Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Are you ashamed of me?” asks Liam, quiet and shaky with nerves but still so defiant, and that’s how it all starts.

Zayn looks up sharply. He hadn’t heard Liam walk up, too preoccupied in his art to notice his boyfriend appear seemingly out of thin air. His words get stuck in his throat, but he knows his eyes must be wild and laced with something more animalistic than basic surprise.

Liam makes an impatient sound. “Well?” He’s picking up steam, voice stronger now that he has Zayn’s attention. “Are you? Ashamed?” He’s standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, and Zayn is sprawled across the bed in his hotel room, headphones hanging forgotten around his neck and sketchbook sitting in front of him. The charcoal is still dangling between his fingers.

They’ve had this conversation before.

“Liam, no. Come on. You know I’m not.” He hopes he’s just imagining the thread of weakness tying his words together.

Liam puffs up a bit more at that, chest expanding. It usually makes Zayn smile, this habit. It’s like Liam, even after all of the training and bulking up, is still the scrawny kid he was when they all met. Like he needs to make an effort to take up space. Like he needs to make an effort to be noticed. Zayn swings his legs around so that he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. The stretch of carpet between them is too long and too short at the same time.

“I want to tell them,” says Liam, cool as anything, except his hands have balled into fists and his eyes are darting around the room. Little ticks. Zayn catches every one.

“I’m not ready,” Zayn responds quickly, just like he always does. He doesn’t even stutter, this time. Counts it as a victory. His heart is thudding so hard in his chest it feels painful, and his stomach is performing acrobatics. Liam knows this. They’ve talked about it, haven’t they?

Liam blinks, keeps his eyes shut a moment too long. Frustration slips off of him in waves, and Zayn fights the urge to cry. Liam is his everything, it’s just- he can’t do this. Not yet.

Zayn tries again. “The band knows, isn’t that enough for now? Why’s the whole world got to know, too?”

“Not the whole world, Zayn. Just- we’ll start with our families, yeah?” Liam looks hopeful. Zayn feels like the worst boyfriend on the face of the earth. “I hate lying to my mum. I hate lying at all, but we can take it slow. Small steps, right, how’s that sound?”

“Liam, I can’t. We haven’t all got families we can spill all our secrets to without a care in the goddamned universe.” It comes out bitter and sharp and ugly. Guilt flashes in Liam’s eyes for half a second, and Zayn feels grimly satisfied.

But not for long. Liam retaliates with “well I’m sorry you’re so scared,” and “I thought this mattered to you, Zayn,” and “I’m tired of being your dirty little secret, all right?”

Liam’s nearly shouting. Zayn’s only seen him this agitated a few times, and it was never directed at Zayn. Under normal circumstances, this would shock him out of whatever vindictive retort he’s planning on making, but Zayn’s nothing if not stubborn. “If you’re going to act like a kicked puppy every time I put my family first, then maybe…”

“Maybe what,” says Liam, voice low and dangerous, and it’s not even a question. There’s hurt laced into his tone, but Liam’s acting out like a wounded animal, like he’ll bite if Zayn comes too close, and it snaps whatever concern Zayn might’ve had in half.

Zayn takes a deep breath and musters every ounce of anger he has. It flushes out the common sense capably, and all he sees is red. “You’ve been waiting for me to be ready, haven’t you? Well maybe you should stop.”

Liam shuts down. His eyes cool, and he looks at Zayn like he’s a stranger. “Yeah?” he asks, sounding strangled but keeping it together admirably. Liam’s so good at that, the acting bit. It’s infuriating.

“Well I’m not ready and I don’t know what you bloody want from me, so-“

“All right then,” Liam interrupts, and it’s low and furious and injured. “Point taken.”

He walks out in long strides, shoulders high and tense, and doesn’t even bother to shut the door. And it’s just so Liam, that he knows Zayn will have to get up and close it himself, and that fact gives him more satisfaction that a theatrical storm-out ever could, and it fuels Zayn’s anger for a short while more.

Even so, after he’s gone it takes Zayn all of thirty seconds to dissolve into messy, unpracticed tears. He hears Louis’ gentle “babe, what the hell just happened?” down the hall, presumes Liam’s in a similarly distraught state, and that’s all it takes for him to jump up and slam the door so hard the hinges shake.

It’s only 5 PM, but Zayn stays in his room until the next morning.

…

He wakes up to six texts. Deletes them all without checking to see what they say. Zayn hasn’t shut people out in a while, not people that matter, at least, but it comes back easy. He has practice at this kind of self-sufficiency, at convincing himself that no one needs to hear it. Solitude is important to Zayn in times like these, when it feels like the whole world is closing in on him. He’s never really named it, but words like anxiety and claustrophobia come to mind. People are stifling forces.

He just has to shut them out, convince himself they wouldn’t want him anyway, if they knew everything.

Zayn knows what it’s like to feel like a burden, and he knows how to recoil like a shotgun, how to pretend he’s just a weapon, something that’s better off hidden away. Easy as breathing, he thinks, and locks his phone in a drawer.

Like riding a bike.

…

That day they’ve got an interview, and the entire process is painfully awkward. Zayn feels like he’s all elbow, trying to sit comfortably in the car on the way there without actually touching anyone, and then again on the interview sofa. His legs stay pulled up to his chest for a solid and uncomfortable ten minutes, and his voice cracks during three different answers.

Harry drags him aside right before the interview is supposed to start, says “mate, you look like you didn’t sleep a wink,” and then pales when Zayn’s silence all but confirms it. Niall doesn’t ask, but looks equally concerned. Zayn doesn’t want their sympathy or their sideways glances, but can’t think of a way to let them know without coming across as exceptionally rude. He’s too tired to make more enemies today.

One of the questions is the ever popular if you had to kiss another member, who’d you pick? and Zayn tries not to think about dark corridors or dressing rooms, hotel beds and the back of the tour bus, Liam’s lips and Liam’s hands and all of the things he ruined for himself. He hears Liam say “Niall’s cute, yeah,” and something curls ugly in his stomach.

He’s talking before he’s even made the active decision to answer the question. “I’d pick Harry, I think, his face is nice, innit?” The girls go nuts. Zayn tries not to feel sick.

Harry, for his part, rolls with it. He gives Zayn a sloppy kiss on the cheek and pokes him in the side until they’re both laughing. Louis gets in on it, too, even though the consequences for him will be just shy of hell, and tugs Harry back toward himself; Harry’s eyes are crinkled up with mirth even after they’ve moved on. It doesn’t matter that Zayn’s faking it – this is the happiest he’s been in days, ever since Liam brought up going public, or at least slightly more public, for the first time last week.

That conversation had been messy, too, but the accusations were left unvoiced. They just hovered beneath the surface, there but not there, ready to explode when the chemicals were right. It’s like an equation. Add frustrated, insecure Liam to panicky, insecure Zayn, and toss in a dash of impatience. Instant fireworks. Instant destruction.

The thing is, Liam doesn’t get it. He doesn’t know that Zayn will more than likely be held at an arm’s length for the rest of his life if his family finds out. And yeah, he wants to tell them that he loves boys more than he loves girls (and that he loves Liam more than he loves other boys), at least he wants to tell them eventually, but every time he thinks too much about it he feels like he’s standing at the edge of a cliff looking down. It’ll change everything. He isn’t ready.

The interviewer keeps going but Zayn mostly checks out, only looks up when he hears his name. She’s blonde and too bubbly with a grating voice, and his head is pounding because all of the tears last night gave him a tension migraine.

He feels like he can’t breathe, is the thing, and his hands are twitchy the way they get when he wants a cigarette.

Niall nudges him with big, earnest eyes, and Zayn has to make a real effort not to jerk away from the touch. After a few long seconds he just nods, once, and neither of them really knows what he meant by it.

As they’re walking into the hotel after the interview, Niall pulls him aside. “Hey, what’s goin’ on, bro?”

Zayn says “I screwed it all up,” and figures that’s all that needs to be said really. Niall’s calling after him quietly, trying not to make a scene, but Zayn’s already walking away. He retreats to his room, calls for dinner to be delivered, and hides out. He feels pathetic, is the thing. He knows that all of this is his fault, that he’s the cause of his own misery, but he doesn’t know how to stop ruining everything he touches.

An hour or so later, there’s a knock at his door. True to form, he ignores it.

“Oi, come on Malik, open up!” It’s Louis, and his voice is no less agitated for being muffled by the distance.

Zayn groans, and once he realizes that Louis doesn’t plan on leaving him be (Zayn, I know you’re in there and I know you’re awake and I demand that you let me in before I have to harass the front desk into giving me a key), he rolls out of bed and trudges to let the other boy in.

Louis looks like he wants to have a long chat. “’M not in the mood, Lou,” mumbles Zayn, collapsing back onto his bed face down. He can hear Louis walking around. It sounds more like pacing, really, back and forth by the window, casting shadows over the slice of carpet Zayn can see underneath the pillow he tugged over his head.

“Y’know,” says Louis, after a loaded silence, “I didn’t think you’d be so mopey. Hell, you’re as broken up over it as he is, and that’s saying something.”

It sends a pang through Zayn. He’s been trying admirably not to think about Liam at all, and doing better than he thought he would. Louis’ a reminder, though. It feels like everything’s a reminder, lately, but talking about it always seems to make it worse.

“What’d you expect? That I’d be up celebrating or summat?” He pulls the pillow off of himself, sits up on the bed. “I know I ruined it, and I know I hurt him. Doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.”

Louis sits down next to him. They’re touching from hip to shoulder, and Zayn unconsciously leans into the contact. “You’re scared,” says Louis, no room for argument.

Zayn tries anyway. “Not scared.”

Louis just hums, sounding sad, and slings an arm across Zayn’s shoulders. They sit there for a good while as the sun turns the sky pink, and then orange, and then red. Zayn wants to ask after Liam but then he remembers he’s not allowed to do that anymore, and when Louis gets up to leave, to meet up with the other boys, Zayn only just manages to keep his mouth shut. It’s a close thing.

He departs with a warm pat to Zayn’s shoulder and a kiss to the top of his head. “You’ll figure it out, love. Just remember what’s important.”

Louis’ words echo loudly in the small space, and then he’s gone.

…

Zayn doesn’t sleep much. Mostly he dozes, tries not to think about eyes like cups of coffee and kindness worn around a sharp jaw line, mostly fails. It’s a long night.

He types out a text at 3 AM. I’m sorry. He deletes it at 3:04 because it’s not enough and it will never be enough and he doesn’t know how to fix this without someone winding up hating him for who he is. He knows he’s being a coward (he knows) but he isn’t sure he could survive being disowned, or the distance he’ll find in his father’s eyes, or the hate his family will get when the fans find out, or. The list goes on and he feels like he can’t breathe. He has to keep this under wraps, at least he feels like should, because he was never the best at handling hate, but.

The alternative isn’t any better.

Imagining what will happen if he and Liam are broken up for good sends a shock of hurt up his spine, and he curls in on himself pathetically, hands fisted in the cool sheets. He wakes up in that position, alone, an hour later, and doesn’t move until he’s so cold he’s shuddering.

It’s only then that he remembers he’d cracked the window before going to sleep, just trying to get some air.

…

The week ticks by in jumps and starts. It’s all they have before they’ve a fortnight off (a fortnight apart, more like) and Zayn is holding it together, mostly, kind of. Liam looks to be doing the same, and having an easier time with it, but logically Zayn knows that Liam’s just a better actor. That’s all it is, has to be, because if Liam really is moving on then Zayn isn’t really sure what he’ll do. He doesn’t even know where they stand, whether they’re really and truly broken up or not, whether Liam will ever take him back. Whether Zayn will ever have the guts to tell his family.

He just doesn’t know, and he hates the not-knowing bit.

He spends more time with his sketchbook than he does any of the other boys, and no matter how many times he starts with the intention of drawing the scenery or something equally benign, the curves of his pencil turn all too familiar. The sharp hipbones, the soft slope of lips – all of it hurts, but it doesn’t mean he stops.

Every drawing turns into Liam, somehow, and if that doesn’t explain the last year of his life then Zayn isn’t really sure what does.

Harry makes an effort, on the last day before they’re set to leave. He’s always been the most optimistic, the most earnest, the one who believes in happy endings and fate and all sorts of crap like that. It’s after their last performance in the States, and Zayn’s buzzing; he might not be in a great place mentally, but the fans never fail to lift his mood. He’s not such an idiot that he doesn’t realize how lucky he is.

That’s probably how Harry manages to catch him. Lately he’s been careful to sneak off on his own after shows and the like, but he isn’t quick enough this time. Harry slings an arm over his shoulder before he can make a break for it, and says “you and me, lunch, how about it Zaynie?”

And he’s trapped. “Sure,” he replies, but only because he knows he has to. “Sure, Harry, let’s go.”

It’s easy to forget Harry’s the baby of the group, usually, but sometimes he looks his age. Now, with his hair wild and eyes wide and dimples like craters, is one of those times. So Zayn humors him, lets Harry tug him along and even participates in the conversation a bit, throwing in his two cents every once in a while, trying not to get swallowed up by all of the camera flashes following them down the street.

Winter will be ending soon; it’s palpable in the air. A warm breeze filters in between the tall buildings and hustling people. New York has never looked so alive as it does today, Zayn thinks, looking around, and this city floors him every time they visit. The graffiti on the walls is considered art more than vandalism. Most people don’t even give him and Harry a second glance. It’s a whole different world, and Zayn doesn’t really want to leave, gets caught up in his own thoughts enough that Harry has to prod him out of it when they reach the takeout place.

“Hm?” He isn’t sure if he’s been addressed or not.

Harry just smirks. It’s quite possibly the least condescending smirk Zayn has ever seen. “Are you going to eat, or…?”

Honestly, he probably won’t. Thinking about his entire situation makes most things sound unappealing, food included. He orders the first thing he sees anyway, isn’t even exactly sure what it is, just to humor Harry.

When they finally make it back to the hotel (past the screaming girls that have congregated outside and I love you Zayn please will you marry me oh my god look he’s right there I’m gonna faint I swear I’m gonna faint), Zayn is well past exhausted. He knows the bags under his eyes are noticeable, and makeup chewed him out for them this morning, and the morning before that, and the one before that as well, but he’s too tired to care.

He’s halfway to his room when he realizes that he really, really doesn’t want to be there. Instead, he turns around and follows Harry. He doesn’t ask if he can, knows he doesn’t have to.

Harry’s room is controlled chaos, clothes flung onto most flat surfaces and music playing from where he’d left his laptop open on his bed. The lights are on when they walk in, left like that from before Harry left, Zayn imagines. Harry is one of the only people Zayn knows whose presence doesn’t necessarily require his body. Harry is an electric hum, alive and thrumming through places that have been empty for years.

They sit cross-legged on the bed, facing each other (and Zayn spends too much time sitting on hotel beds, he thinks, he needs the break that’s coming up for that as much as anything else), and Harry breaks the silence. It’s unusual, but only just. Zayn hasn’t been in the mood to break silences, lately.

“So you and Liam,” he says, and his mouth curls around each letter, and he lets the idea trail off the way he always does. It’s comforting in its familiarity, the way Harry talks like he’s got a secret, or nowhere else to be.

Zayn pokes his food with a chopstick, doesn’t really think about eating it. “I don’t know,” he finally responds, more than a little forlorn. The week has taken the fight right out of him.

Harry sighs, but doesn’t sound impatient. Zayn will never know how he does that, takes the sting out of everything so easily. “You could start with what happened. Louis, like, he talked about it, and stuff, but. And Liam tried, but he, like, he couldn’t finish. Got too worked up. We’re all a bit confused, here, and the two of you are hurting, and it’s so frustrating, to us, because we hate seeing you like this.”

It feels like it takes about a year and a half for Harry to finish, but it’s enough time for Zayn to gather himself. “Well it’s simple,” he says, trying not to sound defensive, “he wanted to come out to our families. Has- had for a while. He tried to make me pick between him and my family and I told him couldn’t do it. And then I picked anyway.”

Harry looks young today, but Zayn feels even younger. Every angle of Harry’s face is lined with sympathy. “You didn’t choose him.”

Zayn just shakes his head, picks at the duvet between his fingernails. “Couldn’t,” he manages. “I just couldn’t.”

He doesn’t want to keep going over it, but Harry is there with his dumb earnest face and his palms opened up in front of him like he’s trying to help just by the fact of his existence, like he knows that could never be enough but he has to give it a shot, and it makes Zayn’s resolve shatter into little pieces. Tears prick his eyes for the first time in days, ever since the night after he and Liam split right down the middle and Zayn thought he’d never feel like anything but a raw nerve, like an exposed pulse, ever again. The next morning he’d promised he’d put himself back together. But apparently he did a shoddy job at it, because here he is on Harry’s bed with his arms wrapped tightly around his own waist, just trying to hold his heart in before it spills out messy onto the floor. He thinks he’s shaking. Isn’t really sure.

Harry looks distraught. “D’you want me to get Liam?” he asks, unsure.

Zayn thinks yes, yes, yes, and says “God, no,” voice mucked up and watery with unshed tears.

“Okay,” says Harry, and hugs Zayn tightly, “okay, I won’t,” and it’s with his face pressed up close against Harry’s shoulder that Zayn finally lets himself lose it.

He falls asleep in Harry’s room that day, too tired after that crying jag to manage stumbling back to his own, and it’s mostly okay. Harry takes his shirt off because he doesn’t like wearing clothes, and also probably because Zayn managed to soak right through it in between ‘I still love him’ and ‘I wish I could hate him.’

The next morning, Zayn walks back to his own room, feeling shameful for entirely the wrong reasons, and showers and gets dressed quickly and quietly. It almost feels like a somber affair, except he remembers all the times he’d woken up in a hotel room to a pair of strong arms wrapped around his waist, to a soft, melodic humming in his ear, and thinks it’s more hopeless than somber, can’t be bothered to remember the difference anyway. It’s been a week and it hasn’t gotten any easier. These things take time, he knows, but he’s more scared of forgetting than he is of remembering, and Liam is always right there but his eyes aren’t warm, anymore. Zayn doesn’t get to see the smile that’s practically reserved for him.

His flight leaves at six in the evening. It’s the second to last one, just ahead of Liam’s. Niall is the first to go, all reckless laughter and wide grins, promising his boys that he’ll miss them dearly and wishing them luck in their travels. It’s two o clock and the VIP room, at least, is nearly dead, but Niall lights it up.

“It’ll be good for you, to get some space, dont’cha think?” The words are muffled into Zayn’s chest, but he gets the message.

He thinks I don’t know if I want to be alone. “Yeah, Ni,” he says instead, “yeah.”

Niall releases him with a heartbreakingly gentle pat to the cheek and a “take care.” And then he sticks around saying goodbye to the other boys and socializing in general until he’s dragged away to the plane.

Liam is standing three meters from Zayn and it’s nearly unbearable. They’ve hardly said a word to each other the whole week, and most of their conversations were on the air. He wants to say something, has wanted to for days and days, but his own shame and guilt keep clogging up his throat. He can barely sing, let alone talk.

They’ve got an hour or so before Harry’s flight, and then Louis leaves another quarter hour after that. Zayn fiddles with his phone and, after some contemplation, shoots a text to his mother to let her know he’s poorly. He isn’t ill, not technically, but it’ll be easier to explain his current state if his mum is prepared for a moody, less than chipper Zayn.

A woman’s voice floods the room. Thank you for flying with us. We would just like to remind that all luggage must be retrieved from…. She drones on, but none of them are paying attention, Louis too busy toying with Harry’s mess of curls and Liam glued to his cell like he has been ever since the blow-up. He’s closed off, legs crossed away from the group and head bowed. It seems so wrong that Liam is like this; he’s usually so warm and open, giving, friendly, but when he shuts off he gets cold and Zayn has never seen it happen in this kind of setting before. When the boys are together (which is most of the time) they hardly ever fight. When they’re together, it’s supposed to be a respite from the madness. They’re living the dream, and whether they’re in public or not they never let themselves forget.

Zayn groans and stretches out over the surprisingly uncomfortable leather couch pressed up against the wall of the small lounge, figuring that if his mind isn’t going to shut up then he’s better off unconscious. Liam looks up, for a fleeting moment, and they make eye contact. Zayn feels like he can’t breathe. Liam opens his mouth, then, about to speak, when Harry careens into Zayn and tries to hide behind him. “I’m too pretty to die!” he shouts, and Louis appears running from around the corner in full pursuit.

Harry jumps up again and runs off, laughing, and the moment is broken. The planes of Liam’s face have hardened again, and he’s looking down. Zayn sighs heavily, rolls over so he’s facing the wall, and tries to get some sleep.

He’s prodded awake a half hour later. “Harry’s leaving,” says Liam, short and clipped, and Zayn is disoriented enough to want to lean up and kiss him. He doesn’t do that, remembers himself at the last minute, and instead mumbles something incoherent about needing to sleep more. He’s sure he doesn’t imagine the fondness that sparks in Liam’s eyes, or the way his mouth just barely twists.

Harry’s standing just outside security, almost swallowed up by the bag over his shoulder and the coat covering his skinny frame. He’s grinning widely as Zayn approaches, dimples present in all their glory, and it hits Zayn all at once how much he’ll miss his boys. It isn’t a long break, but they all seem too long.

“See you later, Haz,” he says, because he’s never been fond of the word goodbye, “send your family love and all that, yeah.”

“You too, Zayn,” he replies, genuine and excited to be going home, “if you need anything just call.”

Zayn nods jerkily. “Yeah, yeah, thanks.”

And then Harry’s gone, too.

Louis’ set to leave in fifteen minutes, but during those minutes he’s a blur of laughter and touching, managing to lie all over Zayn and Liam both at the same time, despite the fact that they’re doing their best to keep their distance.

With five minutes left, apparently Louis has decided he hasn’t much to lose, and says, “So have the two of you really not talked?”

Zayn stiffens, sees Liam do the same. “We’ve talked,” says Zayn, suddenly defensive, “you’ve been at all the interviews, haven’t you?”

Louis rolls his eyes like Zayn’s missed the point entirely. “No, see, that clearly doesn’t count. Jeez, it’s like pulling teeth with the two of you.”

“What do you want, Louis?” and Liam sounds nearly hostile. Something in Zayn recoils.

“I want the two of you to stop being miserable sods, for one. I thought you two were insufferable when you were together, but no, this is much worse.”

Zayn feels his heart pounding hard, thinks this is it, but then Liam says “whatever” and it’s nearly a sneer, certainly the most vicious Zayn has ever heard him sound, and then Liam stalks off out of the lounge into a store around the corner and it’s just Zayn and Louis, then. Zayn knows he should at least make an effort not to look so shattered, but he can’t feel much of anything, let alone the muscles in his face. There’s a blood rush he can hear, and he thinks it must be the sound of his heart breaking.

Louis doesn’t say a word, and he looks uncharacteristically pale, uncharacteristically shaken. He just leans back against Zayn, pillows his head against Zayn’s thigh from his position on the floor, and it’s more than enough of an apology.

When he’s called to leave, the goodbye is quick. “He’ll come around.” The whisper is muffled by the hug.

Zayn just holds on a little tighter. When he speaks, his voice sounds strange even to himself. “Have a good flight, Lou.”

And that’s all.

…

Liam doesn’t come back for another hour and a half, and in that time Zayn does the following:

drinks one cup of coffee, black, and doesn’t even feel it go down his throat

sketches Liam three times, and etches his face with anger lines

picks at his cuticles until they’re red and raw

buys an I♥NY shirt just for kicks

signs autographs for six starry eyed girls

stares at guidebooks like maybe they can solve his problems

None of it helps, per se, but it passes the time. Zayn’s back on the couch he started in by the time Liam gets back, but this time he’s sitting up. Zayn shifts, tries not to peek too much. Liam looks just as stony as he did before, but the tension in his shoulders seems to have released, some. It used to be Zayn who did that, who made Liam relax in spite of the insanity they deal with daily, but not today.

He remembers how things were when they were younger, and everything was new. Zayn hadn’t even thought much of Liam past his being a good friend and a cute face, and things were simpler. Fights, when they cropped up between any of the boys, lasted hours at most and always ended in a pile of limbs and relieved smiles. The silent treatment didn’t exist. They were all a bit louder, a bit more brash, emboldened by their fledgling successes and all of the sudden attention. Now, they’re cooler, still just as grateful and overwhelmed but better at managing it. Fights are rarer, but devastating.

Zayn has twenty minutes before he needs to go to the gate, but he figures he isn’t wanted here, anyway. He can kill time just as easily away from Liam, maybe more easily without the distraction, and he thinks if he stays in here much longer he’ll suffocate on the tension.

He stands, shouldering his carry-on, and nods at Paul. “I’m gonna go, Li,” he says, almost biting his tongue at the nickname. His voice doesn’t shake. He counts that as progress.

Liam looks disproportionately upset. “Isn’t your flight at six?”

“Yeah, I’m just. I’m gonna go.” He doesn’t have any excuses, really, doesn’t think Liam would like hearing about his own lower lip and his stupidly beautiful eyes and all of the reasons being so close to him is killing Zayn.

Liam nods like that explains anything. “Well, all right.”

Zayn goes to turn around, but changes his mind last second, blurts out a hurried “I’m sorry” because he isn’t sure he can hold it in any longer, and looks straight at his feet.

“Have a good flight,” is all Liam says, firmly and unrelentingly unwilling to talk about it, and his eyes are tight and his smile is tighter.

It absolutely does not feel like something is sitting on my chest, he tries to convince himself, and says, “You too.”

He can feel Liam’s gaze burning a hole in his shirt as he walks away, but Zayn doesn’t look back once.

…

The house feels smaller every time he walks into it, and he thinks it must have something to do with distance and distortion, or else the fact that his sisters have grown so much in what feels like such a short amount of time.

They all barrel into him at the same time, his sisters and his mum, and he nearly hits the floor with the force of it. As it is, he manages to stay up and hug them all back, smile splitting his face. He thinks maybe he’ll be able to forget, for this break, all of the mess waiting for him when he gets back to the boys. This is easy; this is simple. It’s home, is what it is, and he hasn’t let himself think about it because he’s always been the most homesick of the five but damn he’s missed it.

“Hi,” he says through his grin, and his mum fusses until his sisters release him.

“Hello, love,” she says, “we missed you something awful, y’know,” and her eyes are shining with tears already.

He tries to look stern. “Hey, none of that, I’m home now aren’t I?” because if he doesn’t say something to that effect he knows he’ll be crying, too, it’s happened before. It’s just that the feeling of home is overwhelming like a tidal wave, and if he ducks underwater even for a second it’ll be that much harder to come up for air.

“Just in time for dinner,” beams Safaa, and she tries to drag him to the dining room.

He just laughs, says, “I’ve got to put my bag down first, yeah?”

They let him go. He feels something tighten in his chest when he sees the family portraits on the wall from years ago, when he was young and unimportant and had time to sit for hours in an uncomfortable sweater grimacing at a photographer who made too much considering how hard his parents worked to pay them. That was back when he complained about spending too much time with his family. He never dreamed in a million years he’d be where he is today.

He dumps his duffel onto the bed in his room unceremoniously, and digs through it for a fresh jumper; he’s sick of the one he’s been wearing since this morning, feels like it’s suffocating him with all of the tension of the day. He’s always been like that, awfully particular about his clothing, because when it comes down to it Zayn can admit he’s a bit of a control freak. He hates feeling helpless or powerless, hates the idea that anyone but him could make decisions that will affect him hugely. Clothing is minuscule compared to the chaos that is Zayn’s life, a drop in the proverbial bucket, but it’s still a choice. The small victories are sometimes the most important.

“What-“ he mutters, tugging out a red jumper that is most definitely not his. Comprehension swells in his throat and he nearly chokes with it, dropping the fabric like he’s been burned. It’s Liam’s, of course it’s Liam’s, and Liam must have one of his. They traded, last month, and then Zayn had proceeded to completely forget about it.

Bad idea, he thinks, mostly rueful but also a bit panicky. He shoots Louis a quick text because Louis is the least likely to sugarcoat anything. I just found his jumper in my bag and I miss him and I’m an idiot what do I do.

Louis responds promptly, tech-dependent bastard that he is, and Zayn sighs when he reads it. man up malik either say something to your family or tell liam you’re done with him you cant just keep moping around its very sad.

Zayn’s reply is a concise you’re no help at all.

I’m not the one being difficult here zaynie.

prick, Zayn sends, with no malice at all.

Louis doesn’t bother texting back.

Dinner’s a quiet affair. Zayn’s exhausted from the flight and the drive and the trip in general, not to mention the week he’s had, and every time his family smiles at him he tries his best to remember it, to store it away for a time when they might not love him so easily as they do now. He’s withdrawn, he knows, but his mum was expecting him to be ill, and playing along is easier than trying to act cheery considering the state he’s in.

His father had greeted him with a firm handshake when he got home from work and a gruff “it’s good to have you home again.” It’s good to be home, he thinks, but his dad’s already moved on to “next time maybe you’ll bring a nice girl with you, eh?” Zayn doesn’t think that bodes well for the confession he can feel bubbling in his chest. He’s got time, he thinks. He doesn’t have to say anything yet.

It doesn’t stop him worrying.

“I’m gonna turn in early, I think,” he says out loud to no one in particular, and hears a muffled g’night sunshine! that has him half-smiling as he wanders off to bed.

After a quick shower which he stumbles through with the finesse of a drunkard (and Zayn’s gotten better at functioning without substantial amounts of sleep, but that isn’t saying all that much to begin with, really), he tugs on a pair of joggers and, still shuddering a bit with the February cold, blindly grabs a jumper.

Except maybe it wasn’t such a blind choice, because in the poor light he could just make out the red tinge of the sweater lying on his bed where he left it, and in his exhaustion he might’ve possibly thought it’d be a good idea to wear Liam’s clothes. Just to sleep, he thinks, can’t do that much damage. It’s not a big deal. The jumper just smells a bit like Liam, maybe, and for some (silly, ridiculous) reason it makes him feel more at home than he’s felt since his plane departed from New York hours and hours ago.

He falls asleep within minutes, hands fisted into the soft material, and dreams of strong arms and sunshine and stability woven in with the kinds of melodies that haven’t made Zayn smile in weeks.

…

He wakes up entirely disoriented in a house that doesn’t really feel like home and a jumper that isn’t his and the sunlight that’s coming through the window at entirely the wrong angle. Everything is eerily quiet; he can make out the sound of someone humming in the kitchen down the hall, but aside from that, it almost sounds hushed. Like someone turned the volume all the way down and Zayn’s experiencing it from the wrong side. It’s just the lifestyle, he knows, something he won’t bother acclimating to because in a bit he’ll be back to screaming fans at every corner. He hums to himself because it’s better than the silence and while doing so lets out a spectacular yawn that has his jaw cracking.

He scrubs at his face blearily and rolls over to check his phone. First, he sees that it’s nearly two in the afternoon. He allows himself a small, mostly hypothetical fist pump at that, because it’s been so long since he could waste the day away in bed, so long since this was considered acceptable behavior. Second, he notices a missed call from Harry, and remembers that the pit in his stomach is there for a reason, and that even if his insides are twisting into knots he thinks this time he might be brave enough. That doesn’t mean he won’t call his lads first, for a chat and some words of support, but he’s never been of the opinion that needing other people makes you weak.

The realization that he’s actually, probably going to do this makes him giddy with nerves, like he’s lit up from the inside, and it’s absolutely terrifying.

He knows that after he tells his family he’d rather bring a boy home than a girl (and god, he isn’t sure how he’ll say it but he can deal with that later), nothing at all will be the same, at least he doesn’t think so. There will be awkward silences and slow acceptance, if any at all – the Maliks are a traditional bunch, especially Zayn’s father – but Zayn will also stop having to feel like he’s walking on eggshells, will stop having to avert his gaze when they’re out to dinner and the waiter is sinfully handsome. Maybe this will be for the better. The adrenaline rush makes him feel sick with anticipation.

Before he can change his mind, he calls Harry, figures he’ll force himself to be accountable so he can’t back out.

“Hullo?” Harry sounds like he slept nearly as long as Zayn did. It’s easy to imagine his hair sticking out the way it does in the mornings, defying gravity, and it almost makes Zayn grin.

His hands are shaking but he doesn’t think he cares. “Hey, Haz.”

“You’re good?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just was calling to, like, let you know I slept in Liam’s jumper last night and, ah, okay, you didn’t need to know that, but, like, I also think I’m gonna come out to my family, so.” It ends up sounding significantly messier and much less confident than intended, but it gets the point across well enough, he thinks.

Harry sounds much more awake after that confession, jumping in with a chipper, “Zayn, that’s excellent! Have you talked to him? To Liam?”

“That’s the next step, I think.”

“Well, all right, that’s still. Like, I’m happy that you’re telling your family, that’s. I’m proud of you, all the lads will be, it’s really, really great. You’re nervous?”

“Of course. I’d be nervous anyway, though, I think, having to hide it. That’s, that’s worse, yeah?” It wasn’t supposed to come out as a question, but his voice has been doing things without his permission, lately.

Harry hums, clearly thinking. They’re the slowest talkers of the bunch, the two of them, and Zayn likes to think it’s because they’re the most careful with their words. It’s optimistic, sure, but it’s nice to think that he’s one of the thoughtful ones. Between them, Zayn wonders how they ever manage to finish a conversation in any reasonable amount of time, but it’s okay with him. He likes talking to Harry.

“It’s better to tell them, I’d think, yeah, like, you’re not yourself around them when you’re hiding. You shouldn’t have to hide from your own family.”

Zayn thinks to what could happen, to what might happen. “What if they…you know, aren’t okay with it?” He feels very small; certainly he sounds like a scared kid, but Harry doesn’t mention it, just takes it in stride.

“Then we’ll be your family, Niall and Liam and Lou and I, we’ll love you twice as much to make up for it.”

And only Harry could pull off a line like that without it sounding horribly contrived, but he does it, he does, and it makes something warm bloom in this February chill. “That doesn’t sound horrible,” says Zayn, allowing some hope to bleed into his tone, “I could live with it, I think.”

Harry just laughs, and then there’s some shuffling on his end of the line, some muffled shouting like he’s covering the end of the phone. “I’ve got to go, mum’s shouting about me being a lazy bum and loafing about in bed all day, but good luck and all that. Call me later or something.”

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks. I’ll, um, I’ll let you know.”

They hang up because he isn’t the only one who’s bad with goodbye, and Zayn stares at the ceiling until Doniya bangs on his door and yells get up, little bro, we saved you lunch and everything in the same tone he remembers from childhood. Don loves to remind him that she’s the oldest. Right now, Zayn doesn’t mind it at all.

Lunch is all hot spice and thick flavors, nothing like the bland meals he’s been accustomed to chasing with alcohol or a cigarette or something to dull the ache of homesickness. After the first few times he’d bemoaned the shortage of ethnic food they get on tour, most of the boys started ignoring him, but not all. He still remembers Liam’s playful “you might smoke, but boring food will be the death of you, Zayn Malik, I’m calling it now,” and he pushes at the memory until he’s back in the present, with his family watching him as he eats.

“’S really good,” he promises between bites, “thanks.”

The rest of them are either taking bites of bread (his younger sisters) or nursing a cup of coffee tinted strongly with cinnamon (Don and his parents). “You’re welcome, love,” says his mum sweetly, and then continues, “so how’re your boys?”

Zayn swallows past the lump in his throat and waves his fork over his plate. “They’re good. All good. Glad to have a break, I guess. We’ve been working really hard and stuff.”

“Oh no,” teases Waliyha, “it must be so difficult for you to go sing at your adoring fans all the time. Such hard work. Poor, poor Zayn.”

She’s grinning widely and he’s missed her, so he lets it slide, just laughs and nudges her shoulder with his own. It’s an easy familiarity that hangs over the table, and not for the first time Zayn imagines what it would’ve been like if he hadn’t gone to that audition. If he’d have gone to uni to study English, or maybe pursue art, and if he’d been a normal student with normal priorities who’d have been able to come home more often than this, who’d have been able to see Safaa grow up better than he sees her now. He wouldn’t trade his life for the world, no, he knows he’s living the dream and he doesn’t let himself forget it, but Zayn’s always valued family more than most.

He begs off of a cup of coffee, instead retreating to his room which doesn’t feel like his room at all, telling his family that he’s still jet-lagged (which he is) and that he’s just gonna sleep it off, probably (which he won’t).

With the door shut safely behind him, Zayn pulls out a tattered notebook. It isn’t so beaten from use, necessarily, though more than a few pages are filled, but from travel – it’s been everywhere the sketchbook has been, except buried deeper. Words are less subjective than art, and if it were to fall into the wrong hands…he’s shuddered more than once at the thought.

He picks up his phone before his pen, sees that he’s got a text each from Louis and Niall and they’re about the same, except Louis’ has better spelling and less exclamation points. Both are supportive, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure Harry’s passed along the message. Zayn wonders, briefly, if Liam knows, and if he’d be proud.

He stops that train of thought in its tracks because just in thinking about it he’s nearly bitten through his lip. To work, he thinks, and he starts to map out ways to tell his family he’s gay other than “once I actually had sex with a boy I realized there was no going back,” because it might be true but it’s less than charming and the look on their faces would most likely not be worth the messy aftermath.

In the next hour he accomplishes next to nothing, instead choosing to doodle in the margins. On the previous page a (long, detailed, and mortifyingly sappy) description of the night he realized Liam was it stares at him with something like disdain, and something aches bitter in the back of his throat. It’s sharp like- but no, Zayn doesn’t like that word, has hated it for years.

(Regret, okay? It’s regret. And the more he stares at the page the more he realizes what a coward he’s been, and his priorities line up somewhere between there is absolutely nothing Bradford about him and I don’t know if I’ll ever stop wanting him like stars in a constellation that has only just begun to take shape.)

He ignores a call from Louis and stays in his room through dinner, pretends to be asleep while trying in vain to quiet his nerves. His stomach feels like a pretzel and he hasn’t even said a word to his family, yet.

He falls asleep too early and thinks I was only awake a few hours with the kind of delirious hysteria that comes with cross-country flights and his face on billboards in about every major city in the world.

It’d be odd, but he’s gotten to used to the surrealism. He has another blurry thought, how is any of this my life, before finally drifting off into sleep.

…

He doesn’t dream, not about anything that matters. Just flashes of light, desperation, standing on the wrong end of a very long tunnel. He’s an animal at the top of the food chain looking down, and he wakes with sleep and sorrow on his tongue.

The day is a blur. He eats breakfast with his family and smiles at all the right times. He accompanies his mum to the grocery store and they get stopped by fans a few times, but it isn’t really so bad when she’s grinning like she’s won the lottery every time a girl tells Zayn he inspires her. By the end of it all he’s smiling like a loon, too, and they walk back home arm in arm. His dad gets home from work in time for dinner and it’s loud and boisterous, girls talking over each other to be heard, and something aches deep in Zayn’s chest that this isn’t his normal anymore.

He watches a movie with Waliyha and Don, Safaa at a friend’s house for a party or something equally exciting, and once it’s over he only stays in the living room long enough to give each sister a kiss on the cheek before retiring to bed, again, this time at least a bit proud he made it through the day awake.

Sleep doesn’t find him, but he lies in bed anyway.

Niall calls a few hours later, and Zayn feels tired enough of staring at the wall that he picks up the phone.

They chat about nothing for a while, about how nice it is to be home and away from the insanity for a bit, and Niall’s tone is gentler than usual on some words but he doesn’t pry, and Zayn is grateful. He’s amazed, and not for the first time, at how well he and his boys understand each other; they don’t really need words, anymore, and it makes Zayn feel like easy breathing.

Conversations like this make him want to look anyone who doesn’t understand straight in the eye and say tell me again we aren’t made of the stuff of miracles, and he’ll never stop being giddy with the realization that he loves them all more than he’s loved almost anyone. They’re brothers in about every sense of the word.

“When d’you reckon you’ll tell them?” asks Niall, finally, after dancing around the question for a bit.

Zayn sighs, knows Niall can hear the reluctance that colours it. “Soon, I guess. ‘M tired of waiting, but. I don’t know. I just want to get it over with.”

“You’ll tell Payno after?”

“Reckon I will.”

Niall hums, thoughtful. “He misses you, y’know. Something awful. I talked t’him and he was tryin’ to hide it, but I could tell. He wouldn’t shut up about you, honestly.”

“Niall,” says Zayn, and he knows he’s not imagining how small he sounds, or the way it completely undermines the warning in his tone.

“I’m just saying.”

“Don’t.”

“All right, all right,” says Niall, “I’m sorry,” and the surrender is evident in his tone. Zayn’s gut reaction is guilt, because they’re all that way with Niall, can’t seem to bring themselves to hurt him and feel worse than horrible when they do. It probably has something to do with how infectious his smile is, or maybe the way they all know he’d give everything for them. Niall is refreshingly transparent, easy to understand. His only goal in life is to enjoy himself, and make as many people happy along the way as he can. He’s doing pretty well for himself in that respect. Louis’ the worst of all of them, doesn’t even try to hide his soft spot for the Irish lad, but some days Zayn thinks he could give him a run for his money.

“’S okay,” says Zayn eventually, because he’s weak and it’s Niall, “I just don’t really like thinking about it, y’know?”

“You’re gonna have to eventually, mate.”

“I have to survive telling my family first.”

Niall laughs, sudden and boisterous. “You’ll be fine, Zayn. It’s easier to tell the truth than lie, I think, you’ll be okay. Do it when you’re ready. Just get ready for it, and then go for it.”

“You make it sound so easy.” Zayn rubs a rueful hand through his hair, devoid of product today and every day he’s home.

“Maybe it is.”

“Maybe.”

Zayn can hear Niall’s smile through the phone. “It’ll work out, no matter what, we’ve got your back. Everything’s gonna be fine, Zayn, don’t worry so much.”

“Yeah, okay,” says Zayn, dubious and more than a little exhausted, “thanks, Niall.”

“Any time, bro. Good luck.”

Zayn hums something that sounds like acknowledgement and hangs up the phone. He ends up staring at the ceiling, this time, running over everything in his head. The boys all seem convinced he won’t back out, but Zayn doesn’t have that kind of confidence in himself. (He knows, in the end, he’ll do it; he hates disappointing himself, but he’d do near anything before disappointing these four lads who he’d be nowhere without). A branch rattles against the window, and Zayn glares at it distrustfully, rolls over and huddles as far under the blankets as he can. And okay, maybe Liam’s jumper is buried under the heap with him, but that’s entirely an accident, mostly, kind of. It just helps, a bit, because he never thought he’d be homesick from the other end, too. A lot can change in three years.

…

He wakes up at five in the morning shivering like mad, and he pokes his head up from under the tower of fabric he’d swaddled himself with to see what woke him. He notices the sound, first, incessant and vicious, of heavy downpour. The branch is hitting his window with a vengeance now, like it’s got something to prove, and Zayn moans and ducks his head back into his fortress, throwing the pillow overtop for good measure.

The thunder crashes and Zayn is still shaking, trying admirably to keep it together. He’s never been a fan of storms, and the flashes of lightning that punctuate the sky do nothing to help. His eyes are squeezed shut and he’s hiding under layers and layers of blankets and his hands are fisted so tightly in Liam’s sweater that it hurts something awful. Primal, really, is the way he feels, like he needs an anchor or he’ll lose it completely, and he hates the fact that he can’t seem to do any simple thing without Liam permeating it completely, without Liam coming in and showing how hard it is to kick him out of a life. Liam’s everywhere, Zayn knows, but he’s never felt it so vividly before, even with the miles of distance between them.

The thunder cracks again and Zayn clenches his jaw, tries not to clack his teeth together too hard. He knows, logically, that his fear is entirely ridiculous, but he’s been like this for as long as he can remember. Storms make him jumpy. It’s been so long since he’s had to sleep through one alone.

And, because he’s an idiot and delirious with exhaustion, he taps out a text to Liam and sends it without his mind giving his body permission. All it says is it’s storming but Zayn figures that’s enough. He just wants to hear Liam’s voice, but this is close to that, and maybe Liam won’t hate him for it.

Liam responds quickly with jesus christ zayn the sun isnt even up yet and follows it up with a u ok? that takes every inch of sting out of the first message.

Zayn’s fingers are cold but he answers anyway, already regretting having texted at all but also a little wild with the thought that maybe Liam still cares. The combination is enough that the butterflies in his stomach have gone into a frenzy, making it harder for him to breathe.

yeah, fine, sorry I texted. habit.

Liam doesn’t answer, and Zayn eventually drifts back to sleep. When he wakes up again four hours later, he thinks he dreamed it all, except he wakes up to (1) new message from Liam Payne and it reads its fine glad ur ok and Zayn thinks that maybe things will work out. Even if nothing else is okay, even if they don’t get back together at all (and god, just thinking about it hurts), they’ll be all right. Mates, and all that, just like before everything. They’ll come out the other end, not better for it, but maybe not so much worse. Zayn’s getting better at compromising. He’s getting better at comprehending loss.

…

He tells Doniya first and calls it a test run, thinks that maybe if this goes well enough then his parents will understand, too, and doesn’t bother raining on his own parade. Logic is for the confident days, not the ones where Zayn’s voice shakes so badly he has to try three times before he even gets out “I think I’m gay,” and after he says it his mouth stays open like he can’t believe himself. All of the buildup, all of the fear, and here he is stuttering to his older sister – it’s like an out of body experience, except he’s right here. He’s still right here.

Doniya is sitting on her bed and smiles prettily at Zayn, patting the space next to her. Zayn nearly collapses with relief when she puts a reassuring arm around his shoulders. He has to hunch a bit to accommodate her, wonders when he got so tall. “You think?” she asks, no condescension in her tone at all.

He smiles back hesitantly, a touch rueful. “No, I’m sure. I mean, yeah. Certain.”

She laughs, sounds completely unsurprised. Doniya inherited the same calmness Zayn did, the same ability to take things in stride (well, some things at least), and Zayn’s insanely grateful for her reaction until she says, “so how’s Liam?”

He nearly jumps out of his skin. “Fine,” he says, suspicious past the pang of hurt that shocks through him at that name, “he’s fine. Uh, why?”

“Because anyone with eyes can see that you look at him like he hung the moon, that’s why. I knew, Z, at least I had a feeling. I’m glad you told me, though. Now I can tease you out loud instead of in my head,” and she’s smirking, eyes dancing with mirth as she says it.

He’s frozen, rooted to the spot. Has he really always been so transparent, so blatant? He starts running through interactions, through the little slipups, and starts to feel physically ill thinking that his secret might not be a secret at all. Doniya must see something in his eyes, because she rushes to explain. “I know you, Z, that’s why it’s obvious to me, stop freaking out. Your little boy band is so ridiculously affectionate all the time that I’m sure no one notices. And before you ask, mum and dad don’t know. They keep asking me if I think you’ll bring Perrie round again.” She crinkles her nose. “Don’t, by the way. She’s lovely and all, but she’s a bit…”

“Much?” provides Zayn, startled into detachment by this entire turn of conversation. “Yeah, I know. She’s great, though.”

“Just not your type,” finishes Doniya, and she’s having entirely too much fun at his expense. It is, of course, significantly better than the alternative, but the little brother in Zayn is roaring with the kind of righteous indignation that only comes after years of faux sibling rivalry. They’ve always been good-natured like this. It’s an easy relationship, even after so much time away.

Zayn nods once and swallows hard. “How do you think they’ll take it?”

“Mum will be fine, I think. She might be sad or something but she’ll get over it. I don’t know about Dad, though. He’s old-fashioned.” She pulls a face like that’s the worst thing in the world, and he feels better. It’s nice to have someone in his corner who isn’t miles away. “Do Waliyha and Saf know?”

“No. Don’t know if I’ll tell them or not, yet. I don’t want it to come back to them, or whatever, kids are cruel. I won’t let any of this hurt them if I can help it, I couldn’t. It’d kill me if they were unhappy and it was my fault.”

Doniya looks sad, eyes older than her years. “And what about you, Zayn?”

He doesn’t have an answer for that.

…

Days go by. Something small and scared in Zayn makes him want to tell his mum and skip town, let her break the news to his father without having to stick around to see her cry, but he left behind cowardice in North America and he isn’t too keen on bringing it round for another go.

It’s been nearly a week since he told Doniya, and he’s spent it doing mostly domestic things. He fixes a few things around the house, and his mum coos at how much he’s grown, at how he’s a man now and when he left he was just a boy, and Zayn has to fight to tamp down his blush because it’s racing up his ears faster than he knows what to do about it. He’d thought he’d be impervious to teasing of any kind after living with Louis for three years, but this is an entirely different breed of attack, bright and earnest, and it’s a happy flush. Zayn’s happy.

He decides he’s going to tell his parents at the same time because he doesn’t want to go through the whole ordeal twice; once is enough, he thinks, and rehashing things has never really been his forte. And then he decides he’ll do it tonight. This, of course, requires his father to be home from work, so he has an afternoon to kill. He wasn’t planning on spending it shopping with Don, but she feels like comfort and understanding and he wants to soak up as much of it as he can before this all goes to hell, even if it means she makes him carry her bags as they go.

“I’m a lady,” she sniffs, watching him struggle with the load.

He mumbles, “well I’m an international pop star,” and her giggle rings like bells through the cramped thrift shop. It’s the fourth one they’ve visited today, and Zayn is thankful for the musty smell and crotchety owner if it means this isn’t the usual hangout for fans of his. It’s not that he doesn’t love seeing fans, and even chatting with them when he has the time, but this break he’s cracked himself open once already and he’s about to do it again, and he feels about ten notches past vulnerable without adding the usual insanity of his day to day life on top of it all.

The weather hasn’t gotten much better, but the lightning’s mostly gone. Now it’s just torrential rain and a heavy sheet of gray covering the city, and the streets are emptier than usual, fireplaces roaring to life and families huddled together in front of them.

Not that it’s stopped Zayn’s family from going about its business; the Maliks are a notoriously stubborn bunch.

Today, that business is shopping, apparently. Doniya is her usual self, a blur of contradictions, and her calmness offsets her insanity quite nicely considering the circumstances. Zayn’s most similar to her out of everyone in his family, he’d say, in that he knows how to have fun but he’s also about as laid back as they come, anxiety stringing him up and the rest of his being letting him down easy. When they were younger, they clashed. Zayn’s only just realizing that maybe, if he’d stuck around, this would be one of his closest relationships. Maybe it still can be.

They grab lunch in a café that barely looks open, lights blinking ever now and again, but it’s warm and the sandwiches are good and they’re the only ones there. The privacy is offsetting and delightful.

Doniya looks like she’s making an active effort to bite her tongue, looking up at Zayn thoughtfully and then back down at her food, or her phone, or at the sparse decorations on the wall. Finally, she bursts. “You and Liam, how long?” His face must give it away before his words can, because she visibly deflates. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, I just assumed…and you didn’t deny it earlier, but that doesn’t mean, I guess, shoot, sorry Zayn-“

“It’s fine,” he says, if only to put her out of her misery, “it was seven months last week, actually, but we’re not, like. We were, but now we’re not, I don’t think.”

She tries to make sense of it, bless her, puts her hand over his and looks at him with big, sad eyes. He’s getting tired of big, sad eyes. “Can I ask what happened?”

He wants to shake her until she stops asking for permission, or maybe stops treating him like glass. He doesn’t say he’s devastatingly beautiful and I miss him and I didn’t mean to screw it all up. He doesn’t say Liam is every single thing I love about summer and he makes me feel safer than anything ever has and I thought about a life without him and I didn’t think I could handle it. He does say, “He wanted to come out to our families. I didn’t,” and it doesn’t feel like enough.

“You are, though, aren’t you? I mean, you’ve already told me, and you’re going to tell mum and dad….” Doniya’s brows are knitted together in confusion, and he sighs, putting down his sandwich and resigning himself to the fact that he probably won’t get to finish it; he won’t have an appetite, anymore, by the end of this conversation.

“Yeah, s’pose I am. I wasn’t going to, but. I think I’m sick of hiding, too. I was just scared. Still am.”

The clench of her jaw reads I’d protect you if I could but Zayn’s old enough by now to understand that he has to protect himself, this time round. “I’m with you,” she says, a bit rushed, “Even if they don’t listen, or don’t like it, you’ve got me. You’ve always got me, you know that, right, Z?”

“Yeah,” he chokes out, except he didn’t know that, not completely, “Yeah, I know.”

He wants to hug her, suddenly, and he thinks it must be withdrawal from his boys making him crazy because he never used to be this starved for affection, but there’s an entire table and years of distance between them and she’s already withdrawn her hand, so he settles for a strained smile and the flush of warmth in his chest, decides it has to suffice for now. And it does.

They walk home instead of calling a cab because they’re still children at heart, and because it doesn’t rain in hotel rooms or airplanes and it’s been so long since Zayn just stood on the street and let the downpour drench him, so they’re outside for an extra fifteen minutes and both shivering like mad.

And then they’re running, and Zayn isn’t sure who started it, but halfway home they both take off, whooping with exhilaration, and Zayn’s beaming so hard he’s sure his face will split in two, and Doniya can’t stop laughing, it seems, and they reach the stoop of the house winded and rushing with adrenaline. Everything around them is gray: gray street gray house gray sky, but it feels bursting with potential, with possibility like technicolor. And the knot in Zayn’s stomach is still there and churning, but he also feels like he can breathe for the first time since it all blew up with Liam, and he thinks even if everything goes to hell I’ll still have this and he’s hunched over on himself trying to catch his breath and maybe his nerve, but he’s still smiling, and maybe that’s what counts in the long run.

As they stumble into the house, drunk on childish playfulness and release, Doniya slings an arm round Zayn’s slim waist and drags him in close, says, “I’m proud of you, Zayn, ‘m so proud of you.”

He mutters a thanks that’s no less heartfelt for his lack of volume, and lets his mum shout at him for tracking water with the kind of grace that comes with self-assurance. When he walks to his room it’s only to shuck off his shoes, and his phone and charcoal and notebook go entirely untouched. It’s going to be worrying, soon, how easily he’s slipped right back into domestic life, but he’s still got some time to enjoy it before he uproots himself again. (He tries not to think about how Don is going back to her own home in four days, and how he’ll have to leave just a few days after her, and very nearly succeeds in the attempt.)

He takes a long shower and scrubs at his skin until he isn’t shivering anymore, but he can’t wash the overwhelming out, can’t wash out so proud of you and it leaves him frazzled and warm and vibrating in a way he can’t explain.

There’s a quarter hour left until his father’s supposed to get home by the time Zayn’s out and dressed and presentable, and he’s pacing his room just so he doesn’t lose his nerve. It’s a trait he picked up from Liam; the boy always paces when he’s agitated, and Zayn pretends like he’s always done this, too, like it’s his own coping mechanism and not one he stole off of someone he loves too much for his own good.

The issue is he’s got ten minutes left, now, maybe a bit more if he’s feeling particularly nervous, and he should be thinking about how he’s going to approach this but instead all he can think is I miss Liam.

He misses Liam so much it hurts. He misses watching Liam’s back muscles work as he plays a game of footie against Lou, and he misses Liam’s stupid crinkling eyes and his stupid smile that’s brighter than the goddamned sun in the sky. Liam, who was the first and best and most for Zayn in this insane new chapter of his life; Liam who’s hard on the boys as a group but infinitely harder on himself, who pushes himself to be the best because he feels like that’s his responsibility. Liam who inexplicably hates tomatoes, Liam who kissed Zayn silly for the first time in a game of truth or dare, of all things, and afterward whispered I’ve wanted to do that for ages, Liam who works his body into fierce strength and planes of hardness but whose inside will always be soft and gentle and beautiful. Liam who Zayn loves more than he loves anyone, most days. Liam who used to love him back.

Zayn shakes his head like maybe it’ll settle him, like he can get rid of the thoughts careening inside if he only tries hard enough.

A car pulls into the driveway outside, and it’s louder than it reasonably should be, and something crawls under Zayn’s skin. The door opens, slams shut. A gruff hello echoes through the house. His mum is humming in the kitchen.

After dinner, Zayn thinks, that’s when he’ll do it. He’ll give himself one last meal. He isn’t sure why outing himself feels so much like a death sentence, but he thinks he deserves the kind of memory he’s about to create.

He makes dinner count. Laughs at all the right times and then some, cracks jokes that have nothing to do with his oversized life outside of this city, teases Waliyha and notices her new haircut, compliments his mum on the food, asks his dad about work. He comes alive, and his mum gives him a look like what’s gotten into you but he thinks she likes it too much to question it. It’s enough to spark some guilt in him, that he can’t be this version of himself for them, not all the time, but he brushes it aside easily enough. Sometimes, in his life, he lets his exhaustion win out, but not tonight.

All the while, his heart is trying to perform acrobatics, and his fingers shake a bit. Zayn’s no stranger to stage fright, had to work to get over it a long time ago, but tonight it’s like everything is brand new. He hides it well but not as well as he’s capable of, and Don passes him looks across the table like she knows.

He makes it through dinner without incident, and then dessert, and even helps his mum with the dishes after, feels a sudden and childish yearning to be as close to her as he possibly can.

But he can’t stall forever, he knows that, and his dad’s about to retire for the night when Zayn says, “actually, dad, and uh, mum, too, I wanted to talk to you about something, please.” He wants to wince at how entirely shaken he sounds, but there are only a few things in the world that can make him sound this nervous and he’ll allow himself a handful of downfalls.

His father is still standing with one foot on the first step, and as the seconds tick on he looks increasingly impatient. “Well, what is it?”

Zayn rubs at the back of his neck. Another nervous tick he didn’t realize he’d picked up from Liam. “You might want to sit down for this.”

And at that his mum’s head pops up sharply from over the back of the couch. “You’re not-“ she starts, but seems unable to finish, and she looks so distraught that Zayn rushes in despite not knowing where she was going with that at all.

“I’m fine. Not ill or anything, it’s not- nothing like that…. Don’t, don’t worry.”

He looks imploringly at the couch, and his dad finally relents, brows low on his face as he takes a seat. “What’s going, on Zayn?” he asks, but this time his tone is a bit gentler. He seems to have picked up on Zayn’s unease, and Zayn is grateful and uncomfortable in equal measure.

When the time came, Zayn always thought he’d be doing this for someone else. Liam, mostly. Sometimes the rest of the band, maybe a new boyfriend if that ever happened. But when he opens his mouth and says “the reason I haven’t brought any girls round in a while is because I’d rather bring a boy,” shoulders back and standing taller than he thought he’d be, he’s doing it entirely for himself.

The silence is deafening. His mum has a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with surprise, and his father’s face is entirely devoid of emotion. Zayn shifts his weight to his right foot, and then back to his left, wants to beg them to say something before remembering that he is an adult. He thinks that being an adult means having patience in situations like these. He isn’t really sure. He lives with boys.

“That’s, I mean, it’s a bit of a shock for us, love,” says his mum, and when she uses the term of endearment he feels like he could cry, “what happened to Perrie?”

He looks for his voice. “We were never really anything special, just two good friends. Her band needed to get more publicity and I didn’t have anything else going, thought maybe I could help.”

“Do the girls know?” His father’s voice is so hard that it’s barely a question, all flat lines of anger buried beneath blankness.

Zayn suddenly feels very small. “Just Don.”

“Safaa and Waliyha will not find out, understood?”

Something cold sinks down Zayn’s spine. He’d entertained the thought that maybe his family would distance themselves, but he never thought it could be worse than that. “I- yeah, yes, understood,” he says, stumbling through it and trying hard not to stutter. He has to shove down the apology that’s threatening to bubble up, reminds himself he’s got nothing to be sorry for.

His dad presses. “Zayn, you’re sure about this decision?”

He’s never been so afraid of his father. “It wasn’t a choice.” This time he doesn’t stutter. He sounds more confident than he is, but he’s a performer by nature.

It’s still storming something awful outside, the thunder cracking like applause, and Zayn fights a flinch. His father is shaking his head like he can’t believe this is happening. “It’s wrong. It’s just wrong. This- it’s unnatural, Zayn, I won’t stand for it, not under this roof.”

“Dad,” he manages to choke out, and he sounds all of ten years old. It’s like he can hear all the hope he had crashing into rubble and the rush of blood in his ears is louder than it should be. He feels frozen, rooted to the spot, and thinks I have never known so much devastation as this month has brought. He doesn’t think it’s over yet.

“I’m serious, Zayn. This kind of behavior will not be tolerated in my house. We have morals here, we know what’s right.”

This is him being disowned, he thinks. This is why he never wanted to bring it up. But he’s not a minor anymore, and he can make his own decisions, and he’s more than certainly not financially reliant on anyone in this house. Anger bubbles up and Zayn nearly feels indignant, but it’s crushed like an insect beneath the heel of his fear. He didn’t want this. He never wanted this.

“Yaser,” tries his mother, grabbing onto a fistful of the button-up she ironed this morning, “please,” but he isn’t hearing it.

“This is wrong,” he says, shaking her off, “it’s wrong,” and it’s all Zayn needs to hear.

Zayn’s careening up the stairs to his room with tears stinging at his eyes before he even realizes he’d been planning on running. He only hears it’s disgusting, Tricia, we raised him better before he’s shutting the door and turning the lock behind him. He slumps back against the door, chest heaving, and he tries to calm down but he’s already started to cry and it’s so hard to relax when your own flesh and blood thinks you’re an abomination, a menace to society.

He grabs his duffel and starts throwing things in without even looking, blinded by hurt and burning to get out of the house. He’d known this would happen, and a piece of him thinks you should’ve prepared for this better but he can’t hate himself for having hoped for more. He just keeps grabbing at the clothes strewn around the room with shaking hands and bites his lip so he doesn’t wake the girls. His heart sinks to his feet when he realizes he’ll be cut off from them, too, even if his mum is partly on his side, even if Doniya is perfectly supportive. Safaa and Waliyha are minors and living in this house and he won’t be allowed to see them. He can feel a headache coming on strong but he can’t seem to stop crying, just keeps packing like his life depends on it because he needs to be out of here by morning if he wants to keep his sanity.

When he’s done, belongings haphazard in his duffel and backpack, he texts Harry because he’d promised he would and also because Harry and his family are the most giving people he knows, and he needs to receive, today. I did it. I told them.

Harry’s response is near instantaneous, even though it’s…well, it’s not that late, actually, Zayn realizes, it’s just that the day has felt so long. Harry sends and??? and Zayn swallows hard.

I need a place to stay. if u can’t have me or whatever I’ll book a hotel its fine but I thought maybe you. He can’t finish the statement because he’s had his fill of feeling weak for a long while, and this isn’t helping any.

don’t be an idiot of course we’ll have you. when will you arrive?

tomorrow afternoon i guess

it’s a bit daft to ask, but you’re okay?

Zayn evaluates, tries to think if he’s fine in the sense Harry means. He figures that physically he’s all right, and he’ll survive emotionally, at least for the night. He’s stopped crying, at least, and that has to count for something. Yeah, he decides to text back, I’m okay. see you tomorrow.

have a good night, Zayn

Zayn leaves it there.

…

The morning hurts, but it isn’t so hard to sneak out of the house before the sun rises and leave a note in the kitchen where he knows his mum will find it first.

Mum,

I’m sorry for everything, I just need to be somewhere else for a bit. I don’t really think Dad wants me round, anyway. Tell the girls I’m sorry I couldn’t stay. I love you and I’ll be at Harry’s. Call if you need anything.

Zayn xx

The writing is spindly and thick with emotion but Zayn figures it’ll do for now. He just sends Doniya a text it didn’t go well, I’m at Harry’s and tries not to think about how long it’ll be until he sees his family again. It’s relatively easy to acquire a one-way train ticket, and he falls asleep on the ride there, lulled by the sound of the rails and the relative quiet of the carriage he’s in. There’s only one other person there, and she looks to be perfectly invested in the novel she’s carrying.

He hasn’t run into a fan in ages, it feels like. The anonymity is odd. Zayn doesn’t really want to admit it, but it’s almost lonely. He wonders how Liam’s doing; he was never as good with the quiet as Zayn, never as good with the separation.

The stop comes quicker than he’d anticipated, and he shuffles off of the train as the sun is finishing its ascent. The station is filled with pink-orange light, and Zayn thinks mornings are beautiful and also this would almost make waking up early worth it. It’s still very much morning, and he doesn’t want to show up at Harry’s unannounced hours before he was supposed to, so he hails a cab and asks for the nearest coffee shop on a whim.

There, he pulls up his hood and shudders against the cold, letting the warmth of the shop draw him in and envelop him. It smells like heaven, and Zayn orders a bold coffee in the largest size they offer, lets the heady scent and taste of it overwhelm him until he’s awake and more or less himself, settling into his identity of the day: weary traveler and nearly home.

By two o’clock he’s standing on the welcome mat to the Styles household and feeling violently insecure, like he’s intruding on something sacred just by being here, but then Harry throws the door open and hugs Zayn like he’s drowning, or maybe they both are, and Zayn thinks that there’s a good chance this will be okay. Harry is warm and his sweater is soft and his hair smells like rainwater, and despite his being made up of exclusively sharp angles they fit together relatively well. And if Zayn imagines another pair of arms around his neck, well. No one has to know.

They’re still wrapped up in each other when Anne walks up behind Harry, says “let the poor boy in, he must be freezing,” and Zayn thaws out until he’s steady enough to go inside.

“Thank you for having me,” he says to Anne and Harry both, because he might be shaken but he still has manners, and they throw him matching scoffs.

Anne is quick to tell him that “it’s no trouble, really, I always love when I get to see you boys. You’re gone so much.” Her tone is wistful by the end, and she gives Zayn a proper hug that reminds him a bit too much of his own mum to be entirely comfortable. “Harry’s step-dad is on a business trip, you know, and he’s sad he missed Harry; the house feels so big without him. I always love filling it up.” Zayn smiles genuinely at the insinuation that he really isn’t intruding at all, and then Anne flits off to take care of one chore or another.

Harry grabs a mug of tea off of the counter and hands it to Zayn, and then grabs one for himself; from there, he proceeds to drag Zayn to his bedroom around the corner and sit cross-legged on the bed. He’s doing that thing where he looks awfully young again, maybe even younger than his age with his hair pulled back with a headband and an oversized jumper cloaking his shoulders. Something about home drags out the youth in Harry. It’s a sweet thing.

Zayn opts for the desk chair, at first, spinning it round to face the bed, then decides he doesn’t like it after all, and that if he’s going to need Harry then he’s going to need him all the way. He hops onto the bed with only a moment’s hesitation, and Harry puts an arm around him without either of them having said a word. He’d been missing this, the easy affection that comes with the band. Harry’s warm and quiet and Zayn is grateful.

He breaks the silence with, “I don’t know if I’ll be allowed back home again,” and tries not to wince when his voice cracks.

Harry just brings him in closer and cards his fingers through Zayn’s hair, over and over, until Zayn feels like he can breathe again. “Your father?” asks Harry, and he keeps his tone as light as he can. Light touch, light words, heavy situation. Harry has a history with fathers who aren’t there the way they should be. Sometimes Zayn forgets.

“Yeah,” Zayn says, nodding, and he recounts the experience with as little detail as he can manage. He starts crying again partway through, thinks distantly that he hasn’t cried so much since his grandfather’s funeral, and shuts down that train of thought in its tracks. Harry just listens, nods at all the right times, and Zayn is ridiculously thankful for this, has no idea how he’ll pay it back. He finishes with, “I’m not going to apologize for who I am, I just wish he wouldn’t ask me to.”

When Zayn is done Harry just says, “I’m sorry,” and Zayn hates the phrase with a passion but he gives Harry a pass, because he’s trying and he sounds so broken up about it that it lights something up in Zayn’s chest.

“’S alright,” he says, “I’ll survive,” and he believes it, too. “I didn’t really sleep much last night, though, so if you could lend me a bed for a bit that’d be chill.”

Harry laughs a little, still a little solemn but recovering quickly, and leads him into the guest room before turning to leave.

“Harry?”

Harry turns on his heel. “Yeah?”

“You’re going to tell Lou and Niall, right?” Harry nods uncertainly, like he isn’t sure he’s allowed to. “Yeah, yeah, that’s fine, just don’t tell Liam, all right? I want to do that bit myself, that’s all.”

Harry says okay like he understands, and Zayn finally lets himself sink into relief. He feels like he’s been stepped on repeatedly, still, but the worst is over. He’s in Harry’s charming guest bedroom with the forest green walls and plush white carpet, and the bedding is full and smells like fabric softener, and Zayn falls into a restful sleep more easily than he has in weeks.

…

There are four days left in this “break” and Zayn knows exactly what he has to do. Harry and his mum – and Gemma, when she managed to find a few minutes to drop by and say hello – have been brilliant and kind and wonderful, but he can’t stay with them much longer, already feels like he’s worn out his welcome. It stopped raining hours ago, and Zayn never really bothered to unpack, and there isn’t all that much time left but Zayn knows how he wants to spend it.

The trip to Liam’s house from here is under an hour, but he doesn’t have to guts he needs to make that trip today. He’d pondered hopping onto a plane and visiting Niall before coming back, but Ireland is a channel away and Zayn needs some space, he thinks, to breathe, before he can do this. He could visit Louis, of course, but the lad always seems to have his hands full with four younger sisters and a mum with enough energy to rival Louis even on his best days.

No, he’ll take some time for himself. The silence never really bothered him anyway.

He wastes three days away without issue, visits Ant and Danny and catches up with them, sketches a potential new tattoo and six variations of it, signs autographs, eats terrible, greasy food from grungy fast food places, and relaxes. His stomach still twists, on occasion, remembering, but he’s living a little easier now that he can breathe. England is sweeter when you’re enjoying it as a local rather than a tourist, and it’s taken Zayn over a week of re-acclimating to be able to walk the streets like he owns them, again. The time alone has smoothed out the wrinkle in his brow and the frown lines by his eyes.

And then it’s the morning of their last day off, and Zayn is waking up in a too-big hotel room with too-big windows, and he gears himself for what could be the most disastrous day of his life so far. He hopes it won’t be. He’s trying to play his cards right but he isn’t exactly sure what he’s working with. He’ll have to go find out himself.

The way to Wolverhampton is beautiful, but Zayn tugs out his notebook and looks at that instead, reads old work about Liam, when Liam was his and even before all that; he smiles at the first mention of the other boy, his name is Liam and he has a look about him that says “I’m going to rule the world one day – are you coming or not?” and all Zayn had wanted when he wrote that was to be along for the ride. He’s so glad he got to be along for the ride. He flips through some more and catches phrases in jerks and stutters: gotten so fit and stories in his eyes and his hands are always warm. When he arrives in Wolverhampton he pays the cabbie more than he owes and steps up to Liam’s door with renewed hope. If there was ever a boy worth fighting for, it’s this one, he knows it. The realization is singing through his blood like electricity.

He’s mostly steady when he knocks. He has half a speech prepared, and when Karen opens the door with a surprised smile on her face Zayn thinks he can do this, maybe, he can stumble through this without choking too much on his own nerve.

“Zayn, how lovely to see you!” He tells her hello, trying not to be bashful. She looks over her shoulder and up the stairs and doubles her volume, shouts, “Liam, you’ve got a visitor!”

Zayn hears some shuffling, and then Liam’s shouting back, “Andy isn’t supposed to be here until evening,” and Liam’s coming down the stairs now, head down, “he said he was going to call first, but you know he never – Zayn.”

And Liam notices him, really looks at him for the first time since their fight. Zayn waves a little, shifts his weight to the other side. Liam is frozen on the steps and Zayn is trying not to freeze himself, fiddling with his hands and looking down. Liam’s mum seems to sense something between them, and she hurries to fill the space their silence has left. “Come in, Zayn, why don’t you?”

He smiles at her, grateful, but declines. “I was actually hoping I could borrow Liam for an hour or so, if that’s alright?” The question is directed at Karen but it isn’t really for her, and Zayn’s looking right at Liam with big, hopeful eyes. He thinks I need you must be blatant in the set of his mouth, but that’s a worry for another day.

Liam shrugs and Karen says, “Of course, love, have fun!” and just like that Zayn and Liam are both outside and looking at each other with all sorts of doubts written on their faces.

Liam breaks the silence. “I know a place where we could go to talk, if you want.”

“Yeah, I’d like that,” says Zayn, and he wonders if Liam can hear the apologies trying to break out into his tone, or the secrets lying just beneath. It feels like they’re worlds apart. Neither of them knows a thing.

The wind bites but the sun is out today, cool and bright and slowly warming up Zayn’s hands. They walk in relative silence, and out of the corner of his eye Zayn sees Liam’s fists clenching and unclenching like he can’t help himself. They trade little glances and pretend they haven’t been caught looking, and when they get to Liam’s spot Zayn doesn’t even realize it, except that Liam stops walking and Zayn is, for a brief moment, untethered.

It’s a river. There’s a bench a few feet from them, and the sun reflects off of the water blindingly, the green of the weeds swaying in the air. The sky is vibrant with streaks of gray. It’s beautiful and distant, Zayn thinks, and then he’s sitting down next to Liam and he isn’t thinking much at all aside from dear god I hope he takes me back.

“I’m sorry,” says Liam, suddenly, and Zayn goes to interrupt but Liam holds up his hand, “no, let me say this. I shouldn’t have pushed you. It was selfish, and I was angry and hurting and when I decided that the best way to deal with things was to confront you I had no idea it would end the way it did, I need you to believe that. I thought I could help you, or something. My mum always told me I had a hero complex.” His smile is small and self-deprecating and Zayn wants to kiss it off of him. “I thought maybe if I loved you enough, you’d want to tell the world, that we could do it together. I didn’t think about you. I didn’t think about why you didn’t want to say anything and it was so stupid of me; I was so selfish, Zayn.”

“Liam,” he says, “I-“

But Liam cuts him off again, words tripping over each other as he rushes to get it all out, “I know I was terrible but I’ve decided I don’t care anymore, I don’t mind if you keep us secret so long as we’re together, and it sounds corny as all get out but I just want to be with you, no matter what, and-“

“You don’t have to-“

“If you’ll have me then I was hoping-“

“You’re not listening-“

“I don’t want us to stay like this-“ and Liam sounds so miserable that Zayn drops any semblance of being polite.

“Liam, shut it,” he says, gently but firmly, and Liam shuts it. “This mess? It wasn’t completely your fault, and if you think so then you’re daft. We were both idiots, and I was scared and you were upset, and we took it out on each other. Which was stupid, by the way, but.” He takes a deep breath, tries to shake out the hesitation. “We’re not breaking up,” he says, instead of his big reveal, because he’s a pro at buying himself precious seconds, “at least, I really don’t want to.”

Liam’s eyes light up like they’re made of glass, and the sky looks twice as blue when Zayn looks up. Liam’s grin is every bit delighted, lips flushed like rose hips, and Zayn thinks he still loves me and his answering grin nearly splits his face in two.

“Also,” says Zayn, because this is the kind of victory that makes him brave, “I told my family. That I’m, like, gay.”

Liam’s still smiling but his eyes are different now, full of something tinted with reverence and apprehension and pride that Zayn can’t quite place. “How’d they take it?”

“Terribly,” says Zayn, but he doesn’t sound too sad about it, “my dad essentially kicked me out.”

“Zayn,” Liam breathes, and he looks shattered.

Zayn frowns because he hates when Liam pouts like that, hates seeing him upset, and so he says, “It’s okay, really, I’m not hiding anymore. I gave him some space and maybe he’ll come round, later, or summat.”

“He kicked you out?” asks Liam, still hung up on that fact, and Zayn nods with a sigh. “Is that why you were at Harry’s?”

“He told you I was there?”

“Yeah,” says Liam, and then he smiles bashfully, blush running over his cheeks like wildfire, “and that you were sleeping with my sweater.”

Zayn throws an arm over his face and groans, retaliates with, “Niall told me you missed me something awful, that you wouldn’t shut up about me.”

Liam just laughs. “Irish bastard,” he says, but there isn’t even a touch of malice in his voice. Just bone-deep relief and the heaviness found after a hard-fought battle.

“We’re all right, aren’t we?” asks Zayn, but he thinks he knows the answer, feels it in the warmth in his fingertips and blooming in his chest.

Liam stands up, says “C’mere,” and when Zayn acquiesces Liam wraps him tightly in his arms and lifts him off of the ground, spinning wildly. Zayn’s laughing and holding on for dear life; Liam murmurs, “better than all right, babe,” into his ear and it sounds sweet like revelation.

When the ground has stopped turning dizzyingly beneath him, Zayn’s still laughing. They’re both trying to catch their breaths, grinning madly across the space between them. “I missed that,” says Zayn, and Liam responds with the ever cheesy and perfect, “I missed you.”

Struck bold by inspiration and also the fact that he has missed Liam’s body more than he can even express, Zayn checks the time. “I’ve still got you for twenty minutes,” he tells Liam, smirking, “I wonder what we could do in that time….”

Liam, bless him, catches on immediately, and soon enough they’re too busy smiling like sunshine against each other’s lips to continue the conversation, light beaming down on them on this last day of February.

Winter is ending; it’s palpable.

…

Zayn walks Liam home with several new grass stains on his jeans and a new bruise on his neck, and he knows that he’s had lots of memorable moments but this might top the list. They’d passed the twenty minutes with rushes of we’re never doing that again and missed you like crazy and so fit, babe, breathing love with their touches over and over until they were both overwhelmed with it.

Their shoulders bump as they go, hands interlocked tightly, and they trade off talking about their breaks outside of each other. Zayn talks about Doniya, and how well she took everything, and how excited she’ll be to hear that things worked out; he mentions their shopping trip, and how he missed his mum’s cooking, and how the grocery clerk remembered him from maths class in what feels like a lifetime ago. Liam, in turn, talks about getting together with some old friends for a game of footie, and how he got to see his sisters for the first time in nearly a year because their schedules finally matched up; the fact that Liam relied most heavily on Louis through the ordeal they went through is hidden in between the lines, and Zayn is full to bursting with gratitude and humility and love. Instead of saying anything, he trails fingers up Liam’s I figured it out tattoo, smiling softly. He feels young again, but not small. He never feels anything but larger-than-life when he’s with Liam.

When they get to the Payne residence Zayn gives Liam a goodbye kiss that’s more like a goodbye make-out, and they’re only interrupted when Andy jogs up and says, bemused, “so you’re not still upset about Zayn, I reckon,” and they jump apart like school kids.

Liam tries admirably to keep from blushing, scrubbing a hand over his face like maybe that’ll help, but he flushes red anyway and it’s so endearing that Zayn just has to peck him on the cheek before turning around and heading out.

"I’ll see you tomorrow, Leeyum,” he calls, drawing his name out like it’s something sacred, and Liam just waves while Andy elbows him in the side.

He heads back to the hotel where he’ll spend the night before travelling back into London at unholy o’clock tomorrow, and he feels like his eyes are bleeding light, like there’s so much warmth in his chest that he couldn’t keep it in if he tried.

…

1 year later

“Zayn, calm down, man.” Niall’s tone is stern but his eyes are gentle, and Zayn tries to take his advice, he does, but his breathing refuses to cooperate and his pulse won’t slow down no matter how careful he is with his movements. This is just one of those things, he guesses, that you can’t really prepare for.

He tugs at his blazer, fixing the lapels for the umpteenth time, but capable hands stop him in his tracks. “Babe,” says Liam, “you gotta breathe.”

And, muscle by muscle, Zayn unclenches. “We’re really doing this,” he says shakily, and Liam laughs deep in his chest, nods.

“We really are.” He looks beautiful like this, nervous but brimming with excitement and hope, and Zayn’s family is absent aside from Doniya, who was holding her husband’s hand in the front row last time Zayn checked, and it’s just a dull ache. The empty chairs aren’t as sharply painful as they would’ve been so many months ago, because Liam’s family is entirely present and beaming, and Harry and Louis and Niall are just as proud where they’re milling around backstage, and that’s family enough for Zayn, for today.

They’d leaked a few rumors, beforehand, management letting the news spread as slowly as news spreads between one direction fans (read: overnight, thereabouts), and this press conference is the big one. It feels like the most important thing Zayn will ever do. He’s sure he isn’t imagining the weight his words will have, how he’ll be directly disobeying his father. Zayn hasn’t been home much, lately, but after this Safaa and Waliyha will know what he thinks they’ve suspected since he left.

Their fight had started with Liam saying he didn’t want to be Zayn’s dirty little secret; in time, Zayn realized that he doesn’t want to be Liam’s, either. So here they are.

“You’re on in five minutes,” says someone backstage, and the butterflies light up Zayn’s stomach once again. He looks around a bit manically, and Louis shoots him two thumbs up and a wild grin. Zayn smiles back, and it ends up somewhere between a grimace and a half-sneer.

The five minutes pass like seconds, and before Zayn knows it they’re all being ushered in front of the press, and their families, and more cameras than he knows how to relax in front of. Harry murmurs, “it’ll be fine,” as they file into their seats, and Zayn nods to himself.

People are buzzing around for another minute or so while the boys get settled, and Zayn is so glad that Liam is the professional one of all of them, and that Zayn can get away with being quiet most days, because today is going to take every ounce of courage he has and even then he knows he probably won’t be as charismatic or bold about it as Liam.

And then it’s starting.

“We have an announcement,” says Liam, “but it isn’t our usual kind of announcement. We wanted to let you all know ourselves.”

“Yeah,” adds Zayn, “we wanted you to hear it from us, because you’ve been so supportive and we’re massively thankful,” and it’s easy to thank the fans, that isn’t hard to do at all.

Under the table, Liam intertwines his fingers with Zayn’s, and Zayn takes a deep, deep breath.

“Zayn and I are in a relationship,” says Liam, and he sounds as cheery and matter-of-fact as ever, except Zayn knows him well enough to hear the faint tremor in his voice, to feel it travel down his arm.

“We know there have been some rumors,” says Zayn, and this is terrifying but it’s also fun, he’s also having a blast with it, “and we’d like to confirm all of them. Yes, we’re together. Yes, we’ve been dating a while.” He looks right at Liam, sees only warmth and fondness in his eyes, and squeezes his hand.

Liam beams then, eyes crinkled up and nearly shut with the force of his joy, and that never ceases to amaze Zayn, that Liam’s happiness has that kind of power. They lift their joined hands onto the table, and the press representatives go nuts.

The other boys field a few questions – Louis’ “they’re sickeningly cute, it’s past adorable, really,” comes to mind – but mostly it’s him and Liam talking about their relationship, and it isn’t so invasive as Zayn thought it would be. It’s typical couple stuff, mostly, like how long they’ve been together and how they got together, cute questions designed to make girls melt, and by the time it’s over Zayn’s smiling with his tongue pressed up against the back of his teeth.

As they walk offstage, Liam says, “That was brilliant,” and “no more hiding,” and “I want to shout it out from the rooftops, tell everyone I possibly can that you’re mine,” his arms swinging out wide and his enthusiasm utterly infectious.

Zayn just kisses him square on the mouth, and “Babe,” he says, “I think you just did.”