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Wednesday afternoons are always the worst.
At four thirty, there’s a lesson for kids who infallibly end up squealing in front of the counter for their parents to buy them candy. At five forty-five, there’s free skating on the east rink for a full hour and it gets so busy that Zayn is forced to pull out his earbuds so that he doesn’t get some sort of stroke from the excessive noise. (Could that even happen? He makes a mental note to look it up when he gets home.)
And at seven, there’s practice for the varsity hockey team, and that’s sort of the worst of it all, the definite low point of the night. A bunch of sweaty jocks who like to swear and yell and lug water bottles at each other and pretty much take over the place like some foul-smelling army. It’s terrible and it hurts his head and he thanks whatever lucky stars he has that he only has to suffer through that once a week.
But yeah, Wednesdays are usually the days he most wants to strangle Louis for the bright idea that Zayn apply for this shitty job.
He doesn’t want to sound ungrateful or anything, but selling the occasional bottle of apple-orange to thirsty skaters is definitely not the ideal way to spend two of his weeknights and his Sunday evenings. Sure, it’s not the worst thing in the world, but the constant chill and the crappy lighting and the fact that he has to sit around on a creaky plastic chair for hours definitely doesn’t contribute positively to his quality of life.
Which, he has to admit, could use improving, because he’s nineteen and single and majoring in English with a minor in Art History which will probably take him nowhere in life, and the last time he even kissed someone was when Louis came home one night after a breakup, piss drunk, and pounced on a half-asleep Zayn as he opened the door. And that, if he thinks about it, is more than a little bit sad.
Really, when Louis had suggested that he find himself a job a couple of months ago, Zayn had thought it was a brilliant idea. It’d seemed like it would maybe be a good way of getting a start on his life, and having a bit of extra cash would definitely be great to help fund his studies (and his penchant for expensive hair products that Louis always bugs him about but takes advantage of like the little sneak he is). But what he had in mind was a paid internship somewhere or at least a job at some bookstore, and he’d stated that quite clearly right before Louis had declared, in a tone that made Zayn instantly suspicious, that there was an opening for Wednesday-Thursday-Sunday at the snack shop of the skating rink (which was really more of a booth, if it weren’t bad enough already).
In the end, Louis had of course managed to talk him into applying for the position (and really, Zayn had no idea how that happened, though it probably had something to do with blackmail and/or the mention of the words “ungrateful friend” and “don’t you value our friendship” and “if you loved me you’d do it”). Anyways, he now made enough extra money for them to be able to afford the less-crappy beer that was sold at the local bar and in all honesty, it was nice to drink something that didn’t taste like sour dishwater for a change. So he can’t say that taking the job was the worst decision of his life.
So that’s why he sits here, under a sketchy blue plaque with “The Penalty Box” painted on it in faded yellow lettering, huddled in a sweater or two, waiting for someone to want to buy a Gatorade or an overpriced chocolate bar. More often than not, he just ends up doing homework or reading the kind of book that Louis likes to use as an improvised stool for when he can’t reach the top shelf. Which, yeah, he’d much rather do in the comfort of his own apartment, even if it would mean getting interrupted by Louis’ all-too-loud friends; but at least this way, he gets paid for it.
Around five thirty, the crowds start pouring in, and Zayn’s just a little bit peeved that the automatic sliding doors stay open almost continuously. It’s not that he hates winter, it’s that he loathes it, and the snow and wind sweeping into the arena compel him to pull his scarf closer as he curses the fact that his booth is right next to those goddamn doors. He only becomes aware that he’s scowling when he catches Harry’s eye from across the floor, and carefully rearranges his face into a small smile as he waves to the kid before sinking back into Ulitskaya.
Harry works at the teeny equipment store just across from the snack shop, which would be nice and quite convenient because Zayn likes Harry and they work the same shift on Wednesdays, but there are always just enough people who need laces or gloves or their skates sharpened that the kid doesn’t get to break away too often. It’s really a pity, because despite Harry being a full year younger, he’s kind of brilliant and would definitely be better company than the stacks of Reese’s and Snickers that Zayn has arranged and rearranged an inordinate number of times. Harry also happens to be Louis’ on-again-off-again boyfriend (more on than off, lately, as Zayn’s noticed and filed away for future discussion) and Zayn sometimes wonders whether Lou pushed this crappy job on Zayn just so he’d have an excuse to hang around the rink.
Which is stupid, honestly, because from the way Harry hangs off of Louis’ every word and follows his every movement, it’s pretty clear that the kid wouldn’t have a problem even if Louis decided to camp out at the rink full-time. And if Louis wouldn’t be the erratic prick he is sometimes, Zayn’s almost sure that he and Harry would’ve eloped by now. As it happens, things are not that simple, as Louis’ told him a thousand times, even though Zayn really doesn’t get it, because why can’t it be that fucking simple? Wouldn’t it be easier to make an effort or something and not dump the kid every three weeks or so for some random-ass reason, only to scamper back into his long, tattooed arms as soon as the post-breakup hangover wears off completely? Especially ‘cause Zayn hates having to suffer through Harry looking dejected as fuck for about a week every month before Louis decides he can’t live another day without him. Whatever, it’s Louis’ life, Zayn just wishes that it were a bit less complicated to live with.
At five forty, Zayn realizes he’d been reading the same sentence over and over, and closes his book with a frustrated sigh before leaning down to put it back in his bag. (He’d learned never to leave it on the counter after some idiot jock knocked a can of coke over his vintage copy of War and Peace.) The noise has already become deafening, and it's impossible to even try and do anything other than stare miserably at the hordes of people swarming into the arena.
Zayn considers flicking out his phone and shooting Louis a text filled with cusswords and several exclamation points, as is customary every Wednesday evening since he started working here, but decides to wait until the hockey players get to defiling everything that’s sacred in this world with their rudeness and loudness and the way they reek of sweat. Then, then, Louis and whatever fucked up love story he has going on, which somehow demands Zayn’s participation as a snack-booth placeholder, would feel his wrath.
He zones out for a good hour, his open-eyed nap only interrupted once when some gangly teen buys four Kit-Kats a little after six. When next he resurfaces, he notices the Back in ten minutes sign hung in the window of the equipment store just as Harry slips in beside him, wide grin melting into his curls.
“I don’t get how you do that,” the kid says, clearly trying to suppress a laugh.
“Do what?” Zayn asks, and Harry shakes his head.
“You always look like you’re sleeping with your eyes open. Which is creepy, but I guess effective.”
“It’s probably a self-preservation mechanism,” Zayn mutters, not even trying to reign in his frown as he glares at the free-skaters slowly filing out. Harry laughs, and Zayn can’t help but reluctantly grin back. “What about you, brave soldier, have you abandoned your post at rush hour?”
“I’m sure the universe can spare me for ten minutes,” Harry says sagely, pulling himself onto the counter to face Zayn. “And you were looking slightly homicidal so I thought I’d come join you before you do anything drastic.”
“That’s not funny,” Zayn pouts, and flicks Harry’s knee. “You’ve been hanging around Louis too much.”
Harry laughs again and they sit quietly for a while as the clamour starts to settle down around them, skaters leaving in a rush as they’re herded off the ice to be replaced first by a zamboni and then by a score of obnoxious hockey players. Harry goes back to his shop for a couple of minutes to close up before returning to his place on the counter, watching as Zayn flips listlessly through his monstrous-looking textbook before letting out a long breath.
“Why am I here,” he grumbles, shutting the book and leaning back to look at Harry.
“How philosophical is that question, exactly?” Harry asks with a smile, reaching out to pry the textbook from Zayn’s hands. “And how much of it have we discussed already?”
“It’s just so damn cold in here,” Zayn complains by way of response. The chair below him creaks as he shifts from his right buttock to his left and he tries to rub feeling into his buzzing thighs. “I’m being whiny but couldn’t Louis’ve found me a more comfortable occupation?”
“I’ll cheer you up,” Harry states determinedly as he sets the book down before plucking a box of Smarties from the stand beside Zayn. “See, that’s a bonus right there, having me to keep you company. Think positive, eh?”
Zayn grins. “Alright, Mr. Optimism. Cheer me up. How’s it going with your lover boy?”
Maybe it should depress Zayn, hearing about how happy Harry is with Lou, since he himself is miles and miles away from having that. But seeing Harry’s eyes glimmer and his face light up like fireworks as he talks about his boyfriend is just really, really invigorating somehow, and Zayn’s not so petty as to be crabby about his friends’ happiness. A niggling thought in the back of his mind points at the fact that the latest breakup is well overdue, but Zayn tries to shut it up with the hope that maybe it won’t happen, this time. Which would be really great because after the most recent incident, Zayn had made a promise to himself to actually talk to Louis about the situation and not back off when he starts to yell and throw things. He would really rather it not come to that.
“And you should’ve seen the waiter’s face,” Harry is saying, cheeks flushed with enthusiasm. “I don’t think I’ve ever used the word before, but he was positively flabbergasted.”
Zayn chuckles lightly and steals a Smartie as Harry slumps against the wall beside him with a satisfied smile. The hockey team had already come off the ice and the players were now leaving their changerooms in twos or threes, and while Zayn is by no means a fan of their cocky attitudes and general rowdiness, he can still appreciate broad backs and muscled forearms. He recognizes some of these guys from classes he’s had, but the majority look only vaguely familiar from having seen them coming on and off the ice every week for a couple of months. Harry, however, seems to be friendly with most of them, and perks up instantly when a particularly noisy blond walks across the floor.
“Ey Niall!” Harry calls out, and the guy turns around with a grin.
“Harry! I thought you’d left already,” Niall shouts back as he heads over, leaving the the broader, taller brunet who’d been with him standing in the middle of the floor with a confused smile. Niall doesn’t seem to notice, though, as he practically throws himself onto the counter beside Harry, offering Zayn a solid handshake as he introduces himself.
“I’m Niall and you look familiar.”
“I guess I would,” Zayn laughs, returning Niall’s firm grip (and he can almost taste the testosterone, the dark pubs and the late-night soccer games and the excessive drinking). “I’ve been working here for quite a while.”
Niall seems to consider that for a moment before letting the thought go. With a sharp twist of his head, he looks back at his friend, still standing awkwardly a few paces away.
“C’mon Liam, we can stay a bit,” Niall says, settling into his position on the counter and letting his bag drop onto the floor.
“Hey, Liam,” Harry greets and Zayn mumbles a ‘hello’.
Zayn knows Liam, or at least his name. Liam is Liam Payne, and he’s going to go ahead and pretend that he knows that only because he’d shared a class with him last year, and not because he has pretty much memorized the way those bold block letters swoop across the top of his jersey. ‘Cause Zayn is most definitely not guilty of secretly tracking the guy’s movements across the ice on Wednesdays when neither Dostoevsky nor Poe can satisfy him.
Liam steps closer, an unbearably genuine smile stretched across his face, and Zayn can feel his stomach twist as he tries to keep himself from staring. Liam’s quite tall and his hair’s slightly matted with sweat, his cheeks are stained red from the hour and a half on the ice. He looks, well, really fucking hot.
Okay, so Zayn might have a bit of a crush, although he refuses to call it that, because he can’t’ve exchanged more than three words with the guy in his life and it takes more than well-shaped biceps to catch Zayn’s attention, thank you very much. And it’s not like Zayn’s fantasized about the kid. Or even if he has, what’s the big deal? Liam Payne has wide shoulders and deep brown eyes and a birthmark on his neck, and that’s plenty enough for Zayn’s imagination. He just appreciates physical beauty, that’s it, especially when it’s right in front of him, looking eager and just a little bit out of his element.
“Hey, you sell anything with an alcohol content?” Niall asks, turning back to Zayn as Liam finally steps up to the counter, scanning the refrigerators lining the back of the booth. “I’m pretty much parched.”
“Nah, we don’t sell anything alcoholic, sorry,” Zayn replies (and he was so right about the drinking thing) but purses his lips at the overwhelming sadness breaking out on Niall’s face. “Wait just a sec, I’m gonna check something.”
Zayn all but disappears inside a tall cupboard, and when he emerges, a victorious smile is curling at his lips and he’s clutching a six-pack of emergency beer in his hands. “I keep this around secretly in case the shift gets too terrible,” he explains to a wide-eyed Niall who is gazing at him with what could only be called adoration.
“You’re my new favourite person,” the blond states matter-of-factly, gratefully accepting a beer. “Harry, where’ve you been hiding this gem of a man?”
“I haven’t,” Harry laughs, slinging his arm around Zayn. “You’ve met him before too, at one of your parties last year, don’t you remember?”
“Wait, hold on. That’s why you were so familiar, isn’t it? Aren’t you the guy who sang on the roof?” Niall asks Zayn with scrutiny in his eyes.
Zayn hesitates for a second, confused, and then it all comes back to him, washing over him in a tidal wave of repressed memories. Realization fizzes in his mind and Zayn frowns a little and thinks maybe he should just deny everything. It’d been bad. He’d broken up with his girlfriend, kissed a guy he can't even remember, set a shrub on fire, sang opera and jumped down from a rooftop all in one disastrous night, which effectively ended with him being chased half-naked down the street by Louis. Understandably, he sort of avoided parties from that point on.
“Yeah,” he admits after a beat, because why the fuck not, even though he can feel his ears heat up a little.
“My man!” Niall exclaims, and Zayn’s probably never seen anyone look so enthused. “You’re not escaping us this time, no sir.”
They all laugh at that and Zayn can feel Liam’s gaze on him, and when Zayn looks up, he notices that Liam’s turned slightly pink around the usual red flush of hockey practice. Liam doesn’t say anything, however, and Zayn has no idea why he’s blushing, but he can’t seem to tear his eyes away ‘cause god, that’s adorable.
“Oi, Harry,” Niall says suddenly, glancing up at the enormous digital clock on the wall. “I need you to open up shop for me, I gotta buy laces, my old ones just snapped in two.”
Then Harry’s quickly sliding off the counter and leading Niall over to the store, unlocking the door fluidly and pulling him inside. And Zayn hears Niall say that Harry’d “better not give me those crappy ones that break within a day, okay, I’m not made of twenty-dollar bills,” before Zayn realizes that he and Liam have been left alone. Not completely alone, because he can still see Niall’s blond head and Harry’s mess of curls through the window just thirty feet away, but they’re alone enough that Zayn’s heart starts doing fluttery things and he becomes very aware of how Liam has started fidgeting with the strap of his bag. Which probably either means that he’s starting to find the silence a little awkward or that he’s getting uncomfortable with the way Zayn’s staring at him. Disinclined to change the latter, Zayn tries to think of something to say that wouldn’t make him sound completely lame.
“S’cold in here,” he says finally, and yeah, good one, that’s definitely the lamest thing he’s ever started a conversation with.
Liam seems happy to rise to the bait, though, as he sets his training bag on the ground carefully. “Yeah, it is, but I don’t really mind. It’s sort of a necessity, with the hockey and all.”
“I’ve never really been a fan of that,” Zayn admits, kicking his feet against the legs of the chair.
“The cold or the hockey?”
“Both,” Zayn says with a grin.
“You don’t like hockey?” Liam looks shocked, as if he’s never had to ask that question before. Which may very well be the case, Zayn thinks, considering the kind of people Liam probably hangs out with.
“Nope.”
“But hockey’s like, it’s,” Liam tries, clearly struggling to find something to say and Zayn curses himself sternly for finding that endearing. “I mean, it’s the official sport of Canada, right?”
“No, that’s lacrosse,” Zayn points out and really, he’s enjoying the flush of Liam’s cheeks a tad too much.
“Oh.” Liam seems to consider that for a moment before continuing, “But everyone plays hockey.”
“Yeah, well, it was never really my kinda thing. Seems a bit too... pushy. I’d probably be crumpled up by all you guys,” Zayn says with a laugh, gesturing to his slight frame and curiously noting the way that Liam’s eyes seem to get stuck where his jeans hang off his hips. Well, that’s definitely interesting, and probably worth thinking about when he’s jerking off to those velvety brown eyes in the shower later tonight. Zayn shakes himself slightly, but he can feel his fingers twitching unconsciously against his thighs.
“What about skating, then?” Liam plows on, oblivious to the slightly tense set of Zayn’s shoulders and seemingly determined to prove some sort of point. Or simply to keep the conversation going, maybe. “You must like to skate, skating’s a lot of fun.”
Zayn looks at Liam for a moment and bites his lip, pulling himself onto the counter and sitting cross-legged. “I don’t now how to skate.”
Liam just hums at that, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and Zayn, for some reason, wants to keep talking.
“Actually I wanted to try figure skating, when I was younger, but,” he hesitates. Then, because he’s sort of forgotten to think or maybe because he feels almost emboldened by the way Liam’s hands are just inches from his knees, he continues, “I just didn’t want to complete the stereotype, you know? Delicate wrists, impeccable fashion sense, an inclination towards the arts... I don’t think adding ‘figure skater’ to that list would’ve helped me out at all.”
As soon as he says it he recoils a bit, because maybe that was an indirect way of putting it and maybe Liam won’t even catch on, but Zayn’s pretty sure he just outed himself to the guy. He sits frozen in his spot on the counter for what must be about a century, listening to the wheezing of that goddamn air conditioner and the thumping of his heart to distract himself form the drawn-out internal scream of idiot! that’s currently taken over his mind. ‘Cause he was actually enjoying this conversation, despite the fact that it was a little bit forced and a little bit awkward. He knows very well that jocks don’t do gay. It's all about that no homo attitude, isn't it? And he’s not even blindly stereotyping, because it’s always been that way; queers and team sport just don’t mix very well. (He’s not even going to fool himself into believing that this was not at least partially responsible for the fact that he chose to forgo trying out for co-curricular soccer in high school.)
So, great. He probably just screwed up a potential friendship-slash-one-sided-love-story with this adorably blushing guy.
“No,” Liam says after a long pause, straightening from where he’d been practically leaning against the counter. “I s’pose not.”
And Zayn really can’t tell whether the guy actually got what he was implying or if he just finally picked up on the weird, tense energy emanating from Zayn, but Niall reappears and Liam says goodbye, slinging his enormous bag over his shoulder as if it barely weighed a pound.
When the next Wednesday rolls around, and Liam greets Zayn just before seven with a crinkly-eyed smile and a timid hello before heading onto the ice, Zayn decides that the guy just doesn’t have a clue. As such, he has no choice but to conclude that the kid is kinda dense, or at least spectacularly unperceptive, and he spends a good hour and a half trying to figure out why that’s not as much of a problem as it probably should be.
Another week goes by and Zayn has no idea how he ends up crawling under benches to fish out dirty socks and sweeping up candy wrappers from the rink’s filthy, filthy bathroom.
It was Louis’ doing, of course. Louis had mentioned that Harry usually stayed behind after work to help clean the place up because he was friends with Ernie the janitor (because of fucking course the kid would be friends with the janitor) and how it usually takes them a while to get through the whole place. Louis had also mentioned, ever so sweetly, that maybe Zayn could stay behind, too, just to help them out a teeny bit, just to speed things up a little, because Zayn was a good guy, was he not, and what a good deed it would be, wouldn’t it now?
Maybe Louis is a little too skilled at making Zayn listen to him, at getting Zayn to go along with whatever he’s trying to pull, which is kind of an issue because Zayn needs to start taking control of his life, dammit, and maybe not listening to Louis would be the first step to take.
Zayn finds Liam’s jersey crumpled into a corner of Changing Room 7. He doesn’t notice whose it is at first and wrinkles his nose as he picks it up between his thumbs and index fingers, intending to drag it to the Lost and Found. But as he takes a second glance, he finds the number 34 glaring at him boldly from the fabric, and it may be just slightly pathetic that he doesn’t have to double-check to know that it’s Liam’s. Zayn considers the jersey for a minute or two before folding it up carefully and slipping it into his shoulder bag.
It’s a bad decision, oh man, it’s such a bad decision, and Zayn knows he’s most likely going to end up regretting it. And maybe it’s even sort of like stealing, but it’s not like he’s planning on keeping it forever, right? He’ll even do Liam a favour, put the jersey through the wash, and everything. He’s simply being a good friend, actually, because wouldn’t a good friend take a friend’s jersey home, instead of condemning it to rot in the Lost and Found next to unclaimed lunch boxes, holey mittens, and rusty, unpaired skates?
So he takes it home, with one half of his brain screaming at him to just chuck it back onto the changeroom floor, the other squealing like a twelve year old at the fact that he is now in possession of the white-and-red jersey that Liam looks so hot in and which will, at the very least, guarantee another conversation with the guy. He plugs in his earphones to drown out the frantic clamour in his head, and tries to ignore the way his bag feels about two tonnes heavier on his way home.
When he gets back to his and Louis’ shared apartment, he finds the place empty. It’s already pretty late, and Louis would usually be home by now, since he has an early class on Thursdays. After a frown and a couple of frustrated texts, he finally gets an out w harry from Louis, and really, he should’ve known. Because if Zayn’s the one scraping bits of hardened gum from the benches in the changerooms instead of Harry, then Harry’s free to go cavorting with Louis. And while Zayn’s sure that Harry would’ve been reluctant to leave the work to Zayn, he knows, from experience, that Louis can be very persuasive.
With a sigh, he sets his bag down. It’s kind of late and he doesn’t feel like doing work, but he doesn’t want to sleep just yet. Maybe he could read for a bit. Or, he thinks, eyes slipping involuntarily to his bag, he could do laundry, just run a quick load through the wash. After a moment’s hesitation, he decides that that would probably be a good idea, and doesn’t let himself think of how Liam’s jersey will end up smelling like Zayn’s detergent at all.
Zayn’s sitting in his room after getting back from his snack-shop shift the next day, flipping through a hard copy of an essay draft he’d been working on with a highlighter in hand. Thursday shifts are calm, more or less, with lessons and then adult skating (which, by the way, isn’t nearly as exciting as Louis had hoped the 21+ label would make it), and he always has time for a bit more studying before throwing himself into bed. But for some reason, tonight he just can’t concentrate, tapping the stack of paper agitatedly with his highlighter as he sits sprawled across the couch. He really doesn’t realize what’s got him all rattled until he catches himself starting at Liam’s jersey, folded neatly onto a chair, and god, has he always been so obsessive? Or is his little crush on Liam just bringing out the very best in him? Because right now, he has an almost unbearable urge to try it on.
He sets his binder down and sits up, folding his feet under him. Okay, he can try to rationalize this, right? He’s never been on a sports team, excluding a brilliantly unsuccessful attempt at basketball, so he really just wants to see what he’d look like in a jersey. What it would feel look like to be part of a team. Yeah, that’s it, really. So what if the fact that Liam’s name is printed on the back makes him flush a little across his chest?
He reaches out an arm, hesitantly sinking his fingers into the fabric. Oh god, he’s gonna do this. Just quickly, just very quickly, in case Louis were to come home early and see. ‘Cause if Louis were to catch him, Zayn’s sure that he would never live that down; he’d given Zayn enough grief about having the jersey at all.
He pulls his shirt over his head quickly before slipping into the jersey. He catches a glimpse himself reflected in the glass of the window and he turns his body slightly, so he can see Liam’s name where it’s printed on the back and damn. Yeah, that’s. Nice. The jersey’s much too big, of course, and it hangs off his shoulders at the dips of his collarbones, but he looks. Good. More specifically, Liam’s jersey looks good on him, and the thought is making a slow heat pool in his cheeks and spread to his stomach.
Suddenly he hears the click of the lock, and crap. He knew Louis would happen to come in at the worst moment. He whirls around reflexively to face the door, ready to receive whatever snide comment Louis’ sure to throw at him, and freezes. Fuck.
“Um,” is all Liam says, standing in the doorway with eyes as wide as saucers.
Zayn, well, Zayn’s frozen in place for a full ten seconds, one arm half extended, mind numb from the stream of howhowhow threatening to spill over. He wants to yell curses and scream and maybe tear at his hair a little, but he keeps his mouth clamped shut as he forces himself to peel the jersey off.
“Here,” he manages to press out as he hands it over, carefully making sure that his fingers don’t brush Liam’s. “S’yours.”
“Mine,” Liam confirms dumbly, gripping the doorknob, and Zayn would probably laugh at his stunned expression if he weren’t keenly aware that he’s shirtless. Oh, and that he was just caught wearing Liam’s jersey. Right.
“Um,” Liam says again, and seriously, both of them are so awkward right now that Zayn doesn’t think this could get any worse, but then Liam opens his mouth slowly and starts talking again. “Louis uh. Louis gave me his key and told me to come by and uh. Pick it up. The jersey.”
And Zayn curses himself for ever befriending that blue-eyed little shit and for being such an idiot as to actually think that any situation couldn’t suddenly become even more embarrassing. Right at that moment, he’s not sure if he’s gone pale or is currently as red Liam is, but he wills himself to regain his composure somewhat, at least as long as he’s in Liam’s sight.
“Okay,” he says, and he’s relieved that his voice doesn’t waver.
“Okay,” Liam echoes, and suddenly the air sort of cracks between them as Liam takes a step back. “Okay. I’m gonna go.”
“Okay,” Zayn repeats, turning around and not watching as Liam backs out into the hallway, dazed and clutching the jersey to his chest.
When Louis comes home, it’s almost four A.M. and Zayn is very, very drunk.
“Hockey is a terrible, terrible sport,” he slurs, one hand clutching some sort of bottle, the other skidding agitatedly across the granite countertop of their kitchen table. “D’you know, I’ve always hated it.”
“Dear lord,” is all Louis can say for a while, followed by a stunned “I haven’t seen you this drunk since the Horan kid’s party last year.”
Zayn either doesn’t hear him or is too pissed to process what Louis had said. He lurches sideways and barely manages to grab onto Louis’ shirt, yanking them both so that they each have a shoulder pressed against the wall.
“They just like, run around on ice, with their dumb shoulder pads and sticks and puckies,” Zayn says, letting go of Louis and leaving his shirt stretched where his fingers had held onto it too tight, using his now free hand to vaguely illustrate whatever point he’s trying to make.
“You mean pucks, hon,” Louis corrects gently, and pries his friend’s fingers from the mostly empty bottle he’s holding. When he finally frees it from Zayn’s grasp, he takes a tentative sniff, and if anyone can hold his alcohol, it’s Louis, but he still grimaces at the harshness. What in god’s name is this stuff?
“Yes, puckies,” Zayn nods, and now that both his hands are free he throws his arms around Louis, mumbling “terrible, terrible” into his shoulder and quite possibly trying to choke him.
“Alright,” Louis huffs, setting down the bottle and pulling Zayn towards his room. “Let’s get you to bed, yeah?”
“Bed. Yeah,” Zayn mumbles into Louis’ neck before going slack in his arms. If Zayn weren’t as oddly light as he is, and if Louis weren’t such a wonderful friend, he might’ve just left Zayn there in the middle of their living room. But since both of those obviously hold true, Louis leans down and pulls Zayn’s feet off the ground, carrying him haphazardly into his room and throwing him, gently enough, onto the bed.
“There we go,” Louis mutters, satisfied, patting Zayn’s head and adjusting his pillow. “Sleep it off, you little drunk.”
He leaves the room for a moment and returns with a bucket, placing it carefully near the head of the bed (Zayn’s not usually one to throw up, but you can never be too careful) before flicking off the light and heading to bed himself.
“Zayn,” Louis coos the next morning, sitting on Zayn’s legs and poking his back. “Zaynie, darling, I know the world’s a cruel place, but you really gotta get up.”
Zayn groans into his pillow, peels his eyelids apart slowly and opens his paper-dry mouth. “Get off, Lou.”
“Rude. You know, if it weren’t for me, you probably would’ve ended up on a roof again. What the hell were you even drinking?” Louis asks, twirling the conspicuously label-less bottle between his fingers. “This shit smells strong enough to kill a cow. Where the fuck did you find it?”
“Dunno,” Zayn mumbles. “Bought it off some kid a while back, ‘parently it’s something homemade and Eastern European.”
“What the fuck, Zayn,” Louis says and rolls his eyes a bit, but the set of his mouth seems almost concerned. “I get that the universe is unfair to you, or whatever mopey shit you’re going through with your knight in shining hockey uniform, but seriously, don’t drown your sorrows, okay? You're not pathetic enough for that.”
Zayn groans again, which seems to satisfy Louis for now, who continues, with a surprising amount of cheer; “So, what happened?”
Zayn turns around so fast that Louis topples over the side of the bed, and squints at his friend in the harsh morning light. “You gave him a key.”
“Yeah,” Louis says, plucking himself off the ground and looking somewhat miffed. “You said you had his jersey, I though I’d help you out.”
“And you couldn’t even send a text to warn me? A ‘hey, Zayn, just a heads up, make sure you’re not wearing Liam’s jersey when he randomly shows up at your door’ would’ve really come in handy.”
Louis’ eyes widen and his lips curl upwards. “You were wearing his jersey?”
“Fuck you, Louis.”
“Okay, look, I ran into him while you were at the rink and you’d told me you had his shirt so I told him to come by after you got home and pick it up. I thought I was being helpful!” Louis explains, but there’s still laughter lining his mouth and Zayn narrows his eyes.
“You don’t look very sorry about this.”
“Well,” Louis says, grinning. “Did you kiss him, at least?”
Zayn just makes an unintelligible noise and chucks a pillow at his head before burrowing under his blanket. Fucking Louis.
Liam doesn’t show up to Wednesday practice for two weeks after what Louis dubs The Tragic Shirt Incident. As much as Zayn rolls his eyes at Louis or tries to ignore Harry’s heartbreakingly wide eyes, it still hurts that Liam would cut hockey just so he wouldn’t have to chance seeing Zayn. It’s not like Zayn has kept tabs on him for the whole five months he’d been working at the snack shop, but as far as Zayn knows, Liam has been there at every practice. And okay, he knew the whole thing had been bad news from the start; Zayn’s stupid crush on Liam was obviously hopeless, he didn’t even think about denying that. But he could’ve maybe hoped for a little more grace and a little less embarrassment regarding the matter, even if any chance friendship was doomed from the get-go.
Sitting in the tiny snack-booth seems to become more and more depressing with every passing week, so by the time the third Wednesday rolls around, Zayn pretty much just stares dejectedly into space for the duration of his shift. He’s so completely out of it that he only notices Harry’s miserable expression when he slides onto the counter with red-rimmed eyes, but it only takes Zayn one glance to know what happened. Harry has a very distinctive Louis-just-broke-up-with-me face.
“Oh fuck,” Zayn swears as he clambers up beside Harry, already pulling his friend into a messy hug. As if on cue, tears starts flowing down Harry’s cheeks steadily. “Oh fuck. What’d he say?”
Harry’s shoulders are shaking and he’s letting out there’s gut-wrenching gasps and this isn’t unfamiliar to Zayn, it really isn’t, but he truly hates seeing Harry like this.
“C’mon Haz,” he mutters, fishing in his pocket for a Kleenex. “What happened this time?”
“He—he didn’t,” Harry sobs, burying his face in his hands, the absolute picture of despair. “He didn’t—didn’t end it.”
Zayn pulls away slightly, endlessly confused. He'd been so sure about it, too. “He didn’t? Then. Then why are you so unhappy, Harry, what the fuck happened?”
Harry just lets out a quiet whimper, and his face has been swallowed up by his palms. “I did. I ended it.”
“O-kay,” Zayn says slowly. If you ask him, it’s about damn time that Harry held his own. Zayn loves Louis a lot, he really does, but the guy can be a bit of an ass and the way he treats Harry is called volatile at best. Maybe this’ll be what it takes to put Louis in his place. But Zayn can’t jump to conclusions, not yet, not without hearing the story.
“Haz, what happened?” he asks again.
“It was so dumb,” Harry hiccups, peeling his hands off his cheeks to accept the tissue Zayn’s offered him. “We were talking about how Tim and Alex went to Disney for their one-year anniversary and I sort of realized that our one-year anniversary isn’t really gonna be a one-year anniversary because even though we count from, you know, the first time we got together, it’s not like we’ve been together uninterrupted for a whole year and I started thinking of how he’s gonna break up with me again and I panicked.”
“Shh,” Zayn soothes, tightening his arms around Harry’s shoulders with a sigh. “Honestly, I don’t blame you for anything that happened because if I were in your place, I’d have snapped sooner. But you guys’ll sort it out, I’m sure.”
Harry sniffs and looks at Zayn with tearful eyes. “You think?”
“Harry,” Zayn replies with a smile. “If anyone could prove to me that soulmates exist, it would be you two. You guys are perfect for each other. And I know this because Louis’ told me so many times. You’ll work it out.”
Harry seems to ponder that for a second before letting out a shuddering breath. “Thanks.”
“Alright,” Zayn says finally, tapping Harry’s thigh twice before slipping off the counter. “Let’s go, okay, I’ll walk you home.”
As Harry scurries away to get his stuff, Zayn pulls out his phone to send a couple of texts to Louis.
pls talk to harry before you drink yourself into the ground x
you guys need to talk things over asap xx
Satisfied, he puts his phone back in his pocket, then picks up his bag with a sigh. No-one ever said his life was uneventful.
A week later, Zayn is reading Sartre. He never was too fond of him, to be honest, but since his life’s pretty much in shambles he figures he can give it another shot (especially since Harry has the flu and is too busy being nursed back to health by Louis to keep him company on this glum Wednesday night). And now that he really thinks about it, maybe Sartre isn’t as overrated as he’d believed. Pierre and Ève can’t be together, even though they’re meant for each other. Ah, this is exactly the kind of drama he needs right now.
By the time he finishes The Chips Are Down, the arena’s practically empty and the janitor’s already started mopping up the slivers of slush littering the floor. As Zayn puts his book back in his bag, he hears the front doors slide open. He turns around, prepared to tell whoever it is that the rink’s closed for the night, but his words die in his throat.
“Hi,” Liam says and his cheeks are pink (although Zayn can’t tell if it’s because of the chilly, early-March night or for some other unfathomable reason) as he steps up to the counter. He’s wearing jeans and a soft grey hoodie and he looks so cozy in the cold arena that all Zayn wants to do is wrap himself around him. Which would probably not be constructive.
“Hi,” he replies instead, shrugging on his bag and stepping out from the booth. They stand there in the middle of the floor for a couple of seconds while Zayn tries to figure out what to do, what to say.
Liam beats him to it. “I’m glad you’re still here, I thought, I wasn’t sure if, how long you worked.”
It’s a little clumsy, a little garbled, but it’s something. It’s a start. And although Zayn feels confused and more than a little lost, he’ll definitely take it. “Yeah, I was just about to leave. Are you…?”
Liam nods before seeming to catch himself and shaking his head. “Wait, Zayn,” he starts and quickly grabs Zayn’s arm. And Zayn really has no idea what’s supposed to be happening here, or why Liam’s blushing (because yeah, that’s definitely a blush) when Zayn’s the one who should be embarrassed about… about the jersey incident, for example. Which he is, actually, although at the moment all he can focus on is Liam’s grip just above his wrist.
“Okay,” he says, trying desperately to calm his heart rate because he’s fairly sure Liam can feel his pulse. “What’s up?”
“Want me to teach you how to skate?” Liam asks, and maybe Zayn’s just imagining things but he seems to be holding his breath.
Zayn can’t really think about trying to verify that right now, however, because Liam has just offered to teach him how to skate, and if anything ever deserved the expression ‘out of the blue', well it’s that, and he has to focus very hard on not letting his jaw drop. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah, of course,” Liam confirms, letting go of Zayn’s forearm and smiling tentatively. “If you want, we could start now?”
“Now?” Zayn echoes, and okay, he’s probably not coming off too intelligent, but his brain needs a bit of time to catch up.
“Yeah!” Liam says, and there’s a genuine enthusiasm sparkling in his eyes that makes it pretty much impossible to say no.
So although he still doesn’t know what to make of the situation, Zayn says “Sure,” before realizing it’s past nine; “It’s late, though, we’re supposed to be closing, I don’t think we can—”
“We can, though,” Liam interrupts quickly. “Ernie’s cool with it, he can give me the keys.”
Ernie? Oh, Ernie. Ernie the janitor. And Zayn almost laughs because clearly Harry’s not the only one who makes friends with every living soul he meets. His eyes are locked on Liam’s, and he notes, not for the first time, that Liam has very nice eyes. Such a warm, deep brown, shimmering like silk. Somehow, that gets Zayn thinking about why Liam’s gorgeous eyes are looking at him like nothing’s wrong.
“Liam, what’s going on?” Zayn asks, and maybe this is another decision he’s going to regret for the rest of his life, but he can’t take the tension of what’s hovering unsaid. “What about the jersey?”
Liam’s blush flares up, but otherwise he stays composed. “It’s okay.”
“It’s okay? How is it okay?”
“I, uh,” Liam starts, cheeks a brilliant red. Zayn, quite frankly, wants to bite him, which is probably not the best idea, seeing as the guy’s quite possibly just about to tell him to piss off. “I saw you reading Poe one day, so I went and bought a collection of his short stories so I could talk to you ‘bout something you like. But uh, by the next week, you were reading something else, so.”
Zayn just sort of stares for a moment, stunned by the sudden change of topic as he tries desperately to make sense of it all.
“You bought a book just so you could talk to me?” he chokes out finally.
Liam’s cheeks darken impossibly. “I might’ve.”
Zayn doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “You do realize,” he manages to get out without convulsing, “that I couldn’t focus on Poe’s short stories because I was too busy staring at you on the ice?”
Liam’s jaw actually drops and Zayn does laugh then, very nearly doubling over as tears gather at the corners of his eyes. When he finally manages to collect himself, he straightens and looks at Liam, who’s grinning happily.
“So. Skating?” Liam asks, holding up his training bag. “I brought my extra pair of skates for you.”
“Okay,” Zayn agrees with a smile, feeling just a little drunk as he plops down on a bench and reaches to pull the zipper of the bag open. He still hasn’t fully processed everything but that seems like a good thing to say. “Let’s skate.”
Liam chuckles and sits down beside Zayn, pulling on his skates quickly before kneeling on the ground to help Zayn tie his.
“Wait.” Zayn pauses as he realizes there’s something else he has to know. “Why haven’t you been at practice for like, a month?”
“Oh,” Liam says, looking a little embarrassed. “I didn’t know how you were gonna react to me and I was trying to figure out what to do and I’m not really good at coming up with ideas quickly.”
“Oh.”
Liam ties the skates around Zayn’s ankles and Zayn doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to stop smiling.
He lets Liam lead him to the rink, leaning on him as he waddles awkwardly in Liam’s slightly too-large skates. The ice is smooth and very slippery under him, he notes sort of dumbly, but he doesn’t think he’s capable of more complex thoughts with Liam’s fingers hovering around his waist. He feels Liam’s warm hand settle on the small of his back and Zayn would be unsteady on his feet even if he were standing on solid ground, but the skates and the ice are definitely not helping.
“Shit,” he swears as his legs almost slide out from under him, hands scrabbling to find something to grab onto before turning around and tangling his fingers into the front of Liam’s hoodie. “I’m not really good at this.”
Liam just grabs his waist like it's the most natural thing in the world and holds him steady. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”
“Oh,” Zayn says as Liam leans close and places a tentative hand along his jaw.
Oh, he thinks as Liam’s lips press against his, soft and steady.
And yeah, taking this shitty job as a snack-booth placeholder was definitely not the worst decision of his life.