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The television’s on, but Zayn’s not watching it.
All of the pictures there just seem to shift and blur together, the saturated images of sports stadiums starting to multiply by the thousands, becoming copies of each other, becoming scenes that he doesn’t understand.
And fuck, he doesn’t understand anything, does he?
His mind is reeling now, it’s just floating backwards and away as he tries to wrap his head around what Liam just said—around the casual as fuck I’ve got a date tonight that just slipped out of his grinning mouth before he disappeared into his bedroom, before he moved out of reach.
He’s always out of reach.
Zayn sits on the couch, thinking that he should probably be happy or proud at least, because Liam is his best mate and he’s going out on a date and he’s going to have fun, but it’s like—that’s not what Zayn’s feeling at all right now.
Liam’s shuffles around in his bedroom and Zayn just listens to the sound of him for a moment before shifting on the sofa cushion, turning to face Liam’s door. “What do you mean you’ve got a date?”
Liam doesn’t answer. He just keeps shuffling around in his room, and Zayn’s eyebrows furrows as he points the remote towards the television and shuts it off, the living room becoming a blur of shadow and dim light again. He doesn’t even know what to think, honestly. He just props his arm up on the back of the couch and looks towards Liam’s doorway, which is half-open and swimming in shadows.
“I mean I’ve got a date,” Liam answers finally, his voice floating out of the darkness like smoke.
Zayn frowns, watching Liam’s doorway. In the space between the door and the door-frame, he catches pieces of Liam as he moves around in his bedroom, and the colors of him are all washed out by the moon.
There’s blackness, blueness, whiteness, and then there’s Liam.
Liam, who glows orange, who glows yellow and red and gold—Liam, who glows in colors that are all warm.
And fuck, Zayn’s such a bloody mess for him. He’s been a mess for him for a long time.
Pushing the thoughts away, he lets his frown deepen. “You mean you’re going out tonight? On a date?”
“I mean exactly what I’m saying, Zayn.” Liam answers, but there’s a laugh in his voice, and the sound of it is strained as he hops into a pair of jeans, his jumper only half over his head. There’s a banging noise and a groan and then a moment later, Liam’s standing in the doorway frowning down at his watch, only for a second, before he’s looking up at Zayn. “And, yeah, tonight—I’m meant to be there in twenty minutes, actually.”
Zayn blinks, staring at Liam from the living room sofa. He’s dressed up in dark jeans and one of them fancy beige jumpers that he never wears out, his hair slicked back neatly with gel, and for some reason the sight of him makes Zayn swallow, for some reason it makes his hands tighten on the back of the sofa like he’s stopping himself from doing something, and he tries not to think too hard about what that might be.
Instead, he says, “I thought we were watching the telly tonight.”
Liam grins, shooting him a look. “I think the telly can wait, Zayn.”
But I can’t, Zayn wants to say, but he doesn’t.
Of course he doesn’t.
He knows that it might come out sounding like the words have been softened around the edges, might come out sounding like something that he doesn’t want it to sound like.
Begging, maybe. Jealousy.
And trust Zayn when he says that he’s not bloody jealous, because he’s not. Mates don’t get jealous when their other mates go out on dates, especially when that other mate happens to be a lad that they’re in a band with. It just doesn’t happen, right?
It’s fucking unheard of.
So he just nods, and he doesn’t say anything else as Liam walks out of his bedroom doorway, shutting the door behind him before raising his arms up at his sides, “So,” he says, smiling soft. “How is it, then?”
“You look good,” Zayn says, but the words leave his mouth sounding way too warm against the dimness of the flat, they come out sounding way too gentle with meaning. Liam blinks, and Zayn just laughs, shaking his head. “Hair looks a bit like shit, though.”
Liam grins, eyes crinkling as he pats down the front of his jumper, smoothing out a wrinkle. He shrugs, “I think I’ll take that as a compliment, actually, so thanks mate.”
“No problem.” Zayn says, and then Liam’s walking past him, the wooden floorboards groaning beneath his socked feet as he makes his way towards the kitchen.
He doesn’t even turn the light switch on as he grabs his keys from the fruit bowl on the counter, and then he’s moving back into the living room and walking towards the door, shrugging into his coat and slipping into his shoes.
Zayn sits up a bit more on the sofa, face angled so that he’s looking straight at Liam. “Hey, don’t go,” he says, and the words spill out of his mouth before he can stop them.
They fall onto the floor with a crash.
They escape out into the room with an echo that’s startling.
Liam stills, one arm in his jacket as he stares back at Zayn, dark eyes narrowed in question, in wonder. The gelled bits of his hair shine orange beneath the dim hallway light, and Zayn wants to melt into the bloody floor.
Why the fuck does he even bother talking, honestly? What the fuck.
“What do you mean?” Liam asks, frowning a little.
“Nothing, mate. Sorry.” Zayn says quickly, but his mouth is all cotton. He can’t even speak normal words anymore, everything ends up sounding like he’s trying not to care too much—which, okay, might be exactly what he’s trying to do, but there’s a difference between him knowing that and Liam knowing that, and it’s the biggest difference in the world, it really is. “I just—well, I’m about to head back to my place, right? So just, don’t go yet. ‘Cause I can walk out with you.”
Liam shakes his head, shrugging the other arm into his jacket. “No, it’s fine. You can stay here for the night, yeah?” He grins, almost sheepish. “I reckon I’ll want someone to talk to when I get back.”
Zayn nods, quiet for a moment before saying, “What’s her name, anyway?”
“Her name’s Danielle,” Liam says, turning to open up the flat door. Outside, the corridor is all dim light and a stretch of dark green carpet, dulled down with night time. Everything seems silent. “She’s very pretty, you should meet her sometime.”
“Definitely,” Zayn says, but the word has no weight behind it, there’s no excitement at all.
Liam nods, smiling because he obviously doesn’t notice, and then he’s saying, “well, I’ll see you in a bit, then” before stepping out into the hallway and shutting the door behind him, leaving Zayn alone in the empty flat with his thoughts and his bloody shaking hands.
And shit, man—he’s not jealous. He really isn’t.
It’s not like Liam’s his boyfriend or anything, and it’s not even like that’s what Zayn wants, you know, it’s just that—well, it’s just that sometimes he thinks about it, about kissing Liam.
About touching him, just touching him, their bodies pressed together beneath a sea of sheets, their bodies swimming. Sometimes he thinks about counting the freckles on Liam’s back and making constellations out of them, because that’s what they are, right, they’re constellations.
So, yeah, like he said before, he’s a bloody mess for Liam.
“Fuck,” Zayn sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face as he settles back on the couch, his eyes settling on the fireplace across from where he sits. Orange flames flicker there, snapping and casting dim shadows across the walls of the flat. The wooden table sitting in front of it is all worn out and covered in coffee stains, and Zayn likes the way it’s so obvious that Liam’s been living here.
He likes how the green rug on the floor is a bit frayed at the edges, and how there’s a chip in one of the dark wooden floorboards. He likes how the picture frame on the wall beside the kitchen doorway is a little bit crooked, like Liam was in a rush when he put it up, and he likes how there’s dirty dishes in the kitchen sink.
And okay, fuck, he’s jealous.
He keeps thinking about this girl, this faceless Danielle that Liam’s seeing, and he really just wants to get out of here. He wants to stand up and go outside, drink in the cool air and have a smoke, because it’s bad enough that he wants to kiss his best mate on the mouth, but thinking about it while his best mate’s out on a date with a pretty girl is all kinds of fucked up, you know?
The minutes pass quickly, but to Zayn they seem so slow.
After twenty minutes of silence, he ends up pulling his phone out of his pocket and then shoving it back in again, because no fucking way is he going to call Liam. No fucking way in hell.
So instead—seems like he’s always doing things instead—he stands up and makes his way over to the kitchen, the floorboards groaning beneath his socked feet, the floorboards turning into cold tile as he leaves the living room behind him.
He doesn’t bother turning the lights on.
He just pulls out one of the chairs at the kitchen table and brings it over to the open window on the far wall, the one that leads out to the fire escape. Cold air is rushing in, but Zayn doesn’t mind, he just pulls up the chair and rests his pack of smokes on the sill before pulling a joint out of his pocket and lighting it up.
In the darkness, the tip of it glows.
Zayn brings it up between his lips and inhales slowly, closing his eyes as the thick sweet smoke fills up his mouth and runs down his throat, as it pools in his lungs, expanding, expanding, expanding.
Fifteen minutes after that, the joint is burnt out and Zayn’s still sitting at the kitchen window, his eyes on the traffic down on the street below. He thinks he might be high but he’s not sure, as everything is blurring into something else, as the headlights look like little fireflies, if only fireflies were red and white, if only they were green and yellow and red like the traffic lights blinking outside.
Zayn exhales, and it’s all blue smoke.
Fifteen minutes after that, he’s finished his second joint and the cold air is making him shiver. He’s got his thumbs running over the keypad of his cellphone, because he’s weak, alright, and he can’t fucking help it.
He just keeps thinking about it, about whether or not pretty girl’s down on her knees yet, about whether or not she’s looking at Liam from across some restaurant table with a shit-eating grin on her face like yes, I’m pretty, I’m so pretty, aren’t I? Do you want to come here and touch me, do you want to come here and see just how pretty I can be? And Liam’s probably eating it up, because that’s totally like him, it’s exactly the kind of thing he would do.
So, Zayn might be a little bit high.
The kitchen is becoming a kaleidoscope of dim shadows and traffic sounds, the moonlight washing in and casting squares of silver light over the kitchen tiles. Everything is blurring and shifting and the kitchen seems big, big, bigger, than, it was, before. Zayn’s still got his phone in his hand, and he doesn’t even realize that he’s dialed Liam’s number until there’s the muffled sound of restaurant chatter and a low voice in his ear saying, “Yeah, hello?”
Jesus. Leave it to Liam to pick up his phone when he’s in the middle of a bloody date. That boy will never learn.
Something about it seems funny, though, and a laugh bubbles up in Zayn’s throat as he scrubs one finger over his eyebrow, sighing loudly.
“Zayn, mate, is that you? Danielle’s in the bathroom, what’s up?” Liam says, and his voice swims with concern now on the other side of the line, blurred up by the sound of clinking silverware. When Zayn stays quiet, Liam says, “Hey, you alright?”
No, you fuck, I want to touch you. Zayn thinks, because it’s like he’s incapable of thinking anything else, can’t think anything other than, No, you fuck, I’m really fucking jealous right now.
It’s quiet for a moment on the other end and Zayn thinks that he should probably say something, but the blue smoke is getting to his head, right, it’s fucking him up and he doesn’t know how to speak. He’s about to say something like, sorry, mate, wrong number, but then Liam’s voice is shattering the silence and he’s saying: “I don’t—I don’t understand, mate, why are you jealous?”
Zayn blinks, and he almost laughs because, fuck, he said that out loud, didn’t he? He’s wondering if he said the first part, and he wonders if it even matters.
“I’m not,” Zayn says, but he’s sort of grinning, he’s sort of mucking around. It’s like his head is floating up and around and away, leaving him with alone in an empty kitchen with all of Liam’s things, and there’s Liam’s steady breathing in his ear, close enough to be the real thing. Zayn’s smile grows, his eyes crinkling. “Alright, I might be a little bit jealous, but. It’s ‘cause I smoked, right? It’s gotten to my head a bit, I think.”
“Zayn, what are you—”
“Don’t go home with her, yeah?” Zayn says, his eyebrows furrowing as he watches the traffic outside the window. “I mean, like, ‘cause I don’t really want her touching you, I don’t think.”
Liam makes a small sound on the other end, and Zayn thinks maybe he should just hang up now, maybe he should just shut the fuck up and go to sleep. But he can’t, not now, not when Liam’s out on a date with a pretty girl and Zayn’s just sitting here thinking about him—about his mouth, his body, the way their hands would look together, the contrast of them.
“Zayn,” Liam says, and it almost sounds like a warning.
“Have you ever thought about it?” Zayn asks, and yeah, he must’ve done more than two joints because he’s saying all this shit without even meaning to, without even wanting to. It’s just spilling out of him, stretching across the emptiness, across the phone line. “I mean, ‘cause sometimes I think about it.”
“Think about what?” Liam asks, and Zayn can’t read the emotion in his voice at all.
He clenches and unclenches his fist on is thigh, resting his forehead against the cold frame of the window. “I don’t know. Kissing you, mostly,” he says, “I’d let you pull my hair and, um—”
“And what, Zayn?”
“And, I’d let you fuck me,” Zayn says, the sound of it almost getting stuck in his throat. He huffs out a laugh, trailing his finger over the grainy wooden sill of the window. “Yeah, I think I’d like that. I could suck you off, too.”
Liam inhales sharply. “Fuck, Zayn, you can’t just—”
“I think about it,” Zayn repeats, watching as the street traffic below blurs together into nothing but color and sound, spinning around and around and around. He sighs, the taste of weed still thick in his mouth. “I think about it a lot, Li, alright, so just. I just don’t want her to touch you.”
“She’s not gonna touch me,” Liam says, and there’s something in his voice now, but Zayn doesn’t let himself think about that. He just listens to the sound of Liam’s breathing for a moment until Liam’s saying, “Hey, um, she’s just left the bathroom, so—”
“Right,” Zayn nods, “yeah, I’ll see you later, then.”
“Yeah, um. Goodbye, Zayn,” Liam says, and then he’s gone.
He’s gone, and all that’s left is the steady static of the dial-tone, the squares of moonlight washing over the kitchen tile, and Zayn’s hands that won’t, stop, shaking.
“Shit,” he breathes, running a hand down his face before standing up, leaving his smokes on the window sill with his coffee from this morning and just stumbles back towards the living room, the tiles becoming wood again, the wood becoming carpet as he reaches the sofa and falls down onto it with a sigh.
He shifts around so that the back of his head is resting on the arm of the couch, both of his feet reaching the other end of the sofa, and then he rests his arm over his eyes, blocking out the room, trying to make everything slow down.
He’s said it twice before and he’ll say it again:
He’s a fucking mess for Liam.
Sighing, Zayn just lays there on the sofa, and his whole body feels like a dead weight, the smoke buzzing through his veins and making all of his thoughts and reactions happen slow, so slow. He rubs at the backs of his eyelids in a way that makes constellations spin there, the darkness exploding into a galaxy of color and light.
He’s not sure how much time passes.
He just listens to the sound of the tock clicking from the kitchen, the sound of it filling up the empty flat, and then a while later he’s hearing the flat door open up, followed by shoes being kicked off and then footsteps coming closer and closer, stopping.
“Zayn?” Someone says, and Zayn blinks his eyes open to see Liam standing there, right there, in the space between the coffee table and the couch. He’s watching Zayn with an unreadable sort of look in his eyes, the meaning lost in the shadows, and then he’s shifting, shoving his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans. “Hey.”
“Hi,” Zayn mumbles, eyebrows furrowing as he glances up at Liam.
Liam just looks at him, and then he’s moving in a bit closer, close enough that he’s standing right in front of Zayn, so close that Zayn can feel the warmth of his body from where he lays on the couch—he can feel the warm glow of him, all orange and yellow and red.
After a moment of silence, Liam says, “Do you really think about it?”
Zayn blinks, and there’s some sort of arousal stirring in his stomach and his fingertips when he swallows and says, “All the time, yeah.”
Liam keeps watching him, and then he’s leaning down a bit and spreading Zayn’s legs apart on the sofa, settling down in the space between them—like this, their chests are pressed together and Zayn’s feet are hooked around the bottom of Liam’s calves, and it’s just closeness, it’s all closeness.
Liam’s face is hovering over him, and Zayn has to keep blinking for everything to stay in focus, to keep the details of his face sharp even in the dimness—there’s the pink of his mouth and the soft slope of his nose, the birthmark on his neck that Zayn really just wants to kiss, to memorize the shape of.
“I’ve thought about it too.” Liam says slowly, and then all of a sudden he’s leaning in, his mouth brushing over Zayn’s in a way that makes Zayn’s eyes fall shut again, in a way that makes the room melt away until there’s nothing but Liam and the swimming sounds of their heartbeats. “About kissing you,” he says, his words falling into Zayn’s throat as he kisses over Zayn’s neck, “About you letting me fuck you,” he huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head as he comes back up, trailing kisses down the line of Zayn’s jaw. “I think I’d like that, too.”
“Yeah?” Zayn asks, swallowing thickly.
All of his thoughts are spinning and falling away from him now—dropping down into the space between the sofa cushions, and scattering beneath the couch, collecting dust.
“Yeah,” Liam nods, and then his lips are on Zayn’s again and Zayn’s kissing him rough, his hands tangling in Liam’s hair, pulling gently.
He’s hard in his sweatpants now, and Liam’s thigh keeps moving over his crotch, pressing down and making friction, and fuck if it’s not the best feeling in the world.
“Then do it,” Zayn says, breathing heavy. “Fuck me, Li. Come on.”
Liam huffs out a laugh, and then he’s pressing his forehead against Zayn’s, their noses touching. “Are you high, Zayn?”
Zayn thinks about that for a moment, and then he grins, keeping his eyes on Liam’s. “I might be.”
“You might be.” Liam repeats, but he’s smiling.
Zayn nods, and then he says, “I’ll still want to suck you off tomorrow morning, if that’s what you mean. I can do that right now, if you want.”
“Okay,” Liam breathes, and his whole body seems to still as he watches Zayn’s mouth, swallowing thickly. “Yeah, okay.”
“Okay,” Zayn grins, and then he’s kissing Liam again, once, twice, and then licking over his bottom lip, pulling it in between his teeth, just tasting. “Sit down, yeah?”
Liam nods, breaking away from the kiss.
His eyes are dark now, but in the morning, Zayn thinks they’ll look like honey.
He grins, standing up and trading places with Liam, both of them shuffling around until Liam’s sitting on the edge of the sofa with his feet on the floor, and Zayn’s kneeling down between his legs, his hands fumbling with the button on Liam’s jeans.
“Here,” Liam says, but he’s smiling as he stands up and shoves the pants down his legs, stepping out of each leg one at a time before tossing the jeans off to the side. He’s hard in his boxers, and Zayn swallows, leaning in and mouthing over his erection, slow, like he’s trying to memorize the moment.
Liam makes a noise at the back of his throat, and it might just be the hottest bloody thing Zayn’s ever heard in his life. He pulls at the waistband of Liam’s boxers, tugging until they’re off too, until Liam’s just wearing his jumper and nothing else.
The sounds of traffic float in through the open kitchen window, and the whole room feels cool, and Zayn thinks he would be freezing if it weren’t for Liam’s hand at the back of his neck, gentle and warm.
“You’re quite bloody hot, you know that?” Zayn asks, gently taking hold of Liam’s cock, stroking, thumbing over the head. Liam’s hips are jerking slightly, and Zayn blinks, moving in so that his lips are brushing over Liam’s dick, just barely. His words are a whisper. “Did she tell you how hot you are, Li?”
Liam swallows, his hands tangling in Zayn’s hair. “No, she didn’t.”
Zayn grins, blinking up at him. “She should’ve,” he says, and then his mouth is around Liam’s cock, tongue licking out to trail along the shaft. Liam keeps moaning, breathy little sounds that seem loud against the quietness of the flat, little sounds that make arousal buzz in Zayn’s veins, electric.
He breaks away, licking his lips and pushing Liam back onto the couch. He shuffles in between his legs and he almost wants to laugh because, like, he’s sucking Liam Payne’s dick and it might just be the best thing in the whole bloody universe.
Zayn grins slowly, wrapping his fingers around the backs of Liam’s thighs and kissing along the insides of them, licking and bruising and marking in a way that he can only hope feels good. Liam’s breathing heavy though, and Zayn thinks that he might be too, but he can’t really tell with his heart beating in his ears like that, making all of his thoughts sound like yeah, fuck, yeah. And Liam tastes like strawberry soap and honey, and Zayn’s not surprised at all because he’s Liam, and of course that’s how he’d fucking taste, like strawberries and honey and everything sweet.
Zayn licks his lips again, and then his hands are wrapping around the backs of Liam’s thighs and he’s pressing kisses to the small jut of Liam’s hip as he starts to stroke, just slow flicks of his wrist that make Liam moan, that make Liam’s head fall back onto the back of the couch with a thud, a sound that echoes.
Zayn grins, eyes crinkling. “You like that?”
Liam smiles, his stomach rising and falling with every breath. “Yeah, I like that.”
Hearing it out loud is enough to make something warm spark up inside of him, something new and unfamiliar, and Zayn pushes the feeling back down because he doesn’t want to think about that right now. Instead, he blinks up at Liam and says, “I want you to watch this, yeah?”
“Okay,” Liam nods, breath hitching a bit, and then Zayn’s mouth is around his cock again, tongue licking wetly around the tip of it. He keeps his hand moving around the base of Liam’s dick, and he’s so bloody hard now—gets harder every time Liam makes a sound, every time he squirms and fists his hands in Zayn’s hair like he’s trying to beg for it but can’t quite get the words out.
Zayn breathes in through his nose, eyelashes fluttering as he swallows, and as he keeps his eyes on Liam, Liam stares right back.
And yeah, Zayn’s a mess. He’s a fucking mess and he knows it.
Breaking away, he licks at his hand before fisting it around Liam’s cock again, stroking and kissing at the insides of his thighs, trying to be gentle. Something about Liam reminds him of innocence, and he loves that. He mouths at the head of Liam’s cock and then Liam’s moaning, a string of fuck, fuck, fuck escaping his mouth and echoing out into the darkness of the flat, making Zayn see stars.
Jesus, even Liam’s swear words seem gentle.
He smiles around Liam’s dick, sucking and licking slowly, and it’s not long before Liam’s coming into his mouth, his whole body racking with tremors as Zayn swallows him down, tasting the thick saltiness of him on his tongue and bloody liking it.
“Sorry,” Liam says immediately, his words worn out as Zayn licks around his shaft, carrying him through it. “I suppose I should’ve warned you.”
“Nah, mate, it’s all good.” Zayn laughs, his eyes crinkling as he looks up at Liam. He shakes his head, still smiling. “That’s quite cute, though, that you think I need a warning.”
Liam looks at him for a moment, mouth quirked up in amusement, and then he’s laughing as Zayn starts kissing up his stomach, over his happy trail and then higher, over his chest, his collarbones, over his shoulder and his throat.
“Come here,” Liam says, his hands still in Zayn’s hair.
Zayn grins, pushing himself up until his lips are on Liam’s again, until they’re both laying back on the couch with Zayn tucked between Liam’s legs, so close that they could be the same person.
Liam breaks away from the kiss, licking his lips before swallowing. “You’re still—I could do you now, if you want.”
“Tomorrow,” Zayn says, shuffling up a bit and resting his forehead against Liam’s throat. It’s strange, right, ‘cause he’s done all of this before—sucked off a lad, cuddled a bit with him—but it’s never really felt like this, like it’s the beginning of something, or the end of whatever was happening before. Yawning, he lets his eyes fall shut as he listens to the steady in and out of Liam’s breathing. When the room gets quiet and there’s only the sounds of traffic floating in from outside, Zayn speaks his words into Liam’s skin. “And I’ll let you fuck me too, yeah?”
Liam laughs at that, and Zayn thinks that means okay.