Archive of Our Own ^beta

Liam’s not nervous.

Or, well, he is. This team is the gold standard of college tennis. They would have had the championships last year, if Horan hadn’t gotten injured in the semis and all. Almost everyone thinks they’ll have it this year, with Styles leading the team. They’re definitely a lot better than the team at his old college.

Still, he argues with himself, as he trudges from the bus stop to the courts, he’s good. He knows he is. It wasn’t just being in a small pond, he is good. Coach Cowell scouted him himself, asked if he wanted to transfer. He almost beat Walker, who beat Styles by a hair last year, even if the team had lost horribly. It’s not like he’s a nobody.

He feels a bit like one, though, as he approaches the courts. They’re nice, nicer than his old schools’, and even though practice isn’t for fifteen minutes there’s still plenty of boys on them, warming up against the walls or volleying or stretching. There are some people on the bleachers, too, in gym shorts and with rackets tapping against their knees, one guy leaning against a wall smoking a cigarette, and a few older men with clipboards talking on the edges. Liam doesn’t recognize anyone, and he doesn’t know where to go. He’s not meant to be on the bleachers with the fresh-faced newbies, right? He’s not trying out, he’s got a place already. But he doesn’t want to just intrude.

“Hey,” he says to the smoking boy, because the best way not to look clueless is to ask someone and get a clue. And if he’s hanging around here, a good fifteen minute bus ride away from campus, he must be somehow affiliated with the team. Injury, maybe? “Do you know where Coach Cowell is? I’m new.”

“I can see that.” The boy looks up. He’s devastatingly attractive, Liam notes even if he’s not into guys at all, all sharp cheekbones and long eyelashes and a closed off expression that has Liam thinking maybe he should go ask someone else. “You can go wait on the bleachers, think Paul’s holding tryouts in a bit.”

“No, I’m not a freshman,” Liam tries to explain. “I just transferred, Cowell recruited me. I don’t think I’m supposed to try out?”

“Oh, you’re Liam?” the boy asks, and straightens, stubbing out his cigarette. Liam tries not to look at it judgmentally. Maybe they do things differently here, but in his head, no serious athlete should stunt his lung capacity with cigarettes. But the boy also knows his name, which is pretty flattering, if not a little intimidating. “Come on, then.” He adds with a hint of a smile that makes him look a bit more approachable.

Liam follows him across the courts, his sneakers quiet against the boy’s thumping combat boots. The other boys don’t look at them sideways at all, just keep doing what they’re doing.

“Haz!” he calls out, once he’s about midway through towards the other walls. “’ve got a present for you!”

A boy with curly hair pulled back into a ponytail turns from where he was hitting the ball against the wall, and shades his eyes with his hand. His white t-shirt is a little intimidatingly immaculate, Liam thinks. He must not be very serious.

“A present?” he calls back, and grins, dimples in his cheeks. “Oooh, gimme!”

Liam’s guide laughs and trots over the last few yards to him, Liam following behind. The guy—Haz—gives Liam a quick once over, and then his lip juts out in an over-exaggerated pout. “He’s not a present, I don’t care how nice looking he is. I thought you were finally gonna wear that cheerleader outfit.”

“In your dreams, babe,” cigarette guy retorts.

“You know it,” Haz replies, still grinning, then turns to Liam. His grin is a little dimmer. “Who’s he?”

“This is Liam,” cigarette guy informs him, and pulls another cigarette out of a pack to tuck behind his ear. “Isn’t he the one you guys’ve been talking about all summer?”

“Liam!” the guy’s eyes light up, and he sticks his hand out enthusiastically. “Liam Payne! Great, I’m so glad you’re here! We were so excited when we saw the videos of you, it’s going to be awesome.”

“Thanks?” Liam lets his hand be shaken. It’s not a weak grip, but it’s not like he’s trying to intimidate Liam either, trying to set up a pecking order or something.

Cigarette guy gives Haz a smile, something different than the one he had given Liam, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Liam,” he says, with grave patience, “This is Harry Styles. I’m sorry he’s such a shit captain.”

“Hey!” Harry retorts, and Liam’s jaw nearly drops. Harry Styles. One of the top singles players in their division, the boy Liam’s watched videos of, tried to imitate his killer forehands, this bouncy, smiley boy? He looks like he’ all intensity in the courts, like he’s burning with it. Liam had been worried to meet him, really, a bit afraid he’d be too intense, not welcome a newcomer. He wasn’t expecting this, Styles dimpling at a boy in combat boots. “I am an excellent captain, Liam, don’t listen to Zayn, he’s mean.”

“You set it up so well, though,” Zayn informs him, lightly. “Now go be captainy.”

“Only ‘cause you told me to,” Harry replies, still dimpling, and Zayn bumps his hip lightly against Harry’s before he wanders off again. Liam looks back at Harry, and Harry’s staring over Liam’s shoulder, back to where Zayn probably was.

“Sorry,” Harry says, when he notices Liam looking at him. He flushes a little, shakes his head. Harry Styles, blushing. Liam doesn’t quite believe it. “So, let’s go introduce you to everyone.”

---

It’s a full two weeks of practices before Liam discovers Zayn is not really on the team, and he only discovers this because one day Zayn isn’t at practice like he usually is, sitting on the bleachers with a book in his hand. Given that this comes the day after Coach Cowell read them a riot act on being late or skipping practice, after Richards stumbled in fifteen minutes after warm-ups started and hungover too, Liam sidles over to Louis. Usually, he’d ask Harry, because Harry tends to be more approachable, but Harry is stretching with a storm cloud look on his face. He looks enough like the Styles in the videos that Liam wants to avoid him. “Where’s Zayn?” Liam asks. “Is coach going to be mad he’s missing?”

He doesn’t particularly know Zayn, because he’s not on the courts and that’s how Liam gets to know people best, but he rides back with them and is at the house a lot, and Liam likes him. He gets Liam’s geeky references and is quietly hysterical and gives good hugs, even if Liam’s not sure why all of these boys hug each other so often. Zayn and Harry in particular seem to think a second not touching somebody, usually each other, is a second wasted. It makes sense with them, because they’re involved somehow, but then Zayn will kiss Niall on the cheek or Harry will cuddle up to Louis and he gets confused all over again.

But anyway, Liam doesn’t want to get Zayn in trouble, or anything. Which he thinks makes it a reasonable enough question that it doesn’t deserve the loud laugh Louis lets out. It makes Niall, who’s waiting on the sidelines, look over with a question on his face.

“Liam,” Louis gets out, between heaving breaths, “Wants to know if coach will get mad Zayn’s not here.”

Niall’s face breaks into his sunny smile, and he starts to guffaw as well. Liam crosses his arms over his chest. He hates being laughed at for no reason. “What?” he demands.

It’s Niall who manages to control his laughter long enough to explain. “Zayn’s not on the team,” he says, “God, tell him you thought that sometime, he’ll laugh forever.”

“He’s about the least athletic person ever,” Louis adds. “I think we got him to run with us once.”

“That was only because Harry pouted.”

“I like to think my blackmail had something to do with it too.”

“Anyway,” Niall goes on, when Liam shoots Louis a questioning look because he’s not entirely sure he’s joking about blackmail, “Zayn’s not on the team.”

“He just likes us a lot,” Louis agrees. “Though today he’s got a class or something to go to.”

“Not quite,” Niall shakes his head, and jerks his head at where Harry is still stewing in an uncharacteristically bad mood. “Can’t be, look at him.”

“Ah, yes.” Louis nods intelligently. Liam has very little idea what they are talking about, but he nods too. Before he can ask, Coach blows the whistle and they all gather together.

The next day, on the bus, Zayn shrugs from where he’s resting against Harry’s chest on their seat on the bus and explains that Louis’s been his best friend forever and then he ended up rooming with Niall freshman year and between them and Harry—who just popped up, Zayn says with one of his fond smiles, which gets him a squeeze around the waist—he just started going and never stopped.

---

The first party Liam goes to with the boys is a month after school starts, because apparently helping Louis and Zayn sneak into the Coach’s office is a test of some sort, and the next day on the bus home Harry mentions that they’re all going out the next night, does Liam want to come? Louis’s there with his sharp smirk, and Niall’s grinning encouragement, and Zayn’s got that steady, unjudging look on, and so even though parties aren’t, like, really Liam’s thing, he nods. It’ll be good bonding, he supposes.

Sure enough, the party isn’t particularly his thing, but he likes it. It’s in a crowded house—the crew house, Louis had yelled in his ear when they stepped in, and everyone’s at least buzzed and pressed together and shouting and the energy is infectious. He accepts a beer from Niall, then lets Harry drag him in, one hand on Liam’s wrist and one on Zayn’s.

He loses them quickly, though, gets caught up talking with a pretty girl with strawberry-blonde curls and laughing eyes, and then Niall pulls him into a game of beer pong. Liam’s not very good but he tries, and Niall doesn’t seem to mind when Liam nearly loses them the game. But once Niall sinks three shots in a row for victory, Liam has to leave, too far past tipsy to trust himself, so he stumbles out of the main room to get some air, hoping for outside.

He doesn’t find it. Instead, he finds a hall, and at the other end, tucked into a corner, he sees Harry through the shadows, pressed against a wall by another body. Liam looks away—he has zero interest in the sounds they’re making, the moans and the way Harry’s head tilts back—but before he can fully get away, he gets a glimpse of light brown hair and a checked shirt Zayn would never dream of wearing.

He’s drunk, he figures, he must be imagining it. He knows Harry, Harry wouldn’t hurt a fly, Harry’s brilliant and burning and wouldn’t—but then he stumbles back into the main room and Zayn’s sprawled out on Louis on the couch, eyes bright with alcohol. “Liam!” he yells, grinning happy and drunk, and Liam looks at him, and then back to the hall, and doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything.

He keeps on not saying anything that night, while they stumble back to the tennis house, Louis and Niall with their arms over each other’s shoulders, singing Irish drinking songs off key enough Liam’s wincing with it, Zayn basically carrying Harry, who’s wrapped both arms around Zayn’s waist and is muttering things into his throat. Liam feels a little sick.

He feels worse when they wake up, all of them in the living room. Apparently they had been too drunk to manage to get to their own rooms. Liam picks himself up from the pile of Niall and Louis on the floor cushions, and looks over to the couch. Harry and Zayn are asleep, basically spooning. Harry’s got his face buried in the back of Zayn’s neck, and Zayn’s holding one of Harry’s hands against his chest, and Liam looks away.

Doing that jiggles everyone around him, so Niall blinks awake as well. “Did we win?” he asks blearily. Liam gives him a confused look. Niall doesn’t seem to know what he’s talking about, either. “Is there bacon?” he follows up.

“Bacon?” Louis asks, vaguely, and manages to elbow both Niall and Liam in various body parts when he sits up. “I want bacon.”

“Get Harry to make some,” Niall suggests. He’s already waking up, despite how much he drank. Niall, Zayn told Liam last night, his lips too close to Liam’s ear and hugging him tighter than Liam thought boys did, is a credit to his Irish ancestors when it comes to drinking.

“Harry’s asleep,” Liam points out. He doesn’t really want to talk to Harry right now, to be honest. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to deal with him. He’s on Harry’s team, but cheating…

“Wake him up.”

“You’re so high maintenance, Horan, I don’t know how I deal with you,” Louis moans, but he pulls himself up to sitting, looks over to the couch. “Hey, Styles! Make us food.”

No one on the couch moves. Louis sighs heavily, and grabs the pillow from behind his head to throw at Harry. It hits Harry in the head, grazing Zayn. “Styles!” he calls again, louder. It makes Harry shift, pulling himself closer to Zayn. “C’mon, Harry, wake up already.”

“No.” Harry mutters. “Leave me alone, Lou.”

“But I want bacon.” Louis rolls his eyes. “You can cuddle with Zayn some other time, I want bacon.”

“I’m comfy,” Harry retorts, but he’s clearly waking up. He’s not moving, though. Liam kind of wants to shake him, to yell and scream at him for messing with something so clearly good. “Zayn’s comfy.”

“Harrrrry,” Louis whines, and Harry huffs out a sigh.

“Fine, get out, don’t wake him up.” Harry pushes himself up on an elbow, gives Zayn a look, and Liam doesn’t get it. How can he look at Zayn like that, like Mary Jane looks at Spiderman, and then cheat on him?

But Harry does. He looks at him, and pulls gently on his hand, and Zayn murmurs and doesn’t let go. Harry smiles, a little—not his huge bright grin he gets when they win, or the one he gets when Louis says something funny, but something soft and loving and adoring. Liam looks away, gets out of bed himself before he can look at it.

Louis and Niall precede him out of the room. When he looks back for a second, to see if Harry’s coming, he sees Harry brush a lock of hair out of Zayn’s face before he leaves.

In the kitchen, Harry stands over the stove in nothing but his boxers as Louis and Niall sit at the table. Liam perches on the counter. He’s not sure what he’s allowed to do, what he’s allowed to say, but he can’t—he can’t just let it go. He tries for a good ten minutes, as Harry makes bacon, but in the end, Liam just—he has to at least say something.

“So,” he says, sharply, “Have a good night, Harry?”

He can’t see Harry’s face, but he sees the flush that goes down his neck. “What do you mean?” Harry asks, too quick. “I mean, I didn’t—”

“At the party,” Liam snaps. Niall gives him a questioning look, but it won’t do any of them good for their captain to be having secrets. If this is how the team works, Liam’s not sure how he can work with them. “With that guy.”

“Hm?” Louis asks, eyes narrowing. “Ooh, who?”

“Chris Jenkins,” Harry answers, easily. The flush is going down, weirdly. He doesn’t even sound ashamed. “You know, with the pecs?”

“Right, well done!” Louis claps a little. Liam shoots him a look. How can he approve of this? He’s supposed to be Zayn’s friend!

“Who’s doing well?” a blurred voice comes from the door. Zayn wanders forward, sits down at a chair next to Louis, crosses his arms on the table in front of him, drops his head onto them. No one seems to comment.

“Harry,” Niall explains. “Hooked up with Chris Jenkins last night.”

Zayn grunts. Liam stares. That is…not the reaction he was expecting. But Zayn doesn’t say anything, not as Harry plates the bacon and puts it onto the table, then turns back to the counter for a second.

“Here, Zaynie.” Harry puts a mug of tea Liam hadn’t even noticed him making next to Zayn’s elbow. “Tea.”

Zayn lifts his head, looks up at Harry through his eyelashes, and smiles. There’s no edge to this smile, not like the irony he uses all the rest of the time. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?” he asks, and grabs at the tea. Harry laughs, but Liam doesn’t think it’s whole-hearted. Liam’s just confused. Why isn’t Zayn mad? Maybe they have some sort of open relationship?

There’s only one way to know. “Wait,” he says, and everyone turns to look at him. He wills down his blush. “You two aren’t…”

Harry’s eyes go so wide they almost take up his whole face. Zayn’s face closes off completely.

“No,” Zayn answers, short and fast, and takes a sip of tea.

“Definitely not,” Harry fills in quickly, and takes a step away.

“Not at all,” Louis drawls, into the silence, “Why ever would you think that, Liam?” The quick roll of his eyes he gives Liam says he knows very well why he would think that.  

“I—sorry.” Shit. What is he supposed to—and he snapped at Harry—

“No problem,” Harry says. He takes another deliberate step away from Zayn. Zayn takes another deliberate sip of his tea. “It’s—we’re touchy. It happens.”

All the time, Louis mouths at Liam. Then, out loud, “Oh, you thought Haz was cheating on Zayn! That’s why you were mad.”

“Well, I mean—yeah, but—I didn’t—” Liam stutters.

“I wouldn’t!” Harry cuts him off, voice quicker than Liam’s ever heard it before. He shoots a sideways glance at Zayn, but Zayn is staring very determinedly into his cup. “I mean, we aren’t, but if we were—I wouldn’t. I don’t cheat.”

Zayn looks up. Liam still can’t read his expression. “Good to know you won’t cheat on our imaginary relationship, babe,” he says, smiling, and Harry laughs a little and then Niall, lovely lovely Niall, starts talking about the Opens coming up and everyone except Zayn is distracted, and Zayn appears to go back to sleep, one of Harry’s hands stroking his hair.

---

“Hey, look, it’s Zayn!” Louis points out, as he drags Liam—and Niall and Harry, though it’s unclear if they’re being dragged or agree with him—across the quad to get the coffee he swears will change his life. “A Zayn, in his natural habitat.”

It is Zayn. Liam’s not sure he would have recognized him, not because he looks different, but because he’s not standing out like he does with them, the one spot of dark clothes and leather and all in a sea of polos. He’s with two girls and a guy. The guy’s hair is neon green, one of the girls has a purple streak in her hair, and they’re all in a lot of black. Zayn’s got a big, flat bag tucked under his arm, and a wry smile on his face.

Liam slows, waits for Harry to call out to Zayn, because he’s never seen Harry not want to be near Zayn yet, but instead Harry picks up his pace.

“We’ll see him later,” he mutters, shaking out his hair.

Louis rolls his eyes. “Zaynie!” he calls, and Zayn looks over. He waves, beckons, and Harry lets out a long breath.

Liam gets it when they get over there. There’s ink on the purple-haired girl’s fingers, and Zayn’s got a smear of something blue that looks like paint across his cheek, and everyone except Zayn is looking at them skeptically, like they’re not sure they’re real.

“We were going to get some coffee at Nita’s,” Louis tells Zayn. He gives the others a sharp smile. Niall’s grin is wide and open, as usual. Harry’s looking at his feet a bit, for all he’s also darting looks at Zayn. Liam has no idea what to say. Is he supposed to be friendly? Is this some sort of Grease Romeo and Juliet thing? “Want to come?”

“Oh, Nita’s?” the boy says. “I prefer Candide’s. Less crowded.”

“Is it the best of all possible coffees?” Zayn shoots back, and his friends laugh. Liam doesn’t get it. He glances at Harry, and he’s chuckling too, but it’s not a real chuckle, and he doesn’t think Harry gets it either. Zayn turns to them. “Nah, thanks, though. I’ve got to get some stuff done.”

“No, bring them,” the purple-haired girl drawls. Her eyes skate over Liam, and he represses the urge to hide behind Zayn. She’s hot and all, but…something. “We need models.”

“No objectifying, Liv,” Zayn retorts. He ruffles Harry’s hair, which makes Harry smile a bit. Liam’s never seen him keep quiet so long. “Unless you’re going to put on a skirt and cheerlead for them. No double standards here.”

“Well, it’s only fair, isn’t it? After years of double standards one way—”

“But just going the other way won’t work,” the other guy jumps in. Louis rolls his eyes.

“See ya, Zayn,” he says. Zayn turns away from the ensuing argument.

“Later!” he agrees, and turns back to the argument, jumping in. Liam thinks he hears words ending in ‘ism’ and something about patriarchy.

“Thank God Zayn’s got us to keep him grounded, yeah?” Niall asks with a laugh, as they get out of earshot.

Harry looks back over his shoulder. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “Great.”

---

Liam’s sitting on the bench at practice, taking a breather as he watches Harry practice against Josh, when he feels the weight of the bench shifting and sees Zayn settling down onto the bleacher above them, his boots resting on the bench. Liam glances around for the coach, but it seems like Cowell’s given up on trying to make Zayn stay away from closed practices, if he ever tried. He’s never distracting, anyway, just reads or draws or something, sometimes watches when they’re doing something interesting.

Today, though, Zayn is looking at the match, his elbows braced on his knees. But he just says, “Your follow-through’s too short on your backhand,” his eyes following Harry as he runs backwards, then smashes a forehand crosscourt. Josh dives for it, misses, and Harry laughs gleefully.

“What?”

Zayn shrugs. “You looked annoyed at losing that last point to Gregory. You need to control your swing a little more. If you had, it wouldn’t have gone out, and you would have won.” He’s still not looking at Liam, fixed on Harry as he sets up to serve.

“But, you don’t like tennis,” Liam points out, a little stupidly. He does not get these people. Everything was so much simpler at his old school.

“Osmosis,” Zayn explains. “Unwilling osmosis.” Harry glances over between points, sees them. His eyes light up, and he blows a kiss their way. Liam doesn’t even pretend to think it’s for him; sure enough, Zayn rolls his eyes but grins back, puckering his lips into a kissy face. Harry makes a big deal of grabbing the kiss out of the air and putting it to his cheek, then goes back to the game. Zayn goes on as if nothing had even happened. “Think about all the things I could know if I didn’t know tennis minutae.”

Liam’s not entirely sure what minutae means, but he can guess. “You could just not come.”

Zayn does look way from Harry at that, gives him a flat look. “You haven’t seen what happens when I’m not around,” he says, flatly. He’s so serious about it Liam’s a bit worried. What does happen? “How do you think Niall broke his arm?”

“How does that—”

“Trust me,” Zayn says. He’s looking at the match again. “Someone needs to keep these idiots in line.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

Zayn shrugs. “Fine. Maybe I just like to see all you fit boys running around in shorts,” he suggests, and leers cheerfully at Liam until Liam shoves him and he tips back, giggling. “Oh, come on, Li, let me ogle at—”

He cuts off midsentence, even before Harry cries in pain and Liam jerks to look at him. Harry’s on the ground, Louis crouched next to him and Josh vaulting over the net to come look. When Liam looks back to Zayn to see if they should go, Zayn’s already off the bench and on his way; by the time Liam catches up he’s next to Harry too, kneeling on Harry’s other side with a hand on his ankle.

“It’s not anything, Zayn, it isn’t,” Harry’s saying, but he’s biting his lip like he’s trying not to cry, and Zayn’s hands seem very sure on Harry’s leg as he turns it.

“Idiot,” Zayn says, ignoring Harry. “You already tripped on it earlier, what were you doing?” He looks up when Cowell comes over, cranes into the knot of boys. “Think it’s a sprain, sir,” he says, sharp but not disrespectful, and Cowell nods.

“Okay, get him to the bench and put some ice on it.”

“I don’t—”

“You do,” Zayn snaps, even as he slides his arm gently under Harry’s shoulders. Louis reaches down, and together they lever Harry to standing, even if he’s mostly leaning on Zayn. They all follow the two of them to the bench, where Zayn lets Harry down onto the bench, then sits next to him and lifts up his ankle into Zayn’s lap. Niall hands over ice he got from somewhere, and Zayn keeps ignoring all of Harry’s protests to position it on Harry’s ankle.

“Okay, back to practice,” Cowell barks, and everyone jumps. “Liam, go in for Harry.”

Liam nods, and grabs up his racket, then goes to the court. After the first point, he glances over to check on Harry. Zayn is stroking his finger softly up and down Harry’s leg, right under the ice. By the pout on Harry’s face, he’s scolding Harry, but Liam can only see the way his eyes had widened when he saw Harry fall, the panic in them, and the gentle way he’s touching Harry now.

He shakes his head, turns back to the game, and catches Louis’s eye from the sidelines. Louis huffs out an exasperated sigh. “It gets worse,” is all he says, before nodding to Josh to serve.

---

The injury does turn out to be only a sprain, and a fairly mild one at that. The trainer orders Harry off his leg until it feels better and gives Zayn a meaningful, understanding look that makes Liam wonder just how often they have this conversation—he’s seen the stats, he knows Harry’s one of the most injured players in the state, and now he’s seen Harry, who for all his skill and grace on the courts can trip over air when he’s not on them. Harry watches the next practice, pouting and glaring and generally sulking very loudly, even if he looks quite comfortable leaning against Zayn with his foot up and Zayn’s cheek resting on his head.

But Harry’s like him, Liam thinks, like all of them, and staying off the courts for long is more painful than anything, so he’s not really surprised to see Harry ready for practice a day later, coming down the rickety stairs slowly but surely. It’s probably not a good idea, but Liam knows how it is. He once got mono and had to sit out for a month and it nearly killed him.

Zayn, though, clearly doesn’t understand, because he looks up from his book with his eyebrows drawn together and his lips thin.

Harry must catch the look, because he gives Zayn his most cheerful grin. “I’m fine, Zaynie,” he tells him, and trots over to the door with the rest of them.

“You’re really not. You’re still limping.”

“I’m not!” He is. Not too badly, but definitely favoring his leg. Liam doesn’t think pointing it out would help, though. Zayn gives him one of his looks, and Harry flushes and shrugs. “Well, it’s not too bad. Okay enough to play on.”

“Or you could wait another day, and then you would really be fine,” Zayn counters, his hands on his hips. He’s in skinny jeans and a graphic t-shirt, and he’s got his combat boots on and a book tucked into his jacket pocket. Liam always knows he looks different, dresses different, then the rest of them, but he really notices now.

“No.” It’s short, declarative, and utterly stubborn. “I need to play, Zayn. And you can’t tell me not to.”

“Obviously, I just—you could hurt it worse.”

“I won’t.”

“How can you know that?”

Harry huffs out an irritated breath. “I just won’t. I’m going to play.”

Zayn’s eyes narrow. “Fine,” he snaps, “Make it even worse. Get yourself benched for the rest of the season. Actually injure yourself. Whatever.”

“It’s just a sprain,” Harry snaps back, his hands on his hips. Liam glances towards the door, tries to figure if he can make it out before this turns into a full-blown domestic. “I’m not lamed.”

“This time.” Zayn runs his hand back through his hair. “It’s one more day, Haz. Just to make me feel better.”

“I can’t.” Liam knows the pain on Harry’s face too, the attempt to balance life and the sport that is their life. “Zayn, you don’t understand, I can’t sit it out, if I do—”

“One practice won’t make a difference!” Zayn’s face is doing that thing where he closes off again, where Liam definitely can’t read him and Harry, by the way his jaw juts out, can’t either. “You’re right, I don’t understand. I’ll be in studio. Call me if you end up in the hospital.”

He spins on his heel and stalks out, boots thumping loudly. Liam looks after him, then at Harry, who seems to be caught between anger and worry.

Then he shakes himself. “So, ready?” he asks, with a good attempt at a grin.

Liam nods, and they set off, a little slower than usual because Harry isn’t at full speed, no matter what he says. Harry’s quieter than usual, even as they get onto the bus. They’re early—Harry needs to be, as captain, and Liam just likes to be—so they’re the only two there, except for some soccer players in the back, and Liam lets Harry alternate between staring out the window and at his phone like he’s expecting someone to text.

“He really doesn’t understand,” Harry says, at last, like an explanation. Like he owes Liam an explanation, even if Liam really hadn’t meant to get in the middle of it. “Like, it’s just a game to him, just a sport. He doesn’t get it.” It sounds like Liam’s meant to say something here, so he grunts understandingly. It must work, because Harry goes on. “I’ve tried—we’ve tried—to explain it, and, he gets the game, sort of. But he doesn’t get it, you know?”

Another understanding grunt. “And, like,” Harry continues. He’s still staring at his phone. His lock screen is a picture of the team, and Zayn pulled in at the end by a grinning Louis, so he’s caught under Louis’s arm and Harry’s reaching around to grab him and pull him farther in. “I don’t mind. And it is too soon to be playing on my ankle, it is, I know, he’s right. And he tries. I mean, he’s here, all the time, to watch us, and he doesn’t have to be, at all, we’d still be friends with him if he didn’t, but he’s always here and…”

Harry trails off. Again, Liam feels like he should say something, but he has no idea what that something should be, so they sit in silence for the rest of the ride.

He doesn’t see Zayn for another three days, then Zayn shows up at the house before practice, and Harry grins at him so widely that his dimples look like they must hurt, and Zayn shrugs and smiles shyly, his tongue pressed against his teeth. Louis rolls his eyes and ruffles Zayn’s hair as he passes—Zayn bats his hand away—and Niall pokes at his forehead. Harry just keeps smiling, and he catches Zayn around the waist, dragging him along with him as they walk, falling easily into step. They sit with everyone else on the bus, but they might as well have not—Harry doesn’t let go of Zayn, keeps whispering things into his ears that sounds like ‘sorry’ and ‘always welcome’ and ‘not hurt at all’ and look at lot like ‘love you’, and Zayn is smiling and whispering back.

“Disgusting, isn’t it?” Louis asks, when he sees Liam looking.

“I think it’s sweet,” Niall argues, popping his head over the seat in front to contribute.

“They don’t notice?” Liam asks, and Louis shakes his head and Niall snorts out a laugh and Harry and Zayn don’t even notice.

---

Their first match is at home, and approaches terrifyingly quickly. Liam spends every minute he can the week before on the courts. He needs to do well, needs to prove he is worth Cowell’s faith, the boys’ faith in him. The other boys are there too, whenever they can—Harry staring fixedly at a point on the court as he smashes serve after serve over the net, Niall and Louis begging for partners to volley against. Zayn is there too, of course, on his back on the bleachers with his book shading his face from the sun, but Liam really doesn’t have time to worry about him and Harry’s drama, if there is any.

Liam’s the only one there the afternoon before, practicing against a wall. He’s been there long enough his shoulder is aching a bit, and the sweat is pouring down his back, and he knows he should go home and get some sleep and maybe do his homework for Econ, but—he can’t. He keeps on getting too much spin on his slice, keeps on—

“Liam.” There’s hand on his shoulder, and he whirls. Zayn steps back, holds his hand up like he’s showing they’re empty. “Just me, babe. Not going to attack.”

“Sorry.” Liam lowers his racket, makes a concerted effort to relax. “Wasn’t expecting anyone.”

“Obviously.” Zayn smiles, a little. “Figured you’d be here.”

“What—”

“You’re not going to let them down,” Zayn says, and Liam’s jaw drops, because he hadn’t told anyone that. Told anyone how terrified he was of that. “And straining yourself now isn’t going to help.”

“But—”

“Trust me, I’ve seen nerves. You’re fine. Come back to the house, there’s a whole ritual.”

Liam tilts his head. He is alone here, he’s certain. “Why are you here? Is Harry here?”

Zayn makes an unreadable face. “I figured you’d be here,” Zayn explains, simply. “And that of course Harry forgot to tell you about the night before.”

“Forgot?”

Zayn rolls his eyes, but he’s got his Harry smile on, the fond, tolerant one that shines out of his eyes. “Yeah, forgot. He’s too busy being nervous on his own. So you should go back, and then you can all be nervous together.” He reaches out again, puts his hands on Liam’s shoulders, presses down until he relaxes. “You’re not going to get any better tonight.”

Liam thinks about protesting, but he knows Zayn is right, and he also—if there’s a ritual, he should be a part of it, right? He’s part of the team. Even if he wasn’t invited. So he lets Zayn lead him back to the bus, lets him talk at him about superheroes and books and how he’s pretty certain Louis’s failing English because he didn’t know comedic was a word—Liam doesn’t tell him he wasn’t sure about that either until just now—until they’re back at the house.

“Here, I found you a Liam again,” Zayn announces, pushing the door open. The whole team is in the living room, cuddled up in blankets and team shirts. There are a few beers around, and a couple solo cups, and a movie on the TV, but mostly it just seems like them together. “You should stop misplacing him.”

“Liam!” Harry gives him a loose, easy smile. Liam smiles back, tightly, as he toes off his sneakers. “Sorry! I totally forgot you didn’t know.”

“Told you, shit captain,” Zayn tells Harry, grinning.

“Nah, it’s just that it’s like Li’s been here forever, isn’t it?” Louis fills in, and reaches out to pull Liam down onto his couch. Liam lets him, lets Niall throw his blanket over him and Louis set his feet in his lap.

“Right,” Zayn drawls. He hasn’t taken his shoes off or anything. “Good luck, all, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You aren’t staying?” Liam blurts out. He’s not used to Zayn leaving.

“Nah,” Zayn says, “This is for the team.” He pulls at Niall’s hair, pokes Louis’s nipple affectionately; even Liam gets a shoulder squeeze. He moves through the room, touching and muttering and giving encouragement, until he gets to Harry.

Harry tilts his head up, pushes into the hand Zayn put on his head like he was planning to ruffle his hair like he did Niall, so it’s more like Zayn is cradling his head. “You should stay.”

“Not today, babe,” Zayn tells him softly. His hand runs down Harry’s face, until his thumb is tracing Harry’s cheek. Liam legitimately has no idea why they are stuck in this holding pattern. It’s ridiculous. Harry’s gazing up at Zayn like he’s hung the sun and the moon and all the stars beside, all adoring, and Zayn’s smiling softly down at Harry like he’s the most precious thing he’s ever seen, and Liam’s pretty sure the whole house could come crashing down and they wouldn’t notice.

Finally, finally, “I’ll see you before the match, but you’ll do great,” Zayn says. “Get some sleep, tonight, okay?”

“Long as you’ll be there tomorrow,” Harry agrees. “Need my good luck charm, don’t I?”

“You’d do fine without me. But I’ll be there.” Zayn leans down, kisses the top of Harry’s head. He must miss the blissful look on Harry’s face, but Liam certainly doesn’t. “Night, babe.”

“Night,” Harry says back, and grabs at Zayn’s hand, presses a kiss to his palm before he lets it go Honestly. Liam is trying very hard not to gag. But Zayn just grins at him, his Harry smile, gives the rest of them a wave, and leaves. No one else seems to have even been paying attention to them, which is just—which means this happens all the time.

“Where is he going?” Liam asks.

“His place,” Harry answers mournfully. He’s still staring out the door, like he can bring Zayn back through sheer will.

“He doesn’t live here?”

“No.” In retrospect, Liam guesses Zayn’s not usually there in the mornings, but he always figured he had just gone to class or was still asleep or something.

“He refuses to,” Louis fills in, “Says he’s not really part of the team. So he has a place with some other art students.” He leans closer to Liam, so he can whisper, “We don’t like to remind Harry of that. He doesn’t take it well.”

“Obviously.”

Niall shakes his head. “You should see him during finals. Zayn’s never here. He goes crazy. Not that we don’t miss our Zaynie,” he adds, with his usual grin. “But we survive.”

“Somehow,” Louis agrees, then, louder, “Hazza. Stop pining, start the rites!”

“Right.” Harry blinks, slow, and his smile starts to grow again. “Gather round, men! We have tennis gods to sacrifice to!”

---

It’s bright and sunny the next day with no wind, great conditions, really. It’s not actually brilliant for Liam—he’s better than most at comparatively bad conditions, so bad weather actually works out for him—but it’s good for the team overall, so Liam’s happy enough. His match is early, and he makes a good showing, he thinks, edging out a win. When he gets his final point, the whole team cheers, and Louis tackles him into a hug and Harry grins huge and dimpling and he can see Zayn shaking clasped hands at him from the stands. It feels like the sun has sunk into his bones, like he can do anything, and he goes to sit on the bench to watch the other matches.

Niall and Louis lose theirs by an inch, a volley that just barely doesn’t make it over the net. Louis scowls and looks about to throw his racket before he storms over to the benches, but Niall does what Liam could never do and shrugs it off, shaking his opponents hand heartily, then following him over to chat about his swing and also, it seems, his girlfriend and life story. Zayn hops down from the stands, stands next to the bench to join Harry where he’s talking to Louis, so all three of their heads are bent together until Louis’s shoulders relax.

Harry’s singles match, though, is a nail-biter. His opponent is seeded just lower than him, and Harry’s ankle is still a little weak, and Liam’s on the edge of his seat the whole five sets, his hand gripping at his thigh when Harry dives and misses a point. Next to him, Louis reaches out blindly to grab his thigh too, like his isn’t good enough, and it’s that point of connection that Liam thinks about when Harry finally flawlessly executes one of his famous drop shots at set point , winning them the match. Liam surges to his feet along with everyone else, cheering and yelling as Niall jumps onto him as if a piggyback ride is the only way to properly express his joy, and Louis’s yell nearly deafens him. Harry grins at them, shakes his opponent’s hand properly, then jogs over to get mobbed.

It’s only after the team has properly slapped, hugged, and punched him, that Harry breaks free. Zayn’s standing at the edge, beaming; Harry throws himself at him, a hard enough hug that Zayn stumbles back a step before he catches him, wraps his arms around him and squeezes tight.

Liam looks away, back to where Cowell is trying to gather them. Harry joins them a moment later, still beaming.

---

The next ritual, apparently, is to celebrate. Liam’s more used to this one then the ritual pouring out of the chalk that happened before, so he pulls on his best jeans and t-shirt and meets everyone downstairs. Zayn is here this time, in tight jeans with a black button down on over a black undershirt, that has Louis rolling his eyes and jumping on him to try to muss him up because, “it’s not fair, really, can we make you have a bag on your head?”

Zayn laughs and shoves Louis off of him before he messes up his hair, then looks over at Harry, a quick glance through his eyelashes. Harry is very pointedly not looking at him, which means Zayn can look at Harry, in his bright patterned open shirt that should have looked ridiculous but somehow Harry pulled off. Zayn looks away again, grins at Liam, even if it’s not quite as bright.

“Looking good, Li,” he says, and throws an arm over Liam’s shoulder. Louis comes up to his other side, wraps an arm around him too so he’s sandwiched between them.

“So are we wingmaning tonight?” Louis asks. Harry’s come up on Zayn’s other side, his fingers twitching against his sides like he wants to touch. Liam shakes his head, glances away.

“Nah, not tonight,” he says. He’s still settling in. A girlfriend—he has enough problems talking to people in general.

“Anyone else?” Louis asks, shrugging away Liam’s refusal, and there’s a chorus of yes and nos and ‘I don’t need it’ comes from everyone else as they set out, laughing and jostling for position. They get to club and it’s already active, people lining up outside. Liam pauses at the end of the line—this is why he hates clubs—and Niall laughs.

“Haz?” he says, and Harry laughs too. He shakes out his hair.

“I feel so used,” he grins, and Louis sticks his tongue out.

“I’m gonna grab a smoke before I go in,” Zayn says, digging in his pocket. Harry dims, a little, but he nods, and Zayn slips to the side before the rest of them go on.

Liam’s still not sure how they get in, but Harry says some things to the bouncer, bats his eyelashes, and then they’re in. Niall drags Liam to the bar, then out to dance, so by the time he fights his way back to the bar to get another drink—he can’t dance this much on little alcohol—he hasn’t seen half the team in a while.

“Liam!” Harry cries, appearing next to him. His eyes are bright, and he’s clearly drunk. “Having fun?”

“How are you so drunk?” Liam asks, catching Harry around the waist.

“I dunno, people bought me drinks.” He kisses Liam’s shoulder, then pulls away again, grinning.

Liam snorts. “Have you spent any money?”

“Why would I?” Harry asks, like it’s obvious. “Have you seen Zayn?”

Liam shakes his head. Harry turns Liam so he can see the other end of the bar. Zayn’s leaning against it, talking with a tall guy with red hair and broad shoulders. As they look, Zayn finishes his drink. The guy says something, and Zayn tips his head back and smiles and looks at him, and the guy gives him an openly admiring look, and gestures to the bartender.

“He doesn’t pay for drinks,” Harry tells Liam, mournfully. “He’s too pretty, you know?”

“You don’t either, though, right?” Liam asks. Harry shakes his head.

“No, but.” He gives Zayn one more mournful look, then lets go of Liam. “I need another drink.” He slides onto the bar stool next to him, looks around, and somehow, magically, a guy appears next to him within two minutes. Liam watches with no little awe as he has a drink in hand—and, Liam thinks he overhears, at least one offer to head to the bathrooms –within five minutes.

Liam hands over the money for his own drink to the bartender, laughing and shaking his head when Harry winks at him over the other guy’s shoulder. As Liam turns to head back to the dance floor, he sees Zayn, glancing over at Harry for once brief second, before he turns back to what looks like a different guy, and giving him that long, intense look that he usually gives Harry.

It’s as good as watching a match, almost, Liam thinks, an hour later and quite a bit drunker. Zayn looks at Harry, gives one of his soulful gazes with his heart in his eyes, and Harry’s busy flirting. Zayn goes back to looking pretty and smoldering and attracts someone else, and Harry immediately focuses on him, his whole body drooping. Sometimes, Harry sees Zayn watching, and he definitely laughs louder, touches the arm of whoever he’s with, dimples, and glances over to see if Zayn’s noticed. Zayn just turns away, always.

“Hey, why aren’t you dancing?” Louis demands, appearing next to him after Zayn lets one of the guys he’s talking to touch his hand and Liam can see Harry physically restrain himself from going over.

Liam jerks his head between them. “I’m watching a soap opera,” he explains. Louis laughs, though Liam’s not sure he gets it.

“Yeah, they do that. But it’s not interesting, come on,” Louis says, pulling him forward. “They’re all boring and dramatic. You should be doing fun things.”

“This is—”

“I’ve done it for three years, it’s not,” Louis interrupts him. “Come on.”

So Liam lets himself be dragged into the dance floor, and he dances and laughs and drinks more, feels all of them around him like he’s in this mass of boys and love and team made out of alcohol and their win, and nearly forgets about the drama that’s playing out at the bar.

Until, that is, he’s tumbled out for yet another round—he is not going to be eating out for a month after this—and he sees them again, still on opposite sides of the bar. As he waits, the guy Zayn’s talking with—short and compact, dark—puts his hand on Zayn’s. Zayn looks at it for a second, then pointedly doesn’t move it as he looks back at the guy, ducking his head in what Liam thinks is a glance through his eyelashes. It’s the most approachable Liam’s ever seen Zayn look, when he isn’t just with Harry and Louis and Niall—this is probably what Zayn looks like flirting.

It must be what Zayn looks like flirting, because Harry’s moving. He hops off his barstool, makes his way through the crowd with single-minded, drunken focus, and drapes himself over Zayn’s back, wrapping an arm around his collarbone to pull him back into Harry. Zayn freezes, then gives the guy he’s with an apologetic smile. Liam maybe edges closer to hear.

“C’mon, Zaynie,” Harry saying. He probably thinks he’s whispering, but he’s not. “Come dance with me.”

“Don’t think you can even stand up on your own,” Zayn replies. The other guy is withdrawing his hand, and Zayn shoots him another shrug.

“Probably,” Harry agrees. Liam thinks he might be biting on Zayn’s earlobe. “That’s why I need you.”

“Harry…”

“You should take me home,” Harry announces. He tightens his grip around Zayn, and gives the other guy a smile that is not nearly as nice as usual. “I’m drunk. You need to put me to bed.”

“Think you can find plenty of volunteers for that, babe,” Zayn tells him. He reaches up to try to detach Harry’s arm, but Harry holds tight, doesn’t let him.

“No, it has to be you. Please, Zayn? Please?”

Zayn sighs, so hard it looks almost painful, and shrugs. “Okay, Harry.” He looks at the other guy. “Sorry. Drunk friends, you know.”

“Right.” The guy shrugs back. “See you ‘round?”

“Sure. You’ve got my number? I want to tell you about the—Haz!” Harry, from what Liam can see, bit Zayn’s neck. “Shit, okay, he’s drunk.”

“Not sure he is, actually,” the other guy says enigmatically, but he leaves with good grace, and Zayn levers Harry around so he can slide an arm around his waist instead. He catches Liam’s eye as he does. Liam tries to look like he wasn’t watching.

“I’m taking this one home,” he says with a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. Harry’s pressed against him, head on his shoulder and lips against his skin. “You all going to be okay?”

“Think we’ll manage.” Liam resists the urge to ask if Zayn will. “Will he?”

“He gets like this,” Zayn says, and tightens his grip so Harry stays upright. “Call if you need help.”

Then they’re gone, the two of them, and Liam just looks after them and almost wants to laugh.

---

It’s ridiculous, he decides upon waking the next morning. Well, after his hangover fades in the face of Niall’s Mystery Cure—mystery, Louis tells him, because no one wants to know what’s in it for their own safety—and Harry comes out of his room and poutily informs them, when Niall asks if he’s making any for Zayn too, that Zayn went back to his last night. The other boys might not be meddlers enough, but Liam sees a problem and he fixes it, and this is clearly a problem.

The first step is to figure out why they’re such idiots and haven’t seen how the other one looks at them. That means cornering them when they’re alone, which is easy for Harry, because Liam just follows him back into his room when he’s had his Cure and is looking a little more human.

Harry doesn’t comment at Liam coming into his room, just falls back onto his bed with one hand over his forehead like a fainting maiden in one of those old-time book covers. Liam can’t quite figure out where to sit, otherwise—the chair has clothes on it, and Harry’s taken up the bed, and the desk has books and some papers and what looks like a sketchbook—so he just hovers by the door.

“You okay?” he starts. It’s always a good question to lead with. “I saw you last night, you were pretty drunk.”

Harry doesn’t move his hand. “I wasn’t.”

“Really? ‘cause you looked…”

“I know. I mean, I was drunk. But I wasn’t falling down. It just—it usually works.”

“Works?”

“Yeah, works. He doesn’t—he’ll take care of me, if he thinks I’m that drunk. You haven’t seen, I guess.” It’s an easier job getting him to admit it than Liam expected, and when he doesn’t answer Harry lifts up his hand and smiles at him without his usual humor. “I’m not actually that good a person, Liam. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Why not?” Harry clearly wants to talk about this, if he’s taking Liam’s silences and short answers as cues. This is good. At least Harry isn’t in denial or anything.

“Because I didn’t want him to go home with that guy last night. So I got him to take me home.” Harry shrugs. He looks…bleak. Liam thinks of the way he had beamed yesterday when he won. It’s sad, really. God save him from—whatever this is. Drama. “I know it’s not fair to him or anything, it’s not like he shouldn’t—but—” Harry sighs, scoots up the bed so he can sit up. “I can’t watch that happen. I can’t. I know he does, I know he does all sorts of things when he’s not here, but…” Harry shudders. “I don’t want to think about it, even.”

“Have you thought about telling him?” That gets a laugh out of Harry. “What?” Liam asks. He’s always found the straightforward approach works.

“He thinks of me as his kid brother, or a dumb jock,” Harry explains. Liam cannot even begin to explain how wrong that is, but Harry’s going on. “Like, always having to take care of me, and laughing at me, and humoring me with all the tennis stuff even though he doesn’t care, and—it’s, I love him for it, you know? For taking care of me and liking my jokes and everything, and have you seen him smile, Li? Really smile? It’s like he glows, it’s like everything. It’s like he thinks I could do anything. Or, his drawings? He’s brilliant, they’re brilliant. I steal his sketchpads sometimes, so I can look at them.” Harry shakes his head. His hair falls messy into his face, and he looks young, for all he also looks exhausted. “And I’ll—it’ll be okay, you know? It’s how it is, and being with him’s great too. I just wish he’d stayed.” Harry looks mournfully at the bed. “Sometimes he stays. Those are the best nights.”

Liam leaves him alone at that, because he looks like he wants to be. When he comes back into the kitchen, Niall gives him a knowing look. “How long did he talk about his cheekbones for?” he asks, munching on some toast. “Or was it his eyelashes this time?”

“My record’s three hours once, at that away match when he got really drunk off of wine,” Louis puts in.

“Really? I only got two and a half, last Christmas when Zayn went home.”

“Four,” one of the other boys adds from the couch, and it’s so utterly, painfully stupid Liam just has to laugh.

---

But Liam is determined. He can do this. He is good at fixing things.

Tracking down Zayn is harder, because Liam doesn’t actually know what he does when he’s not at the tennis house or at the courts, but eventually he asks Louis and Louis tells him where he’ll be after class, which is apparently in an art building Liam’s barely even heard of, sitting in a classroom filled with easels staring out the window. He turns when Liam walks in, and his eyebrows shoot up.

“Everything okay?” he asks, immediately. “Who died?”

“What? No, everyone’s okay, last I checked.” Liam inches in. He wonders if he’ll break anything if he sits down. Maybe the desks are art? Zayn’s just sitting on one, but who knows the rules here. “Why?”

“Because I can’t think of any other reason you’d be here,” Zayn answers, easily enough. “I didn’t think you lot even knew this side of campus existed.”

As Liam had had to consult a map to get here, it’s not unreasonable. Still, “Louis knew you were here.”

“Well, yeah, Lou.” Zayn waves a hand, as if dismissing Louis into a category of people who don’t count. “So, what’s up?”

“I…” It’s harder to start, with Zayn. He doesn’t think it’ll be as easy, for one, and for another there’s something about Zayn that intimidates Liam. It’s not like Harry—Liam knows what intimidates him about Harry. It’s the charm and the skill and the way he seems to succeed at life without ever trying. But it’s not Zayn’s looks that intimidate him, or even his style. He just doesn’t get Zayn, he thinks. He’s not a tennis jock like the rest of them. He doesn’t know what to think. “Which one’s yours?”

“Hm?”

“What’s yours, here?” Liam asks. Zayn blinks, surprised, then slides off the desk.

“I don’t have anything here, really—the show’s not for a month or so, I’m still starting, but there’s this one.” He steps aside so Liam can look at it. It’s a set he thinks—a intricate drawing of someone running, their face turned away (Liam’s not sure, but he thinks it’s Harry), and then next to it the same thing but in spray paints, all primary colors and blocky shapes. It’s really cool, for sure.

“That’s awesome!” he exclaims.

Zayn shrugs, but his lips are tilting up. “It’s a series, like, of things like that. I want to expand it, do other mediums—I’m okay enough at graphic design that I could do that, maybe ask Perry about collaborating for sculpture—but for now it’s just the two. Like, different viewpoints, you know?”

“Sure.” Liam has no idea. But it sounds right. “Is that what you’re doing at practice then? Drawing?”

“Sometimes. Like, not always for this. Other times I am just ogling.”

It’s as good an opening as Liam thinks he’s going to get. “Ogling all of us?”

“Well, some of you are more attractive than others.” Zayn gives the painting one more look, wrinkles his nose, then turns away. “Have you seen Louis’s ass?”

“And Harry?”

Zayn’s shoulders tense. “And Harry,” he agrees, slowly, “’Course. Everyone knows he’s the hottest.”

“Do you?”

Zayn turns. The smile’s dropped from his face. “I’m not going to talk about that, Liam.”

“Why not? He—”

“I’m not what he’s looking for, and it’s fine.” It’s a statement, flat and emotionless. “He wants a jock, I can’t be that, for all I hang out with you all. We’re friends. I’m fine with it. There, you’ve been caught up on three years.”

“Are you sure? He—”

“I’ve seen who he hooks up with, Liam. And he cares about tennis more than anything. Now, did you want anything else? Because you have practice in forty-five minutes and I need to get a paper done.”

His voice is sharp, final enough that Liam doesn’t think he’s going to get through. He goes.

---

The basic problem, Liam thinks, is that neither knows how much the other cares about their interests. There’s less work to do with Zayn, because it’s obvious he cares enough about tennis to be at practices; therefore, Liam needs to start with Harry. So on the bus the next day, Liam leans over Louis to look at Zayn in the seat across from him. “Did you finish that painting, Zayn?” he asks, very clearly.

Zayn gives him the same confused look he gave him in that art building. “Yeah,” he says, “Well, sort of. I started the graphic stuff.”

“So you decided to do that?” Liam grins. “Did you figure out the sculpture stuff?”

“Nah, don’t think that’s going to work out in time for the show. Maybe next semester, you know? I think I’m going to do more sets, instead.” Zayn glances around at the confused looks Louis and Niall and Harry are giving him. “What?”

“Graphics?” Harry asks, softly. Like he thinks he’s going to get shut down.

“Yeah, like, computer stuff.”

“Didn’t know you did that.”

Zayn shrugs. “’m not great at it, started fiddling around with it this year. It’s just so I have another—” he cuts himself off. “Never mind, doesn’t matter. You lot excited for the match next week?”

“No point getting excited, we’re going to crush them,” Louis says certainly, and the conversation goes on.

---

The next time, they’re at the house. Niall and Louis are playing some sort of Wii sports game and swearing very loudly, Liam’s trying to get a paper done, Zayn’s reading with his head in Harry’s lap, who’s listening to music and stroking Zayn’s hair offhandedly. Liam hits a snag in his paper, gives it up as a bad job, decides he needs to be distracted, and glances up from his computer. If he starts enough conversations, he figures, eventually Harry will engage, and Zayn will see how much Harry likes his things.

“Whatcha reading, Zayn?” he asks. Zayn pauses, lowers his book, and gives him that narrowed eyed look, like he thinks he’s up to something. Someone, Liam thinks, has been spending too much time with Louis. He’s right, of course, but still. It’s for his own good.

Harry looks at him too, but something more complicated is going on in his face, before he looks back down at Zayn.

“Sun Also Rises,” Zayn answers, slowly. “Hemingway.”

“Right.” Liam thinks he’s heard of him. He tries to shoot Harry a meaningful look, to get him to ask about it, but Harry’s not looking at him so it doesn’t much work. “For class?”

“Yeah, I hate Hemingway normally,” Zayn replies. “He’s just such a misogynistic douche, you know?”

“The fuck does that mean?” Louis asks from the floor, not looking away from the screen.

“That he hates women.” Harry looks down at Zayn. “Right?”

“Yeah.” Zayn smiles up, proud, and Harry’s grin could light up a few solar systems. “Well done.”

“I read, some,” Harry mutters.

Zayn laughs, and reaches up to pull on a curl. “Know you do, babe.”

“I do!” Harry protests. “I’m not stupid.”

Zayn’s face stills. “Never said you were.”

“Well I’m not.” Harry says it firmly. “I might not read as much as you, but I’m not illiterate.”

“Of course not.”

“I know who Hemingway is.”

“Okay...”

Liam is starting to get worried. Harry’s cheeks are scarlet. Zayn just sounds very confused.

“And Fitzgerald, and all sorts of other authors. I do things other than play tennis, you know!”

“I know, Haz, what’s wrong?”

Harry just stares at him for a second, then huffs out a breath. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”

“Harry…”

“I’m fine.”

He’s not, clearly. But Liam doesn’t know what to do, even if he sort of caused it, so he just goes back to his paper, quietly. A few minutes later, he looks over. Zayn’s scooted up so now Harry’s got his head resting on Zayn’s shoulder, his arm around Zayn’s waist and Zayn’s hand in his hair, one earbud of Harry’s headphone in each of their ears. If Zayn would just look, Liam thinks, almost angry. There’s no mistaking the bliss on Harry’s face as Zayn pets him.

---

Just starting a conversation in general obviously doesn’t work. Clearly, Liam needs to start a conversation between the two of them. So after practice, when Liam notices Harry’s staying late, he stays behind as well, waving Louis and Niall on. Zayn’s didn’t come, because he was doing some work for his art show, which makes Harry’s mood a bit more risky, but Liam figures it’s worth it.

Still, Liam’s a bit tentative when he comes up next to Harry and starts hitting against the wall next to him. He doesn’t want to antagonize Harry, or anything. “Hey,” he says at last, after he thinks Harry knows he’s there. Harry grunts, but he thinks that might just be him hitting the ball.

Liam takes two more swings before he talks again. “Have you ever seen any of Zayn’s art?” he asks.

Harry swings again. “No,” he says, shortly. More shortly than Liam thinks he’s ever heard him.

“Really? Or been to his studio?”

“No,” Harry repeats. He takes a strong forehand swing; the ball ricochets off to the right, and Harry swears under his breath. He jogs off to go get it. Liam doesn’t move. When he comes back, Harry isn’t quite so short. “No, he doesn’t talk about that with me.”

“Why not?” Liam’s always figured it’s better to lead people to answers rather than tell them, because it works better.

“I don’t know, he just doesn’t. He never has.”

“Have you tried? I went and—”

“Liam,” Harry cuts Liam off sharply, turning to him and letting the ball bounce past him. “Look, if you want—if you two are—it won’t be a problem, okay? It won’t be a problem for the team, or for us. I’m glad he can talk about his art and stuff with someone. Just—” Harry swallows. “Just, don’t let me see it? Please?”

“Harry—” But Harry’s gone, jogging off fast enough it’s probably a run. Liam stares after him. That may be a flaw in his plan.

---

The next step is to try to get Zayn to talk to Harry about tennis, but it’s actually hard to get Zayn to do that more than he does. He’s there, after all, all the time, even if he’s reading or whatever, and he’ll be in the living room when they watch it on TV and sometimes even adds in commentary, even if that commentary is more often about the attractiveness of the players or how stupid the commentary is. (Niall is still trying to convince Zayn to do commentary of their matches. Liam gives it three months til he wears him down, but Louis’s told him he’s been trying for two years, so maybe Liam’s wrong). Liam doesn’t get it. Doesn’t Harry see Zayn’s trying? That he doesn’t care about tennis but he’s still there, still willing to talk about it for their sake? For his sake?

He’s there at the next home match, too, cheering as loud as anyone else from the bleacher right above the bench—Liam’d asked Louis, once, why Zayn never just sat on the bench, and Louis’d shrugged and said he guessed he didn’t want to. It’s wet out, not enough to cancel, just enough to throw everyone off a bit, and Harry misjudges an overhead shot , hits too deep and loses his match.

Louis grabs him as soon as he walks off the court, grabs him and puts their foreheads together, muttering quietly. It must work enough to get him under control enough to shake his opponents’ hands, but Liam’s seen this in practice. One of the reasons Harry’s so good is he’s so very bad at losing.

He stomps back to the bench, throws himself at it on the other end from everyone. Liam gives Louis a worried look, but Louis just shakes his head.

Liam barely even needs to look to know Zayn’s sliding across the metal until he’s behind Harry. He leans down, rests his hand over the back of Harry’s neck. Harry doesn’t move. Zayn shifts, swings a leg around so he’s basically straddling Harry, and leans down, whispers something in Harry’s ear. Liam has no idea what it is, but as Zayn talks Harry seems to relax, until he’s leaning against Zayn’s knee and letting Zayn pet his hair, and if he’s not smiling at least he doesn’t look like he’s about to yell.

They lose the match. Harry gets very, very drunk that night—really drunk, sloppy with it. They’re all a little mopey, Liam with the rest of them, sadly watching reruns of reality TV in the living room, but Harry’s the only one drowning his sorrows.

Harry ends up asleep on Zayn’s shoulder, passed out more or less, and by one Zayn’s easing him up. “Okay, babe,” he murmurs, “Time for all the sleepy Harrys to go to bed.”

Harry says something, and Zayn laughs. “You’ll always be the winner in my heart. Let’s go.”

“Won’t, though,” Harry says sadly, as he lets Zayn pull him to his feet. Harry drapes himself over Zayn’s back, shuffles behind him with a sad wave.

He’ll probably need water, Liam thinks, and gets up to get a glass. When he takes it to Harry’s room, he half knocks on the open door, then peeks in. Harry’s on the bed, shirt off, in just sweatpants, and he’s got his hands locked around Zayn’s wrists.

“Stay?” he asks, plaintive. “Please, Zaynie?”

Zayn runs a hand over his forehead, smooths back his hair. “You won’t know the difference, you’re about to pass out.”

“I’ll know.” Harry says it with drunken certainty. “Please?” His eyes are fluttering shut, as Liam knocks louder and comes in. Harry opens his eyes again, and the look he shoots Liam when Zayn accepts the water with a smile is too complicated for Liam to parse. “Sorry,” he says, and he’s looking at Liam, “But Zayn, please?”

“Okay, fine.” Zayn laughs. “But just because I can’t have our future Federer losing all his confidence now.”

“Don’t care why.” Harry’s eyes are drifting shut. “Just stay.”

Open your eyes, Liam wants to yell at Harry. Just fucking open your eyes and look, because there’s no words for the look Zayn is giving Harry, for the love and fondness and want. Liam leaves rather than see more of it, but out of the corner of his eye he catches Zayn stripping off his shirt and sliding into bed with Harry.

---

Midterms hit with a vengeance about the same time practices move inside, until Liam barely has time to breathe, let alone think about other peoples’ problems. He studies until two in the morning, stumbles out to see the other boys passed out on the couch with textbooks open over their foreheads and heads pillowed on notebooks, gets coffee, then studies more. He actually goes to the library, which he hadn’t really known where it was before Harry gave him instructions. He holes himself up into his room the rest of the time, in hopes of finishing his work at a reasonable hour.

He’s midway through fighting through an essay for his required writing class, when he realizes it’s not going to happen, and goes out into the kitchen for a snack. It might somehow make him have thoughts about Virginia Woolf that aren’t ‘this is boring’. It hadn’t worked the last three times, but maybe this time, he figures.

Harry and Zayn are in the kitchen, Harry fussing with a sandwich while Zayn perches on the counter next to him, his boots banging into the wood. It’s the first time Liam’s seen Zayn in a week—he actually studies, Louis had informed Liam in a whisper when Harry almost snapped at them in practice—so Liam offers him a smile as he goes around them to get to the fridge.

“Vas happening, Li?” Zayn asks in some weird accent that has Harry giggling. Zayn doesn’t look so good, though—or, he looks good, because he’s Zayn, but he looks tired. There are bags under his eyes.

“Lit paper,” he replies, trying not to sound as frustrated as he is. “You?”

“Studying.” Zayn leans over to nudge Harry with his foot. “Or trying to make this one study.”

“I’m studying!” Harry protests. “Choosing a playlist is a very important part of the studying process.”

“Not as important as, say, opening a book,” Zayn retorts, but he’s grinning at Harry, and Harry’s grinning back, ducking his head and laughing as he carefully cuts the sandwich in half. “Right, Li?”

“Can I never open a book?” Liam asks, and grabs a Coke out of the fridge. Caffeine and sugar, perfect. “Ever?”

“Whatcha working on?” Zayn asks. “Maybe I can help. I open books, on occasion.”

“I don’t even know,” Liam moans. He should leave them alone, give them their space, but he needs to vent. “It’s, like—the essay prompt doesn’t make sense!”

Zayn huffs out a light laugh. “Okay, let me take a look.”

“But we—” Harry cuts himself off, swallows. “At least take the sandwich? You need to eat. You’re already too scrawny.”

“But you love it, babe,” Zayn tosses back, casually.

“I’d love it more if you didn’t starve yourself during exams.”

“And I’d love it more if you didn’t ignore injuries,” Zayn retorts, but he takes the sandwich, brushes a kiss lightly over Harry’s cheek as he does.

“It’s not the same,” Harry mutters, as Zayn pulls away. Zayn raises an eyebrow.

“Why not?”

“Because—” Harry trails off, but he’s giving Zayn one of his adoring looks that Liam figures is probably code for ‘because it’s you and you matter most to me out of everything’. However, Zayn must not hear that, because he snaps back,

“Exams matter just as much as tennis, Haz,” and spins on his heel. “Come on, Liam.”

Liam goes, because he’s not stupid enough to give up free help, but he gives Harry an apologetic look as he does. Harry’s face does that complicated thing he does sometimes when he looks at Liam now.

Zayn takes one look at his paper, rolls his eyes, and sits down cross-legged on his bed to, apparently, explain everything because Liam got none of it the first time. As Liam knew he hadn’t, he’s willing to listen. It all makes at least a bit more sense when Zayn explains it, at least—enough that he can probably scrape a high C, which is all he needs. Zayn gets really into the explanation too, his hands waving and his face lighting up and his words just pouring out of him, like Liam’s not sure he’s heard him talk about anything before. About ten minutes into the explanation, Liam glances over Zayn’s shoulder, because as interesting as this all is it really isn’t that interesting at all and he needs distraction, to see Harry in the doorway. He’s smiling at him, not his big smile he uses when they win or when he gets Zayn to laugh, something sadder that doesn’t quite reach his eyes but is somehow only in them.

Liam manages to find a lull while Harry’s still there, but before Zayn notices him, which he thinks is perfect. “So, you been working on your art project, then?” he asks.

Zayn’s hands drop, and he gives him that look again. “Yeah,” he says, slowly, “That’s where I’ve been, most of the time.”

“Oh?” Liam gives him an encouraging smile. See Harry, he tries to say with it. Zayn is perfectly willing to talk if you just bloody ask him. “Like, doing what?”

“Well, it’s a set of series, like the one of Haz I showed you? All sorts of different perspectives and all, like, different ways of looking at the same thing? ‘Cause one person can be so many different things to different people, or one thing can have so many, like, interpretations? And I’ve got like two more to do before the show, and all my exams and shit, because I didn’t, like, look at a calendar and see that this was the worst time I could ever have for a show, so, like, I’ve been spending a lot of nights at the studio.” Liam chances a glance over Zayn’s shoulder again. Harry’s gone. Damn it.

“Anyway,” Zayn finishes, shaking his head, “You should work on your paper, and I should see if Haz’s finished his playlist yet. Hope I helped.”

“Yeah, lots.” Liam nods enthusiastically. “Thanks for this. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Happy to be of service. ‘s why you all keep me around.” Zayn gets up, stretches so his back cracks. “Email it to me, I’ll read it over. I’m already reading over most of the other boys’ papers. But I won’t write it for you. If it’s complete crap, I will tell you to start over.”

“Really? That’d be awesome!” Liam gives him his most thankful expression he can do. “Good luck on your art stuff.”

“Thanks.” Zayn goes to the door, then pauses, turns. “And, like, I’m really happy you came.”

“What?” It’s not what Liam’s expecting, and he can almost feel himself blush.

Zayn shrugs. He thinks the emotion is making him uncomfortable too. “Like, you’re cool and all, obviously. But also, like, you get it?” He bites at his lip. “What it’s like not to belong. But you do.” He’s stopped biting his lip, just looking at him with that bright, intense gaze. Liam gets a sudden flash of what it must be like to be Harry, all the time. It’s terrifying. “The whole team loves you. You’re one of them.”

He nods, then slips away before Liam can form words. Before he can even think of what words to form over the knot of warmth rising in his chest.

---

They celebrate the end of midterms with a celebratory watching of Remember the Titans, because apparently there isn’t a good tennis movie and Remember the Titans always makes Louis cry and it’s funny. Liam thinks that ‘the end’ is a loose term, given that he knows at least half the guys have exams in the next week, but as he is done, he goes down to the living room. It’s full, boys piled on couches and bean bags and even some with sleeping bags, so Liam hesitates a second before sitting down. He doesn’t know—this feels ritual, and sometimes there are seating arrangements, and—

Zayn turns from his spot on the couch, where he’s turned sideways, resting against Harry’s arm, and jerks his head invitingly. Liam goes, grateful; slides under Zayn’s feet when he lifts them up. He’s barefoot for once, thankfully, so Liam’s lap isn’t weighted down by heavy boots, and it’s fairly comfortable. Definitely more spacious than the four people jammed onto the loveseat.

It’s only then that Liam realizes why Harry declared this a watching movie night rather than a going out night, for all almost everyone has a beer. Zayn looks more than half-dead already, bags under his eyes and paler than usual, and he’s never been as tan as the rest of them.

“You okay, Zayn?” Liam asks under the noise of the movie starting. Zayn blinks, like he’s dragging himself out of sleep, even though Liam think’s he was awake.

“Yeah, just tired,” he says, and buries a yawn in Harry’s shoulder.

“Everything going well?”

“Uh-huh.” Harry twitches, shifts his arm despite Zayn’s hiss of dissatisfaction so that it’s wrapped around Zayn, then switches his beer to that hand so he can raise it to Zayn’s lips. “Harry.”

“Come on, you need to relax,” Harry coaxes. “If you don’t drink this I’m going to make Louis give you a massage.”

“Fuck you, I give excellent massages,” Louis retorts. “Zayn would be so relaxed he wouldn’t know what hit him.”

“Think I’ll pass,” Zayn drawls. He opens his mouth obediently, lets Harry tip the bottle so a few drops trickle into his throat. “Thanks, babe.”

“You can sleep,” Harry murmurs, lower, as the movie plays. If Liam was sitting anywhere else he might not have noticed, but it’s hard to miss them when he’s right there. “You’re going to anyway.”

“Naw, it’s fine. I want to stay here,” Zayn says, as firmly as he can when his eyelids are clearly drooping.

“You don’t even like the movie, you should—” Harry shuts up when Zayn turns, presses a kiss to his cheek.

“Gonna stay, Haz. What would I do without my best pillow?”

“Not sleep sitting up,” Harry replies, but he presses his own kiss into the top of Zayn’s head when he untwists.

For all of Zayn’s protestations, though, Liam’s pretty sure he is asleep within forty-five minutes of the movie starting. It’s pretty impressive, that he can sleep through the commentary provided by 15-odd boys who think they know the game better than the movie producers. It’s convenient, gives Liam a reason to stay quiet rather than wake Zayn, even if Harry is yelling along with everyone else, though Liam’s pretty sure he doesn’t move a muscle as long as Zayn’s leaning on him.

When the movie’s over, it’s not quite late but they have early practice tomorrow, so everyone starts to disperse.

“Should we…” Liam gestures to Zayn. Harry’s arm tightens around him, and if he was a bit drunker Liam would swear he would hiss like an angry cat.

“I’ve got him,” he snaps, biting down on each word. Liam can feel his eyes widen. He hadn’t meant… Harry very obviously gets a hold of himself. He sighs, gives Liam that look. “Sorry, Li,” he says with a grin, “But we do this a lot, I can handle him.”

As if to demonstrate, he slowly slides an arm under Zayn’s legs, then levers himself up to standing with only a brief stumble. Zayn blinks a bit when he’s hoisted up. “Haz?” he asks, blearily, but his arms go around Harry’s neck without prompting. “Sorry, did I sleep?”

“’Course. You were exhausted.”

“Sorry I missed the movie.”

“It’s fine. You don’t like it anyway.”

“Sorry,” Zayn says again, and turns his head into Harry’s chest. Liam’s a little worried Harry will get too distracted by the sheer affection in his face and get them injured. “I try, but—”

“But it bores you, I know. We’ll just never get you to like sports movies.”

“Dunno, like them if they get me carried to bed.” Zayn smiles, soft and sweet. Liam should probably leave, but his room is the same direction as Harry’s, so he’d have to push past them to get there, and that would be even more awkward, he thinks. “You jocks are useful for something. Just don’t drop me.”

“I wouldn’t!” Harry protests, as he begins to walk to the door. “Not even if you don’t like my movie.”

“Not even in revenge?” Zayn laughs, and he must move somehow because Harry does stumble a bit, and Zayn giggles and grabs at Harry’s neck. “Fuck, Haz, I told you not to drop me!”

“Never,” Harry laughs, “Don’t worry, never going to let you go.”

The problem is, Liam thinks, as he follows them up to bed, that he’s a little worried that’s true. They’ll never talk about anything and stay holding each other like this forever, and that’s not good for anyone.

---

A week later, Liam’s doing homework in his room when there’s a knock on the door. Or the door jamb; Liam’s taken to leaving his door open, because it’s easier than having to answer a dozen people knocking to make sure he’s okay. The last time he did that Harry actually stopped in twice, looking concerned and serious and apologizing about something Liam wasn’t quite sure of.

This time, though, Zayn’s leaning against the door, his hands tucked into his pockets like he’s almost sheepish. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Zayn hesitates. “How’d the paper go?”

“Huh?”

“The Virginia Woolf one.”

“Oh!” Liam grins. “B!”

“Great!” Zayn grins back. “That’s awesome, Li.”

“I know! Thanks so much for all your help.” It’s possibly the best grade he’s ever gotten on a paper, definitely the best since he got here.

Zayn’s still grinning, but he’s also not moving. “You need something?” Liam prompts. He should get back to his problem set, really. Practice is in an hour, and he meant to get this done beforehand so he can stay after and work on the new grip he’s trying for his serve.

“Yeah. Um.” Zayn rubs the back of his neck, looks down. “I was, like, wondering if you’d want to go to my show? You don’t have to, obviously!” he runs on, when Liam opens his mouth, “But you’ve, like, seen the stuff, and I thought you might be interested in the final product? It’s not formal or anything, just a drop by sort of thing, and I know you have practice so you—”

“Zayn,” Liam cuts him off. It’s weird, Zayn being the less collected one. “When is it?”

“Oh!” Zayn rubs his neck again, laughs a little ruefully. “Next week. Like, Wednesday evening.”

“Sounds great.” Zayn’s smile is bright and open, as Liam turns to his computer to write it into his gcal. “Are the other boys going?”

“What?”

“How many of the other boys are going?” Liam asks again. “Will I have to talk to coach about missing practice, or will Harry be doing it for everyone?”

“Oh. No. Like, they aren’t going.”

Liam spins in his chair. Zayn’s pulled back against the wall, like he’s trying to make himself smaller. “Why not?”

“Well, they wouldn’t be interested, would they? And, like, you do have practice. I just mentioned it to you ‘cause you had asked about it and stuff, so I thought you might want to. You don’t have to, though.”

Liam is actually going to shake them both. “Have you told Harry? Or any of them?”

“Nah. Haz is captain and all, he can’t just skip. And they won’t care.” He shrugs. “It doesn’t really matter. But it’d be great if you showed,” he adds. “I’ll let you get back to your homework, then.” He slips out before Liam can say anything.

---

Liam’s clearly going to go, which means he has to miss practice, which means he has to tell Harry, which is not something he’s looking forward to at all. He’s been really, really trying to keep Harry from getting irrationally jealous and kicked off the team. The best plan for this, he thinks, is to do it in public, because Harry probably won’t do anything too drastic if there are witnesses. He thinks Niall at least likes Liam enough to not give Harry an alibi.

So on Saturday morning, he finds Harry in the living room, Louis and Niall and a few other boys with him with Family Guy on the TV and some homework open in front of them. Zayn won’t be here this morning, because it’s morning, so it’s a good time.

“Hey, Harry,” he says, dropping onto the couch next to Louis. “I’ve got to miss practice next Wednesday.”

“Okay.” Harry nods, doesn’t look up from the textbook open on his lap. “Why?” he adds though, idly. Not accusatory. Still, Liam had been hoping, sort of, to avoid this. But he’s not going to lie or anything, especially as it doesn’t seem like Zayn’s keeping it a secret or anything.

“I’m going to Zayn’s showing that night,” he says, slowly, and winces for impact.

It doesn’t come, at least not out loud, so Liam looks up. Harry’s just staring at him, and he looks more sad than anything. “Okay, then,” he says. His voice is a little hoarse.

It’s Louis, thank God, who says, “Zayn’s got a show?”

“Yeah. For the project he’s been working on all semester,” Liam says, evenly.

“And he invited you?” Harry, Liam thinks, is trying very hard to stay casual. He even tries to smile, but it’s a far cry from his usual blinding grin.

“Well, he told me I could stop by if I wanted, I don’t think it’s invite only.”

Harry bites his lip and looks away. Liam is going to kill someone.

Rather than do that, he gets up, ruffles Niall’s hair and heads back to his room, where he can write an annoyed email home about how ridiculous his new friends are and how his plans are failing. He doesn’t like his plans to fail. They don’t usually, he doesn’t get why Harry and Zayn are being so damn stubborn.

But he’s barely gotten back to his room when Harry appears in the doorway, in a weird echo of how Zayn had stood just yesterday.

“You—” he starts, when he sees Liam looking at him, then shakes his head. “I’m not going to give you ultimatums about kicking you off, or anything, because it’s not my place and it has nothing to do with the team. But you better be good to him, okay?” He pushes his hair out of his face, and gives Liam what Liam thinks might be an attempt at a threatening face. “Because he deserves it, and if you don’t, I’ll—”

“This is not a date,” Liam interrupts. There’s not directly interfering and then there’s just being melodramatic. It’s time he sets the record straight. Especially if even the thought of kicking Liam off the team is occurring to him. He doesn’t think Harry can do that, but if he can… “I am not romantically interested in Zayn.”

“If you’re leading him on—”

Liam huffs out a breath. Honestly. “Me and Zayn are friends, Harry. There’s nothing more than that.”

“You sure? Because Zayn can be quiet, and he’s not always easy to read—”

“Positive.”

“Then why did he ask you?” It’s trying to be casual, again, but it comes out in a rush, and Harry’s eyes are huge and hurt and confused.

“Because he thought I might be interested.”

“I’d be interested,” Harry mutters, more to himself than Liam, but it’s such an echo of what Zayn said that Liam just cracks. He actually cannot stand this anymore.

“Well, apparently Zayn doesn’t know that,” he snaps. Harry’s head jerks up at the sharpness in Liam’s tone. He’s not sure he’s lost his temper at them, yet. Well, there’s a first for everything. “He doesn’t want to bother you all with it.”

“What?” Harry’s jaw is nearly dropping. “Not—bother?”

“Yes, bother.” Liam drops down onto his bed. He does not have the energy to stand up and do this. “Because you’d have to miss practice, after all. And you wouldn’t care.”

“’Course I’d care. I care about everything Zayn does.” It is a statement, Liam knows. It’s a fact for Harry.

“You could try mentioning that once in a while.” Liam sighs. “He asked me to go because I asked about his project. That’s all. He just didn’t think the rest of you would want to go.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all, fucking hell, Harry. He’s not interested in me, and I’m not interested in him.”

Harry nods, slowly. Liam doesn’t quite know how to identify the emotions moving over his face, too fast to catch. “Okay. Okay.” He presses his lips together. “And it’s not an invite thing? Just drop by?”

“Yeah…”

Harry pushes his hair back. “Okay, thanks.” He hesitates, takes a deep breath. “Really, thanks.” Then he turns and leaves.

Liam drops back onto the bed. This is good. He thinks. It better be, because he is getting sick of this. At least his old school didn’t have this sort of drama.

---

He is less sure that it’s a step up when summoned to a team meeting Sunday morning (not too early) by email. The kitchen’s not quite full when he gets there, because it’s held all of them plus more before, but it’s crowded, with people perched on counters and tables and two to a chair. Liam accepts the mug Niall hands him, and leans on the counter next to where Louis’s sitting, breathing in the caffeine scent. It’s too early for him to care if this is awful.

Harry bangs on a pot to get attention, then when that doesn’t work, nods at Louis. Louis puts his fingers into his mouth and whistles, a high screech that cuts through hangovers and gets a chorus of groans. “Oi, wankers,” Louis says loudly, over the grumbling, “Our fearless leader wishes to speak.”

That gets a few more grumbles, but they fade when Harry jumps onto a chair. Liam makes a small worried noise in the back of his throat. He’s not sure either Zayn or Coach Cowell would forgive them if Harry broke his ankle.

“I have called you all together to address a very serious issue,” he says. His face is serious, but not too serious, not really really bad news serious, so there are just murmurs of interest, not of worry. “It has been brought to my attention that we have been lax in our duty to one of our men.”

Liam looks up from the mug. What is he doing? “It seems that, in our zeal for our great and noble sport—”

“Forever may it reign!” Louis calls out, and Harry grins, a quick flash, as the whole crowd finishes, “Amen!”

“Amen,” Harry agrees. “But, in our love of the game, we forget that other people have other interests as well.”

“What are the point of those?” Sandy throws in, which gets a laugh.

“I don’t know,” Harry laughs. “But some people do. And one of those people is Zayn.”

That gets people to quiet down. Louis leans over, whispers in Liam’s ear, “Five bucks says he’s announcing their engagement.” Liam muffles a laugh.

“Our dearly beloved lucky charm is under the—perhaps correct—impression that none of us care about art. However true that might be, he seems to also think that means we won’t support or care about him when he needs us, like he’s there when we need him.”

Harry’s serious now, his face burning with intensity. “He’s got a show next week, for his art project. You don’t have to go, any of you. But he’s at all our matches, and he’s our friend, so as many of you want to go with me, that would be great.” He looks down at them all, and it’s like he’s looking at each of them individually. “Let’s show him that the team isn’t just on the court.”

There are moments, Liam thinks in the silence that follows, that Liam remembers why Harry is captain, and it’s not because he’s their best player. He looks like he’s made to stand on that chair, to draw people together.

Then he smiles, and he’s just goofy Harry Styles again. “Oh, and I want to keep it a surprise!” he adds, dimpling, “So don’t mention it to him. Don’t mention that you know!”

Liam gives the odds of that happening maybe one in a hundred.

---

They manage to keep it a secret. Mainly, Liam’s fairly certain, because they barely see Zayn—or at least Liam barely does, just twice over the whole week. Once, when he passes Harry’s room as he stumbles to early class, and the door is open and Zayn is asleep on the bed, Harry’s head resting on his stomach. Then at one practice, where Zayn spends the whole time hunched over his sketchbook and the entire team spends the whole time giggling manically. The only people who keep their cool (not Liam, Liam’s as guilty as the rest of them at looking over at Zayn and giggling to himself, because maybe fucking finally this will be it), are Louis, because he just smirks and that’s his normal expression anyway, and Harry, who smiles but doesn’t giggle, like this is too serious for giggling.

“It’s like we’re surprising dad,” Louis tells Liam, as they gather in the living room. Not all of the boys are coming, but there are a good eight or nine of them, enough that it feels like a crowd. “Harry, hurry up, Zayn will love you even if a hair is out of place.”

Harry looks away from the mirror with something that is trying to be a scowl, but doesn’t quite manage it both because of the worry in his eyes and the smile hinting at his lips. “Why is he dad?”

“Because you’re the one who bosses us around all the time,” Louis explains, throwing an arm over his shoulder and drawing him away from the mirror. “And you keep track of us and all. Zayn leaves and comes home and spoils us because he doesn’t see us as often.”

“And you feed us,” Liam adds, quietly, and Louis turns to him with an incredulous laugh.

“Exactly! See, Payno knows what’s up.”

“Those are heteronormative, archaic gender norms, Louis,” Harry whines, but he lets himself be herded out the door, even if he is hugging his wildly patterned sweater so it sits lower on his shoulders. “Maybe I’m the stay at home dad.”

“I don’t know what that means, but I don’t think I care,” Louis announces.

Niall leans over to whisper to Liam, laughter in his voice, “I like how he doesn’t question they’re married.”

“Pretty hard for him to deny fact,” Liam whispers back, “Don’t they literally share rings?” Niall’s laughter rings out loudly enough Louis turns around and lets Harry go to be included in the joke.

They get to the event—in an art building gallery, that they manage to find because Liam looked it up ahead of time—about halfway through, which Harry deemed the correct hour. Liam’s not sure how Harry knew, but he sounded certain enough that he wasn’t going to argue. It’s a big, open space, wide windows set high up on the walls that would probably let in a lot of sun if it weren’t night. And it’s crowded, too; or at least more crowded than Liam expected. Enough that not everyone turns to look at them or anything when they walk in, slightly hushed out of respect and uncertain etiquette, and that they can’t find Zayn right away.

Louis boosts himself up onto his tiptoes with a hand on Liam’s shoulder. “Anyone see him?” he asks. His voice sounds harsh in the room filled with gentle murmurs.

“Who let the prep squad in?” a voice drawls, low and condescending, and Liam tugs at his polo as they all turn as a pack to look. It’s a blonde girl, a streak of pink in her hair and a bit of a sneer on her face—Liam thinks he’s seen her with Zayn before.

“Be nice, Olivia,” one of her friends mutters, flashing them all a quick smile from beneath big brown eyes.

“I am being nice!” Olivia protests, and tugs on the strap of her friend’s overalls. “Zee!” she calls out, with a disarmingly sweet smile for them, “Think your pets are here!”

“Who are you calling pets?” Louis snaps, but Niall puts a hand on his arm and he subsides.

“Liv,” Zayn appears next to Olivia, wraps an arm around her waist with a laugh, “if you brought Prada I am not taking care of—oh.” He stops when he sees them, his jaw dropping a bit and eyes going wide.

He looks different here, somehow. Even if Liam knows that’s stupid shit Harry made up because of his own insecurities, he looks different here than he does hanging around the tennis courts, in an oversized sweater that Liam thinks he’s seen Harry in before and skinny jeans, his hair slicked smoothly back in a quiff.

There’s a beat of silence. Harry should say something, Liam thinks. He’s the reason they’re here. And it’s Harry, it’s his job to talk. But maybe Liam should? Liam thinks desperately of something to say, of some sort of apology or explanation but everything sounds stupid and he doesn’t want Zayn to be mad—

“Hey,” Niall says easily, because he’s Niall. “The word you’re looking for is ‘hi’.”

“Hi,” Zayn parrots. “You—why are you here?” His eyes flick to Liam, then back to the rest of the team, then to Harry.

“Heard there was—” Louis starts, all snark and sass rather than emotion like usual, but Harry cuts him off. Liam’s not sure he’s looked away from Zayn since he appeared.

“This is important to you,” he says, simply, “We’re here for you.”

“Awww,” the girls coo, and Zayn ducks his head to hide the blush Liam is pretty sure is there. He looks at Liam again, but that won’t help anything so, he adds,

“I mentioned it to Harry,” he says, firmly. Harry blushes, but he’s still looking at Zayn like he’s the only thing in the room. “He’s the one who got everyone to come.”

Zayn gives Liam a wide-eyed look that he turns on Harry. “Thanks,” he mutters. “I mean, you can—”

“Show them yours,” Olivia orders, with a roll of her eyes to them. “Go on. Don’t make me do it, or I’ll tell them about your attempt at a nude, and—”

“Liv!” Zayn yelps, jolting away from her like he’s been shocked, but he’s laughing too. “You said—”

“Nude?” Harry’s ears perked up at that word, of course. “You do nudes, Zaynie? Why haven’t you ever told us?”

“Honestly,” Louis adds. “You know Harold would have been happy to pose for you. Or Liam, he’s got the muscles for it.”

“I didn’t!” Zayn trails off into a grin. “Come on, then.”

Harry trots forward a bit as Zayn leads them across the room, sneaking a hand around his waist—and, Liam thinks, beneath his sweater, it looks like. Zayn just leans into it.

“Here we are,” he says, once they’ve gotten to the other side, “These are mine.”

They’re—well, they’re pretty, Liam guesses? He still doesn’t really understand all of the stuff Zayn had said the last time, about perspectives or whatever, but there’s three sets of four things each, each with a different thing as the center—the one of Harry, one of a tennis racket, one of Louis playing video games, and one of a tree, and then all of them in a bunch of different—mediums, Zayn had called them. It’s cool, definitely.

“These are sick, Zayn!” Louis says, taking them all in at a glance then launching himself at Zayn so he’s layered over Harry’s arm at his back. “Look at me. I’m on the wall,” he tells the team at large, self-importantly, pointing to the eight-bit animation of him which is, in all honestly, pretty cool.

“So is Harry,” Liam feels is necessary to point out, and Louis twists to stick his tongue out.

“Well, I had to choose favorites, didn’t I?” Zayn teases, which gets a chorus of protests and Niall giving him a sad look. “Oh, stop, Nialler—you’re my next one, just you. Massive canvas, all of you.”

“Long as you’re not doing nudes,” Niall agrees, cheerful again, and pokes at Zayn’s chest affectionately.

“I don’t do nudes,” Zayn protests, loudly, and Louis snorts when someone else looking at Zayn’s painting gives them a Look. “Shut up.” He wriggles out of Louis’s hold, which also means he makes Harry let go of him. “Thanks for coming, really. It means a lot. You guys can, like, leave now and all. Don’t have to stick around and be bored.”

Liam would really, really love to take him up on that, but Harry answers first. “No, we want to see what this is all about, right lads?”

“Yeah!” Niall adds. “See what you do when you’re not distracting Harry from his game.”

“I don’t get distracted!” Harry retorts, at the same time Zayn turns a worried gaze to Harry and says,

“I don’t mean to hurt your game—”

Liam doesn’t have to look at Louis to know he’s rolling his eyes. “I’m going to look around,” he announces loudly. “See if anyone else did nudes. Anyone want to come?”

Most of the boys do, and the ones who don’t do after Louis glares at them. Liam is ready to follow after him when there’s a whistle. “Hey, muscles.”

Liam turns. Olivia laughs. “Really, you respond to ‘muscles’?” Liam resists the urge to blush or flex, he’s not sure which.

“Sounded like you were talking to me,” he answers, rubbing the back of his neck.

She laughs, and steps away, so he follows her back to the metal statues she had been standing near before. “Look, I just wanted to tell you to thank all of you guys for coming. He might not say anything, but it means a lot to Zayn.”

“I know!” Liam tries not to snap, but he knows Zayn just as well as her, he’d like to think. Or if not as well, he’s getting there.

“Simmer down,” she laughs again. It’s a sharp laugh, somehow. It doesn’t exactly relax him, but it doesn’t make him angry either. It puts him on edge, but not totally in a bad way. “I am trying to be nice, here.”

Liam takes a breath. “I’m glad we could be here,” he says evenly. She rolls her eyes, but reaches out to pat his arm. Her fingernails are hot pink, bright against his skin.

“Well, you should come to more of Zayn’s shows and things,” she suggests. “At the very least, you’re nice to look at.”

Liam can feel himself blush, but she’s sauntering away before he can, her hips swaying in tight jeans.

He shifts a bit uncomfortably, then shakes his head to see if he can find everyone else and not be alone in this sea of too much plaid for him to be comfortable in. When he can’t see anyone, he wanders towards Zayn’s, where hopefully everyone’s congregated, but only Harry and Zayn are there, Harry wrapped around Zayn’s back now, their cheeks pressed together.

“Didn’t want to bore you,” Zayn’s saying. “Not—like, I always want you here, Haz. You know that.”

Harry bites his lip, then nuzzles into Zayn’s cheek. “Never bored with you.”

“Never?” Zayn asks, his lips curving into a soft smile. His fingers are drumming against his thighs. Liam is torn between hoping they’ll kiss and get it over with and thinking that’s probably not the best thing to do at an art show. Although what does he know? Maybe there’s a kisscam or something.

“Never,” Harry agrees. “Well, maybe sometimes when you talk about comics, but—no, never.”

Zayn laughs, and reaches back to bat at Harry’s hair, and Harry grins and beams and holds him tight.

---

Liam figured that was it, that he had managed it, but a week later, it still seems like nothing’s changed.

“I don’t get it,” he complains to Louis, who’s lying on his bed as he distracts Liam from doing homework at his desk. “They talked! They resolved everything.”

“Who?”

Right. That might not be as obvious to people not in Liam’s head.

“Zayn and Harry,” Liam explains. “I thought after the art show they would…”

“Finally hook up?” Louis finishes for him. “Nah, wasn’t going to happen.”

“Why not?” Liam demands, and spins in his chair to face the bed. Louis grins at him, then swings himself up to sitting. “They have to know they’re in love, right?”

“First, you’re assuming they’re not dumbasses, which they are, so they don’t have to know anything.” Louis counts off his points on his fingers. “Second, they both take their own sweet time about things. Have you ever actually tried to get Zayn to decide something? It takes forever. Third,” he adds, and his voice is a little softer. “Third, nothing’s really changed. Now they know Harry’s interested in Zayn’s art, or whatever—which we could have told him years ago, he actually does steal Zayn’s sketchbooks and possibly wanks off to them—but one of them still needs to make the jump, or whatever.”

“They’re not committing suicide,” Liam mutters.

Louis chuckles. “Try telling them that. No, really,” he goes on, “Try. I’ve tried everything else.”

Liam rolls his eyes, and turns back to his homework. They’ll have to come up with another plan, then.

---

Liam’s not entirely sure why they have an indoor match with their greatest rivals two week before Thanksgiving, but asking about it had only gotten a booming “Tradition!” from the rest of the team, full Fiddler on the Roof style, and a Harry-speech, so he doesn’t question it again. It must mean something, anyway, because the bleachers are pretty full for an off-season match, and Harry’s … twitchy. It only gets worse as the match goes on, and as it becomes clear how evenly matched they are.

Liam loses, which sucks enough that he has to go into the locker room to cool off for a few minutes, because he would have fucking had that if his foot hadn’t slipped. When he comes back out, Louis and Niall are on the courts playing doubles, the second to last match of the day, only Harry’s singles match left after them. Which won’t matter if Niall and Louis lose, of course, because then that would slot the team at 2-4, the whole match already lost. But if they win they’ll be tied 3-3, and a win from Harry would be all they need.

“Hey, what’s up?” Liam asks. Harry’s knee is bouncing, and he’s pressing his lips together nervously. He’s not usually like this before a match. Usually, he performs best under pressure, even like now, when it’s all up to him.

“Nothing.” Harry shakes his head, goes to smooth back his hair, but pauses when he remembers it’s held back by a sweatband. “It’s just, you know, I want to win. It’s important.”

“We’re good,” Liam states. They are.

“I know, but…” Harry trails off, watching Niall and Louis play.

“You’re good,” a voice comes from behind them, and Zayn’s hand lands on the back of Harry’s neck. “C’mon, Haz, you know that. You’ll crush it.”

Harry tilts back his head, his face relaxing with the pressure against his neck. “But we lost last year.”

“Yeah, and you’re a lot better this year.” Zayn swings his legs over the edge, so his feet rest on either side of Harry. Liam turns to look at him—and the girl from the show, Olivia, is sitting next to him, in what looks like a massive sweater and nothing else. She grins, winks. Liam gives her a quick grin back, then looks quickly back at Harry. He doesn’t want to be distracted. “Trust me. No one’s watched you more than me.”

“But—”

“No,” Zayn interrupts. “I’ve seen you, yeah? Like, I’m here a lot, and you’ve been making tons less unenforced errors this season, and your first serve percentage is one of the best in state. The topspin on your backhand is killer and you’re not just relying on crosscourt shots anymore, like you used to. And, to top that all off, you’re 12-1 for this entire season.

It’s an impressive analysis, really. Liam nods, impressed. Harry twists as much as he can while still keeping contact with Zayn to look at him, eyes wide.

“What?” Zayn shrugs. “I listen.”

“But you don’t care about tennis,” Harry says. On the court, Niall smashes an ace for the win. Harry’s up next, and he should be warming up, but Liam’s pretty sure this is more important.

“But I care about you,” Zayn says, smiling gently, and pokes at Harry’s forehead. “You got this, babe. And if you lose, I’ll buy you ice cream.”

“Oh, well, if there’s ice cream,” Olivia mutters, but Harry ignores her. He just looks up at Zayn for a moment, like he’s trying to read his mind, then gets up to play the match. Zayn watches him go, biting at his lip.

It’s close, a nail-biter for sure, but the nerves Harry was showing are nowhere to be seen. And when he wins, the whole crowd jumps to their feet, and the team leaps out to hug Harry, shouting and hugging, as Harry jogs back to them, eyes bright and face burning with delight.

Louis holds out his arms for Harry to rush into—and Harry goes right past him, jumps up onto the bench where Zayn’s standing up clapping, grabs his shirt, and pulls him in for a kiss that should be in a movie. Zayn’s clearly lost at first, his hands flailing a little, then settling very quickly into something that should cut to black really soon, given the desperate way they’re grabbing at each other, Zayn’s hands on Harry’s face and Harry’s hand on the small of Zayn’s back. The random people in the bleachers are clearly caught between amusement, confusion, and vague disgust—there are a few wolf whistles. It shows no signs of stopping them.

“Think our win will get taken away if they start having sex right here?” Niall asks idly, but which Liam is not actually confident is not going to be a problem.

Luckily, it isn’t, because before it can quite devolve into that, Harry lets Zayn go, a little, enough that he can press their foreheads together. “There,” he says, and he’s grinning enough that his dimples look painful. “I won. Now I have to buy you ice cream.”

Zayn’s grinning just as bright, and he trails a hand down the side of Harry’s face like he’s not sure he’s allowed. Which is a little rich, to Liam’s thinking, considering they’ve literally been sleeping together for at least months. “Don’t think that’s what we agreed on.”

Harry sighs, and steps back so he can look Zayn right in the eyes. Liam is afraid he’s going to go on one knee, but luckily he refrains. “Zayn Malik,” he announces, in a carrying voice. Liam really wonders what the crowd thinks of this display, but the whole team is watching eagerly. “Would you like to get ice cream with me? And then do other date-ish things? Because it would be a date?”

“Articulate,” Louis mutters, but Zayn’s grin just gets brighter, and then they’re kissing again.

“It’s like mum and dad are finally making us legitimate!” Niall laughs, wiping away a tear.

Liam’s just looking at them as they kiss. It’s really not ending, even though Harry should go accept the trophy soon. Like, he’s pretty sure they should have to breathe soon.

He’s not entirely sure this was a good idea, to be honest.

---

Liam’s one of the last ones back from Thanksgiving break, so when he lugs his suitcase into the living room the room’s full.

“Payno!” Louis cries, trying and failing to extricate himself from what looks like either a game of Twister or possibly a wrestling match or, less likely but still possibly, and orgy on the floor. “You’re back!”

“Brilliant, Lou,” Niall says, “Now get your elbow out of my stomach.”

“Get your stomach off of my elbow,” Louis retorts, and Liam looks at them and laughs as he continues through the house. He gets slaps on the back, a few questions about his break, as he goes upstairs. He’s almost to his bedroom when a shout comes out of Harry’s bedroom, and he stops.

“Hey, Liam!” Harry comes out of his room. He’s fully clothed, which is good, but Liam is trying very hard not to think about why his hair is all mussed. It’s Harry, maybe it isn’t. It’s hard to tell.

“Good. Home, you know. Yours?”

“Good. Sadly Zayn-less,” he adds with a grin, as Zayn follows him out of his room. He’s not wearing a shirt, but his eyes are still sleepily half-lidded, and he hooks his chin over Harry’s shoulders and drapes his arms over his shoulder. Almost automatically, Harry’s hands come up to hold on, Zayn’s hand clutched lightly in both of Harry’s.

“Don’t think it counts if you texted me every hour, babe,” Zayn says affectionately, then turns his smile to Liam. “Hey. Been meaning to text you.” Harry giggles. “Liv wants me to give you her number.”

“What?” Liam chokes. He is—well, she’s hot. And cool. And not awful, for all she kind of was.

“Your number,” Louis drawls. He drapes himself over Liam in what has to be a conscious imitation of Zayn and Harry, but he’s laughing when Zayn wrinkles his nose at him. “Well done, Liam. You get some.”

“Louis,” Harry chides, and Niall comes in on,

“What did Louis do now?”

Then Harry’s explaining, and Zayn’s listening with a fond, amused smile on his face as Harry squeezes his hands tight, and Niall’s grin is sunshine happy and Louis’s still on his back, and later the whole team will be there, and Liam can’t help but smile.

Zayn catches his eye, then, raises an eyebrow. Liam shrugs. Zayn’s smile goes gentle, and he mouths, “told you so”.

Really, Liam thinks, that’s a bit hypocritical, and decides he’ll point that out when he stops feeling so fond.