Work Text:
The Vancouver rain tumbles in rippling sheets; the sky is a characteristic pallid grey, storm clouds clustering inconcretely over the line of the horizon. The city breathes uncertainly underneath the deluge.
Liam takes it all in, a droplet of rain rolling down his cheek in a parody of a tear as he tilts his face heavenwards. Plenty of people find it in them to complain about the wetness of Western Canada, but it’s something he adores, drenched to the bone as he currently is. He registers someone’s voice as he continues down the sidewalk, ringing out clearly despite the auditory onslaught of the persistent rainfall.
“Hey.”
Liam turns towards the voice on autopilot. There’s a moment when his mind short-circuits, because he’s seen his fair share of attractive people throughout his life but this one is immorally beautiful, all shadowed cheekbones and pouty lips, dark eyes and lengthy eyelashes blinking provocatively at him through the blur of the continuing rain. He’s sitting backwards on one of the many park benches speckled throughout the city, situated between one storefront and another, one long lean jean-clad leg dangling between the gap of the wood backing and the seat.
This– he– means trouble. Liam’s got this under wraps, he has. He’ll say something witty and snarky, something that will have this boy intrigued and wanting. He’ll—
“Uh, hi,” he manages, and regales himself with an imaginary pat on his own back. He can do this. “You– uh, you need something?” Fuck. Could he have been more of a dick?
A grin splits the boy’s full lips. He reclines easily, body languid as a cat’s, and smiles up at Liam from upside down. The striking symmetry of his face is incredibly mesmerizing. “I was gonna ask you for a light, actually. Lost mine somehow.”
Liam sighs, wrenching his eyes away from Pretty Boy’s face to dig through his pockets fruitlessly. He doesn’t smoke too regularly himself, so it’s sort of a foregone conclusion that he, too, does not have a lighter, but something in him wants to prolong this interaction for as long as humanly possible. “I– I don’t know where mine went,” he lies unabashedly, and he gets an unfairly sultry eyebrow lift in return.
“All good, man. You don’t really look the type to smoke from up close, to be honest.” The stranger’s criminally long-lashed eyes narrow in amusement, lips pursed around his unlit cigarette.
“I–” So Liam’s a little offended. He’s maybe not the most mysterious, not the resident bad boy with the womanizing mystique as this guy clearly is, but he’s had a smoke every now and then. “I do smoke,” he complains, maybe a touch too stridently. “What makes you say that?”
The boy’s laughter cuts brightly through the downpour, porcelain white teeth flashing charmingly as he chuckles. When he recovers, he’s grinning almost endearingly at Liam. “You just look innocent, I dunno. Didn’t mean to offend. C’mon, come sit with me. We’re already wet.”
Despite his exaggerated eye-roll, Liam nears the bench and settles next to the boy. Besides the initial attraction, he’s strangely drawn to the easy grace of the personality beneath his surface, and he sort of– he wants to know him. Sue Liam. “S’okay. Aren’t you cold?”
“Maybe a little,” the boy hedges, turning the angle of his slender shoulders in Liam’s direction; as Liam had initially assumed, that leather jacket had been more for show than actual warmth. “I’m Zayn, by the way.”
The name’s as pretty as he is, and Liam rolls the syllables over his tongue: “Zayn. That’s nice. I’m just– Liam.”
“Leeyum,” Zayn says, stretching Liam’s name across the span of his canines, and it makes something roil exquisitely in the pit of his stomach.
He ignores it as best as he can, offers Zayn a smile that he hopes doesn’t split his cheeks too earnestly the way his mom likes. Something about the quirk of Zayn’s lips he gets in return, the cigarette still tucked like a well-guarded secret between them, suggests he wasn’t too successful.
He finds he doesn’t quite mind.
***
“Oh my god.”
Liam knows his face falls. “Okay, I know I sort of fucked it up but–”
Harry gives him A Look, green eyes glinting brilliantly in the warm glow of the vintage lotus lamp Liam had gotten him for his birthday the previous year. It’s the same one he had clutched perilously another day that exact week while absurdly high, doggedly believing it to be Niall.
“Are you kidding me?” he demands, pink lips split into a grin Liam isn’t sure he likes one bit. His curls bounce enthusiastically as he leaps up, socked feet meeting the floorboards in a characteristically loud thump. “My baby Li is finally getting laid.”
“I–” Liam faceplants right on Harry’s desk from the office chair where he’s sitting. He vaguely registers the scent of the joint the latter must have been smoking, wonders faintly if Niall has any edibles left. “Harry, c’mon.”
Harry sighs dreamily. “I’ve been waiting for this day forever. How do you pull him for good, though? That’s the question.”
Liam watches him pace around the span of his room with tacit amusement, the constant rain and wind outside still throttling the windows in their frames.
“I’ve got it! Invite him to a show.”
“I don’t even know if he likes that kind of thing,” Liam protests futilely. He knows damn well that once Harry has the seedling of an idea somewhere in his mind, it’s a hopeless task to uproot it.
“He asked you for a light. Was he smoking weed or nic?” Harry throws at him, and Liam suppresses an eye roll.
“Nic.”
“Cool. That was a multiple-choice question, actually, because either would’ve been fine. You’re not fumbling this one too, Payno.”
“Too?” Liam objects exasperatedly. “Who else have I fumbled, exactly?”
Harry doesn’t even grace that question with an answer. “Scarvale, this Thursday. Keep an eye out, too. I want to know if he has any hot friends.” Before Liam can refute that statement with all the snark it deserves, Harry’s flopping back onto his iron wrought bed with a sigh. “God, I’m single.”
A wave of affection overcomes the sarcasm that was about to leave Liam’s mouth, and he turns his head to study Harry’s profile for a moment, taking in his sharp nose and pink pout, the auburn eyelashes fluttering unabashedly against his cheeks. His best friend is ethereal in all the ways that matter, is beautiful and brilliant as no one else he knows. He deserves it all, he thinks.
“You won’t be for long,” Liam assures him, and exhales as Harry laughs openly at him. “What’s even funny about that?”
“No, it’s just–” Harry looks at him, too, really looks. Liam prickles a little under the scrutiny of that emerald gaze, gets the feeling it’s seeing something he isn’t. “If he breaks your heart, I’ll leave him dead in a ditch. You know that, right?”
Liam’s so fucking grateful for him. “Yeah, H. I do,” he says, and then they slave over his first text to Zayn for the next thirty minutes while season 3 of Supernatural drones on in the background on Harry’s MacBook.
It’s sort of everything he’s ever wanted.
***
Zayn’s phone vibrates loudly in its leather satchel, lying abandoned on Louis’s living room floor. He lets out a loud sigh. It’s probably his mom, wondering why he’s out so late in the cold even though he told her he’d be at Louis’s, and he braces himself as he pads over from the beanbag he’d previously been splayed out on to check his notifications.
leeyum!! (11:32 pm)
Hey. I hope ur doing well
Just wanted to know if mayb you wanted to come to a show w me this Thurs? At Scarvale
His breath catches in his throat, tangled in the muscles there. He’s floundering for a moment, the words flickering before his eyes, and his fingers are shaking as he thumbs out a response that’s as nonchalant as he can make it.
me (11:55 pm)
hey, yea i’d be down!! anyone else coming?
The three dots begin to fluctuate immediately at the bottom of the screen, and Zayn can feel the strain in his cheeks from the grin notched there, the knowledge that Liam’s been waiting for this. For him.
leeyum!! (11:56 pm)
Cool! And yea, my best friend might be coming
Do you by any chance have a friend for him
Zayn thinks about Eleanor and Louis’s breakup from a month prior, the sadness written all over Louis’s face even though he refuses to voice it. He’s got a plan in the works in his head already, and the handsome boy with the corded muscles in those well-built arms and bronze eyes is at its core. He’s going to have Liam, he thinks determinedly, no matter what it takes. Still, it won’t hurt to give Louis the primary assist he so desperately needs.
me (11:57 pm)
yea…i’ve got someone in mind. see u thurs then? we can meet at waterfront
leeyum!! (11:57 pm)
Awesome. See u then
Don’t forget ur lighter this time
He snickers at the screen, despite the fact that said lighter had been in his wallet for the entirety of his interaction with Liam. It had all been a ploy, of course, one to ensnare Liam’s attention and keep it. Zayn’ll give Liam points for being perfectly wry, still, just the right amount to keep him hooked, and he’s already looking forward to Thursday. For the first time in a long time, he’s exhilarated for something ahead.
There’s a loud thump, one that originated from somewhere near the front door, that makes him yelp. It’s followed by the scraping of a key clumsily thrust into a lock. “Zaynie!” Louis crows, stumbling into his own living room, hair fashionably tousled and a jet-black Levi’s jean jacket (courtesy of Zayn, of course) hanging off one arm.
Drunk or high? Zayn muses, giving Louis a thorough once-over. Bloodshot eyes; dopey grin. Crossed, maybe. “Hey, Lou. You good?”
“Great,” Louis says, stumbling over his own feet and falling into Zayn’s lap with a hmmph. “I’m good. So good. Killer.”
“Are you high, dumbass?” He says affectionately, ruffling Louis’s hair as the latter smiles bovinely into his thigh. He only gets a muffled groan in response. “Okay, sleep it off.”
“‘m trying,” Louis complains, brows knitting as he glares menacingly at the ceiling. “But you keep talking.”
Zayn can’t help but laugh at that, shifts Louis off of him slowly so he can take a well-needed nap. Their sleep schedules are lopsided, anyway, so he’ll probably be up for hours still, tracing the contours of Liam’s grin in his mind’s eye. He yanks one of their throw pillows over Louis’s inert body, carefully threads the jacket off his motionless arm so it won’t crease. He leaves it over the back of the couch.
“Well,” Zayn says. Nothing answers him but the steady rhythm of Louis’s breathing and the interminable drilling of the rain on the roof. He strides to the kitchen, tugs out his phone and his last pack of Marlboros and lights up, letting the smoke escape out a sliver of open window.
He breathes. Somehow, it’s easier than it’s ever been. Through the unbroken rainfall, he spots the curve of the moon, a little bone-white sliver in the sky.
***
“Zayn…” says a voice blearily, its edges roughened by Zayn’s still half-asleep senses. He’s immediately woken by the persistent crick in his neck from where he must’ve passed out slumped on the window ledge, and he can’t help but let out a pained moan. Despite being unaware of the time, he’s certain it’s too fucking early to be having any kind of conversation.
“What in the living fuck,” the voice, one he’s quickly identified as inordinately loud, continues, “happened last night?”
Zayn’s eyes consent disdainfully to opening, and he’s met with the sight of a bed-headed and unusually morose Louis, one misshapen sweater sleeve hanging off the crooked angle of his shoulders where they’re hunched. There’s a muted glare clogging the light of the apartment that makes him think it’s somewhere around 6 or 7 am, and good God it feels like it.
There’s a moment where Zayn processes the question, a hand still thumbing regretfully at the sore spot on the thin skin of his throat, and then the realization smacks into him like something physical. “Shit. Shit! Lou, did you fuck Eleanor again?” His voice is still a little hoarse from sleep, so he clears his throat hurriedly.
It’s maybe not exactly the right thing to say, but he realizes that a second too late. Thankfully, Louis just lets out a laugh that’s a shade too somber for what Zayn’s used to hearing from him. “Fucking feels like I have. Like, I’m full of regret right now, and shit. But I don’t remember anything.”
Zayn visibly deflates as he’s en route to the kitchen. He’s there to drink an entire glass of tap water since he’s strangely parched. “I should’ve stopped you. Fuck. How’d you even see her yesterday?”
Louis smiles at him wryly, and Zayn’s filled with a mounting sense of dread for the answer before he speaks. “‘s okay. You don’t have to be on babysitting duty 24/7. And—“ A frown distorts the furrow between his brows, and he’s following Zayn into the kitchen with an expression that suggests he’s deep in thought. Knowing Louis, that likely means he’s not thinking much at all, but a deep wave of affection rolls over Zayn for his best friend anyway. “Like, maybe at a show? I don’t remember shit. Where were you, anyway?”
“I told you,” Zayn grouses, one hand flicking the tap open carelessly and the other pawing at a rickety shelf for the cup he’s claimed since Louis bought this apartment, “to stay away from shows unless you were sure she wasn’t going to be there. And I was—“ It comes back to him like cold water dousing him in its freezing embrace, and his mind fills with the memory of rain littering the streets and the boy with puppy eyes and a too eager grin giving him his mobile number. “Oh my fucking god, Louis.”
“What?” Louis deadpans, one hand thumbing unconsciously at his bare shoulder.
“So…I guess you could say I asked a guy out yesterday,” Zayn mumbles uncertainly. Louis’s jaw has sort of unlodged from the rest of his skull, and it’s hanging open while Zayn tries to find the right words to say “And I roped you into a double date with his friend while you’re still fucked up over Eleanor” without endangering their thankfully non-fragile friendship. Zayn’s seen Louis hunched over and puking his guts out after they had the brilliant idea to drink two whole bottles of Alberta Pure vodka on Louis’s eighteenth, so he doubts there’s anything that could disillusion the latter to their relationship at this stage.
That’s not to say Louis won’t still make his life a living hell, just that he won’t end it. Louis reattaches his jaw to unhelpfully state “Zayn,” in a far too awed and gleeful tone for Zayn’s comfort; “My boy fucks and dates now?”
“Okay. When you live in glass houses,” Zayn warns, because that’s how their friendship– or, as Louis has affectionately deemed it, their former fuckship– even began. They’d met at a Scarvale show the summer Zayn turned sixteen, hit it off, gotten high together at English Bay while the weed made them hopelessly giggly and touchy, and consummated their not love right in the sand. Louis maintains it wasn’t that unsanitary, but Zayn doesn’t put too much weight on Louis’s opinion on anything, so there’s that.
They’re eighteen and twenty now, but not too much has changed, really, except maybe tossing Eleanor into the emotional mix. Zayn hadn’t really minded them dating, since it seemed to make Louis happy, and they still got to have sex during the infrequent breaks the two of them took from their relationship. Anyone at all in the know about people involved in the underground music scene knows about most participants’ affinity for unintentional polyamory, but despite Zayn’s love for sex and platonic adoration for Louis, he hasn’t ever and will never cheat or condone it.
He still infamous for liking fucking, though, and not so much the romance part. It’s maybe a little hedonistic, but Zayn’s self-aware enough to declare that he has no real problem with that. There’s nothing wrong with feeling good, and wanting to feel good, and beyond building the foundation to his musical career and indulging his interest in literature, he thinks the pursuit of pleasure has probably been his primary profession. Presently, though, he’s less than pleased with his decision to ever have sex with Louis Tomlinson.
“Right,” The Louis in question drawls, now looking far less dour than he had previously. There’s even the beginnings of a smirk pulling at the edges of his expressive mouth. “You’re not convincing me to drop this one, Malik. Where’d you meet him?”
“Downtown,” Zayn grumbles, chugging back his water in lieu of entertaining Louis’s interrogation any further. Louis isn’t going to drop this one, though, if the exaltation on his face is any indication, so he relents, leaving the cup on the drying rack they’d thrifted that looks sort of phallic from a side angle with more force than necessary. “Right by that one vape shop by City Centre. He was really fucking hot, dude. Gimme a break.”
“Give me some fucking details, please,” Louis harrumphs, turning on his heel and then almost stumbling. Zayn’s never been more grateful for a hangover that isn’t his in his life, even if he does reach out a palm to steady him. “Fuck! Thanks. C’mon, Zaynie, light of my life, fire of my loins. What’s this hunk look like?”
“Firstly, gross,” Zayn admonishes. “You know where that’s from, right? And also, you just might find out…At the Scarvale show this Thursday.” He gives his best attempt at a wink, but it ends up just sort of making him look like something’s gotten in his eye instead.
Louis stares at him sharply, brilliantly blue eyes keen as crystal, and that’s when Zayn comes to the realization that his entire life is just one cruel joke.
“No. You’ve got to be kidding me.” Zayn feels like tossing himself out Louis’s apartment window.
“You were the one that warned me she was going to be playing there last week!” Louis bursts out, arms flung out in pure disbelief.
Zayn’s already reaching into his pocket with a resignedly steady hand, searching for the Marlboros he’d left there yesterday. “I think you’re gonna need one, too,” he hedges to Louis, “because I might have made a mistake.”
***
Liam’s at breakfast with Harry at the quaint spot in Yaletown they both like, legs knocking together under the burnished wood table, obsessively refreshing the text thread with Zayn to see if he’s texted back. He hasn’t, but that doesn’t stop Harry from asking Liam— possibly for the thousandth time— what he thinks this friend of Zayn’s looks like. It’s Liam’s fault, probably, for promising Harry that he’d show him a picture if they could just figure out his name. Zayn’s unfortunately gone M.I.A, so it seems unlikely they will.
“H, c’mon. I haven’t seen him either!” Liam grits out, seizing his phone from the clutch of Harry’s iron grip. Harry lets it happen, his pink mouth still set in a moue of anxiety. “He said Thursday at Scarvale’s works, so that’s what we’re sticking
with. Nothing’s gonna go wrong. If we’re going off what my guy looks like—” He tries not to look outwardly like he’s swooning as much as he is— “His friend will suit you just fine.”
“Your guy, huh?” Harry’s expression of consternation turns into him waggling his eyebrows suggestively.
Liam wants to drown in his diet Coke. He sticks his silver fork forcefully back into his pancakes, half-drowned in syrup.
“You’re such a party pooper, Liam.” Harry scolds very unfairly. “You’re the one falling in love.”
“L-” Liam splutters. “Oh my god, Harry, I’ve only had a conversation with the guy once! Who knows if he’s even gay? Or bi, or whatever?”
“Our hopes and dreams,” says Harry. Liam hates him. “Also, I want to go thrifting today.”
Liam brightens at that prospect. Neither of them have school today, so that works out fine, and hopefully Harry will be distracted enough by the racks of garments to stop badgering him about Zayn and his friend. “Yeah, I’m down,” he agrees easily, and Harry sighs.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re impossible to stay annoyed at?”
Liam pretends to ponder Harry’s question. “I don’t know. Usually they just roll their eyes at me for being a martyr.”
Harry grins. “Well, you are. And I’m honestly surprised you aren’t more anxious for the date, seeing as you’re— y’know.” He gestures magnanimously around them, napkin balled in a palm, to suggest god knows what.
Well, actually— Liam knows what he’s getting at. That doesn’t mean he likes this conversation at all, though, and how vulnerable it makes him feel.
“I know I’m like, a hopeless romantic, or whatever,” Liam says before Harry gets the chance to. “But I’m going to be careful about this one. I don’t want him to think I’m trying to trap him in a relationship, if he actually does swing that way. I’m just happy to get to know him.”
Harry looks at him shrewdly, and Liam almost thinks he’s seeing tears brew up in those brilliant green eyes. There’s Harry Styles for you, though— two emotional 360s in the span of a singular conversation.
That can’t be right, though, because Liam hasn’t said anything worth crying about. “Liam, no one on this earth deserves you,” Harry states dramatically. “And I’ll be damned if this guy tries to play you or some shit. You’re way too good for him. Just— be careful. You know how people in the underground can be.”
Liam’s heart sinks, a little. He knows exactly what Harry’s implying, has lived through it first-hand. For one reason or another, underground show-goers and performers alike have a tendency to be disloyal. He knows just by looking at Zayn that he’s probably a little promiscuous, just by virtue of how pretty he is, how accessible hot people must make themselves to him, and how fleeting his attention will be if he makes the decision to lavish it on Liam.
For some ridiculous reason, this fact doesn’t make him want Zayn any less. God fucking damnit. Liam should probably tattoo “too emotionally available to pretty boys that look like they’re the opposite” on his forehead and be done with it.
In his mind’s eye, though, he’s dragging his palms down the sharp angles of Zayn’s collarbones, inhaling the sweet oak of his scent until his mind’s swirling with it. He’s canting him backward until he’s sprawled devastatingly below him, grin slung beautifully across his cheeks, hands reaching suppliantly towards Liam, and they’re meeting tenderly in the space between. He’s—
“Thanks, H,” he murmurs. Anything to stop the barrage of images from advancing any further. He grins a little belatedly at Harry, hoping his eyes don’t look too glassy and unfocused. He’s got this under control. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”
Liam’s not going to fall in love. He knows better. He leaves money on their tabletop for the food and walks out of the restaurant hand-in-hand with Harry, the drizzle outside picking up pace, feeling the ridges of his best friend’s palm like they’re the only certainty he knows.
***
Zayn’s on his way to meet his usual guy for his smokes on Wednesday, leather jacket folded around his shoulders sleekly and hair coiffed the way Louis says makes him look like sex on legs, when he smacks straight-on into a tall, curly-headed guy with limbs longer than his body. He might be responsible, honestly, because he’s too busy pondering how to divert the disaster that will inevitably be tomorrow’s date to notice anything in his physical vicinity.
“S-sorry!” The stranger says apologetically, voice almost performatively earnest. Zayn studies him for a second; he’s pretty, he notices absently, a dimpled brunet like Zayn usually favors, but he’s got nothing on the swell of Liam’s biceps under his black t-shirt, the smile that’s equal parts dorky and sultry that he’s been yearning for more than he cares to admit. Zayn gives him a half smile and brushes himself off rudimentarily, hands flickering at his sides to dispel the little dirt that’s gathered on his clothes from the tumble.
“It’s fine, man. My bad.”
“No, I wasn’t paying attention either, I—“ The stranger sighs.
Zayn can’t help but feel a bolt of fondness skyrocket through him at the stranger’s sincerity. It sort of reminds him of himself, before he plastered on the smug, broody exterior that he’s grown into in the past few years, and he has a sudden sensation that he’d like to befriend Curly Head. “Really, it’s fine.”
“Okay…” Curly Head looks sheepish for a second before brightening, rolling up on the balls of his feet. “Uhh, where are you heading? I’ve just been wandering around. My friend’s supposed to meet me here in a few.”
A grin’s crossing Zayn’s features before he can help it. Curly Head’s just so likable. “I’m meeting my guy for smokes.”
Curly Head smiles dazzlingly. “Oh, yeah, cool. I’m kind of a pothead, not so much a smoker.”
“That’s chill,” Zayn says honestly. They’re still standing there a little awkwardly, but he doesn’t mind as much as he’d thought he would. “I like weed, too, I just get anxious highs too often nowadays. It’s fucked.”
“Aw… that’s too bad,” says Curly Head sadly. “If that ever changes and you wanna smoke with me and my friends, you’re always welcome. I’m Harry, by the way.”
“Cool– Zayn,” Zayn offers. Curly Head’s eyes go wide and suddenly he’s staring Zayn down like he’s some kind of apparition, the brilliant green of his irises pinning Zayn in place, their sharpness almost accusatory. “You good, man?”
“I- yeah,” Curly Head replies quickly. “I’m– holy shit. Um.”
Zayn can’t help but let out a laugh. “Is something wrong?”
“It’s um. My best friend, Liam–” Zayn’s heart drops– “he’s the one who kind of asked you out, right?”
“Oh, god. I mean, I guess it could go either way. I talked to him first,” Zayn blurts.
“Yeah. And, um, he said– he said you had a friend for me.” Harry’s turning progressively redder than Zayn ever thought possible for a human being, like he hadn’t intended to say that aloud, but Zayn himself isn’t faring too well either.
Oh god, Louis. Louis is going to die, Zayn thinks almost gleefully, before remembering his existence is just one long prank on itself. “Yeah,” he says with finality before he can search for the camera lens that must be following him, because his life is some reiteration of the Truman show. “Uh– I think I’ve got a picture of him somewhere.”
Niall can wait. He takes a photo with Harry, hits send on his text chain with Louis, and waits until his phone pings back with the inevitable “holy shit” text. This is even better than he ever could have envisioned.
“That’s him?” Harry says blankly, staring at the photo Zayn’s pulled out. It’s one they took at English Bay last summer. The Western Canadian sun’s hitting Louis’s face in a stunning burst of light, his grin illuminated brilliantly by the golden glow. He’s beautiful in it, that much is undeniable, and it seems evident by Harry’s expression– or lack thereof– that he’s trying his best not to relay how starstruck he is.
“Yeah,” Zayn says neutrally, fighting back a smile. “Not bad, hey?”
“Not–” Harry stares at him, panic stricken. “Oh god, he’s so out of my league.”
Zayn gives his head a firm shake. He’s genuinely opposed to that statement. “I don’t know about that. Give it a shot, hey? Just–” An unbidden image of Eleanor’s face resurfaces in his mind. “If he seems sort of awkward at the show, don’t take it too personally. He’s just– he got broken up with recently, so he’s not in the best position for a new relationship. So, y’know. If you guys hit it off, take it slow.”
Harry’s head moves up and down tantalizingly, like he’s mesmerized by something far in the distance. “Slow,” he says accordingly, green eyes and their lengthy eyelashes held wide and disbelieving. “Got it.” Zayn’s not so sure he has, but he gives him both Louis’s and his own number before he has to leave, feeling ominously like however this Thursday will turn out might throw both his and his best friend’s lives off course. Right on time, his phone alights with an incoming call from Niall.
"You're not going to believe this," he enthuses, and Niall's voice comes through the speaker with an understandable note of irritation.
"Zayn, I've been here twenty minutes. Who the hell is fucking who now?"