Work Text:
It’s Wednesday when Zayn wakes up to a voicemail notification bright and unhappy on his screen. One of the first things that pops up when he unlocks his phone. Three missed calls from the same unsaved number directly underneath that.
Zayn’s heart beats hard in his chest as he looks at the rest. A text from his mom. Emails he’s ignoring. All the other text messages from everyone he knows that he still hasn’t opened from March and April -- and May and June and --
A familiar itch is under his skin as he looks at the triple digits hovering over the envelope. Today it burns, an anxious needling in his brain that he could solve if he just deleted them or cleared them so it would go away and leave him in miserable peace.
He doesn’t clear them. He never clears them.
It’s almost a routine by now. Look at his phone, hate what it’s telling him. If there’s a voicemail, he gets up instead of lying about, goes and makes coffee. Stares at the notification icon until the machine stops bubbling and it’s done. Coffee, extra creamer.
No matter what time of day, he takes his mug and sits out on the porch, stares at it some more as he lights a smoke. One then another, and halfway through the second, maybe into the third, is when he’s awake enough to click the notification and bring the phone to his ear, belly sour with nerves.
“Where are you? That’s a stupid fuckin’ question innit? ‘Cause like, you’re not fuckin’ here, so what the hell does it even matter where you are? You could be up Satan’s arsehole for all I care. And I don’t, by the way -- I don’t fuckin’ care. I don’t fuckin’ care anymore, Zayn. I really don’t. I’ve never cared about anything goddamn less, hear me, like -- christ, fuck off I’m on the goddamn phone, give -- give me two fuckin’ minutes -- what the fuck --”
The line drops and the automated voice asks Zayn if he wants to delete the message.
He doesn’t delete it. He never deletes them.
The first one was a complete surprise.
Got it in the middle of dinner. A number he’d never seen before, so he rejected it, hoping it was someone he at least knew so a random person didn’t hear his voicemail tag and know they'd gotten Zayn Malik’s personal number. The notification lingered at the top of his screen for a couple of days before he checked it.
He was terrible at checking them, before. Before, well --
“I don’t know why I’m doing this --”
Zayn choked on his heart, hearing Louis’ voice for the first time in over a month; soft, like he didn’t want Zayn to actually understand what he was saying, and scratchy like it was after a night of chain smoking --
“S’not like I want to talk to you. Hearing you say your fuckin’ name was enough, just now. Fuck why am I even calling --”
There was an unmistakeable slur to his words, and Zayn wasn’t surprised that he needed to be three sheets to the wind to ring Zayn up --
“I nabbed this off Liam. Liam! ‘Cause like I deleted your number, right. Got a new phone, but here I am with your number and there was your voice, sayin’ your name, and -- oh fuck this, I’m not making small talk. I just called to say fuck you, Zayn. Fuck. You.”
The line went dead and Zayn pulled the phone away from his face to stare at it, eyes gone tight and throat all seized up. His hand was shaking as he hovered over the ‘Add Contact’ option, tempted to save Louis as something rude like ‘twat face’, but he didn’t. He wasn’t going to humor this, whatever this was.
He figured Louis would wake up in the morning and be stupid angry at himself for calling Zayn in the first place. He’d probably delete Zayn’s number again and be done with it. It wouldn’t happen again.
Except it did happen again.
Zayn was up this time, a little bored and a little stoned, and he hated that he knew Louis was in the US. Middle of the night, there. That clinging 3AM hour where everything slowed to a snail crawl. They both used to hate that time of night. Of course that’s when Louis would call, fucked up and lost in his thoughts.
If Zayn was calling, it’d be then, too.
Zayn watched it ring, face up on the cushion next to him. He waited and waited and waited for it to stop ringing. It felt like so long, he had a brief moment of panic -- what if it didn’t stop ringing? What if it rang through forever, like phones used to when there wasn’t an answering machine set up? What if he had to pick it up to make it stop ringing?
He didn’t know what he’d do if he had to hear Louis drunkenly yell at him right now, he’d probably be sick all over his couch. That last message put a lump in Zayn’s gut for days. He still hadn’t fully been able to shake it off, and Louis was calling again --
It did stop ringing. But it was so long until the voicemail message popped up that Zayn thought maybe… Maybe Louis just hung up.
But he didn’t, and the notification popped up the moment the thought was articulated in Zayn’s head. Zayn snatched his phone up, feeling anxious and flushed as he unlocked it, holding it up to his ear.
“Me again! Surprise! S’funny like, I don’t even know if you bothered listening to my other message, and here I am again talking to your fucking voicemail like a cunt since you’re not picking up. And you know what...? That’s fuckin’ fine. I’m doing fine, by the way. I thought at first... I might not be. ‘Cause we were supposed to do this together. And what the fuck was I doing without you? Guess the same as I’ve always have done. Maybe better now that your grumpy ass isn’t around to drag me down. Ha, get it? Drag me down? ...I’m fine, by the way, Zayn. I’m really fucking fine.”
Zayn stared at the top of the coffee table after the line went dead, letting the automated voice run through the menu options twice before he hung up, letting out a shaky breath.
He rolled two joints on autopilot, and smoked himself to sleep right there on the couch.
The third time, Zayn rejected the call.
Because he was half asleep and hungover, and he knew Louis is going to fucking yell at him, and he didn’t want to hear his phone vibrating against his bedside table like some countdown to it -- figured he might as well let Louis get on with it.
Except it rang again. Like Louis didn’t know what was happening, or couldn’t stand being rejected. Zayn let it ring through, didn’t want Louis to know this was affecting him the way it was. Maybe Louis’d think it was a fluke.
Zayn started his routine then, feeling poorly from his hangover and how shitty this made him feel. Louis, the fact that Zayn couldn’t keep himself from listening to them.
So Zayn got up. Got up, got coffee, grabbed his smokes, and listened.
“You know, I keep sitting here, like, sitting here thinking ‘what the fuck was he thinking? What the fuck’s going through his goddamn head?’ ‘Cause you never fucking told me, you know. No matter how many goddamn times I asked. I didn't get to know what was going on in Zayn fucking Malik’s head. Some best friend right? All that shit you talked, us being partners in crime? Us against the fucking world? Bus 1 forever, bitches? --” Louis laughed, loud and cruel, and every inch of Zayn ached -- “I wish I could stop fucking doing this. I wish I could be done with you, but I can’t just be done with you, I can’t --”
Zayn hung up before the automated voice could ask him what he wanted to do about that message.
Louis changed it up, started calling more than once, like he was goading Zayn into answering. Usually Zayn was still asleep -- and he’d taken to leaving his phone on silent now that Louis insisted on calling so goddamn much. Usually it would ring through, and there’d be something else for him to wake up. A couple missed calls, a voicemail for Zayn to obsess over for days.
“I think about that shit that we talked, like taking the band to the top, like we could run the world. Like I think about that shit, and I just think, you coulda said it -- fuckin’ said that none of this was good enough for you --”
He never deleted them.
“You didn’t have to fucking lie to me --”
Even when Louis was wrong.
“All you fucking did was lie to me --”
Even though Louis was always wrong.
“You didn’t have to pretend to care, Zayn.”
He never deleted them.
They were home.
Zayn knew because his phone was ringing at 2:36AM and not some hour in the middle of the morning. He was really fucking tired, and pretty stoned, and he watched it ring. He barely panicked about it anymore. His hands got clammy, his stomach tightened, but he didn’t freak out. All he did was wait until the notification popped up before dragging it closer.
“I don’t get it --”
Zayn’s heart slammed into his ribcage at the sound of Louis’ voice. Different than the angry edge of every single voicemail before. His voice was shaking, thick and full of emotion in way that definitely meant he’d been crying. Zayn’s hand tightened on the phone as he held his breath to listen.
“It was supposed to be us. We were… It was supposed to be us. The two of us, you know -- Like, no matter what. Past everyone else. Like, fuck everyone else. It was supposed to be us. Past the band, past all of them. It was supposed to be us. I knew she was too good for me. Always knew she was. But I thought you’d stay. Longer than her, even. I thought after, after her like maybe I’d just get -- fuck -- goddamnit, I thought I’d get -- that I’d... Pretty fuckin’ stupid, right? Doesn’t matter now. None that shite matters. Not good enough for you either, am I? I hate this. I wish I could hate you. I wish I could be done with you. But I can’t even fucking do that. Just can’t fuckin’ do it, Zayn.”
Zayn didn’t delete it, even though he wanted to.
Calls didn’t come until they were back on the road again, and then Zayn was waking up to them again. More of the same. Zayn was a liar, a pretender, a coward, selfish. Zayn was Zayn, and Louis should have known.
Louis never mentioned the time he cried. Zayn never picked up, but he knew he wasn’t cruel enough to bring it up even if he did.
Zayn’s drunk.
As he sometimes is, but it’s morning and he’s still drunk from the night before, and he doesn’t even fucking think about it before he answers the goddamn phone, because it’s been two days since Louis left a voicemail and usually there’s at least four between calls.
But he figures it’s like the Kaiju thing in Pacific Rim. The calls keep coming happening closer and closer together, until he’s calling every day, or -- or this happens, Zayn answers with a bleary, “Hullo?” and there’s an inhale loud enough to make him frown at his phone screen, brain scrambling when he sees Louis’ number.
Might not be saved, but he’s got every fucking digit memorized, doesn’t he?
“You weren’t supposed to pick up,” Louis says, razor sharp, and Zayn’s belly flares hotly.
“You’re calling my goddamn phone, aren’t you?” he demands, sitting up quick enough that his head spins. Which is fine, he doesn’t need his vision to be clear to hear the way Louis scoffs.
“You don’t pick up for this number,” Louis says.
Zayn hates how… how condescending he sounds. How full of himself. How fucking arrogant it is to call Zayn’s phone and act like Zayn shouldn’t have picked up.
“No, I just listen to every shitty voicemail you leave me,” Zayn snaps, too disoriented to control his mouth.
There’s a beat where they’re both silent.
“All of them?” Louis asks, sounding genuinely surprised.
“They’re on my phone, what do you expect?”
“Delete them, then,” Louis says, voice going sharp.
“Do you fucking hear yourself?” Zayn asks, low and a little slurred, but still exactly what he means to say. “‘Delete them’, like it’s that fucking easy.”
“It is,” Louis says petulantly.
Zayn laughs. It’s humorless. “It’s easy not to call. It’s not easy to fucking ignore someone you considered your best goddamn friend for years, even if he’s just treating you like a fuckin’ punching bag.”
“Zayn --”
“Nah, mate,” Zayn says quickly, voice shaking from how upset he is. “I’ve been listening to your shit for months, even when you refused to hear me out. I’m done. You wanna talk to me, then talk to me. You want me in your life? Make it fuckin’ happen. I’m here, I’ve been here.”
Louis doesn’t say anything to that. Zayn has to check the screen to make sure he’s even there, the line’s so quiet. The call’s still connected, so he drops his voice, serious as anything.
“You can’t act like I pushed you out, Louis,” Zayn says. “You did that, and then you come back and act like you get to yell at me for it? I’m a person. Like, a real person. There was a time when you realized that, yeah? I’m just done, alright? I’m done with this message bullshit. Talk to me or don’t, whatever, it’s on you. Stop calling me drunk and upset because you can’t handle your fucking feelings.”
Zayn hangs up and flings his phone across the floor, sliding it into the other room. His heart’s going so hard, he thinks he might pass out, but he’s wasn’t lying. He’s done. He’ll delete them if Louis leaves more. He’ll block Louis’ number if he has to. But he’s done.
He’s done. He’s done. He’s so fucking done.
It’s a Friday when Zayn’s doorbell goes. Long and loud, waking Zayn up. He gropes around for his phone, staring at the clock. It’s fucking early. There’s five missed calls from the same goddamn unsaved number.
The door buzzes again, and Zayn sits up so quickly his vision spots. He grabs his trackies and tugs on a shirt so he’s dressed, stomach knotted so hard he feels like he’s going to be sick as he jogs out into the front room.
His heart’s pounding so hard his ears are full of white noise as he tugs open the door.
Louis is standing right there. Fully stuffed carry on over his shoulder, beanie pulled over his hair, petulant look on his face. The skin below his eyes his thin and bruised, mouth a tight line.
“You look like shit,” Zayn says. It’s the only thing he can think to say.
“Well...” Louis shrugs and looks at Zayn expectantly.
Zayn moves over, doesn’t know what else to do. He wants to ask why Louis is here. Why the fuck he thinks he can show up at Zayn’s house unannounced after not calling for nearly two weeks.
But all he can think about is the fact that Louis is here. Solid, in the flesh. He smells like airplane and coffee. All Zayn can think about is hugging Louis, burying his face in Louis’ neck, and holding on for at least a full three minutes.
“I’m here,” Louis says unnecessarily, dropping his bag right there in the entrance.
“You are,” Zayn agrees. He can’t make himself do anything other than stand there and stare. Louis stares back with a wide-eyed look that probably mirrors his own, and Zayn’s pretty glad he’s not the only one shell-shocked by this.
“Why?” Zayn asks, before the awkward silence really settles.
Louis scowls and looks at the ground. Zayn watches Louis’ throat as he swallows, meets his eyes when he looks up. Zayn feels his hand twitch, he wants to reach out and touch Louis so badly he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Wants to cup Louis’ neck and run his thumb over Louis’ pulse like it’s a year ago, like he’s allowed to. Touches he used to take for granted… Now the idea has his heart fluttering.
He has no idea what he’s supposed to do next.
“I’m making it happen,” Louis says, tilting his chin up stubbornly. It’s so familiar, Zayn’s chest aches. “You said if I wanted… I’m here, okay? No messages, no bullshit. Mostly sober. I’m here.”
“Okay,” Zayn says. “Yeah, okay.”
Zayn watches the way Louis slumps as his guard drops, half hopeful expression on his face. It makes Zayn’s pulse tremble, like they’re really doing this. They’re really going to try to figure this out. Zayn lets himself smile, something small and wary, hopefully reassuring.
He should have known they weren’t done with each other after that last phone call. He doesn’t think they’ll ever be done with each other.