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That first day, Niall looked brighter than the sun. Brighter than the sun, more golden than honey, and sweeter than sugar, Zayn remembers, because he forgot to mix some into his coffee when he left. A blonde boy that’s all lean lines and bright hair and bluest blue eyes with a smile that seems a little too big for his face, but it works.
-
It’s the reason he prefers to while away his loathed mornings in the corner of the café across from his flat, where the boy visits nearly every day and Zayn thinks it’s appropriate to call that his sunrise, because Niall’s better than the real thing. The days he doesn’t show up though, doesn’t bound in through the glass panelled doors and chirp a hello to the baristas, are when Zayn’s words become rough and uninteresting, a mess of ideas that refuse to be translated.
He doesn’t know what to label it, the fondness he has. Obsession puts him off, and infatuation doesn’t really explain it. He plays with countless other words, lets them lay on his tongue before he spits them out and discards them, so he settles for fascination, but that’s not really it either.
-
There’s some sort of freak miracle, a moment when Zayn must have done some deed that he will never be able to repay because the boy spills coffee all down his front. It’s not really the most pleasant thing ever, Zayn likes coffee but not nearly this much and it’s scalding, but there’s those eyes staring at him, creased in the corners and refracting apology back at him in the light. Then the lips, downturned and saying words that Zayn doesn’t actually pay attention to because he’s just sort of gaping. He steps away briefly, returning with an arm full of napkins, shoving half of them at Zayn’s hands and dropping the rest on the table. Zayn laughs, recovering, and staunches the drip of caffeine from the hem of his shirt.
Niall’s nearly in hysterics, because jesus christ you don’t just spill coffee on someone like that and he’s conjuring up words like clumsy and horrible and he must have given the poor guy a third degree burn. He learns that his name is Zayn Malik, when he looks up and sees him holding out a hand, pressing napkins into his chest with the other. Once every apology that Niall has in his conscious memory has been expressed, wrung out and said again, he tells Zayn one more time, sorry.
He just shakes his head again and scratches the side of it, runs a hand through his dark hair and shrugs with a smile.
“It’s fine. Really, fine.” The words are composed, a nice mask that Zayn’s pasted on because inside he’s having trouble with the fact that hey, Niall’s his name and it’s a good name for a star and he seriously does glow like the sun, it’s blinding up close. His voice sounds like how champagne would if it could speak, broad and loud and captivating. The mask chips when Niall insists that he let him repay him in some way, for an apology. It nearly cracks right down the middle when he’s drawing little patterns on the table with his fingers; asking Zayn for his phone number because for the pettiest reason, Niall now owes him coffee, he says with a smile, and Zayn doesn’t really know what n and o sound like together anymore.
-
Niall Horan is brilliant. Niall Horan has bluebell eyes with green and gold flecks; he has a laugh like wind chimes on a breezy day that comes with a smile which Zayn has kept on the inside of his eyelids. He talks with his blonde hair in his eyes, all optimistic jokes and open minded eloquence. Niall Horan is someone who turns if into when. Zayn learns this all when they meet a week later in a swanky coffee shop that has jazz swirling in his ears with tall chairs and art adorning the walls that is worth more than the complex he lives in.
They hit it off. Because Zayn finds his laughter and words come without constraint, spilling over the brim of his lips like water in an overrun bathtub. And there’s bubble bath in the tub, with bubbles that glide up, up, up, rising in his chest whenever Niall’s eyes brush over his face, when that tinkling laugh sounds in his ears and Zayn feels like he’s floating.
-
He becomes his confidante, his best friend, the other puzzle piece and second musketeer (because Zayn figures if two work twice as well, who cares about the third). The coffee shops now know them as NiallandZayn and ZaynandNiall and they don’t spend nary a week without each other anymore, and things are just fine. Fine though, isn’t great because, well, it just isn’t. Because Niall as a best friend is 99% of everything Zayn wants in the world, but vice versa always looks like it’s already 100% of what Niall wants, so Zayn keeps his feelings quiet.
Sometimes he’ll let a hand stray, a gaze linger for longer than it should, a word too affectionate. And there’s a small rise in his chest, some forlorn hope that maybe this time. But he’s always greeted by nervous laughter or an awkward shift in position and sometimes just silence that sends him plummeting, down, down, down, to lock up that shred of hope again before he does something he regrets. So he’s fine, but he definitely could be better. And screams can’t stay silent for too long so he’s agonizing, bursting at the seams with words left unspoken and feelings left unrequited for Niall, his best friend with the missing pieces and vivid blue eyes. Because Niall Horan is someone who turns if into when, and Zayn is a never.
-
When Zayn’s home some nights, words drop from his fingertips onto the page like leaking ink from a pen, blooming onto the whites of his notebook. He perches a cigarette between his lips before taking it between first finger and thumb, emptying his lungs and filling the dim room with a plume of heather grey smoke. There are things on the sheets of sunrises and days spent between the covers with whispers and eyes that rival the ocean’s cerulean. They play along to invisible melodies, unheard but known inside and out by only his mind as he taps a steady beat against his knee. He doesn’t take another drag for a few moments, setting the smoke across the ashtray while he pens something about promises left on skin with mouths as hot as steaming tea. Then he tucks the notebook away, replacing it with the cigarette again.
There was another boy, sometime before. A boy that too made his words blossom; with dark, messy curls, eyes glinting so green you’d think they were solid emerald, and lips to reduce one to their knees. But then Zayn’s words rose stories of drunken fumbles and late night stupors, not love, but fuck beneath the milky pale moonlight.
Now though, so help him¸ there are Pandora’s boxes of things he doesn’t know; new things like love and stay opening themselves inside of Zayn’s mind, leaving his notebooks and his heart and consciousness so jam-packed that sometimes he finds his fingertips tingling (lately it’s not even full sentences, just lists). And he wants to learn these things but simultaneously shove them away, hide in the comfort of denial and not throw stones in glass houses or whatever the expression is because Niall’s his best friend. He wants to say that it’s just fine too, to lock himself in his prose and live out emotions through words but he wants to have the real thing; to let Niall know that whenever he sees him his chest gets a little bit lighter and his smiles wider and his existence something he likes a lot more. Wants to dance around with him in his arms like fools and steal kisses between the wee hours of the morning. And he’d like to sit with Niall when something bothers him and there’s nothing to say, when the rain’s heavy and sadness hangs in the air. Wishes he could kiss each barely visible freckle that dots his nose and cheeks and shoulders, run his hands through golden hair and count the flecks in his eyes.
But the point is, best friends don’t do that. And Zayn feels absurd so he pushes it away, lights another cigarette.
-
The weather’s excruciatingly hot this one evening, and the fan spins above their heads to combat the present hot that sits on their shoulders and limbs, making their movements exceedingly languid. Niall pulls off his hat, raking a hand through the damp strands of hair underneath, and turns the snapback over in his fingers before flinging it on the chair in the corner and discarding it altogether.
Zayn laughs from where he’s standing across the room, leaning on the marbled counter of Niall’s kitchen. There’s two dripping cold glasses in his hands, brimming with water because the two of them have already drank their way through the contents of the fridge in this heat. He walks over and sets one on the armrest of the chair, replacing the hat in his lap before setting the second in front of Niall who’s gone back to strumming the guitar resting on his knees, a content expression on his face. Zayn draws a pattern in the water that’s covered the outside of the glass, humming along to the riff that now blankets the comfortable silence in the room.
His eyes are halfway drooped as he sinks into the cushion further, drowning in the caramel chords coming from Niall’s direction before they screech to a resounding halt, melding into a gritty, vibrant piece that Zayn finds himself singing along to. It’s an old Kings of Leon song, and he croons his way through it with tapping feet and a lazy smile when he sees Niall’s eyes light up. Partway through the chorus, he bounds up, swaying around the room with the guitar strap slung over his shoulder, blue eyes ablaze with a vast grin painted on his mouth. Zayn can’t sing anymore, too busy laughing as Niall shimmies to the sound of his own instrument, and then simultaneously the stereo, because the blonde reaches over and presses play to the song, upping the volume. The guitar’s laid down on the couch before Niall hoots and chuckles and rushes over to Zayn, pulling on his wrists and hands to join him, and through some protests and a faster beating heart, he does.
Caleb Followill’s voice serenades them through the chorus as they both hang on to the other’s hands, twisting and jumping with laughter on their lips. Niall does this thing that’s supposed to be the robot and Zayn blows a raspberry at him before Niall takes his hands again, tugging on each in turn to the beat of the percussion. They’re all wound up and live wired still when the song ends and disappears into a slow, soft beat and then the smooth intone of a man’s voice that Zayn can’t put a name to.
They come to a halt, his forearms still in Niall’s palms and his breath hitches when he feels his fingers drag down and stop, pressing into the skin at the heels of his hands. Zayn doesn’t move, barely even breathes as his eyes search over the top of Niall’s head, the other boy’s eyes fixed on his own fingers. Then, slowly, timidly, he fits the fingers of his right hand into the space between Zayn’s thumb and forefinger and his thumb underneath and raises their hands up. Zayn sways for a second, faltering, and then takes a step to the side, then forwards, then backwards.
And Niall follows. Doesn’t meet his eyes, but he keeps hold on Zayn’s hand and then soon snakes the other up his arm as they slink around the room, silent with unsure, slow movements and letting the music fill the space between them. Somewhere between the third verse and the second chorus, Niall presses closer and rests his chin slightly on the flat of Zayn’s shoulder. He hesitates for a second, holding in a breath because now Niall can definitely feel the rate that his heart is beating, sense the tremors and fluster that Niall being this close is causing. But Zayn can feel Niall’s heart too, how slowly it’s not beating, and he doesn’t know how to take that so he just keeps on taking steps, because he can over analyze after Niall’s a good few away and out of his grasp. It must’ve been the heat, or something, but Zayn does the impossible and leans his head against the side of Niall’s, gingerly. There’s no flinch, no abrupt separation, just a quiet hitch of breath.
The temperature of the room’s dropping slightly as the sun drops beneath the horizon in the corner of Zayn’s eye. Niall smells like the musk of a guitar’s frame with the zing of cologne and his hands are smooth besides the rough pads of his fingers, from countless plucks at the strings, that tickle the back of Zayn’s palm. He takes a quiet breath, still trembling once the song comes to an end and Niall’s hands fall from his and the blonde clears his throat.
“I, uh, I-” he starts, falling over himself and just barely meeting Zayn’s eyes but Zayn’s still teeming with tingles and flutters in his chest, his hands pins and needles all over when he decides fuck it all and just
“Can I try something?”
Niall just looks up at him and doesn’t say anything, so Zayn takes a wavering hand and slowly traces the line of Niall’s jaw, presses a gentle finger to his cheek, raising his chin to meet their lips with a deep inhale.
It’s just silent now, a press of lips in the middle of the room and neither of them moves until Zayn goes to step back and Niall places a calm hand at the back of his neck, stands on his toes to lean in even further. He rustles his fingers a bit against the nape of his neck and Zayn just about explodes because there are the callused fingertips again and now the new sensation of faintly chapped lips against his own, moving now, and guitar musk and blonde hair falling against his brow.
So he smiles, puts another hand on the side of Niall’s face and licks his bottom lip because what the hell do I have to lose before Zayn can’t place where Niall ends and he begins because now Niall’s got his tongue trailing along his lips too, doing delicious little things with his mouth and Zayn really can’t breathe. Niall pushes him backwards against the small coffee table that just comes to their knees so Zayn sits and leans back and breaks them apart, his chest heaving and fingers still somewhere between Niall’s belt loops and the hem of his shirt.
He manages something like a smile but his lips are too hypersensitive so maybe it looks like a grimace or something but if Zayn had a pen and his notebook he’d scrawl the pages ink blue with things like perfect and breathless and holy shit.
Niall starts up again. “I uh, that, I-that,” he sputters, “you, what, you- jesus christ.” Zayn’s come down from the high now, watching Niall scratch the back of his head and grope for words, and he’s nervous again but he pulls Niall closer by the belt loops of his shorts.
“Yeah I… Can you give me like, fifteen minutes?”
He gets out words like yes and sure and what the hell why and Zayn takes his hands and drops a kiss on his knuckle, says he’ll be right back, and sprints out the door.
Outside, the sun’s a constant reminder of why he’s absolutely dense, beating down and causing the ends of his hair to mat with sweat as he runs the two and a quarter blocks from Niall’s flat to his, all but beating down the front door when the key gives him grief. Eventually he clambers inside, darting about and scooping every shred of paper and notebook and blue scrawled napkin into his arms.
-
When Zayn swings open the front door again, Niall’s sitting on the first few steps waiting and then smiling like it’s the first time he’s seen him. Zayn forgets there’s a lip on the threshold and suddenly there are sheets of paper drifting down around them and Zayn’s got a sore elbow. He’s about to say something, explain or maybe just some damage control but Niall’s sidling up next to him against the wall and rests his back against Zayn’s upturned legs, grabbing the nearest napkin. (And Zayn prays it’s something about midnight kisses and not pressing each other into the grass or worse, for fuck’s sake)
It’s quiet for a long time and Zayn’s elbow is starting to throb a little less when Niall’s flipped over his third page in the notebook he’s onto now and lets out a breath, and Zayn prepares to get kicked out.
“I’m a right twat, aren’t I?” Niall says, his voice even as he rests his head back against Zayn’s knees, looking up at him.
“What?” Because Zayn’s fucking confused, Niall did just read what was probably the equivalent of creepy love letters times infinity, no?
“I’m an oblivious, cold hearted twat- Because this, this everything,” he gesticulates around the staircase and papers in his hands, “I don’t deser- Christ Zayn, you could’ve just told me or wait no, I would’ve ruined that too. But this-” He just stops then, gives up and grabs around for another notebook and Zayn laughs.
“I’ve made moves, though? Like, really meek, I guess not really noticeable ones, but I’ve made em?” He says, and watches Niall’s face stretch into a sheepish ghost of a smile so he pushes on, “And like, all you’ve done is shuffle away or not say anything so I don’t know,” he shrugs.
Niall’s eyes light up with recognition, recalling things and rubs the heel of his hands against his eyes, “Well, I don’t know either, thought you were being dumb or summat, and I’d take it all back if I could, because this,” he turns and tips a notebook on Zayn’s knees so it slides into his lap, “I like this.”
So Zayn says “come here” in a breathless tone not above a whisper and presses their lips together. And he gets that feeling again, like he’s floating and he might burst out of his skin but now he’s more than just fine.
Because Niall turns ifs into when and Zayn really was always here, anyways.