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Liam thinks that nobody’s home, at first.
He shuffles a bit, ears perking at the murmur of voices he can hear through the metal door. Fuck. He’s not exactly expected right now so maybe he should duck out for a bit before he interrupts—
“Liam!”
He’s greeted with warm eyes, Zayn’s mum pulling him into a hug before he’s able to reply. He drops his bag, bends down a bit to return the sentiment, a Hullo, Mrs. Malik muffled into her shoulder. She bats his arm—how many times do I have to remind you to call me Tricia, please.
In less than a second he’s surrounded by a small group of Zayn’s relatives, smiling helplessly as the women coo over him. He scoops up one of Zayn’s cousins clinging to his leg and she giggles, burying her face into the fabric of his shirt. Zayn’s house is warm and whatever they’re cooking smells incredible and Liam feels the easy familiarity of it all wrapping around him like a blanket.
It takes several minutes for him to notice Zayn himself from his place amid the rapidly growing cluster of relatives. He’s leaning against the wall and watching them, smile stretching across his face like he can’t help himself. They nod at each other, and Zayn’s eyes practically disappear from the force of his grin.
-
He stays for dinner, lets Zayn’s mum keep his plate and stomach full, tries to mentally catalogue her cooking tips. One of his aunts insists on them all taking pictures with him—such a handsome young man.
“Auntie—“ Zayn warns, materializing out of nowhere and slinging an arm around Liam’s shoulders, the slightly embarrassed you don’t have to do this clear when Liam meets his eyes.
But Liam shakes his head, tells them all that it’s completely fine. He brushes his cheek over the hand on his shoulder as another form of reassurance and Zayn nods, slipping away to play with some of the little ones shrieking in the corner of the living room. Liam lets the female relatives fix their hair before they all smile toward a phone brandished by one of Zayn’s teenage cousins.
It’s all quite chaotic—relatives draped over furniture, food piled on paper plates, a consistent hum of conversation in the background. Everybody is loud and happy and beautiful, and he thinks Zayn is so lucky to be able to live with something like this for so long. This kind of built-in foundation, this constant hustle and bustle that was a family gathering that Liam’s never quite experienced before meeting him.
At the same time, he also knows Zayn, the bits of pieces of conversation they’ve had in the early hours of the day reminding him that it can all be a bit much, sometimes. He knows how Zayn loves his relatives but hates when they gossip, hates the probing questions the adults ask even though they’re backed by warm intent.
So maybe he lets himself talk to everyone a bit more than usual, makes small talk and answers all of the questions and lets Zayn play with his cousins instead. He loves talking to them anyway and they’re all so lovely to him, never making him feel out of place. It’s not awkward—never was, in all of the times that Liam’s found himself there with them all.
If he happens to find himself flushing every time he meets Zayn’s gaze from across the room—eyes dark and deep and thankful—then so be it.
-
After everyone leaves, some of the teenagers giggling and winking lewdly at Liam as they pass, Zayn allows himself to collapse onto the couch, arm thrown over his face dramatically. Liam titters at him, earning a playful glare from where Zayn’s sunk into the cushions. He mentally reminds himself to fetch the extra shirts from his abandoned duffel after they’ve tidied up a bit more.
Later, he’s in the middle of gathering a few stray plates from the kitchen counter when he feels Zayn sprawl lazily across his back, the heat of his hands dipping down low on his stomach and nose nudging into the back of his neck.
“Leave it,” he says, “Come to bed.”
He does.
-
Six Months Earlier
It’s definitely a thing, the way he always seems to migrate over to Zayn’s house on their breaks. Zayn assures him every time that he’s not being annoying and clingy but he’s still not entirely convinced.
“I know you’d rather have Tommo over—“
“No. Liam, no.”
Zayn’s eyes bore into his, pleading for him to believe him. And the thing is, Liam does. Has never doubted him. Never will. That kind of trust in somebody should scare him, but he can’t bring himself to care because for as long as he remembers Zayn’s always been just a step behind him, ready to comfort—if not catch him—when he falls.
“You’re always welcome,” Zayn shrugs, like it’s not even worth questioning.
And that’s how it starts, really.
-
He’s there the day Zayn’s scrolling through his phone, there when he slams it down with a bang and stalks out of the room. It only takes a few strategic Twitter searches for Liam to figure out why.
He finds him in the graffiti room, mask on and walls freshly slashed with color. He grabs one of the disposable plastic masks from the cupboard in the corner and waits, watching him with his back against the sofa and legs sprawled in front of him like he’s done more times than he can count.
Zayn doesn’t say anything—just paints. He’s never seen anger look so striking, images splashed stark against white walls. Only Zayn would be able to make such an ugly sentiment into something so stunning.
Only later, hours later, after Zayn’s done stewing and Liam has to coax him out of the room before the fumes make them dizzy, does Liam bring it up.
“I can’t imagine what it’s like,” he says quietly, tracing the sudden stiffness in Zayn’s jaw until it softens again, “And I don’t think I ever can.”
Zayn sighs, just looks at him.
They’ve never discussed this before, really. Because it’s much easier to pretend when your world’s narrowed down to just four other lads, hotel room after hotel room, living in routine and being surrounded by the same people day after day. It feels so insular, sometimes—but Liam knows. And Zayn knows, all too well. People talk and hurt and judge on things beyond his control, things that shape him. And Liam hates it, hates that Zayn will always be singled out for the wrong reasons, that people fuel their hatred by condemning some of the most sacred, beautiful aspects of him. Zayn’s stronger than all of them, he’s realized, but part of the reason he has to be like that in the first place makes his insides twist.
There’s still a tenseness to Zayn’s shoulders that makes Liam itch. He reaches over—cups the back of his neck, thumb running down the fantail tattoo in a way he hopes is reassuring. They’re sprawled on Zayn’s bed, not even bothering to pull back the covers.
“But I just—just want to let you know I’m here.”
He’s been there from the beginning, ever since he first introduced himself at that McDonald’s a few years ago, making eyes at this painfully shy boy under cheap restaurant lighting and hoping to make a friend. Getting so much more than that when they find themselves on stage with three other lads, a second chance laid out before them like a prize.
The thing is, now Zayn’s answering grin etched into the crook of his neck makes him think of things like beyond. When the lights have dimmed and the shared madness of tour and awards shows and studio sessions has fully receded. How Liam will always be there, if he’ll have him. People would say he’s entirely too young to be feeling this way but in the years he’s known Zayn he’s never met anybody else who’s made his blood sing quite the same.
“Later,” Zayn says, “I’ll tell you. But later.”
And Liam believes him.
So he runs fingers through Zayn’s hair, his hands articulating more than he’s capable of saying at the moment—you’re so strong. You don’t have to do this by yourself. Tell me everything and I’ll try to help. You’re so strong for still being you and I love that.
I love you.
-
The call comes while Liam’s food shopping.
“Hey,” he says, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder as he examines the expiration date on a loaf of bread.
“Babe,” Zayn greets, voice tinny and slightly echoed. He must be on speaker phone and making breakfast, judging by the rustling and clink of kitchenware in the background.
“Yeah?”
“You think you can pick up my mum and Wali from the airport? Sorry, I would usually call Preston or summat—”
“’Course,” Liam talks over him, “You know I would.”
“They’ll be happy to see you,” Zayn shouts, muffled—his head’s probably stuck in the fridge looking for the milk. He won’t find it, since he turns into a veritable hermit on break and is taking the term starving artist to heart, despite Liam’s protests. “You’re their favorite.”
“I don’t blame them.”
He can almost see Zayn in his mind’s eye, shaking his head like he can’t quite believe him, eyes scrunched up in amusement as he abandons his quest in the fridge and moves closer to the phone.
“Li,” he says, warm and laughing.
“I’ll see you soon, babe,” Liam replies.
He grabs extra milk on the way out.
-
They don’t define it, not really. At least in terms understandable to everyone else. Right now, it’s them. It’s enough.
It takes years to learn a language but Liam’s sure that he’s been fluent in Zayn since the beginning. It’s the way one of them will inevitably fall asleep just before the climax of the film they’re watching for the fifth time. It’s the way Zayn’s mouth frames his sleepy smile in the morning, tucked into Liam like he’s made for him. The way Liam orders extra hot sauce for Zayn when they get delivery, the way Zayn goads him into trying some of it. It’s in the way he valiantly tries and fails to hide his snickering afterward, running a reassuring hand down his back when Liam’s mouth is on fire and he’s chugging glass after glass of water.
At this moment, it’s enough. It’s not quite everything.
Not yet, at least.
-
It happens on a night not unlike several others they’ve had before, the week before Liam had accidentally walked in on the Malik family’s party.
Liam and Zayn are slumped into the couch cushions and Gambino’s playing softly through the speakers, a distant thrum in the background. It’s some time early in the morning and they’re dangerously close to crashing on the couch again.
Liam forces himself to stand, avoiding Zayn’s grabby hands in favor of stretching out the stiffness in him from sitting for so long. Zayn looks like moving is the last thing he wants to do.
“Carry me,” he yawns, and Liam obliges—of course he does—hoisting him up with a small grunt and letting Zayn practically drape himself over him, wrapping arms and legs lazily around him. Zayn tucks his face into the crook of his neck, scruff dragging along sensitive skin and eyes scrunched up in contentment. His arms tighten from where they’re wrapped around his neck as Liam carefully makes his way up to Zayn’s room, both of them giggling like idiots.
Once they get to the bed Liam loosens his grip on Zayn as a warning before letting go entirely, arms akimbo. But Zayn still clings onto him, trying and failing to hide his shit-eating grin in the curve of Liam’s bare shoulder as Liam wriggles around trying to shake him off.
“Off, you,” Liam huffs, carefully extricating the limbs wrapped around his waist and making sure there’s a pile of pillows cushioning the way. He lets Zayn break his hold and fall the short distance onto the bed with a quiet oof.
“Leeyum,” he whines, looking up at him amidst a sea of pillows—“C’mon.”
And he can’t resist. Before he even fully registers anything he’s bracketing Zayn’s legs with his own, snuffling into his neck and enjoying the way he squirms from the sensation.
It reminds him of a moment a long, long time ago. Except that time Zayn was the one sprawled over Liam, breathless and laughing and face entirely too close before their mouths slotted together and the world stopped for a minute. Back when their faces were softer and the way Zayn fit his mouth against his was more loaded with desperation—when the future was still so uncertain.
“Stay,” Zayn mumbles into his hair.
He presses something into Liam’s hand, wrapping his fingers around it like a promise—unmistakable.
It’s just that. Easy, like everything was with them.
Liam leaves the keys—his keys—on the nightstand, double-checking to make sure they’re still there. Then he leans up, scrambling to press his lips against Zayn’s and completely failing.
They’re both smiling too hard to do anything useful at this point.