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I was watching the interview with Liam about Zayn “distancing” himself and I was thinking about how we’ve only ever heard that from Liam and the other boys, not from Zayn, and that there’s always two sides to a story
Liam answers the phone without looking at the caller ID. That’s probably stupid, he knows, but he’s on the way to meet Sophia and he doesn’t have time and he doesn’t think this number’s leaked. It can’t be anything important, not this early, anyway.
“Hello, Liam Payne,” he answers, pulling on his shirt.
There’s no answer for a second, just breathing, but Liam freezes anyway. He knows that breath, and he doesn’t care to think about what that means, but he knows, without checking, who is on the other line.
“Zayn?” It makes sense he’d call, Liam guesses, with the album and shit. It’s not like they haven’t talked since March, they’ve chatted a few times. Of course he’d call to congratulate them, Zayn’s sentimental like that, it makes sense.
“It’s not true, you know.” Liam’s breath catches a little, at his voice. It’s just—it’s good to hear him. And somewhere, in the parts of him he doesn’t like to admit, the parts that understand how Louis rages, he likes that no matter how pensive Zayn is trying to sound, he sounds hurt. Because Liam knows what Zayn’s hurt sounds like, better than anyone else, even over the phone.
“What isn’t?” Liam asks. He could have known, once, could have read Zayn’s mind basically, but not now, apparently. Not from across two continents and however many hours time difference and however much emotional distance goes with that.
Zayn sighs over the phone. Liam can’t help doing the math, figuring out how late he’s up, if he should tell him to go to sleep before he remembers he’s not needed for that anymore.
“I’m not, like, distancing myself, or whatever you said. I guess it could feel like that, but, like, Liam, I’ve been here whenever you wanted me.”
Liam falls back onto the bed. It looks like he’s going to be late. “What, in the interview? That’s just shit I say Zayn, you know, I can’t—” Can’t say what it really feels like, like you decided we weren’t enough. That you moved across the world to avoid us. That I don’t even know why you left. That I don’t know how to talk to you anymore because you don’t fit in my categories anymore.
“Yeah, I do know, and I know you, Liam. I know all of you. And, I mean.” He lets out another breath, and Liam knows without wanting to that it means Zayn scrubbing his face with his hands, like he used to do talking to Ant, curled up on the bunk in the bus, before coming out and plopping onto the couch with his feet in Louis’s lap and his head against Liam’s shoulder. “I know we’re not, like, what we were, or whatever, but that’s just—I never said that because I don’t want to be co-dependent anymore I didn’t want to be friends. That was you all.”
“We never—”
“I’m not the one who decided to start shit on twitter,” Zayn goes on, firm like he always got when pushed too far, unyielding. “I’m still, like, I’m not disavowing you guys or anything. Not like you are.”
Liam doesn’t bother saying that it wasn’t him starting shit, because he knows that’s not the point. Because he knows how the band works, and it’s all for one and one for all, what one does falls on the others too, so he might not have done it but he as good as, sort of. And anyway, that’s not the point.
“You left, Zayn.” That’s the heart of it.
“Yeah, I left the band. I—”
“You left and moved to LA and made new friends and got a new deal,” Liam keeps going, all of the things he can’t say on air bubbling up in him. “You’re the one who left us behind, without even a real explanation, and yeah, you distanced—”
“I quit my job. I quit my job and I moved. None of that means—like, fuck, Liam. Am I supposed to be blowing up your phone reporting my every move? I didn’t do that even before I left.”
“You didn’t have to! You were here.”
“Exactly!” Zayn’s voice snaps out, suddenly enough that it makes Liam jump. Zayn’s anger’s always a bit much for him, shown rarely enough that it’s shocking. “I’m not there! That doesn’t mean I don’t love you!”
Liam’s breath is harsh. “Feels like it.”
He can almost hear the anger fade from Zayn, into something tight and cold. “I get that I hurt you all, yeah? But like. Don’t put this all on me. I’m not the one who didn’t even congratulate you on your success. I didn’t decide not being there all the time meant we couldn’t have any contact at all. I didn’t distance myself, Liam.” The words bite out, into Liam. “That was you all.”
“Zayn—”
“If you ever feel like I exist again, I’ll answer the phone, for any of you. Hope your album release goes well.” Liam expects the phone to slam then, but instead, rushed and a bit too harsh, like he’s proving a point. “Love you. Love you all.”
The line goes dead, and Liam stares at the phone. He hadn’t—he hadn’t meant it like that, he thinks. He’s not sure. He doesn’t know anymore, never knows, and yet somehow he’s the one who has to say all of it, while Louis makes faces and Harry and Niall just sit there. Like it’s not hurting all of them. He wonders—wonders if any of them have said anything to Zayn, since March. If any of them did text him about RCA. Harry might have, he thinks; he’s been a bit less wrapped up in the anger and the hurt. Liam had meant to, but he—he hadn’t been able to figure out what to say, and then it had gotten late enough it would have been weird.
Slowly, he gets to his feet. He needs to meet Sophia. She’ll know what to do, maybe. Know if he should even tell the boys about this, or if it will just hurt them more. If knowing that Zayn still loves them will make it better or worse. If knowing that he’ll pick up will make calling easier or harder.
He doesn’t know. It feels like his constant state since March. He just doesn’t know.