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The first time they meet is at a competition in Québec City, and Zayn immediately notices his build.
The guy’s leaning against the wall, training bag in hand, as he waits for the woman at the registration desk to get to him. He’s facing the other way, but Zayn knows already that he’s never seen him before. (Which is rare; Zayn’s been to about five times as many of these events as he’s had birthdays.)
He’s tall; Zayn guesses a good three inches taller than himself. He’s got strong hips and wide shoulders and really, he looks much too big to be a fencer. He’d be better suited for something like boxing or rowing, Zayn thinks, as he eyes the boy’s broad back.
The guy turns as he hears the approaching footsteps, and catches Zayn’s eye. He inclines his head politely, but there’s no real kindness in the movement. Zayn gets it; the boy is here to win, not to make friends. There’s always a couple of those.
Who’s he kidding? He’s one of those, too; except unlike the others, he will be the winner.
Zayn throws back an insincere smile, chin lifting a fraction of an inch, and just catches sight of the boy’s raised eyebrows before he walks into the changing room. Zayn can come off cocky, and maybe he is, a little. He’s confident. He knows he’s good, and he was never one to fake modesty. He knows he can win, and he knows he will, and really, what’s the harm in that? Anyone in his situation would act the same way.
He changes slowly, settling into the mood of the competition. His blood is already starting to buzz with energy, but he’s calm. He’s got this.
Zipping his jacket, he grabs his mask and épée and walks out into the hall.
The big guy from before is still there, having taken off his track pants and jacket to reveal that he was already dressed. Well then.
Zayn wonders idly what his name is, but decides it doesn’t matter. The boy won’t be the one going home with gold, and right now, that’s all he wants to focus on.
“Malik!”
His coach’s voice echoes down the hall and he turns sharply to face the man. Pavel’s smiling wide, and Zayn can’t help but grin in response. “We’ve got this one, coach.”
“Of course we do, Zayn. I know you won’t let me down.”
Pavel waves quickly at the girl at the registration table, who nods; everything’s in order. They know him here by now, no need to wait in line.
After a final glance at the new kid, Zayn follows Pavel into the gymnasium where the strips are set up. He runs a lap and stretches carefully, only half-listening to Pavel’s instructions. Really, he knows this stuff by now.
As the room starts to fill up, and the fencers find their places, Zayn rolls his shoulders one last time and steps up to the piste. His first opponent’s Horan, a scrawny kid from Newfoundland he can beat with his eyes closed. He takes a breath and settles into stance, the hum of noise around him fading into the background of his mind.
Here’s how it goes: Zayn wins.
He wins, always. Not just single bouts, but entire competitions; provincials, nationals, and the like. He could be an Olympian, really, if he decided to train for it. He’s good. He moves with an instinctive ease. It’s like his body was made for the sport: thin but awfully muscular, built-in speed and precision and endurance.
It's not much of a shock, then, that he wins the bout fifteen-four, but even he’s a little surprised that the Horan kid hadn’t managed to land more points. When they take off their masks, however, the Newfie lad is grinning.
“Good bout,” Zayn says as they shake hands, sweat slicking the exchange. And maybe the guy’s just really, really dense, because he doesn’t seem to catch the sarcasm dripping from Zayn’s voice.
“That it was,” the blond replies, and his smile becomes impossibly wide. “Yer a champ, Malik.”
Zayn just shakes his head, eyebrows raised in disbelief, and detaches his body cord. He walks back to Pavel, laughing as he sees his expression mirrored in the coach’s. As Pavel gives him his post-bout pep talk, he finds his eyes straying to the blond kid again and again. He just looks so damn happy. How can someone laugh so hard after getting beaten so bad?
It’s not that Zayn likes making people feel miserable. But he will admit that that small spark of jealousy in his opponents’ eyes does feel nice. It feels like he’s maybe accomplished something, that maybe what he’s doing is worthwhile. That he isn’t wasting his time, because people want to be where he is. On top.
By early afternoon, Zayn is drenched with sweat. He’d won all of his bouts, of course, but he’s beginning to feel the exertion. It’s not that he’s tired, exactly, but he can feel the three and a half hours of fencing in his muscles.
So when it’s finally time for the last match, he’s grateful.
To his intense surprise, it’s the big guy from this morning. He has his back to Zayn again, and this time he can make out the name printed in blue block letters across his shoulders.
PAYNE.
He glances over at Pavel, who shrugs. Clearly, it’s not someone who’s well-known around here. Of course it’s not someone who’s well-known, because Zayn would’ve recognized him from the start.
Still, it’s strange to have some random kid competing with him for first place. Or competing for second, Zayn thinks, because he’s a hundred percent sure of the outcome.
And then they’re starting and Zayn can’t help but forget himself for a moment and admire his opponent’s posture.
As his eyes trail downwards to gauge the position of the bloke’s feet, perfectly perpendicular, he sees them shuffle in a brilliant set of footwork, and suddenly the electronic scoreboard whines and Zayn’s aware of a piercing pressure just below his right wrist.
Fuck.
And suddenly it’s two-nil then three-nil and what on Earth is happening?
He can feel Pavel’s incredulous stare burning into his back as he desperately tries to deflect the boy’s blows, parrying right and left to no avail.
As the tip of Payne’s blade pushes into him for the fourth time, their eyes meet, and Zayn can see the glow of triumph in the other boy’s face through the thick wire mesh of the mask.
Well fuck all if he’s gonna let some random kid beat him.
A wave of adrenalin surges in his veins. He’s aware of every inch of his body as determination pulses through him. And just like that, he’s back, lithely springing out of the blade’s way each time.
He wins fifteen-fourteen.
Payne is clearly stunned, Zayn notes with satisfaction. But by this point, Zayn’s so tired from the unexpected effort that he can’t bring himself to gloat. He’s never worked this hard in his entire life, he thinks, as he blinks the sweat from his eyes and peels his mask off.
They shake hands silently, and don’t see each other again for five and a half months.
It’s a Wednesday night and they’re halfway through training when Pavel pulls him aside.
“We’re expanding the team.”
Zayn just stares for a moment, then shrugs. He doesn’t get it, sure; they’ve just recently found another competitive fencer in his age group, Tomlinson, who is fast and precise and good (not as good as he is, really, but definitely above average). If the club wants a third, well. “It’s not like it’s my decision.”
Pavel smiles and grabs his shoulder. “You do seem like you think you’re running this place, sometimes.” The man chuckles to himself briefly before collecting his thoughts. “The new boy’s name is Liam, he’s just getting set up in the locker room. Mind helping him get his stuff organized?”
Zayn glances back to where Tomlinson is practicing his flèche, and shrugs again. They’ve got another competition coming up, but missing a couple of minutes won’t really make a difference.
“Sure thing.”
Besides, he wants to get a look at this new kid. He hopes it’s not some skinny fourteen year old who doesn’t even know how to lunge; he really doesn’t feel like he has the patience to go through with another Harry.
So with an encouraging thump on the back from Pavel, Zayn turns down the hallway and walks into the locker room.
He doesn’t see the guy at first. After a moment, he almost steps back out to ask Pavel what the hell he’s talking about, where’s the new kid? And then a head appears from behind a row of lockers, and Zayn can feel something twist inside him.
Because, fuck.
It’s that kid from Québec, and Zayn can’t quite believe it.
He sees recognition light up Payne’s face, settling slowly into that blank look of challenge that Zayn had first seen him with. They stay like that for a couple of moments until Zayn looks him up and down, trailing his eyes along the length of his wide torso—
—and then Zayn bursts out laughing because the kid’s wearing fucking Toy Story underwear and Payne’s face is burning red as he quickly slips on his breeches. He crosses his arms in over his sculpted chest and tries to look nonchalant, but he’s still flushed across his cheeks and neck and maybe Zayn’s eyes linger a little too long, but who’s to say?
Payne’s stuff is already halfway packed into a locker, but he doesn’t budge until Zayn stops laughing. When silence finally settles between them, and the tint in Payne’s cheeks is lessened somewhat, he leans down to collect the rest of his clothes.
Zayn doesn’t utter a word as he leaves the room with a final snort.
Fucking kid with the Toy Story boxers can figure himself out.
It takes a couple of minutes for Liam to emerge, but he looks more confident and less like a tomato when he does. He heads straight to where Zayn and Louis are fencing, and watches for a while as they dance around each other, blades flashing in the artificial light. They’re really quite good, he notes, but he knows he measures up.
He’s a little nervous, sure. But when the boys finish their bout, all he wants to do is strike that smug half-smile off of Zayn’s handsome face. Malik may be good, but damn it all if he’s gonna let the kid walk around like he’s the biggest deal on the planet.
Fencing’s about fun and the beauty of the sport, of course, but damn Liam if he’s gonna let some stuck-up prick win.
Zayn beats Tomlinson fifteen-eleven that night, and he’s pleased. He knows the older boy isn’t quite as practiced as he is—to be fair, he’s only been fencing for a couple of years. But he’s a full year older than Zayn, so Zayn still feels like he accomplished something. He likes winning. He likes being good.
He catches Liam’s eye as he struts off the piste, and he feels his mouth jerk up at the corner. The past few months of training have been very intense and he’s positive that the kid wouldn’t be able to get nearly as close to beating him now. Plus, Zayn was probably just ridiculously shocked back in May; after all, it’s not every day that he sees some fencer for the first time who actually ends up being any good.
That was probably it, really. There’s no way a guy that big is that fast, that nimble. Just moving that amount of muscle around must be exhausting, and probably fairly ineffective. Yeah, Zayn had probably just had an off day. (He’d still won, though, and that thought is comforting nonetheless.)
He finds himself walking towards Liam, opening his mouth to challenge him to a bout, but Tomlinson gets there first, shouting across the strip.
“Oi! New kid! Whass’yer name?”
“Liam!” Liam calls back, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles across Zayn’s shoulder towards Louis.
“Alright Liam, get your butt over here and beat me to a pulp.”
Zayn closes his mouth awkwardly and feels a little bit uncomfortable as Liam brushes past him without a second glance. He turns and watches Louis shake Liam’s hand enthusiastically, grinning too wide and talking too much and Zayn’s had enough for tonight, thank you very much.
He heads towards the locker room and doesn’t say anything when the two other boys join him fifteen minutes later, laughing and talking as if they’d been friends for years.
(He slams his locker in Payne’s face, and scowls at Tomlinson’s annoying look of contempt.)
(Later that night, he’ll feel bad for it, but those kids are just annoying as fuck.)
Tomlinson sort of takes Payne under his wing, and Zayn finds himself just a little bit irritated.
The two of them seem to get on really well. Zayn’s not exactly sure why, but that’s definitely a bad thing. They’re constantly together. Tomlinson just never shuts up and all too often he hears Payne’s radiant laughter echo in the large space of their gym. He tells himself it’s because they’re supposed to be training, goddamn it, but really, he feels excluded.
He knows it’s mostly his own fault, and it’s not like he minds too much, but still.
Three weeks whirl by and suddenly they’re in Pavel’s brand new minibus, heading towards Montréal. Zayn hasn’t been at a competition in a half year, and the five hour car ride is just enough for the nerves to hit him.
Tweedledum and Tweedledee are sitting at the front, talking about the pros and cons of soccer, or some similar nonsense. Pavel, who’s driving, nods along to their conversation, interjecting every minute or two to say that really, back in the day, he almost decided to pursue The Beautiful Game instead of fencing.
Zayn sits all the way in the back, iPod turned up to full volume to try and drown out Tomlinson’s chirpy voice. He’s in a bad mood, for god’s sake, why can’t the world be considerate of that?
If he’s honest with himself, he’d been quite moody for the past while. Even Pavel has noticed. The coach had cornered him one night after training, brows furrowed and genuine concern in his eyes. Zayn had shrugged and told him it was all okay. He was just feeling a little sick. Touch of the flu, probably.
Except it wasn’t the flu, and Zayn knew that. He was just nervous for the first time in his life. What would happen if, after seven years of bringing home nothing but gold, he came second?
Because, he thinks, eyes snapping up to the burly boy up front, for the first time in his life there is an actual chance that he’s going to disappoint.
Frustrated, he yanks his headphones from his ears and leans against the side of the car, dozing off to the sound of Liam’s laughter.
When he wakes up, he feels surprisingly well rested. As he opens his eyes, he sees someone hovering over him and smiles before he realizes oh; Liam. They stare at each other for a moment, and a flush starts crawling up Zayn's neck as he sleepily becomes aware of the heat of the younger boy's thighs beside his own. Liam looks a little confused as he reaches across Zayn to grab his bag.
“You okay?” he asks, eyebrows raised.
Zayn’s smile is frozen on his face, unable to form a response. It’s not like they don’t talk; they see each other about five times a week, how could they not? But they’re far from friendly, and really, Zayn’s just in an off mood, the buoyant residues of the nap fading quickly. He grunts in response and rubs a hand across his face.
By the time the spots disappear from behind his eyelids, the minibus is empty.
Zayn ends up fencing Liam for first, and wins fifteen-twelve.
He should be happy but he just feels drained, and really, what the fuck is wrong with him today?
They go to shake hands, Zayn pointedly ignoring the tingling of his palm as it presses against Liam's, and only manages a small smile. He can tell from the wariness etched in Liam’s eyes that even he can sense that something’s not quite right. They walk off the piste together, Payne craning his neck to find Pavel.
When they finally spot him, Zayn’s ready to drop into the ground and stay there forever, because their coach is talking to a rather tall lad who looks disturbingly familiar. The boy has his mask in hand, damp curls stuck to his forehead, and Zayn mutters a pretty string of choice cusswords under his breath.
Harry Styles sees them and his face falls for a second, but then he’s smiling again and Pavel waves them over.
“Liam, this is Harry,” Pavel introduces, gaze darting to Zayn. “Zayn, you know him already, right?”
Harry visibly stiffens and Pavel seems to pick up on it, eyes narrowing slightly as he claps Zayn on the back. “Good bout by the way,” he adds, clearly attempting to dispel the tension.
With a last awkward clearing of his throat, Pavel turns to walk away, scanning the crowd for Louis who is, apparently, nowhere to be found.
Zayn nods belatedly, both in response to Pavel’s question and in acknowledgement of the compliment. He shifts slightly, eyes boring into Harry’s. The kid has grown quite a lot, and he looks... nice.
“What’s up, Styles?”
Discomfort flashes through Harry’s eyes and he glances to the floor. He coughs twice but doesn’t answer. Zayn looks at Liam, who seems utterly perplexed.
“Mate?” Payne finally asks, visibly ill at ease in the non-exchange. “Everything alright?”
Harry looks back up, a pretty pink staining his cheeks. Zayn really can’t tear his eyes away, because fuck, he’s sure the kid wasn’t this gorgeous two years ago.
“Yeah, I’m good,” Styles mumbles, voice deep and slow, and he seems to shake himself. “Sorry, that was rude. I’m Harry.”
“I’m Liam.”
And then the kid is relaxed and smiling, saying he’s actually from Toronto, too, and congratulating Liam on second place, and ignoring Zayn completely.
Louis comes bounding up to them a moment later, eyes bright and voice loud, two chocolate bars clutched in his hand.
“Hiya,” he says, appraising Harry enthusiastically. “I don’t know you. Want a KitKat?”
And by the time Pavel finally finds them again, Harry’s happily typing his number into Louis’ phone.
“Alright,” the coach says. “We really should get going.”
“Bye, Harry,” Louis sings, flashing a wide grin.
“Bye,” Harry replies, and Liam smiles at him.
Zayn hangs back as Pavel and the others start walking out, and grabs Harry’s arm insistently.
“Listen, wait, Harry—”
“You gotta go,” the kid interrupts coolly, a faint blush still on his cheeks. He pries Zayn’s fingers off and steps away, head held high. “Bye, Zayn.”
They stop at a Dairy Queen on the way back to Toronto. Payne and Tomlinson race each other, with the energy of five year olds, to save a table. Zayn stumbles in after them, legs cramped from sitting for three hours straight.
He stays with Pavel as the coach pays for the food, leaning against the counter as they wait for their chicken strips and fries.
“Fancy seeing Styles today, huh? He placed fifth overall, you know,” the man says, and Zayn can hear the calculation in his voice. An alarm goes off in his mind and he squeezes his eyes shut for just a moment.
“You remember how bad he was, right?”
“He was rubbish,” Pavel agrees, tapping his fingers on a plastic tray. “But he’s improved a surprising amount.”
After a pause, the coach continues. “Wonder what he’d be like if we’d kept him.”
Zayn almost snorts. “He won’t ever get further than fifth, believe me, no matter who trains him. The guy doesn’t have it in him, coach. He’s too slow.”
“He’s improved,” Pavel points out.
“Sure, but it all depends on talent. Skill can be developed, but you always need that innate aptitude and frankly, I don’t think Harry has it.”
“But his improvement is—”
“It took him three fucking weeks to learn how to do a proper lunge!” Zayn bursts out, fists clenched at his side. “That is not gonna make him a champion, Pavel.”
“You’re forgetting, son, that I am the coach here.”
Their food arrives at the exact moment Zayn looks up into Pavel’s steely eyes and the smell of greasy chicken is too much, too much. His stomach lurches and he’s overcome by nausea and he’s dizzy and definitely not okay.
He bolts from the diner and out into open air and he’s grateful to find a trash can so he can hurl.
Maybe he does have the flu after all.
He tries to straighten up, but the world turns too fast and his head’s in the bin again as he throws up once more. Suddenly there are cool fingers on his forehead and an arm around his back, and he’s lifted up and pulled back inside towards a bathroom.
Zayn’s head is swimming and his vision’s gone grey and all he is aware of is being pressed against a wall and made to sit down on the tiled floor.
“Deep breaths,” someone commands and he focuses on that, dragging in large gulps of air until it somehow gets stuck and he coughs, gagging violently. He’s picked up again and bent over the sink, and he throws out his arm to stop his head from crashing into he mirror. He vaguely sees a hand turn the tap on and then he’s drenched in cold water.
And then he’s sitting again, head against the wall, eyes closed, and slowly, he begins to feel better.
Just like that, he becomes aware of the pressure of a palm on his thigh and his eyes snap open.
It’s Liam.
“Fuck,” Zayn breathes, too nauseous for the moment to feel anything except embarrassment. “Sorry ‘bout that.”
Liam just grips his leg tighter and moves so that he’s crouching over him. “S’okay. Are you feeling better?”
“Not by much,” Zayn admits as his stomach twists again. He closes his eyes because the room has started to spin again, and really, Liam is much too close, mint-kissed breath ghosting over his face.
“Should I get Pavel?” Liam asks, concern lacing his voice, but Zayn only shakes his head.
“No, I’ll be fine, I just need a minute.”
“Alright then.”
The weight of Liam’s hand disappears from just above his knee. He’s gone, Zayn thinks, but his sigh of relief gets lost somewhere as the warmth of a body is pressed up against his side. All of a sudden he feels hot and sticky and fuck, he needs to breathe.
“Take deep breaths,” Liam tells him and he’s crowding Zayn’s space and there isn’t enough air and Zayn feels like he might just throw up again.
“Yeah,” is all he manages and tries to lean away subtly.
The sit like that until the chill of the tiles starts to seep through their jeans and Zayn opens his eyes slowly. When the walls don’t somersault around him, he gingerly pushes himself upright.
Liam gets up, too, looking him over warily. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Positive,” Zayn replies, stepping to the taps and grimacing when he catches sight of his matted hair and green-tinged skin. “Don’t really look too good though, do I?”
His eyes meet Liam’s in the mirror for a moment and the tall boy just shrugs. He holds the door open for Zayn as they head back to the other, and maybe Zayn only imagines the slight blush blooming high on Liam's cheeks as their arms brush together.
It turns out Tomlinson gets along with absolutely everyone, because he and Harry Styles have been texting nonstop.
The buzzing of his phone seems to become a constant during training, and Zayn can tell that even Liam’s becoming just the slightest bit annoyed. Louis is even more cheerful than usual, and maybe it shouldn’t bother Zayn as much as it does, but he’d really rather not go into that.
“Hey Lou, were you planning on taking a shower before you turn fifty?” Liam yells over the rush of water as Zayn steps to his locker, towel wrapped around his waist. It’s been a long day and a tough session and he’s aching to go home and sleep.
Louis’ sitting on a bench, grinning at his phone, fingers flying across the screen. He glances up as Zayn walks past him.
“Hey Zayn,” he begins, putting his phone down beside him. “This Harry kid, you know him from before, right?”
Zayn grunts an agreement and begins pulling on his clothes.
“I, uh, how well did you know him?” Louis asks, hesitant, and Zayn has never heard him flustered before.
“...Why?”
“Do you know if—uh, is he gay?”
Zayn looks up sharply. “Why?”
Louis shrugs. “Is he?”
“Are you?” Zayn counters.
“Yeah.”
And Zayn has to take deep breaths because it’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair, how Harry’s two years older now and ten times prettier than he was back then and how Louis—
“Is that a problem, mate?” And Louis’ voice is just the slightest bit threatening.
“What? No.”
“So is he?”
The water shuts off in the showers and it’s really quiet all of a sudden. Zayn bites his lip.
“He’s into guys, as far as I know,” he presses out finally.
“Fabulous,” Louis cheers, all uncertainty gone. He grabs a towel and slips away with an unbearable grin on his face.
Liam joins him then, and Zayn's eyes most definitely do not follow the droplets trickling from his wet hair as they slide down his abs. Man, the kid must work out every spare moment he gets, Zayn thinks, reluctantly marvelling at Liam's defined chest. He huffs as he pulls his shirt over his head. When he resurfaces, Liam’s frowning at him.
“What’s wrong?”
“What? Nothing’s wrong, why’re you asking?”
“C’mon man, you’re looking all moody.”
Zayn shrugs just as Louis’ phone buzzes on the bench beside him. Oh. Suddenly any distraction melts away as he tries and fails to hold back a scowl.
“Seriously, Zayn,” Liam persists. “What the fuck is up?”
Zayn turns to him. “What are you on about?”
“I’m not an idiot. You get all jumpy whenever Lou talks about Harry. And you were acting all weird that time in Montréal. I’m not an idiot,” he repeats. “What’s your problem?”
“Just fuck off,” Zayn snaps, before grabbing his bag and whirling out the door with one last infuriated look at the blinking message on Louis' screen.
Harry visits them on a Wednesday.
He walks in quietly in the middle of training and sits down on a bench, leaning against the wall as if he belonged there.
Zayn’s in the middle of fencing Liam, and they’re not keeping score but Zayn knows he’s not doing well. He curses aloud as Liam lands another hit, the tip of the blade sinking into his thigh.
“Wanna take a break?” Liam asks, but at this point Zayn can’t bring himself to give up.
“Later,” he growls, eyes darting to where Tomlinson has joined Harry, watching them fence from the bench, knees touching, arms pressed together. “Let’s play to five.”
Liam shrugs and steps back and Zayn finds himself distracted because fuck, his posture’s good. That’s always been something he could never get perfect, could never sink into stance like Liam’s doing now, white cloth tight around his knees and thighs and ass.
Liam lands the first point and Zayn somehow doesn’t recover. He only gets to three points before Liam’s pulling his mask off and motioning to shake hands. Zayn feels numb because yes it’s only practice, and yes it was only a mock bout, but he had lost, and he had lost to Liam, and how is it that he's suddenly having problems with his focus?
They walk over to Louis and Harry, who are both smiling from ear to ear.
“Harry!” Liam greets, sitting down onto the floor in front of them unceremoniously.
Zayn stays standing and leans against a wall. “Hey, Styles.”
As if he hadn’t even heard Zayn speak, Harry keeps his eyes on Liam. “S’nice to see you again,” he says with a grin.
“You, too,” Liam replies. “I gotta say, it’s much better to have you here in the flesh, rather than hear Louis’ phone go off constantly.”
Harry laughs easily, leaning into the eldest boy. “What can I do? He just won’t let me be.”
Louis gasps in mock indignation. “Why, I thought you liked me!”
“I didn’t mean that!” Harry exclaims, clinging to Louis as the other tries to push him away. “Don’t leave me!”
“I have no choice, Hazza dear,” Louis cries, but his lips somehow find their way to Harry’s and his hands find their way to his curls.
“Alright, alright,” Liam chides, swatting at Louis’ knees to get his attention. “Let’s try to keep it PG, shall we?”
Getting a little tired of being ignored, Zayn shifts lazily. “So Harry, how old are you again? Fifteen? Sixteen?”
“Seventeen, actually,” Harry states dryly, but spots of red have appeared high on his cheeks.
“Quite an age difference there,” Zayn muses, watching Harry through narrowed eyes. “Although you’ve always been very mature for your age, haven’t you?”
The silence is only broken when Zayn continues, “But you know, Styles, you’re not gonna get on this team by sleeping with its members.”
Harry is beet red and the scowl on Louis’ face is deepening by the second. Liam stands up, glaring.
“Zayn, can I talk to you for a sec?” he asks, only it doesn’t sound like a question and he’s already grabbed Zayn's arm and is pulling him aside. The shock barely registers before Zayn’s being shoved into the locker room and pushed against a wall.
“What the fuck, Liam?”
“Back atcha. Why are you acting like such a cunt?”
“You’re being a cunt, what’s your prob—”
His sentence is cut short as hands grip his shoulder and shove him hard, head ricocheting off the wall.
“Ow,” he groans as sparkles of pain bite across his skull. “Jesus, Liam, lay off already.”
Liam ignores him. “Why are you being such an asshole, Zayn? It’s really pissing me off and I don’t think Louis and Harry should have to put up with it, either.”
Zayn’s eyes meet Liam’s. They’re both still for a moment until Zayn’s lips twist into a sneer.
“Look, Payne, I have no idea what you’re trying to pull here, but I’m really not interested in whatever it is.”
He tries to push the other boy away, but Liam just holds him tighter, keeping him firmly in place.
“Just stop being such a bitch around Harry. I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but it’s clearly making him uncomfortable.”
“Aw, am I hurting little Hazza’s feelings?” Zayn mocks.
“Just stop, Zayn.” Liam pronounces deliberately.
“Or what? You’ll hit me? Beat me up?” Zayn challenges with a snort, but there’s just a hint of fear in his eyes as Liam’s grip tightens on his shoulder and his thumb presses into his throat.
“’M considering it.”
“Well go right ahead.”
“You’re an ass,” Liam growls, nails digging into Zayn’s skin.
“And you’re annoying as all fuck.”
And Liam’s gaze is flickering between Zayn’s eyes and his lips and Zayn thinks fuck it, why not, and pushes his mouth against Liam’s.
And surprisingly, Liam doesn’t hesitate to kiss back. Huh. He presses even closer, biting and licking into Zayn’s mouth with so much intensity that Zayn feels a little lightheaded.
From then it’s hands in hair and hips knocking and pulses quickening and if this keeps going, it’s gonna be awfully hard to stop. Zayn’s hands find their way to Liam’s side and clutch at the shifting muscles under the fabric of his shirt.
“Wait, fuck, wait,” Zayn gasps, pulling back just enough so that he can breathe. The lust in Liam’s eyes is almost frightening.
“What for?”
The don’t talk about it, after.
They don’t talk about how they had stumbled into the showers, pushing the door locked behind them so they wouldn’t be walked in on. They don’t talk about how Zayn’s nimble fingers didn’t waste a moment in peeling off two sets of clothes, slipping over nipples and biceps and the backs of thighs. They don’t talk about how Liam had moaned, low and clipped, when Zayn’s hot tongue flicked over the head of his cock; how Zayn’s wet mouth had stretched so sinfully wide as he swallowed around him; how Liam’s hands had twisted and pulled at the dark locks at the back of Zayn’s head.
They don’t talk about how Liam’s come had clung to Zayn’s lower lip as Liam pulled him up and kissed him deep. They don’t talk about how Zayn had keened as Liam drew him close, cock getting caught in the heat between their bodies. They don’t talk about how Liam’s eyes were black as pitch when he finally wrapped his hand around Zayn, and they don’t talk about how Zayn came completely apart in Liam’s firm grip.
But from that day on, Zayn leaves training sweaty, hair and clothes sticking uncomfortably to his damp skin, and showers at home instead.
And when, for the first time in his life, Zayn wins silver and not gold at a competition in Brockville, he blames it on Liam, on his confusing eyes and his confusing hands. He blames it on Louis, who’s so sickeningly, maddeningly, perfectly in love; and on Harry, who’s much the same, and always shows up after training to walk Louis home.
And he blames himself, too, for letting himself become so distracted by the dumbest of things.
“I’m gonna quit fencing.”
“You’re what?”
“I’m quitting,” Zayn repeats, an uncertain smile wobbling on his lips. He’s standing in the door of the locker room, training bag in hand. It’s only him and Liam, and Zayn’s not exactly sure why that fact is important, but it really, really is.
Liam’s eyes are wide and his jaw is a little slack as he shakes his head slowly. “You’re fucking joking, right?”
The smile on Zayn’s face fades a little but he doesn’t say anything. Liam shakes his head again, composing himself slightly.
“But why the fuck would you do that?”
“I dunno,” Zayn shrugs, fingers fluttering nervously across the band of his bag.
Liam steps closer. “Seriously, why?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Zayn.” Liam has sparks in his eyes now and his tone’s a little dangerous as he continues. “You can’t just spring something like that on me and not explain.”
“I don’t owe you any explanations,” Zayn spits out, and the air freezes between them.
“You know,” Liam sneers after a heavy silence. “You are allowed to talk to us commoners, Malik. You wouldn’t be compromising anything by not being a complete asshole all the time.”
A bitter laugh and a shrug later, Zayn turns to leave, but Liam leaps after him.
“Stop acting like you’re above us all, for fuck’s sake,” Liam half-shouts, grabbing his arm. His fingers dig into the bruises there and Zayn hisses in pain. “You’re not number one anymore, okay?”
Zayn whirls around, chin raised. “What?”
“You heard me. Get off your high horse, okay, because you have no reason to be on there in the first place.”
“Fuck you, Liam. Fuck you.”
It’s only then that Liam notices the tears collecting in the corners of Zayn’s eyes. A strangled noise finds its way to his mouth, half-sigh, half-groan, as the pieces click into place. “Oh, fuck. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
There’s equal parts confusion and anger in Zayn’s eyes as a tear starts making its way down his cheek.
“Fuck,” Liam repeats. “That’s the problem. You’re not the best anymore. At least, you don’t feel like you are. Right?”
“You’re better than me, I know,” Zayn chokes out after a pause, a small sob escaping his throat, as Liam runs a hand through his hair.
“No, I’m not, but if I were, why would it matter? Dammit, Zayn, this shouldn’t be about winning. Nothing should be about winning. You’re acting like a five year old. You can’t let all this crap and competition get to you.”
When Zayn just sniffles in response, Liam can’t help pulling him into a hug as he continues. “That’s why I didn’t want to go competitive before I was ready, you know? That time in Québec was my first competition ever. I wanted to make sure I had my priorities right before I actually got into it all.”
“So it wasn’t just for the shock factor?” Zayn mumbles into his shoulder, and Liam can feel a small smile pressed against his shirt.
“No, dumbass,” he chuckles, and tightens his grip around the smaller boy. “Your brain is seriously fucked up.”
“Yeah,” Zayn acknowledges. “But it’s not just... it’s not just that. What about... you? Me?” He draws in a shuddering breath, hoping Liam gets it, hoping he doesn’t have to explain and embarrass himself.
And when he looks up after a beat, eyelashes clinging together and tears smeared across his cheek, Liam simply kisses him sweetly.
And when Louis walks in on them a week later, tangled in the locker room with their hands down each other’s pants, all he does is huff.
“Seriously? Is everyone on this damn fencing team gay?”
(“Not that that’s an issue, mind you,” he mumbles to Harry one night after training, as a grinning Zayn snuggles into Liam’s side. “A little action has done wonders for team morale.”)