, all the ink scattered about him. A flake of moon over the teasing tug of his teeth over his bottom lip.

Liam swallows, audibly. “Want you to fuck me.”

Zayn sniffs, breathing deep. “Like, y’want ― ”

Liam lazily tangles his legs around Zayn’s hips, dragging him in.

“Yeah, like that.”

“Like that,” Zayn grins, lopsided, amused.

Liam nods and tries to relax into the sheets while Zayn slicks himself up. He hasn’t been properly shagged since Pete and that feels like ages ago. But he already feels stretched and wet. He feels mindless and, yet, so grounded at the thought of letting Zayn be the bloke to calm this twitch in his nerves.

His hand absently curls around his cock, tugging gently until more precome bubbles out.

“Enough of that,” Zayn smirks, swatting Liam’s hand away. “Gonna be the one to make you come, okay?”

Liam gives a polite nod and smiles blissfully. His eyes flit shut ― he’d like that very much.

He feels foggy when Zayn’s cold fingers spread more lube over his hole. It clenches earnestly. Everything blurs ― everything but Zayn’s voice.

“Not bricking it, are you?”

Liam coughs out a laugh, shaking his head. For a writer, he feels daftly unable to gather words for Zayn.

It’s tragic, the way his heart is hammering and he’s lost on anticipation.

Zayn cups a warm hand to the back of his neck, hauling him up. The kiss he gives Liam feels like an antidote. A cure. He pushes up into it and barely registers the rubber grazing over his hole until ―

The width feels different pushing into him. In his mouth, Zayn’s cock felt like the right weight and throb. Nudging into him, Zayn feels oversized and pulsing.

But Zayn is slow, easing into him, letting the head rest inside when Liam sucks in a sharp breath of air.

“Taking me well, babe,” Zayn says, right against Liam’s mouth.

He squeezes his eyes tight and tries not to close his legs too much when Zayn inches further in.

“Should I ― ”

Liam jerks his head, moaning. He tries to bury it, keep his voice monotone. His rim stretches blissfully around Zayn and it feels thicker like this, firmer the more his hips guide Zayn in.

His fingers pull at the soft sheets, still trapped over his head by Zayn’s hand.

“Yeah, keep going,” he keens, his spine curving at Zayn’s unsteady movements.

He’ll be sore come morning, he knows, but Liam pushes back when Zayn rocks forward. Instinctively, he clenches around Zayn. Above him, Zayn moans shakily, leaning forward until he’s fully seated in Liam.

“Good, good,” Liam chants, probably to Zayn, but more to himself.

“You’re so ― fuck, you’re so warm around me, babe,” Zayn hisses.

They both laugh at that. It feels like cheap porno banter. Yet, Zayn peppers kisses up the strain of Liam’s biceps, rocking his hips and ―

Maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s like those words your mouth can’t hold in. Those stupid things you say after a near-death experience or when you’re pissed off your arse.

The truth, Liam thinks.

He’s expecting fast and sweaty, all of this anticipation built up, but Zayn is slow. He’s deep and intense.

“Zayn,” Liam mumbles off, squirming over the sheets.

Zayn stares down at him with this questioning look, like every time he shifts his hips in a new angle he needs Liam’s permission to continue.

It’s terribly arousing. His eyebrows pull together and his mouth parts but he waits until Liam gives him a nod.

Liam moans and trembles, burning off all his energy trying not to come just from the overwhelming pressure.

He thinks it’s nothing like Pete. Or anyone, actually. Zayn’s dick stretches him just enough that the ache is welcome. His hand holds down Liam’s wrists and his spare hand holds up one of Liam’s legs, sinking further in while balanced half up on his knees.

“Good?” Zayn whispers.

Liam swallows. He nods, hums, winds his hips into the shove of Zayn’s thrusting.

His fingers dig into his palms and he doesn’t have enough strength to keep fucking himself back on Zayn’s dick. Liam takes it. He lets himself fall apart without trying.

Zayn releases his wrists, admiring the dark bruises already blooming. His fingers search for Liam’s hips, digging in, pulling Liam back on his prick.

“C’mon now,” he teases.

Liam goes willingly. He scoots down the sheets, feet flat on the bed, finally rotating his hips enough to feel Zayn along his prostate.

“Zayn,” he repeats, broken.

Zayn casually lifts an eyebrow and Liam feels so easy for it. Proper slutty and needy as he grinds back onto the cock pressed deep inside of him.

He tries, but Liam can’t keep quiet. He bites the inside of his arm and muffles words to the sheets. Zayn’s hips knock him about and his throat goes dry with shock. The hot pressure of Zayn buried inside him drags out soft whimpers he can’t mute.

“Babe,” Zayn says, low and smoky, fingers gripping Liam’s chin. Liam turns into the touch. “What’d I say?”

Liam’s eyebrows lift and his mind is far too wrecked to remember such things.

“Tell me if you’re close,” Zayn hisses.

“Close. Close, so close,” Liam chants, breathless.

And he is. He’s been hard and throbbing since Zayn set this horribly slow pace. He’s dribbled a mess over his tummy and his toes ache from constantly flexing and curling.

Liam’s given up on having a wank to the rhythm of Zayn’s hips because he knows he has no coordination. He’s bloody boneless and wet with sweat, lube. The constant squelch of Zayn sinking back in is just a whisper under the choir of the mattress squeaking.

Zayn leans forward, smirking.

“Wanna taste it.”

Liam’s crowded by Zayn, hips cocked up, nearly folded in half. He’s so full, so buzzed on the lad above him and all it takes (embarrassingly) is Zayn’s long fingers brushing the underside of his dick before he’s coming with a long whine.

He’s so shameless, creaming between them, aching for Zayn to thrust just a bit harder.

Zayn politely gives him a few solid, deep thrusts through it. He dicks Liam roughly, intensifying the friction. It makes Liam spurt thicker over himself.

“Hmm?” Zayn hums.

“Oh, shit,” Liam moans, tilting his head back, blinking away the fuzzy circles rimming his vision.

There’s a buzz in his ears and he barely notices Zayn’s warning breath before he’s coming, too, shoved deep in Liam. His hips work cleverly through it, mouth pressed high on Liam’s cheek.

“Can’t believe how good you are,” he sighs and Liam thinks that’s a mistake ―

He should be complimenting Zayn, praising him.

But Liam feels so dopey and keyed up at the accolade. At how Zayn presses his smile into Liam’s shoulder, exhaling happily.

Zayn goes still over him, breathing hard.

Liam thinks it’s the shock or something else, but he wraps his arms around Zayn and helps him come down from it. From his orgasm or whatever else. He snuffles into the crook of Zayn’s neck, pressing his face to the sweat, and waits.

(he likes Zayn’s scent like this ― sex and autumn and something so intangibly pleasant)

Zayn laughs giddily, carding a clean hand into Liam’s floppy hair.

“Alright,” he wheezes. “I’ll stay.”

“Didn’t ask you to,” Liam mumbles.

“But ‘m gonna anyway ‘cause I’m well knackered and this bed looks comfy,” Zayn breathes. “Need a night off from that dreadful couch.”

Liam groans, feigning disappointment, before muttering, “Alright.”

They don’t move much, afterwards. Zayn tosses the rubber in the bin and Liam carefully cleans them with a damp flannel (smiling when Zayn’s stomach muscles flex at the cool touch, feeling sluggish when Zayn’s mouth brushes his shoulder, a hand patting at Liam’s arse) before tossing it.

The sheets settle nicely around them, not that Liam wants to think about Zayn being in his bed nightly.

It’s not happening.

He’ll just kip for a bit, crawl out of bed in a few for a proper shower and to check on Jasmine. He has no intentions of getting comfortable with the thought of Zayn in his bedroom.

|+|

Waking up alone doesn’t necessarily feel weird as much as it feels routine.

Liam’s slept the night away, too relaxed under the sheets, nose snuffled to an unfamiliar collarbone, his ear pressed to a warm ribcage, arms wound around a pliant body.

That part he misses, he can admit.

But he’s not bothered to let the disappointment sink in when he wakes to sheets tangled around his legs and the other side of his bed empty.

Instead, Liam feels calm, a little less fretful of that ‘morning after’ chat he’s not too sure he wants to have with Zayn.

He’s more concerned with his daughter, since it’s well past eight (noted by the angry red block numbers blinking at him from his alarm clock) and his flat is fairly quiet.

Well, mostly. He can hear deep humming and soft music and there’s a strong scent of herbal tea soaking his flat.

Liam tugs on some clothes (quite aware that Zayn’s are no longer scattered about his bedroom) and stumbles all the way to the kitchen.

Harry’s at the toaster with a half bagel stuffed in his mouth and the electric kettle screaming.

“Breakfast?” he mumbles while offering the other half of his bagel, shrugging.

Liam rubs at his eyes, giggling. It takes a moment for his muscles to shock into relaxing. He surveys the kitchen ―

It’s a disaster. Jasmine is sat in her high chair, her head tilted while she looks around. The chaos stretches corner to corner and Harry’s yanking open all the cupboards on a scavenger hunt.

“Bit poor of you to wreck my flat so early, innit?” Liam teases. He flips off the kettle, finding a small uncluttered space on the counter to perch up on.

Harry gives him another careless shrug, still milling aimlessly about the kitchen.

Liam laughs into his shoulder, dumping a teabag into a mug before filling it up. He breathes in the heady scent for a moment, this calm brushing through his system.

“Your fit neighbor let me in,” Harry says, cheekily. He shoots Liam a smirk over his shoulder.

Liam responds by flipping him off with a frown.

“His name is Zayn,” Liam sighs.

Harry hums, dropping an unhealthy amount of sugar into Liam’s tea.

“I know,” he grins. “I just like calling him fit. And the way you get when I do.”

Liam rolls his eyes, sampling his tea. It’s awful ― too sweet. He slurps at it regardless.

(maybe to wash the taste of the morning from his tongue ― or the saccharine of those kisses Zayn gave him hours ago; not that he really wants those to linger)

Harry keeps humming about ― he’s glowing, honestly. He’s always a spot of sunshine; even so bloody early in the morning. A walking dose of dopamine, Liam thinks.

But he’s just so bloody bright this morning.

“What’s happened?” Liam asks. He cocks his head to watch the curve of Harry’s smile. It’s lethal.

“Nothing,” Harry replies coyly. He’s a horrible liar. Never could control his facial gestures, the idiot.

Liam moans, narrowing his eyes. “Haz ― ”

“Went on a date with Tomlinson,” Harry says, quickly, under his breath.

Liam gapes at him.

“Went on a date with Tomlinson,” he repeats, slower than Harry’s obnoxious drawl.

Harry nods tepidly, going a pale pink under Liam’s stare.

“Went on a date with ― ”

“Oh bloody hell, Li, yes,” Harry huffs, half-hysterical. He swats at Liam’s knee, annoyed. “It was a lovely time. A proper good laugh, that one.”

Liam shoots Harry a blank stare, lips puckered. He squints for a moment because ― well, it’s just weird, okay? Harry and Louis. His best mate and his agent on a ―

He sputters before he can finish the thought, bellying out a laugh. It’s ridiculous, honestly.

“Don’t be rude,” Harry scowls.

“Yeah,” Liam breathes between giggles. He reaches out, fingers brushing under the collar of Harry’s barely-buttoned shirt to thumb at a treasure map of pink bruises over his skin. “Lovely time, eh?”

Harry jerks back like he’s been shocked. He swats at Liam again.

“He was a gentleman,” Harry pouts. “Until I put my hand down his trousers.”

Liam nearly falls off the counter cackling. It’s horribly disturbing.

“Slag,” he teases, hopping down.

Harry sticks out his tongue, making a face. He sidles up to Jasmine with a saucer of toast, pulling it apart to feed her.

She spits it back out, scrunching her face miserably.

“Just because you’re a princess doesn’t mean you have to act one,” Harry smiles, trying again.

Jasmine tilts away, squawking, wiggling in her chair.

Liam sighs softly, shaking his head. He scoots around Harry, patting at his curls, suggesting, “Try mashed bananas with a bit of honey and cinnamon.”

He freezes in the middle of the kitchen, trying his best to ignore that warm feeling wrapping around his lungs.

It’s not ―

“Where’s Zayn?” he wonders, peeking into the empty lounge.

“Got a call,” Harry replies, picking the crust off the toast while smashing a banana in a bowl. He looks wounded at the effort like he’s offended by his own actions, mumbling under his breath ‘mashed banana who does such a thing fucking shit’ over and over. “Seemed important.”

He moves about the kitchen like a tornado, clattering around. Liam promises he’ll clean it all up, later.

Not now.

“Watch her for a bit, yeah?” he requests, glancing over his shoulder.

Harry flashes him that shit-eating grin that reminds Liam so much of Louis. Gross.

He steps into a pair of trainers, pulling on a thick jumper when Harry calls, “Y’know, just ‘cause you fancy him doesn’t mean you have to pretend you hate him. You’re already like a right married couple, mate.”

Liam’s shoulders drop as he moves towards the door.

“Sod off, Haz.”

|+|

It’s a minty cold outside on the rooftop of the building.

Truthfully, Liam only has to follow the cheap scent of Marlboros in the stairwell to find Zayn out here.

He’s leaning over the rail, a cigarette caught between his lips, a second propped behind his ear. The worn leather of his jacket is a stark contrast to the softness of his hair ― wrecked and still unmanageable from Liam’s fingers through the night.

Liam smiles at that ― a small reminder, he supposes.

Zayn peeks up through his eyelashes when Liam budges in. He offers Liam a put upon smile, tired and lazy, but his eyes are shiny and red. Like he hasn’t slept.

Or like he’s just finished an angry cry.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, holding up his half-finished ciggy. He takes a stiff drag. “Hard habit t’ break.”

Liam nods. He bunches in, shoulder brushing Zayn’s, hips connected like kindle in a fire. He nicks the cigarette, fingering it like a spliff, taking a long drag until his lungs ignite.

He exhales a bluish cloud, sniffing. It’s been well too long since he’s had a proper drag. His fingers, warmer than Zayn’s, brush across Zayn’s knuckles when he passes it back.

“I know,” he grins, sheepishly.

Zayn takes another puff, eyeing Liam warily from his peripheral.

Liam coughs, letting the cold wrap around them. His lips have gone dry and he has to pull the sleeves of his jumper down over his knuckles to stay warm.

But he’s not going anywhere.

“Me mum called,” Zayn says, after too long. “Chatted about my sisters. She’s well proud of Wali. Aced her SAT’s over in the States. Looking at some sick universities off the coast. She’s always been, like, wicked smart and stuff.”

Liam nods, his nose twitching from the burst of wind around them.

Zayn looks down, eyelashes sticking together. He wrinkles his nose, flicking away the ciggy. His teeth tear at his lower lip.

“I miss them. Me sisters and stuff,” he admits, his voice dragging. It’s thick, wet. “Haven’t seen ‘em in ages. Bet Safaa is massive now ― can’t knock around me knees anymore, that one.”

Liam lingers in his quiet but his elbow presses neatly to Zayn’s like he’s meant to say ‘I’m here right here you can talk’ in a softer way.

“Haven’t spent an Eid with them in too long,” Zayn adds. “Doni’s learnt how to make all of my mum’s best dishes, I’ve heard. I could never quite get the biryani recipe right.”

He swallows, keeping his eyes down. Liam tucks his chin and his fingers creep from under his sleeve to skim Zayn’s rough knuckles.

“And me mum ― she’s just so disappointed,” Zayn says, forcing the words. “Thinks her beta should be so much more than just some kitchen’s cook.”

There’s rough wrinkles in his brow that Liam wants to smooth out. He settles for rubbing over the sharp ink on the back of Zayn’s hand.

Zayn pushes into the touch. Liam doesn’t comment but he feels his lips moving fondly into a grin.

“S’cool,” Zayn mumbles. “One day, right? I’ll have my own stuff. She’ll be proud then.”

There’s a familiar tug at Liam’s gut. An itch he’s acquainted with. A need he doesn’t like to scratch. Not since Jasmine came around. A stray thought of his own mum and he gets it ― the way Zayn retreats, tries to convince himself he’ll be good enough for her.

He already is, Liam reckons.

It’s his overthinking he blames when he thumbs at the stubble on Zayn’s jaw. He leans in, an awkward angle from this position, to slot his mouth against Zayn’s.

The kiss is brief. Just dried lips skimming, noses brushing, Liam sighing into it.

He sniffs when he pulls back. “Was that alright?”

Zayn’s tongue drags over his lips. He shrugs before his mouth twitches up into an off-beat smile.

It makes Liam’s blood warm despite the chill crowding around them.

“S’good,” Zayn teases, eyes crinkling, his nose scrunching.

Liam hacks out a laugh and welcomes the heat of his blush.

They share Zayn’s other cigarette, huddled together, not bothering to talk but finding little places to touch each other to stay warm.

It’s all they manage to do until it’s too cold to stay outside.

|+|

Liam yawns loudly from the floor of the lounge, blinking owlishly up at the ceiling.

He’s not quite sure how long he’s been down here. He’s too knackered to care, really. And he’s uncertain why Zayn is splayed on his back next to him, shoulder to shoulder, the night turning his flat a thick purple.

Liam reckons he’s too exhausted from writing to bother actually crawling to his own bed.

It’s definitely not because he likes it here, on the floor, with Zayn next to him.

Zayn sighs gently, drumming his fingers over his chest.

Liam flinches. “Won’t you just g’away,” he mumbles with another yawn.

Zayn snorts, elbowing Liam in the ribs. “Can’t. Me flat is wrecked, ‘member?”

Liam does. He can’t quite seem to forget (or stop thinking about how he enjoys knowing Zayn is there) that fact but ―

“You’d be bored without me,” Zayn adds, delighted with himself.

(and that word sticks too fondly to Liam’s mind, like Zayn amuses him in such a lovely way ―

Oh fuck.)

“I’d be happy without you buggering about,” Liam counters.

It’s a lie. He wouldn’t be the least bit chuffed without Zayn. But that’s a loaded thought and too much to admit.

He pokes at the space between Zayn’s ribs, instead, grinning at the way Zayn wiggles away. His exhale of giggles sounds so breathy in the cluttered space of Liam’s flat. Zayn still manages to look annoyed but the echo of his laughter dies around the sound of Jasmine’s crying from the bedroom.

Liam winces, letting out another hollow yawn. He wonders how far past midnight it is.

He pushes up to his elbows, whispering, “well, best to get to it, then.”

A warm hand presses to his chest, countering his movement, easing him back onto his spine.

Zayn smiles sleepily above him. He brushes hair off his brow, already to his knees before Liam can shift again.

“S’cool,” he says, low and scratchy. “I’ll go this time.”

He struggles to his feet, stretching, patting at his belly when his shirt rides up just above his navel.

Liam’s heart stutters, untamed and loud, before he stutters, “No, it’s ― she can’t sleep unless it’s me. She’ll be upset.”

He tries not to sound too distressed and Zayn, bless him, looks so far from cross with Liam. Instead, he fumbles a wider smile, one that reaches his eyes.

“Babe,” he groans, his tone that right side of affectionate that Liam’s unprepared for. “I’ve got her.”

Liam pushes out his lips, an accidental pout, but Zayn waves him off, jogging out of view when Jasmine’s whines grow louder.

He waits a few minutes, hands behind his head, eyeing the ceiling like it’s completely fascinating. He’s anticipating Jasmine throwing a strop at anyone but Liam coming to her rescue but ―

Everything goes quiet.

Just the buzz of the night around him. It frightens Liam.

He rolls to his stomach, pushing up, fumbling to his feet. His legs feel like jelly and he limps all the way to his bedroom, rubbing at his sore bum.

It’s dark and grey all over. There’s just enough moon and tiny stars to create an awning of light across his bed. Zayn’s propped against the headboard, Jasmine sprawled over him like a starfish, her head snuffled to his chest.

She’s fast asleep, small fingers curled into the cotton of Zayn’s shirt.

It’s striking ― the soft of Jasmine against the sharpness of Zayn.

He’s lulling her softly, singing a low ‘wise men say only fools rush in but I can’t help falling in love with you’ that makes Liam bite over his lip to keep quiet.

“She fancies old tunes, yeah?” Zayn grins.

Liam nods. It’s that dumbly proud expression Zayn flashes him with eyes crinkled up into slits that finally coaxes a relieved smile over Liam’s mouth.

Quietly, he attunes his voice to Zayn’s, a careful ‘take my hand take my whole life too’ that settles Jasmine further into dreams.

Zayn pats at an empty space next to him. “C’mon,” he whispers.

It’s mad, Liam will discover much later, how easily he obliges. How he doesn’t hesitate or think any of this through.

Liam merely tugs off his shirt, crawling onto the bed, settling next to Zayn. He fits himself in, snorting at Zayn’s lazy stretch-and-yawn technique to drop an arm around Liam’s shoulders.

He considers taking the piss out of Zayn ― except he’s too sleepy.

Instead, he rubs a hand over Jasmine’s back and finds himself tucking his face into that warm space in the crook of Zayn’s neck.

It takes seconds before he falls asleep ― the day turning into a lazy dream he wants to write novels about.

|+|

It happens like any other perfectly mistimed moment in Liam’s life ― when he’s happy and not expecting it.

But he remembers it happens like this ―

Louis storms into his kitchen on a Wednesday evening (Liam keeps forgetting he’d given Louis and Harry spare keys to his flat for ‘emergency purposes only’ ― which they’ve never quite comprehended, obviously), brandishing bags of Thai takeaway and a devious grin.

“Oh.”

Liam looks up from his perch on the counter, too distracted watching Zayn stir something that smells intoxicating in a pan to notice. Jasmine fusses about in her high chair, stuffing her mouth with cereal puffs.

Louis freezes, studying them like lab experiments.

“Hey,” Liam drags out, catching the way Louis keeps staring at Zayn. “Top of the evening t’ya, Tommo.”

Louis sucks in a sharp breath (perpetually dramatic, that one) while waving Liam off.

“Didn’t tell me you were shagging a Topman model, babe,” Louis quips.

Instinctively (and embarrassingly so) Liam squirms, blushing madly. Zayn chuckles from the stove, keeping his chin tucked and his back to them.

“Shush, you,” Liam hisses, hopping off the counter, flicking Louis’ nose.

Louis is just as quick, retaliating with a crude pinch to one of Liam’s nipples.

They’re bloody thirteen year olds, Liam swears.

“We’re not,” he grumbles.

Louis is still sizing Zayn up, flicking his narrowed eyes over him. He smirks crookedly, dropping the takeaway on the counter before smacking a peck to the top of Jasmine’s head.

“Brilliant,” he announces. “I’ve set you up for a blind date. A proper night out.”

Life wants him very unhappy, naturally.

Determinedly, Liam tries not to grimace. He tries not to play obvious because ― well, Louis isn’t exactly fantastic at matchmaking. And, honestly, Liam doesn’t need to go on a date. He’s comfortable. Just him and Jasmine.

And Zayn, now, too.

Oh. Bloody fuck.

“He’s a great lad,” Louis continues in that tone he reserves for convincing Liam an awful plan is quite good. “Studying medicine. Well educated and fit. Fancies all of that boring shit you enjoy, I’m sure.”

Louis winces, just a tad, at his flippant tone and Liam shoots him a pout. Zayn stays with his back to them, humming, disturbingly nonchalant.

It flusters Liam a bit and he doesn’t understand his own thoughts ―

“I’m not sure,” he blurts, not thinking it through. He rubs nervously at the nape of his neck when Louis chuckles.

“Is it ‘cause you’re banging an Armani model?”

Liam flushes, shoving at Louis’ shoulder, squinting his eyes like a warning. Louis shoves back. They’re a terrible friendship, honestly.

Zayn laughs softly at them, scooting around their playful fighting to pull a chair up to Jasmine. Liam watches guiltily because he thinks he wants Zayn to ―

“It’s probably not a good idea, Lou,” he says gently. “I don’t have a proper babysitter ― ”

“I can watch her.”

It’s a bit unkind, the lump sitting in Liam’s throat when Zayn speaks, smiling fondly. Like it’s an offer between mates. Some sort of ‘bro code’ that Liam’s never been fond of. Truthfully, like they’re just good friends.

Just friends.

“She might ― ”

“She seems pleasantly chuffed with him,” Louis comments, smugly.

Liam peeks over at Jasmine playing with Zayn’s fingers, rubbing at the tattoos crawling up his forearm. She’s wholly entertained. And comfortable. At home ― with Zayn.

Oh.

Zayn flashes Liam a smirk over his shoulder. “C’mon, babe,” he says, casually. “Just a date, right? Give that love thing a go. Could be great for the novel.”

“And for publicity,” Louis grins. “You and a super fit bloke supporting you at signings. At the book release. It’ll be smashing.”

“Smashing,” Zayn repeats, smiling like he’s amused by it all.

It doesn’t sting, Liam tells himself. Or hurt. It’s nothing, this uncomfortable brick in his chest.

In fact, he’s quite annoyed with himself because what is he expecting? His daft neighbor to fall in love with him because he offered up his sofa and a decent shag? Bloody thick of yourself, Payne. It’s not happening.

“Okay,” Liam finally mumbles, glaring at Zayn rather than Louis. He’s quite alright with all of this.

Have at it, life ― he’s done quite well without all the easygoing happiness anyway.

|+|

Edwin is a nice lad. Brilliant, frankly. He tells loads of clever jokes that Liam mostly gets. He’s a good chat over dinner and wine; a proper gentleman, Liam thinks. One of those fairy tale prince charming types ― a right good time.

And, at the end of the night, Liam’s heart barely squeezes out a flutter when Edwin kisses him goodnight.

(it’s soft, a brush of tongue, a hand pressed to the nape of Liam’s neck like he should swoon but ― nope)

Liam swears to text him later, punching Edwin’s number into his mobile. He probably won’t. And he blames every bit of that on the scene he comes home to ―

Zayn and Jasmine are sat lazy and happy on the sofa, watching reruns of Young Justice on the telly, a half-empty box of veggie pizza on the coffee table. It’s mostly dark in the flat and the blue from the screen shines off their skin like a dying flare.

Jasmine’s wearing a pair of Zayn’s sunglasses, too big for her face, looking plump and content in her pajamas while Zayn appears soft, sleep-worn with limp hair.

A rather cozy duo, Liam reckons.

Zayn grins up at Liam, waving him over. “We saved you some pizza, abbu,” he croons, lips quirked incredibly high.

Liam bites over his lip to stop his own smile.

Jasmine makes grabby hands at him and Liam can’t resist. He tugs off his coat, flipping off his shoes, bounding over to the sofa.

“Abbu?” he asks, cozying into the cushions.

Zayn glows sheepishly, shrugging. “Means dad in my language.”

Liam nods, lips trembling for a smile. If he’s being honest, he feels pliant right here on the sofa, feet tucked under his bum, Jasmine leaning on him.

He likes it ― abbu.

(he likes the way it sounds over Zayn’s tongue, in his thick accent, too, but ― )

“Good time?” Zayn wonders, keeping his eyes on the telly. Completely unaffected, Liam supposes.

He shrugs, wiping away all the sauce from around his daughter’s mouth. “He was nice.”

“Nice,” Zayn parrots. He lifts an eyebrow, chancing a look at Liam.

Liam groans mournfully. “Yes, nice is a good word.”

Zayn pretends to look offended and it’s simply the sweetest thing ―

Wait. Oh, fuck.

“Don’t be cross,” Liam teases, stuffing all of his daft thoughts to the back of his mind.

Zayn shoots him an annoyed glare, playful and obvious, Liam thinks.

“Nice,” Zayn repeats like he doesn’t enjoy the taste of the word. “That’s fair.”

“Absolute rubbish. Shush, you,” Liam whines. His lips already give away the smile he’s trying to discourage. He rolls his eyes to disguise how quickly his heart loses syncopation over Zayn’s giggle.

“Budge over, then,” he grumbles.

Liam shifts around, twisting about, sprawling himself over the sofa. He tucks his head in Zayn’s lap, letting Jasmine use his chest for a pillow.

It’s comfy, like this. It’s weird how natural it is and he doesn’t feel like having a row with himself over it.

“Start over from the first episode,” he mumbles, lips pressed to Zayn’s thigh.

Zayn doesn’t argue. He giggles and finds the remote in the dark.

Liam doesn’t complain when Zayn threads fingers through his perfectly-styled ‘date’ hair.

He refuses to whine one bit when he actually feels his heart flutter rapidly this time.

|+|

“Why are you doing this again?”

Zayn sighs, only slightly annoyed. “Again?”

Liam nods quickly, sucking over his bottom lip.

The fresh scent of spices and vegetables and stewing meat leaves a thick aroma in the kitchen. Steam soaks the atmosphere and the heady smell makes Liam’s stomach rumble.

Zayn’s dutifully moving about ― adding ingredients, chopping vegetables, tasting sauces. It’s been a mad hour of him mostly talking to himself while Liam observes.

But it’s still wildly fascinating ― how Zayn cooks. How he never complains about Liam being in here with him.

Zayn licks at his lips, mulling over spices. “I reckon since you’re so bloody stuck on the romance bit in your writing, I c’n show ya that it’s not always about nice restaurants and flowers ― ”

“Hey,” Liam chides. “I had a proper good time with Emmett.”

“Edwin,” Zayn corrects, lips straying up cockily.

The hot rush of pink in Liam’s cheeks gives him away but he still feigns an expression like he’s unaffected. He teasingly swats at Zayn’s arse, hooking his chin over Zayn’s shoulder, hands finding Zayn’s hips while watching him cook.

“Too spicy,” he quips.

The scent is overwhelming as if everything has been marinating in hot sauce for ages.

Zayn scoffs at him. “It’ll be fine.”

“It’ll kill me,” Liam argues.

Zayn’s reaction is nearly instant ― a soft, insecure smile he bites over before he shifts away from Liam’s hands.

He’s not entirely graceful, the idiot, but Zayn maneuvers around until Liam is shoved in front of the hot stove, his arms bracketing Liam. He’s splayed across Liam’s spine, pushing a wooden spoon into Liam’s hand, humming contently when Liam doesn’t scramble away.

“Stir,” he instructs, resting his chin on Liam’s shoulder this time.

Liam nervously obliges while Zayn adds a few milder spices.

“Slow, slow,” Zayn whispers.

Liam can feel the plushness of Zayn’s lips just behind his ear. He tries not to flinch at the contact but ― it feels quite pleasant.

“I’m sure Edwin had well intentions,” Zayn hums, wrapping his fingers around Liam’s wrist to steady the motion of his hand as he stirs. “But romance isn’t a grand show. It’s not, like ― it happens. You don’t need to plan it out.”

“Some people like plans,” Liam argues. “It’s the effort.”

“Do you?” Zayn inquires.

Liam doesn’t answer. He pushes his lips out, a half-pout, focusing on the pans and pots and bubbling food.

“Taste,” Zayn requests, brandishing another spoon dripping with sauce.

Liam sighs incorrigibly before popping open his mouth.

It’s like everything else Zayn cooks ― memorable. Liam’s eyes flutter closed, lashes striking over his cheeks rapidly. He can’t quite swallow back the ‘mm’ in his throat. It’s mortifying when he hears it echo in the room.

Unconsciously, he’s not paying attention when Zayn swipes a finger under his bottom lip to catch excess sauce from dripping to his chin.

“Good?”

Zayn is nothing less than cheeky, a tad arrogant but under all of it ― he’s insecure and anxious.

Liam tilts his head back, his smile pushing his cheeks deep into his vision. It’s the only answer he can give.

“Exactly!” Zayn crows, starling Liam. “Very romantic.”

Liam rolls his eyes, squirming away from Zayn. He ducks his head to hide his grin because ― if he’s being honest, he’s gone quite absentminded, forgetting all about Edwin’s grand show.

|+|

Liam wants to shout about how honestly ridiculous (cheesy, really) this all looks but he feels a bit warm when he steps into the lounge ―

Most of the furniture is pushed to the walls, except a few chairs from the breakfast table. Zayn’s hung most of the linen from the cupboards across them. It’s a proper fort of sheets in the center of the room. Fairy lights (probably found in a box from last hols) are tangled around the chairs, leaving a pale glow to the room. There’s a pile of throw pillows in the middle of the floor.

It’s all absolutely mad.

Liam wanders into the room with cups of steaming tea. Zayn creates a spread with their food, smiling nervously up at Liam. In this hazy gold light, it’s crooked and the sort of thing that makes Liam heart rate a little too rapid.

Still, he likes the way the lights dance off Zayn’s face as he stands over him.

Jasmine waddles about on clumsy feet, humming happily at nothing. It’s simple and ordinary and Liam doesn’t think he’s ever felt this cozy before.

“Silly, innit?” Zayn asks, ducking his head.

Liam passes over his cup of tea, smiling. “That’s to be decided, yeah?”

Zayn wrinkles his nose with laughter. “Donut.”

“Yeah, well,” Liam sighs, his smile a bit irremovable now, “You’re rubbish.”

Something flickers under the glow and Liam watches. He studies the way Zayn relaxes, looking up through his eyelashes, all of his muscles softening in those nervous spaces.

It calms Liam, too.

Liam likes watching Zayn’s face when he makes a horrible joke ― the way his grin reaches his eyes, crinkling them up sharply. The way Zayn keeps staring at Liam every time he bites into a new dish ― silently seeking approval.

“S’good,” Liam always says, unabashedly flashing Zayn a smile.

Zayn tilts his head down until all Liam can see is the curl of his eyelashes and the spread of bruising pink high on his cheekbones.

“Quit being nice, man,” Zayn teases, punching at Liam’s shoulder. It never hurts ― just a tickle that warms more of Liam’s grin.

“I don’t know how to,” Liam laughs.

When Zayn goes quiet, like he’s overthinking and biting his bottom lip raw, Liam leans in to whisper, “But it’s delicious.”

Muscle memory, he reasons, spurs his hand to skim over Zayn’s knee. His fingers spread and relax.

He loves the way Zayn goes all bright and floppy at that.

They sit in a canopy of fuzzy light and, every few beats, they look at each other like this is absurd ― and the most comfortable they’ve been in ages.

Liam listens intently as Zayn goes on about growing up in Bradford, all of his relatives. The change in pitch when he talks about his aunts. Liam tries to remember all of their names but he can’t so he settles for making Zayn tell him all about Eid and the dances all of his cousins would create.

He sips his tea and Zayn offers him a new dish before he can reach for something else. Liam doesn’t hesitate to pop his mouth open for Zayn’s fingers.

Jasmine flops down onto Zayn’s lap like it’s more comfortable than the pillows surrounding them. She tilts her head back, mimicking Liam, so Zayn can feed her some of the milder dishes.

(And that swell in Liam’s chest is very noticeable ―

The way Zayn gives Jasmine as much attention as he does Liam.

The way Liam didn’t bring up his daughter not once with Edwin because he knows better ― ‘don’t discuss being a single dad on the first date’; they never stay after that.

But Zayn ― it’s all he wants to chat about sometimes. He hasn’t run yet.)

Their tea goes cold but Liam doesn’t even register it yet.

“Gulab jamun,” Zayn says, slowly, lips teased up as he feeds Liam one.

It’s incredible.

Liam’s too warm with flush to even be embarrassed, already laughing around Zayn’s fingers, licking away the sweet flavor from his lower lip. This feeling is wound like a knot in his chest.

“I’ll never remember that,” he admits.

Zayn smiles back, all open and lopsided. “S’cool. I’ll be around to teach you, yeah?”

Liam wants to plead that he hopes but that would probably sound too daft. Too expectant. They’re not ― this is just an experiment. Nothing promised.

He hums a response, instead ― something noncommittal.

Jasmine crawls up into his lap this time and he secures an arm around her as she squirms around.

He can’t make out Zayn’s expression while he watches them but it makes Liam relax. He hasn’t noticed the evening turning into dark or the way Jasmine’s half-sleep in his arms.

It all feels ― natural.

Liam scoots aside their tea and he’s aware Zayn’s shuffled closer so it all seems a bit wasteful if he doesn’t ―

His hand is shaking when it brushes over Zayn’s cheek. The stubble right by his jaw tickles Liam’s palm. It’s quite nice. It makes Liam loose and uninhibited when he leans forward, just a fraction in case Zayn doesn’t want it.

Zayn meets him in the gap and it’s the kind of kiss he sinks into without trying. A proper moment.

Painfully romantic and such, he reckons.

|+|

“Oi, looky this wee monster ― getting’ round, isn’t she?” Niall grins.

He’s leaning against his door in the hallway, a basket stuffed with clean laundry tucked under one arm, his smile crookedly goofy.

Liam is juggling an armful of grocery bags as he follows his daughter. Jasmine’s doing her ridiculous penguin walk as she goes, giggling wildly, looking around curiously. They’ve got matching pink noses from the early winter and Jasmine’s thick coat makes her arms stick out stiffly at her sides. Liam hasn’t stopped finding amusement in that all morning.

“She won’t slow down, that one,” Liam beams.

“I bet,” Niall laughs back. “Another sick dinner?” he comments, having a peek at all the items in Liam’s bags.

He doesn’t blush but Liam bites anxiously at his bottom lip. “Just a bit of curry and chicken tikkas,” he mumbles.

“Chicken tikkas,” Niall echoes, grinning broadly.

Liam clucks his tongue, reaching down to pat at Jasmine’s head, steadying her before she falls over. She sidles up to his leg, leaning her head to the outside of his knee, blinking owlishly up at Niall.

He grins back.

“So,” Niall drags out, cheekily, “things workin’ out well then, yeah?”

This time, Liam does blush. He knows exactly what Niall is implying.

Liam exhales, shrugging indifferently, nudging Jasmine towards their door.

Niall pushes his smile into a pucker. “All a bit of fun, innit?”

“It’s ― ”

Niall flashes him a sharp smile before he can finish. Liam deflates. Niall’s a sweet lad, means no harm, Liam is certain.

“Just having a time, aren’t we?” he replies.

“Yeah, s’good,” Niall affirms. “You and the lad. Shagging or dating ― suits you just fine.”

Liam tries not to wince. Instinct makes him want to rub at the nape of his neck, hide a little. Instead, he rocks on the heels of his feet.

“Not really, mate,” he says, clearing his throat. “None of it, actually. He’s just hanging about ‘til his flat is all done, yeah?”

The hall goes quiet for a moment. Liam would have to be absolutely blind to the way Niall lifts an eyebrow, looking doubtful, sucking on his lower lip. He looks antsy, twisting his black ring repeatedly around his finger, right confused after a beat.

“His flat has been all done up f’r a week now, mate.”

Liam pauses, eyebrows crinkled. He feels Jasmine tugging a little impatiently at his trousers and Niall’s expression shifts so quickly ― apologetic. It’s obvious.

Liam had no clue.

“Oi, mate, like ― ”

Liam waves him off, pushing out a tight smile, trying not to look so dismissive. He’s probably failing but Liam doesn’t give himself enough time to find out.

“She needs a change and some soup to warm her. Good chat, Ni,” he says hurriedly. He’s off just as quick, leading Jasmine along.

His hand shakes as he jiggles with his keys, shoving his door open and kneeing it closed before Niall can finish muttering a full sentence.

He’s out of breath and completely unprepared for Zayn, spread lazily over the sofa, looking up at him with a grin.

“Hey,” he says, waving goofily at Jasmine.

Liam’s barely tugged her out of her coat before she’s stumbling over her feet to get to Zayn. That pinch around his heart becomes a bit more apparent.

“Um, ‘lo,” Liam says with a sigh, dropping the groceries on the coffee table rather than in the kitchen.

Zayn tugs Jasmine up into his lap. “Got some sick news today.”

Liam lifts an eyebrow, trying to find interest.

“My boss is giving me a chance,” Zayn smiles, sincere and just on the edge of uncontainable. “My own dinner service in, like, two weeks. My own menu, like. He thinks I’ve earned my spot in the kitchen.”

The rush of his words, the excitement burning up like candle wax, stirs an ache in Liam’s belly. But he listens.

“It’s wicked, like,” Zayn continues. “It’s a chance, y’know? To prove meself. All me.”

Liam grins awkwardly. It flinches over his lips and he knows he’s not doing well holding it in.

Zayn raises his brow. “Vas happenin’?”

Fingertips hovering over a flame ― that’s how Liam imagines it. One of those fight or flight moments. He feels fidgety and all his words taste harsh.

Finally, after a long breath, Liam rubs at the back of his neck. “Sounds well and good,” he mumbles. “Got a bit of news, too.”

Zayn nods along, his eyes staying careful on Liam.

“Seems your flat is all fixed up? Ready to go,” Liam says in a tight voice.

“That Irish bugger,” Zayn teasingly says, his smile a bit broken up. Like he can wrap a hand around Liam’s tension.

Liam thinks of fitting himself into that space next to Zayn on the couch ― it’s all stupid instinct. Except, he can’t. Because it’s all wrong now.

Of course, watching Jasmine cuddle into Zayn’s chest makes him feel all out of sorts. There’s a thick rope of tension under his skin he wants to scratch at, get out.

Liam hesitates, briefly, before asking, “What is this?”

“This,” Zayn repeats, lowering his eyes.

“I mean ― ”

Zayn scoffs weakly, rubbing the heel of his hands over his eyes. “You mean you and me, mate.”

The last word clicks like it’s meant to hurt. It does. Liam swallows and he’s usually more approachable, even during a proper row. He’s not ever been good at being cold. But he levels Zayn with an expectant glare and Zayn’s jaw twitches.

“It’s somethin’, innit?” Zayn asks. He sounds hopeful.

“Dunno,” Liam says before he thinks it through. “I mean, I’m dating and ― ”

“We’re not attached,” Zayn finishes for him.

It’s a solid click of his tongue to his teeth this time. He rubs gently at Jasmine’s head, shooting Liam a tight, put upon smile. It’s cold.

Obviously, that’s not something Zayn struggles with.

Liam swallows and barely manages the strength not to look away from Zayn.

“Of course,” Zayn sighs, carefully unwinding himself from Jasmine. He settles her comfortably into her favorite spot on the sofa before pushing to his feet. She watches like she’s lost. “Still sorting y’self out, right?”

The adrenaline pushing through Liam’s blood makes his heart rattle through his chest like a caged animal clawing to escape.

Zayn leans down, pressing a peck to Jasmine’s brow, smiling a bit apologetically at her. Liam wonders if she knows.

(he wonders when his heart will stop squeezing so painfully behind his ribs)

“Should be off, yeah?” Zayn says.

It’s not as a question or an option. But Liam doesn’t respond either.

Zayn gathers most of his things in a haste, barely sparing Liam a glance. Liam can’t move much and Jasmine keeps tracking Zayn’s actions, wide-eyed and helpless.

And, when Zayn pats Liam’s shoulder on the way out, it feels like a mate rather than a ‘could be’ walking out on him this time.

|+|

It’s the sort of calm quiet that Liam’s used to around his flat ―

One of those late nights, the city winding down. The hum of his refrigerator, Jasmine flopping about the room, mumbling to herself. There’s some rerun of cartoons on the telly but the volume is on low. Just static.

Everything is a dull white noise in the back of his mind and it doesn’t bother Liam at all. He’s used to it.

(He’s also used to Zayn prattling on about being knackered or clattering about in the kitchen, swearing softly but ―

Liam has been fairly good at not focusing on that.)

(well, mostly.)

He fixes his glasses on his nose and sets on typing over his laptop again. Just a few more words. Bits and bobs here and there. An ending to this bloody novel.

His phone buzzes over the coffee table. Liam knows who’s ringing him this late without looking ― it’s always Harry. He smiles anyway, picking it up.

There’s a static hum on Harry’s end but Liam recognizes the smile in his voice the moment Harry says, “Big Payno! Have you finished your masterpiece yet, mate?”

It’s unconscious, the way Liam grins back like Harry can see him. “Nearly. A few more words here and there.”

“A little kiss, a little fuck?” Harry asks, already laughing.

Liam rolls his eyes, brushing a hand over his massive grin. “Almost done, Haz.”

“Bloody hell,” Harry exhales. “Finally.”

Liam shrinks a bit, even though no one is watching him. No one but Jasmine from her castle of toys in the middle of the floor.

“Gonna celebrate? Could ring up that neighbor of yours? The Irish bloke? Have a night of Becks and going on the pull,” Harry suggests.

A twitch of laughter breaks Liam’s lips. He slouches into the sofa cushions. “Doubt it,” he replies. “Nialler isn’t into much of that. He’s, um, ace I believe he calls it?”

“Bloody fuck, perfect,” Harry preens. “Is he aromantic? Demi? Grey?”

Liam finds a spot on the coffee table to focus on, blinking rapidly. “Um, dunno, mate,” he says with a shrug like Harry’s right there. He rubs at his chin, thoughtful. “Haven’t really, like, asked?”

“Well find out,” Harry demands with very little heat to his tone. “Been thinking of having some group discussions at the studio. A few motivational guest speakers or summat. Maybe with my youth yoga group? He’d make a smashing chat for them, yeah?”

His fingers scratch at the short hairs on the nape of his neck before Liam says, “I s’ppose? I mean, he’s a good lad?”

And Niall is. Right funny, that one. He’s an easy talk and Liam imagines he and Harry would get on well enough. Niall is nothing but reckless energy spun into a quite chill form and Harry is proper opposite, most days.

In fact, Liam thinks they’d make quite a horrible menace to be around.

Harry hums, the way he does when he’s considering an idea. “Well spotted,” he breathes out. “You could always ring up Edwin, I reckon. Heard you haven’t given him a chat since your date?”

Liam sucks in a breath, blushing, rubbing at his neck.

“Um, right ― ”

Harry’s chuckle in the background is garbled but Liam can picture the flare of his dimples, the way he’s probably smacking a heavy hand over his knee.

“Told Lou he wasn’t a good match.”

“Lou,” Liam repeats, teasingly.

The line crackles but Liam’s certain Harry is swearing at him. He giggles, reaching down to pull Jasmine up when she wobbles over to him.

“Happy for you, Haz,” he comments.

“I’ll be happy for me when you turn in that book of yours so me boyfriend will stop bloody chain-smoking and having three cuppas an hour waiting on it,” Harry says easily.

Liam wheezes with his laugh this time. Somehow, he can pick out Louis’ barking in the background and it itches another giggle out of him.

Jasmine snickers too even though Liam knows she doesn’t understand any of it.

“And you, Li?” Harry wonders, his tone familiar.

Liam squeezes his eyes shut. He knows; he can already picture Harry’s telltale smirk.

“Have a chat with ‘im, at least.”

“Haz,” Liam warns.

“For your own good,” Harry insists and they always forget Harry is younger than Liam at times like this. When Liam is being stubborn and petulant.

Though, Liam likes to think himself quite sensible, given the circumstances.

“Just a chat,” Harry pleads.

“Have a nice night with your husband, Harold,” Liam smiles.

“You dick ― ”

Liam ends the call with a goofy grin. He stares up at the ceiling while Jasmine cuddles under one of his arms. They breathe easily together.

There’s something soft nudging at Liam’s neck making his position awkward and uncomfortable. He twists around to pull a shirt from between the cushions.

Zayn’s shirt ― he can tell. Its scent is sweet spices and Marlboros.

Liam frowns and balls up the cotton with one hand. He lets Jasmine use it as a pillow and purposely doesn’t think about how they’re both a little more relaxed with a piece of Zayn still caught between them.

He’s too exhausted to be bothered with his heart knocking so loudly.

|+|

“Slow down a bit, babe,” Liam calls, smiling gleefully.

Jasmine’s stomping up the hall, still a little drippy from the early afternoon rain.

Louis was sweet to offer an umbrella and a car back to Liam’s building after their meeting. Maybe he’s just relieved Liam handed in his manuscript but none of that matters. They’ve stopped for soup and toast at a pub, even if Liam was craving something spicy and a bit of curry ―

Nope. Toast and soup. A bit of tea. It’ll all do him just fine.

Just an afternoon of him and his daughter, like always.

Liam watches Jasmine freeze in the middle of the corridor. He quirks an eyebrow up before she’s happily stomping through a puddle. In the middle of the hall. Just outside of his door and the water is coming from ―

“Christ,” he hisses, jogging up, pulling Jasmine away from the mess.

His flat is wrecked, he can tell. There’s a stupid note on the door (‘pipe burst ― stay out until fixed!’ in barely legible handwriting) from the building owner and ugly yellow caution tape zigzagged over the entryway like a crime scene.

Liam wrinkles his brow and the worry sets in. It’s heavy and thick, suffocating him before he can get his next breath out.

Shit.

He’s got a few extra pounds from his advance on the book he could use for a hotel but he was saving up for Christmas and a train back home to see his dad and ―

Bloody fuck.

“Looks awful.”

Liam nearly crawls out of his skin (and his heart slows just enough to recognize the voice). He hadn’t heard a door open and he barely recognizes that he and Jasmine aren’t alone in the hall when he spins on his heels. It’s Zayn.

Absently, Liam relaxes on instinct. Just a bit.

Zayn tilts his head, lips cocked into that soft, welcoming smile. It’s all teeth and a flash of tongue and soothing.

“It’s,” Liam starts with a stammer, frustration bleeding through his expression. “Me flat is flooded.”

Zayn flicks his eyes over the wreckage of the puddle, nodding.

“I don’t ― I’ve only got,” Liam stammers, looking away. There’s a threat of tiny tears pricking at his eyes. He’s flustered and red and Zayn’s not meant to see him like this.

Zayn clears his throat, this patient and hopeful look on his face when Liam looks up.

“I’ve got a pull-out couch,” he says, casual as can be. “And, like, I just so happen to have a playpen and extra food. A very nice duvet that doesn’t smell like, well.”

He waves a hand in Jasmine’s direction, laughing.

A pinched breath seeps out of Liam’s mouth and it’s oddly calming ― listening to the stretch of Zayn’s voice again.

It’s familiar but so different.

Better, Liam thinks. Warmer.

“And I’ve got a spare carton of mint choc-chip, if you’d like,” Zayn adds, pausing to chew at his lip. He’s terribly smug but all of his nerves are apparent by the blush blooming in his cheeks.

Liam can’t take his eyes away.

“I can be a bit moody after a long shift,” Zayn continues. He looks wound up and bashful.

Liam grins at the way Zayn rubs a hand over the nape of his neck. Familiar.

“So you say,” he exhales, unabashed about how large his smile grows.

“I might’ve grabbed your writing stuff, too. A few of her toys, like. That one stuffed frog?”

“From Harry,” Liam whispers, tucking his chin, trying to rub away the fondness on his face with a soft palm.

“Tried to get it all before it got bad,” Zayn mumbles. He raises his eyebrows, like all of this is intentional. Like a well-thought plan going awry and ―

Oh.

Jasmine breaks their silence with a yelp, stumbling all the way over to Zayn. She knocks into his knees. Zayn quickly hauls her up, laughing in time with her giggles. He tugs the silly knit hat off her head, patting down her fuzzy hair, knocking a kiss to her nose.

Staring. It’s what it is. Liam stares at them until it stirs a warm feeling in his gut. He can’t ignore it.

Liam skids closer, shrinking the void between them, impatient and happy. It’s all a bit wonderful, the way he leans into the warm hand Zayn skims over the small of his back. He doesn’t want Zayn to move.

Fingers crawl in circles along Liam’s spine. Zayn bites at his lip, disfiguring his smirk.

“What is this?” Zayn inquires, his voice gone serious.

Liam takes in a breath, holding it. He hadn’t quite ― he’s so much better with words than this but he hasn’t found the ones for Zayn yet.

Because words aren’t necessary when things are this natural.

He rolls his eyes in response, breathing out a giggle. He presses his mouth to Zayn’s to stop them from shying into another useless chat. Or definitions. Naming all of this feels clinical.

Like things were with Pete.

Zayn knocks into the kiss after a beat of hesitation (Liam half-expects it, not that he’s not still wound up and nervous over it) and Liam feels it ― their mouths nudging into something promising.

“She needs her nappy changed,” Liam finally says, drawing back, “and it’s your turn.”

It’s probably not the answer Zayn’s waiting on but he thinks it’s appropriate.

It’s a bit more them, innit?

Zayn blurts a laugh, nudging their foreheads together.

“Your turn to cook,” he mutters.

“I’m shit at cooking,” Liam counters.

“Language,” Zayn teases, eyelashes fanning out into these lashes of dark ink over his soft-sharp cheeks. “I’ll help you.”

It’s all a blur ― the kind Liam is quite fond of.

He follows Zayn inside of his flat and it already feels like home. Like they’ve already been this in love for years.

|+|

The crowd is dense the night of Zayn’s dinner service at the café.

It’s mostly thanks to Louis spending all of his spare moments promoting the event the weeks before ― like a proper PR agent, Liam muses. But there’s hardly an empty table and it all makes Zayn even more nervous.

Liam barely gets a glimpse of him when he and Jasmine sneak into the kitchen before service. He’s a hurricane of profanity and knocking dishes around and tension ready to snap.

It’s amusing, if he’s being honest. The way Zayn keeps mucking his hair up with his hands and pleading for a cigarette break ― just a little fresh air.

Nothing like the lazy lay-about who always teases Liam for stressing over his next writing project. Who giggles happily every time Liam burns pancakes or mumbles encouragement into the flushed skin at the nape of Liam’s neck while leading him through a new recipe.

(the breathy ‘you can do it just take your time’ Zayn always sifts into Liam’s ear when he’s too uptight to function)

There’s a corner table set aside just for them. A fancy card in Zayn’s terrible handwriting ― ‘abbu and princess’ ― in the middle of posh linen and empty saucers. Liam plays bashful when their waitress winks at him and swears he’s all Zayn ever prattles on about.

Overwhelming is what it is. Being the center of someone’s attention all the time. Someone he fancies just as much, for once.

The café is all soft lighting and this constant flow of chatter. There’s a buzz in the atmosphere.

Liam smiles at it all.

There’s dish after dish (and even tinier saucers of food for Jasmine) dropped off at the table, with cups of tea just the way Liam likes.

(He can’t help but feel something turn like a wave in his stomach at the thought of Zayn planning out a whole dinner service and still wanting Liam to have his tea made perfectly.

Or that all of the dishes brought by are a little less spicy, just for him.)

Zayn shyly strolls into an echo of applause and cheers after service. He looks like he wants to retreat back into the kitchen just as quick, one of those crookedly nervous smiles splitting his face.

Instead, he stops by one of the tables, pressing a polite kiss to a woman’s cheek before rounding right over to Liam and Jasmine.

“This was horrible,” he sighs, smacking a peck to Jasmine’s temple.

“You smashed it,” Liam cheers, clapping in a way that could be mocking but not now ―

Not when Zayn is so close to being a vulnerable little twat at the slightest joke.

Zayn makes a face, like he’s annoyed, but it’s all marred by a soft smile and this dopey look around his eyes.

“It was good?” he asks, still flustered.

Liam beams without considering it. It’s what they do ― Zayn and his nerves and Liam quietly leading him away from it.

“Bloody aced it, babe,” he affirms.

Something washes over Zayn instantly, like all he needed was Liam’s approval.

Zayn flops into Liam’s lap (and neither of them is abashed at all the attention it slowly stirs around them) before leaning into Liam’s arms.

He presses a kiss to Liam’s temple. “I’m knackered,” he huffs.

“Got a nice bed for you to have a lie-in later,” Liam says into Zayn’s neck.

Zayn yawns, nodding. “Whose turn is it to give her a bath?”

“Yours, but ― ”

Zayn shushes him with a finger over Liam’s mouth, like he already knows. He’s adjusted to the way Liam always makes it seem like Zayn’s just being nice. It’s none of his responsibility. But they both know it’s not that.

“I want to,” Zayn smiles and Liam believes it.

“Thanks, Chef,” he whispers just to feel Zayn’s blush stretch down his neck.

He squirms happily in Liam’s lap before lifting a lazy hand, pointing halfway across the café to the woman from earlier.

“That’s me mum,” Zayn mumbles, bottom lip between his teeth. “Flew in from the States this morning with Doniya. Just for ― like, she wanted t’be here for me? This moment, like.”

Liam follows Zayn’s finger, wide-eyed.

She’s incredibly breathtaking, naturally. Her dark hair drawn up into a neat bun and the right hue of rose to her cheeks. Crinkled eyes when she smiles, just like Zayn. This lovely glow about her like she’s soaking it in ― her pride too massive to keep hidden.

Doniya is sat next to her, beaming just as much, laughing at the artwork hung over the walls, sampling the gulab jamun with a wicked smirk that reminds Liam of Zayn after he’s made a terrible joke.

Liam’s heart is halfway in his heart before Zayn adds, casually, “Want you to meet her. Both.”

Liam clicks his tongue, his throat gone dry. “Will she like me?” he blurts out because it’s the first thing he thinks of.

Zayn snorts. “Probably,” he smirks, easy and just like Doniya. “She already does, I’m sure. Had a chat all about my writer-boyfriend and his lovely princess the other night. She’s thrilled you, like, actually finished uni and made something of y’self.”

“So did you,” Liam argues, pinching Zayn’s hip. “You’ve done her proud, babe.”

Zayn hums, indifferent, but his lips quirk so affectionately when Liam repeats the words.

“Think so?” Zayn asks.

Liam puckers his lips, ready to have a strop, but he knows Zayn is just taking the piss. His arrogance has dimmed here and he’s just a boy from Bradford.

Just a lad trying to make his mum quite proud of the man he’s becoming.

Liam tucks a smile to Zayn’s shoulder because, honestly, he knows the weight of that feeling.

“Doesn’t matter,” Zayn shrugs. “I haven’t a moment where I didn’t want to do this.”

There’s a pulse of conviction sitting in Zayn’s voice. It makes Liam want to kiss him. He keeps still just to listen to Zayn breathe.

“And I’m quite madly in love with the two of you. That seems enough,” he adds, softer. “Can’t quite imagine letting you go anywhere.”

He brushes a hand over Jasmine’s hair and Liam feels a bit complete over that thought ―

Not having to write about something he hasn’t entirely felt. Or how life isn’t the way he pictured it but he’s quite content what it is.

He’s rather happy with his ordinary life ― just the three of them now.

 END.