One Direction fic | Method to the Madness | Louis/Zayn | NC-17 | ~12,000 words | Part 1/2
Method to the Madness
Louis/Zayn | NC-17 | 12,000 words
Louis doesn’t trust himself to know the right way to touch Zayn anymore.
Huge, huge thanks to proteinscollide who let me send this to her over and over again as I tried to work through it, she is incredible. Thanks also to shoreparty and slownight for letting me send this to them.
“So how many of you are single?” the interviewer asks.
Louis sighs, looking down at his legs, and lifts his hand. When he looks up it's to make eye contact with Niall who's happily thrusting his arm into the air; he ignores Zayn, who's also lifting his hand sheepishly.
“Three out of five,” says the interviewer. “Hear that ladies?”
There are a lot of screams from the crowd and Louis tries not to smile with too many teeth.
No one’s allowed to ask for specifics about the breakup -- Louis knows it’s on the list of Don’t Asks, even now, six months later, and that they’re probably waiting on him to say it’s okay to take it off the list, but he doesn’t, he likes having the buffer. It’s bad enough that everyone knew almost before he did that the relationship was over, he doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to say (they’re still friends, it was mutual, it’s mostly okay now, he almost never lies awake at night missing her anymore).
“You looking for someone?” the interviewer asks them.
Louis keeps his head down, tunes out Niall chattering on about how hard it is to keep up relationships when they’re on the road nine months of the year.
Louis still has a Sharpie in his back pocket from when they were signing autographs earlier, and he grabs it and starts trying to put black dots on the back of Liam’s neck. He thinks that Liam probably has noticed by the fourth or fifth poke, but it’s not until Louis drags the tip of the pen down in a hard thick line that Liam turns around and tries to bat Louis away, which gives Louis the chance to stab at Liam’s hands as well; Liam didn’t think that one through.
Zayn twists around, ducking a little as he peeks over his shoulder. He grins when he sees Louis stabbing at Liam with the pen, long swipes now, given up all pretext of doing anything but drawing all over Liam. Zayn laughs, low and quiet, and even though they’re three bodies away from each other, it makes Louis falter long enough that Liam gets his hand around the pen.
One of the producers walks over and takes the pen away.
--
They’re herded over to a long conference table piled high with stuff to sign. Louis didn’t even know they made One Direction fuzzy slippers, but he scribbles his name across the sole.
“Zap,” Zayn whispers, his chin digging into Louis’s shoulder as he presses his face close to Louis’s neck. “Everything is already signed.”
Zayn’s too close, and Louis hunches his shoulders in and pulls away, enough that he can see Zayn’s mouth instead of almost, almost, almost feeling it against his skin.
“And I have a proper cup of tea,” Louis says, because whoever brought him this mug let it steep way too long. “Zap.”
“And Harry stops stealing my sandwich,” Niall says as he tries to bludgeon Harry with a tube of One Direction toothpaste. “Zap, zap, zap.”
“That is not how it works,” Louis says. He grabs a handful of lip gloss tubes (someone already opened the wrapping because they couldn’t remember what flavour they were all supposed to be) and chucks them across the table, managing to hit Harry in the head with one of the tubes.
“Ow,” Harry says, slowly.
One of the tubes rolls across the table, and Zayn picks it up, flicks off the cap and starts dabbing it across his lips. He puckers up his mouth ridiculously and Louis watches as he rubs his lips together, spreading the shine, before he remembers that he’s not meant to be looking, and starts signing across the top of a shoe.
--
In hindsight, Louis should have been sure that the others were following him directly back to the bus before he wedged himself under the side cupboard by the door and waited, curled and cramped. It probably hasn't been more than three to seven minutes, but Louis's feet have gone numb from the squish of his thighs to his chest to fit into the small space. It's going to be difficult to jump out with any vigor. In further hindsight, it might have also been wise to take all of the stuff off the top shelf first. He can't remember - was there a lamp up there?
But no matter, when the door opens, Louis waits just long enough to ensure it is not security (who are a bit touchy about being startled, which is fine as long as Louis then has somewhere to run off to, but escape routes are lacking now that he's already on the bus) before springing up, muttering, “Shit," as the soles of his feet cramp up, then, "Ahhhh!" at the top of his lungs, throwing himself forward.
Liam only blinks at him, but it does appear that Niall has thrown his bottle of orange juice across the side of the wall.
Excellent.
"Ahhhh!" Louis continues, because now Zayn is tripping over Liam, stalled in the doorway. He raises his arms and waves them again -- sure it's belatedly but the dramatic effect is still there.
Zayn takes Liam's knees out (probably on purpose, Louis thinks. Zayn's a good lad.) and they go tumbling to the floor.
Louis is almost out of breath but he pushes from his diaphragm and manages to hold the scream until Harry's curly head pops into view. Harry surveys the scene long enough to narrow in on Liam and Zayn rolling around on the floor. Liam's about three seconds away from getting Zayn into a headlock but he loses focus when Harry's body comes crashing down on top of them, and Zayn manages to roll away, hitting Niall in the shin.
Louis pauses to take a breath, so really it's just good luck that finds him standing quietly in the corner when Paul walks in, while all the other boys flop around on the floor.
Louis pushes his hands into his pockets and beams.
Paul looks up at the ceiling, rubbing between his brow with a fingertip.
“Lads,” Louis says disapprovingly. “Get off the floor. We’ve got to get a move on.” He looks at Paul and makes this back-and-forth gesture with his hand, like, I’ve got you covered.
Paul’s left eye twitches.
Harry and Liam are flopping around on the floor, batting at each other like drunk kittens, and somehow Niall has ended up underneath both of them and is all red faced and wheezy. Zayn’s managed to extract himself and he’s stretched out just off to the side, propped up on one elbow, his knee pulled up and the other leg out straight in this kind of effortless sprawl that makes it hard for Louis to swallow. Zayn sees that he’s looking at him and smiles, slow and smug and dirty, and Louis makes his face blank because he doesn’t know what else to do. He thinks he’s probably supposed to try to tackle Zayn now, dive into the mess of limbs and finish what he started. But Louis doesn’t trust himself to know the right way to touch Zayn anymore.
It’s better when Niall makes a dive for Louis’s ankles, and Louis has to shove him away. Easier when he has something to do with his hands.
--
Niall’s going to a show and Harry’s meeting up with Cara but they’re in LA overnight and Louis wants to go out.
Liam’s not that hard to convince, and Louis knows how to deal with Zayn -- he sits himself in Zayn’s hotel room and stares until Zayn huffs and finally marches into the bathroom to get ready. It takes a long time, which is probably partly to thwart Louis and and partly just because he’s gotten distracted staring at himself in the mirror. Louis is good at being patient for things required to get his own way, so he just sits on the bed and waits.
Finally Zayn walks out of the bathroom. He’s wearing a white henley that’s loose around the neckline, enough that the line of script on his collar bone is visible, and he’s doing that thing with his face where he clenches his jaw and purses his lips and makes Louis feel like a vacuum has opened up in the pit of his stomach and is sucking all the air out of the room.
“You’re ridiculous,” Louis says as he rolls off the bed, holding his hoodie in front so that he has cover for the moment it takes to adjust himself.
Zayn doesn’t respond, grabbing his pack of cigarettes off the dresser, picking up his jacket off the back of the chair. It’s a worn black leather that hangs loosely around his torso, like there would be room for Louis to slide his hands underneath, to feel the soft cotton of Zayn’s shirt and the narrow stretch of his waist.
“Do you want something to drink?” Louis asks, and he doesn’t wait for Zayn to answer before walking over to the minibar.
There was a while when Louis wasn’t drinking as much. Sort of like when he was happy, but he doesn’t like thinking about it that way because it’s not like he’s not happy now. He just also happy to be drinking.
He’s the only one of them who’s 21, but they get into the club without any problem, a table filled with bottles waiting for them in the roped off section at the back. Louis grabs the largest bottle of vodka and sits down with it. Liam starts fussing about finding mixers, so Louis shoves the bottle in Liam’s face and glares until he finally takes a swig.
It’s not the same as partying back home, because the club is all complicated lighting and waitresses in tiny skirts and this weird rubbery black floor that feels a bit like walking on congealed grease. It’s not the same because Stan’s not there, and Louis doesn’t really know any of the people who are crowded on the bench beside him. It doesn’t even matter that there’s a blonde running her hand up his thigh because no one’s waiting for him at home, wherever home is now that he’s got this big empty flat in London and no one to come back to.
And it’s better that way, because he and Eleanor were fighting more than not by the end, but it doesn’t make it any easier to get his head together for tonight. To remember how to be funny and connect with strangers and enjoy the lights cutting through the black space of the club, the high ceilings and the throbbing bass spreading through the floor and up the walls. The heat that comes from having this many bodies moving together, breathing the same air -- he can’t remember how to find the link of connection to a room full of strangers moving to the same beat.
He does remember how to polish off the better part of a bottle of rum, passing it to whoever’s sitting closest to him but making sure that it ends up back in his hands when they’re through. His throat hurts from drinking it straight and from yelling at full volume to be heard over the music.
Liam’s there and then he isn’t. Zayn’s there and then he isn’t. Zayn isn’t. Where has Zayn gone?
Zayn’s talking to this woman with black hair and a wide smile. She looks like she thinks Zayn is hilarious, and that’s not right because no one knows that Zayn is hilarious right away. They have to get to know him first. Louis knows him; Zayn should be talking to him.
Louis pushes his way through the crowd, directing a general glare at everyone who gets in his way. Especially when like three people try to grab his ass, and especially especially when one person actually succeeds. Everyone’s always trying to grab his arse, but it’s his arse and he never said that they could.
Zayn’s in the middle of saying something when Louis comes stumbling over, but he stops and turns to greet Louis.
“Do you need something to drink?” Louis asks, ignoring the half full drink Zayn’s already got in his hand. “You should come back to the table.” Sometimes it’s better not to give people a chance to make the wrong decision, so instead of waiting for Zayn to respond, he grabs Zayn’s wrist and pulls him in the right direction.
Most of their corner has cleared out by now, so the bench behind the table is empty and it’s easy to push Zayn down and sit down beside him.
“Bro,” Zayn says, looking a bit stunned.
“We should do shots,” Louis says, reaching for a bottle but not bothering trying to find a shot glass. He swallows what is approximately equivalent to one shot or maybe like two but definitely no more than three and then shoves the bottle into Zayn’s hands, giving him encouraging eyebrows until Zayn stops making faces and lifts the bottle to his lips.
He has a very sharp jawline and Louis is only a human being, so no one can fault him for leaning in and sucking on the long stretch of neck between Zayn’s stupidly cut jaw and the absolutely ridiculous line of his collarbone. His neck tastes like Louis wants to put his mouth everywhere.
Zayn sputters and pulls the bottle away from his mouth, vodka dripping down his chin, but Louis can help with that too. He licks up the vodka, sucks on Zayn’s lower lip because that looks shiny as well. And then he bites it because what did Zayn think was going to happen when he let Louis have access to his soft, soft mouth. Or maybe Zayn didn’t think. Louis isn’t thinking very much, he’s just going to -- he’s just going for it.
Louis’s a bit drunk in his ears because there’s this rushing sound like he’s being swallowed up by a tidal wave. Like maybe the bass of the music has gone to his head and now the thrumming is in his bones, shaking his ribcage, every empty corner filled up with noise and lights.
He pulls back long enough to lick his own lips before opening into Zayn’s mouth. And Zayn lets him. He parts his teeth and lets Louis seal their mouths and slide their tongues together, kissing hard enough that Louis’s nose is pressed into Zayn’s cheek. Louis anchors himself with a hand to Zayn’s shoulder, like at least if he floats away he can make sure to take Zayn with him. Zayn inhales through his nose and Louis can hear it, he can hear it and he wants to hold Zayn’s head and listen to him breath and gasp and come. He knows he’s being too rough but he can’t stand how much he wants to be close to Zayn, and then just like that Zayn’s mouth is gone and there wasn’t any warning but he’s far away now, scrubbing the back of his wrist over his mouth and staring at Louis over the top of his hand.
Louis clenches his hands into fists and drops his head, makes his face blank and dumb and laughs until Zayn starts laughing too, shaking his head, looking at Louis from across a great distance.
“I’m taking this away from you,” Zayn says, grabbing the bottle off the table. He pauses before walking away and in that moment Louis is glad that he’s had enough alcohol to be numb through and through. It was the first time he’d ever kissed a guy and already the memory’s gone too fuzzy. Louis wants to hold onto it, pack it away somewhere so that when he’s ready he can figure out if it’s just Zayn or if this is a thing for him now. They kissed; Louis just needs to remember.
Zayn took the bottle they were drinking from, but didn’t think to also take all of the other bottles on the table. Most of them are empty now, but Louis finds a fifth that still has some rum sloshing around and he drinks what is left fast enough that it makes his whole face prickle furiously.
“Jesus, Lou,” Liam says, appearing out of nowhere. “It’s not going to escape if you slow down.”
“It might,” Louis says. “Then where would I be?”
“Still absolutely trashed,” Liam says. “And we’ve got a show tomorrow, so take it easy.”
“That’s hours from now.”
“You okay?” Liam asks, which makes Louis think that maybe he’s slurring a little, even though he’s trying to be careful. It’s his damn tongue. Sometimes it gets away from him.
“I’m not gay,” Louis says.
“Was someone being an arsehole?” Liam asks, his face clouding over as he starts to glare around the room, like he’s going to be able to pick out this hypothetical person who offended Louis at a distance and from sight only.
“No,” says Louis. “Everyone always says that I’m gay but I’m not.”
“None of us say you’re gay,” Liam says.
“I tried to kiss Zayn on his face.”
“Niall actually succeeded at kissing Zayn on his face like three times when we were in New York,” Liam says.
“So it’s Zayn’s fault,” Louis says. “You’re saying that it’s Zayn’s fault because of what his face looks like.”
“That’s not really at all what I’m saying,” Liam starts, but he was making good sense and Louis doesn’t want him to ruin it now so he flattens his hand over Liam’s mouth, pushing at Liam’s forehead wrinkles with the fingers of his other hand. Liam needs to be careful with the expressions he makes with his face because right now, with the way his eyes are all bulgy and his forehead is rolling over on itself, he looks a bit like a demented ape. Louis strokes his head helpfully and tries to shove his hand a little further into Liam’s mouth, which -- wait, when did Liam open his mouth. Louis’s hand is going to be totally covered in slobber.
Everything about this night is the worst, Louis thinks. And then to cheer himself up he tries to fit his whole fist inside of Liam’s mouth. It works pretty well until the point where Liam starts biting down.
He doesn’t know exactly how it happens, but he ends up back in his own bunk, so something must go right. He should drink some water or find something to eat, but now that he’s lying down, there’s absolutely no way that he’s standing up.
He hears Liam crawl into the bunk beneath his, wonders if Zayn is also back, then tries to tell himself to stop wondering about Zayn and ends up having to have a wank instead. He’s so drunk that he takes a long time and he nearly falls asleep twice before he’s finished. When he comes, he splatters onto his shirt -- realises too late that he’s still wearing all of his clothes, but there’s nothing he can do about that now, there’s nothing he can do about much of anything right now.
He sleeps a bit, wakes up over and over again and eventually drags himself to the loo. The rest of the lads are still asleep -- or still in their bunks, anyway. He stops in front of Zayn’s, pulls the curtain back. Just to make sure that Zayn made it back onto the bus last night. He's sleeping, his arm raised above his head, knuckles digging into the pillow. He's not wearing a shirt and Louis is still drunk, so he has to close his eyes when the floor lurches dangerously. He pulls off his own shirt and climbs back into his bunk.
He sleeps for a bit longer, long enough that everyone else gets up and everything gets less spinny and more achy. He climbs out of bed and walks to the back of the bus, directs an outstanding glare to each of the lads, one after another (looking carefully at the tip of Zayn's ear instead of making eye contact, proper), and says, “Stop talking, stop moving, stop making noise,” before limping back to his bunk, where his legs and head hurt too badly to sleep but at least the curtain blocks out the light.
Someone peels back the curtain a few minutes later and Louis doesn’t know who he wants it to be, but it’s Harry, holding a glass of water.
“No,” Louis says, trying to roll away.
“Come on,” Harry says. “It’ll help.”
“I will vomit and I will aim for you.”
"What did you do last night?" Harry says.
"Nothing," Louis says. "Why? What did he say?"
"Who?" Harry asks.
"No one," Louis snaps. "Fuck off and die."
"Drink this and then I'll see what I can do," Harry says, giving Louis an annoyingly sweet smile. Once Louis is up for it, he's going to find something sticky to put in Harry's hair while he sleeps.
He takes the water and chokes back a few sips. The problem with water is that compared to alcohol, it's so heavy and thick and nauseating. Louis's body is used to alcohol, it doesn't know how to handle water anymore.
"This is disgusting," Louis says, trying to pass the glass back to Harry.
"Just a little more," Harry says.
"I don't deserve this," Louis says, throwing a wretched face after he manages to swallow three more baby sips.
Harry takes the cup -- fucking finally -- and rests his free hand over Louis's forehead. His palm is cool and the weight on Louis's head is just firm enough to be comforting. He closes his eyes and lets Harry watch over him.
--
He actually manages to fall asleep with Harry holding his head, and when he wakes up a few hours later, his head feels less like a natural disaster alert system that is firing on all cylinders. He's not happy to have to leave his bunk, but it's not as much of a catastrophe.
They're early to the studio where they're taping two songs and doing a three minute outro interview that's going to air sometime next week. He puts on the outfit Caroline has picked out for him. Lou's working on Niall's hair, so he's still got some time to himself.
He makes his way down the hallway, passes by the elevator and rounds the corner to find an emergency exit. Likely it's not connected to an alarm, so he pushes it open -- yes, no alarm, those signs always lie -- and walks out into the narrow side yard separating the studio from the building next door.
It's quiet except for the hum of the fan or furnace or whatever mechanical device is making that humming sound, and Louis walks along until he finds a ledge in the brick and can scoot up on the perch. It's not quite wide enough to sit comfortably, but he can balance.
The edge of the brick is digging into his tailbone, but he waits it out and eventually his arse goes numb.
He expects someone else to come, but he thinks maybe it'll be someone who works in the studio. Maybe a group of twelve year olds, which is really what he needs to keep an ear out for. Nothing like being cornered in an alley with fans.
Instead it's Zayn slinking between the buildings, wearing sunglasses, his hands stuffed into his pockets.
He looks sheepish when he realises that someone else is there, then when he looks up and realises it's Louis, he says, "Oi," and pulls his hand and a pack of smokes out of his pocket.
"Naughty," Louis says, pushing away from the brick and landing hard on the ground.
Zayn leans back against the wall and lights his cigarette, taking a long drag and then tipping his head back as he blows out smoke.
He murmurs, "Yeah," and takes another drag, curling his shoulders back happily, like he's having a bit of a cuddle with the brick wall.
He looks like someone should be taking pictures of him, even though it’s probably the last thing he wants right now. There are always cameras shoved in their faces, so they don’t spend much time taking shots of each other, but in this moment Louis wishes he had a camera. The black of Zayn’s hair against the red brick of the wall, the curl of his fingers around the cigarette -- with a camera they would just be colours and shapes, but standing here without one means that Louis has nothing to do with his hands.
“What are you thinking about?” Louis asks, because he’s worried if he waits Zayn will ask him the same question.
“Just tired,” Zayn says. “Late night.”
Louis clears his throat, trying to push down the tight feeling. “I haven’t eaten yet.”
“Me neither,” Zayn says. “They’ve got a spread in the green room.”
Louis wraps his arm around his own chest to cup his palm over his opposite shoulder and says, “I was smashed last night.”
Zayn takes a slow drag, cutting his gaze sideways to give Louis a careful look.
“Don’t really remember too much about what we got up to,” Louis says.
“Yes you do,” Zayn says. He doesn’t sound mean about it, but, like -- firm.
“So do you,” Louis snaps, immediately defensive, even though Zayn isn’t the one claiming otherwise. He reaches over and snatches Zayn’s sunglasses off of his face, catching him a bit in the nose with the frame but otherwise making a clean grab.
“Are you trying to apologise?” Zayn asks.
“Does it seem like I am?” Louis folds up the sunglasses and puts them in his back pocket.
“Don’t know what’s going on in your head, to be honest,” Zayn says. “You haven’t been talking much lately.”
“You’re the only person who’s ever said I don’t talk enough,” Louis says. He keeps getting these flashes where he remembers kissing Zayn, like when he couldn’t stop touching his mouth in the shower, even though logically he knew they didn’t kiss long enough for him to get beard burn. Everything’s just going on like normal today, and Louis knows that if he gets outside of his head enough he’ll be able to go along with it -- to act like he’s supposed to and forget about whatever else. But the bigger part of him doesn’t want to, would rather be hiding outside the studio where he can smash things around in his brain with the hope that the hazy memories will eventually go clear.
He’s not necessarily ready for Zayn to be here as well, like actual Zayn and not the image that Louis keeps turning round and round in his head, but there he is, standing right in front of Louis.
“Not about whatever’s happening here,” Zayn says and pokes Louis between the eyebrows.
Louis frowns, takes a step back, ducking away from Zayn’s hand.
“Don’t,” Louis says. His voice sounds tighter than he means it to, a little panicked. His body doesn’t know how to be touched like that by Zayn anymore, like playful and easy and meaningless, and he feels everything Zayn does high in his chest, in that stupid epicenter where all the longing starts before splintering outward.
Zayn throws the butt of his cigarette to the ground, squares off in front of Louis and reaches out to poke him again, his finger digging into Louis’s forehead. It kind of hurts; Zayn is stronger than he looks.
“Arse,” Louis says. He remembers what it was like to be normal around Zayn well enough that he could probably go through the motions -- this is when he’s supposed to take a swing and miss and then they can turn it into play fighting. He should pretend to kick out Zayn’s knees and then fall back against the brick wall, wait until they’re both out of breath before throwing a heavy arm around Zayn’s shoulders to walk back into the studio.
Instead, Louis takes another step backward, crossing his arms over his chest. He turns his face away.
“It’s just that you were drunk,” Zayn says, like maybe in spite of everything he still knows Louis, still has him figured out.
But he doesn’t know everything, because then he asks, “Do you still want to when you’re sober?”
Louis flushes. There should theoretically be a time that he doesn’t want to with Zayn, but he hasn’t found it yet. Being sober doesn’t help.
Zayn leans against the wall, standing on one foot with his other foot crossed over his ankle. He stays quiet for a minute, working it out in his head before asking, “Like mates or that you’re curious or ‘cause you’re lonely?”
Any of those -- all of those except none of them capture the sick feeling hiding under Louis’s rib cage where all of the wanting has gone rotten from being left to fester for too long.
“What’s it for you?” Louis asks in lieu of answering, skipping over what should actually be the first thing he asks -- is it anything for you?
“Been thinking about it,” Zayn says, which doesn’t actually mean that much because Zayn also spends long periods of time thinking about what it means to be a human and whether Drake is better than Usher and if he should continue his sleeve all the way up his arm or start tattooing other parts of his body instead.
“Because of last night?”
“Because of a lot of things.”
“Well. Me too,” Louis says. He feels like he’s about to get absolutely wretchedly cross but it’s still just skirting in the background; Zayn’s still staying calm enough that it rubs off on Louis and he can keep it at bay.
“Do you want to, like. Actually, you know, when we’re not drunk at a club?”
“Do you?” Louis asks, because maybe he can just keep asking questions until he tricks Zayn into giving it all away.
“Been thinking about it,” Zayn says again.
“I don’t want to have a fucking chat,” Louis says, his heart pounding so hard that his fingertips have gone numb. “Yes or no.”
Zayn tilts his head and Louis can see the way his jaw clenches as he purses his lips. Louis palms are sweating, and he doesn’t know if Zayn can tell that his hands are shaking a bit. He’s standing up very straight, tilting his weight forward onto his toes, so if this drags out any longer, he can go. He’ll be gone.
He watches Zayn, because he can’t convince himself to look away, so even though there's hardly any movement, he sees when Zayn nods.
"Yeah?" Louis asks, hushed. His voice is doing that kind of squeaky raspy thing that he hates because it makes him sound, like. Needy.
"Try it out," Zayn says, shrugging, like it's actually that easy.
"Okay then," Louis says. If he ignores the huskiness in his voice, he basically sounds like he's got this covered. "If that's what you want."
Zayn snorts, pushes away from the wall. He throws his arm around Louis's shoulders, rubbing his fingertips on Louis's arm, warm and friendly and possessive -- exactly like how he always touches Louis. Louis has to drive his elbow into Zayn's stomach to stop himself from leaning in closer, and even then there's no give to Zayn's stomach and it makes Louis want to push him back against the wall, crowd up against him, set his teeth into Zayn's neck and mess up his hair and --
He kicks at Zayn's shin as distraction and then runs the rest of the way to the door, ignoring the heavy feeling of his cock in his trousers.
--
Part Two
Louis/Zayn | NC-17 | 12,000 words
Louis doesn’t trust himself to know the right way to touch Zayn anymore.
Huge, huge thanks to proteinscollide who let me send this to her over and over again as I tried to work through it, she is incredible. Thanks also to shoreparty and slownight for letting me send this to them.
“So how many of you are single?” the interviewer asks.
Louis sighs, looking down at his legs, and lifts his hand. When he looks up it's to make eye contact with Niall who's happily thrusting his arm into the air; he ignores Zayn, who's also lifting his hand sheepishly.
“Three out of five,” says the interviewer. “Hear that ladies?”
There are a lot of screams from the crowd and Louis tries not to smile with too many teeth.
No one’s allowed to ask for specifics about the breakup -- Louis knows it’s on the list of Don’t Asks, even now, six months later, and that they’re probably waiting on him to say it’s okay to take it off the list, but he doesn’t, he likes having the buffer. It’s bad enough that everyone knew almost before he did that the relationship was over, he doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to say (they’re still friends, it was mutual, it’s mostly okay now, he almost never lies awake at night missing her anymore).
“You looking for someone?” the interviewer asks them.
Louis keeps his head down, tunes out Niall chattering on about how hard it is to keep up relationships when they’re on the road nine months of the year.
Louis still has a Sharpie in his back pocket from when they were signing autographs earlier, and he grabs it and starts trying to put black dots on the back of Liam’s neck. He thinks that Liam probably has noticed by the fourth or fifth poke, but it’s not until Louis drags the tip of the pen down in a hard thick line that Liam turns around and tries to bat Louis away, which gives Louis the chance to stab at Liam’s hands as well; Liam didn’t think that one through.
Zayn twists around, ducking a little as he peeks over his shoulder. He grins when he sees Louis stabbing at Liam with the pen, long swipes now, given up all pretext of doing anything but drawing all over Liam. Zayn laughs, low and quiet, and even though they’re three bodies away from each other, it makes Louis falter long enough that Liam gets his hand around the pen.
One of the producers walks over and takes the pen away.
--
They’re herded over to a long conference table piled high with stuff to sign. Louis didn’t even know they made One Direction fuzzy slippers, but he scribbles his name across the sole.
“Zap,” Zayn whispers, his chin digging into Louis’s shoulder as he presses his face close to Louis’s neck. “Everything is already signed.”
Zayn’s too close, and Louis hunches his shoulders in and pulls away, enough that he can see Zayn’s mouth instead of almost, almost, almost feeling it against his skin.
“And I have a proper cup of tea,” Louis says, because whoever brought him this mug let it steep way too long. “Zap.”
“And Harry stops stealing my sandwich,” Niall says as he tries to bludgeon Harry with a tube of One Direction toothpaste. “Zap, zap, zap.”
“That is not how it works,” Louis says. He grabs a handful of lip gloss tubes (someone already opened the wrapping because they couldn’t remember what flavour they were all supposed to be) and chucks them across the table, managing to hit Harry in the head with one of the tubes.
“Ow,” Harry says, slowly.
One of the tubes rolls across the table, and Zayn picks it up, flicks off the cap and starts dabbing it across his lips. He puckers up his mouth ridiculously and Louis watches as he rubs his lips together, spreading the shine, before he remembers that he’s not meant to be looking, and starts signing across the top of a shoe.
--
In hindsight, Louis should have been sure that the others were following him directly back to the bus before he wedged himself under the side cupboard by the door and waited, curled and cramped. It probably hasn't been more than three to seven minutes, but Louis's feet have gone numb from the squish of his thighs to his chest to fit into the small space. It's going to be difficult to jump out with any vigor. In further hindsight, it might have also been wise to take all of the stuff off the top shelf first. He can't remember - was there a lamp up there?
But no matter, when the door opens, Louis waits just long enough to ensure it is not security (who are a bit touchy about being startled, which is fine as long as Louis then has somewhere to run off to, but escape routes are lacking now that he's already on the bus) before springing up, muttering, “Shit," as the soles of his feet cramp up, then, "Ahhhh!" at the top of his lungs, throwing himself forward.
Liam only blinks at him, but it does appear that Niall has thrown his bottle of orange juice across the side of the wall.
Excellent.
"Ahhhh!" Louis continues, because now Zayn is tripping over Liam, stalled in the doorway. He raises his arms and waves them again -- sure it's belatedly but the dramatic effect is still there.
Zayn takes Liam's knees out (probably on purpose, Louis thinks. Zayn's a good lad.) and they go tumbling to the floor.
Louis is almost out of breath but he pushes from his diaphragm and manages to hold the scream until Harry's curly head pops into view. Harry surveys the scene long enough to narrow in on Liam and Zayn rolling around on the floor. Liam's about three seconds away from getting Zayn into a headlock but he loses focus when Harry's body comes crashing down on top of them, and Zayn manages to roll away, hitting Niall in the shin.
Louis pauses to take a breath, so really it's just good luck that finds him standing quietly in the corner when Paul walks in, while all the other boys flop around on the floor.
Louis pushes his hands into his pockets and beams.
Paul looks up at the ceiling, rubbing between his brow with a fingertip.
“Lads,” Louis says disapprovingly. “Get off the floor. We’ve got to get a move on.” He looks at Paul and makes this back-and-forth gesture with his hand, like, I’ve got you covered.
Paul’s left eye twitches.
Harry and Liam are flopping around on the floor, batting at each other like drunk kittens, and somehow Niall has ended up underneath both of them and is all red faced and wheezy. Zayn’s managed to extract himself and he’s stretched out just off to the side, propped up on one elbow, his knee pulled up and the other leg out straight in this kind of effortless sprawl that makes it hard for Louis to swallow. Zayn sees that he’s looking at him and smiles, slow and smug and dirty, and Louis makes his face blank because he doesn’t know what else to do. He thinks he’s probably supposed to try to tackle Zayn now, dive into the mess of limbs and finish what he started. But Louis doesn’t trust himself to know the right way to touch Zayn anymore.
It’s better when Niall makes a dive for Louis’s ankles, and Louis has to shove him away. Easier when he has something to do with his hands.
--
Niall’s going to a show and Harry’s meeting up with Cara but they’re in LA overnight and Louis wants to go out.
Liam’s not that hard to convince, and Louis knows how to deal with Zayn -- he sits himself in Zayn’s hotel room and stares until Zayn huffs and finally marches into the bathroom to get ready. It takes a long time, which is probably partly to thwart Louis and and partly just because he’s gotten distracted staring at himself in the mirror. Louis is good at being patient for things required to get his own way, so he just sits on the bed and waits.
Finally Zayn walks out of the bathroom. He’s wearing a white henley that’s loose around the neckline, enough that the line of script on his collar bone is visible, and he’s doing that thing with his face where he clenches his jaw and purses his lips and makes Louis feel like a vacuum has opened up in the pit of his stomach and is sucking all the air out of the room.
“You’re ridiculous,” Louis says as he rolls off the bed, holding his hoodie in front so that he has cover for the moment it takes to adjust himself.
Zayn doesn’t respond, grabbing his pack of cigarettes off the dresser, picking up his jacket off the back of the chair. It’s a worn black leather that hangs loosely around his torso, like there would be room for Louis to slide his hands underneath, to feel the soft cotton of Zayn’s shirt and the narrow stretch of his waist.
“Do you want something to drink?” Louis asks, and he doesn’t wait for Zayn to answer before walking over to the minibar.
There was a while when Louis wasn’t drinking as much. Sort of like when he was happy, but he doesn’t like thinking about it that way because it’s not like he’s not happy now. He just also happy to be drinking.
He’s the only one of them who’s 21, but they get into the club without any problem, a table filled with bottles waiting for them in the roped off section at the back. Louis grabs the largest bottle of vodka and sits down with it. Liam starts fussing about finding mixers, so Louis shoves the bottle in Liam’s face and glares until he finally takes a swig.
It’s not the same as partying back home, because the club is all complicated lighting and waitresses in tiny skirts and this weird rubbery black floor that feels a bit like walking on congealed grease. It’s not the same because Stan’s not there, and Louis doesn’t really know any of the people who are crowded on the bench beside him. It doesn’t even matter that there’s a blonde running her hand up his thigh because no one’s waiting for him at home, wherever home is now that he’s got this big empty flat in London and no one to come back to.
And it’s better that way, because he and Eleanor were fighting more than not by the end, but it doesn’t make it any easier to get his head together for tonight. To remember how to be funny and connect with strangers and enjoy the lights cutting through the black space of the club, the high ceilings and the throbbing bass spreading through the floor and up the walls. The heat that comes from having this many bodies moving together, breathing the same air -- he can’t remember how to find the link of connection to a room full of strangers moving to the same beat.
He does remember how to polish off the better part of a bottle of rum, passing it to whoever’s sitting closest to him but making sure that it ends up back in his hands when they’re through. His throat hurts from drinking it straight and from yelling at full volume to be heard over the music.
Liam’s there and then he isn’t. Zayn’s there and then he isn’t. Zayn isn’t. Where has Zayn gone?
Zayn’s talking to this woman with black hair and a wide smile. She looks like she thinks Zayn is hilarious, and that’s not right because no one knows that Zayn is hilarious right away. They have to get to know him first. Louis knows him; Zayn should be talking to him.
Louis pushes his way through the crowd, directing a general glare at everyone who gets in his way. Especially when like three people try to grab his ass, and especially especially when one person actually succeeds. Everyone’s always trying to grab his arse, but it’s his arse and he never said that they could.
Zayn’s in the middle of saying something when Louis comes stumbling over, but he stops and turns to greet Louis.
“Do you need something to drink?” Louis asks, ignoring the half full drink Zayn’s already got in his hand. “You should come back to the table.” Sometimes it’s better not to give people a chance to make the wrong decision, so instead of waiting for Zayn to respond, he grabs Zayn’s wrist and pulls him in the right direction.
Most of their corner has cleared out by now, so the bench behind the table is empty and it’s easy to push Zayn down and sit down beside him.
“Bro,” Zayn says, looking a bit stunned.
“We should do shots,” Louis says, reaching for a bottle but not bothering trying to find a shot glass. He swallows what is approximately equivalent to one shot or maybe like two but definitely no more than three and then shoves the bottle into Zayn’s hands, giving him encouraging eyebrows until Zayn stops making faces and lifts the bottle to his lips.
He has a very sharp jawline and Louis is only a human being, so no one can fault him for leaning in and sucking on the long stretch of neck between Zayn’s stupidly cut jaw and the absolutely ridiculous line of his collarbone. His neck tastes like Louis wants to put his mouth everywhere.
Zayn sputters and pulls the bottle away from his mouth, vodka dripping down his chin, but Louis can help with that too. He licks up the vodka, sucks on Zayn’s lower lip because that looks shiny as well. And then he bites it because what did Zayn think was going to happen when he let Louis have access to his soft, soft mouth. Or maybe Zayn didn’t think. Louis isn’t thinking very much, he’s just going to -- he’s just going for it.
Louis’s a bit drunk in his ears because there’s this rushing sound like he’s being swallowed up by a tidal wave. Like maybe the bass of the music has gone to his head and now the thrumming is in his bones, shaking his ribcage, every empty corner filled up with noise and lights.
He pulls back long enough to lick his own lips before opening into Zayn’s mouth. And Zayn lets him. He parts his teeth and lets Louis seal their mouths and slide their tongues together, kissing hard enough that Louis’s nose is pressed into Zayn’s cheek. Louis anchors himself with a hand to Zayn’s shoulder, like at least if he floats away he can make sure to take Zayn with him. Zayn inhales through his nose and Louis can hear it, he can hear it and he wants to hold Zayn’s head and listen to him breath and gasp and come. He knows he’s being too rough but he can’t stand how much he wants to be close to Zayn, and then just like that Zayn’s mouth is gone and there wasn’t any warning but he’s far away now, scrubbing the back of his wrist over his mouth and staring at Louis over the top of his hand.
Louis clenches his hands into fists and drops his head, makes his face blank and dumb and laughs until Zayn starts laughing too, shaking his head, looking at Louis from across a great distance.
“I’m taking this away from you,” Zayn says, grabbing the bottle off the table. He pauses before walking away and in that moment Louis is glad that he’s had enough alcohol to be numb through and through. It was the first time he’d ever kissed a guy and already the memory’s gone too fuzzy. Louis wants to hold onto it, pack it away somewhere so that when he’s ready he can figure out if it’s just Zayn or if this is a thing for him now. They kissed; Louis just needs to remember.
Zayn took the bottle they were drinking from, but didn’t think to also take all of the other bottles on the table. Most of them are empty now, but Louis finds a fifth that still has some rum sloshing around and he drinks what is left fast enough that it makes his whole face prickle furiously.
“Jesus, Lou,” Liam says, appearing out of nowhere. “It’s not going to escape if you slow down.”
“It might,” Louis says. “Then where would I be?”
“Still absolutely trashed,” Liam says. “And we’ve got a show tomorrow, so take it easy.”
“That’s hours from now.”
“You okay?” Liam asks, which makes Louis think that maybe he’s slurring a little, even though he’s trying to be careful. It’s his damn tongue. Sometimes it gets away from him.
“I’m not gay,” Louis says.
“Was someone being an arsehole?” Liam asks, his face clouding over as he starts to glare around the room, like he’s going to be able to pick out this hypothetical person who offended Louis at a distance and from sight only.
“No,” says Louis. “Everyone always says that I’m gay but I’m not.”
“None of us say you’re gay,” Liam says.
“I tried to kiss Zayn on his face.”
“Niall actually succeeded at kissing Zayn on his face like three times when we were in New York,” Liam says.
“So it’s Zayn’s fault,” Louis says. “You’re saying that it’s Zayn’s fault because of what his face looks like.”
“That’s not really at all what I’m saying,” Liam starts, but he was making good sense and Louis doesn’t want him to ruin it now so he flattens his hand over Liam’s mouth, pushing at Liam’s forehead wrinkles with the fingers of his other hand. Liam needs to be careful with the expressions he makes with his face because right now, with the way his eyes are all bulgy and his forehead is rolling over on itself, he looks a bit like a demented ape. Louis strokes his head helpfully and tries to shove his hand a little further into Liam’s mouth, which -- wait, when did Liam open his mouth. Louis’s hand is going to be totally covered in slobber.
Everything about this night is the worst, Louis thinks. And then to cheer himself up he tries to fit his whole fist inside of Liam’s mouth. It works pretty well until the point where Liam starts biting down.
He doesn’t know exactly how it happens, but he ends up back in his own bunk, so something must go right. He should drink some water or find something to eat, but now that he’s lying down, there’s absolutely no way that he’s standing up.
He hears Liam crawl into the bunk beneath his, wonders if Zayn is also back, then tries to tell himself to stop wondering about Zayn and ends up having to have a wank instead. He’s so drunk that he takes a long time and he nearly falls asleep twice before he’s finished. When he comes, he splatters onto his shirt -- realises too late that he’s still wearing all of his clothes, but there’s nothing he can do about that now, there’s nothing he can do about much of anything right now.
He sleeps a bit, wakes up over and over again and eventually drags himself to the loo. The rest of the lads are still asleep -- or still in their bunks, anyway. He stops in front of Zayn’s, pulls the curtain back. Just to make sure that Zayn made it back onto the bus last night. He's sleeping, his arm raised above his head, knuckles digging into the pillow. He's not wearing a shirt and Louis is still drunk, so he has to close his eyes when the floor lurches dangerously. He pulls off his own shirt and climbs back into his bunk.
He sleeps for a bit longer, long enough that everyone else gets up and everything gets less spinny and more achy. He climbs out of bed and walks to the back of the bus, directs an outstanding glare to each of the lads, one after another (looking carefully at the tip of Zayn's ear instead of making eye contact, proper), and says, “Stop talking, stop moving, stop making noise,” before limping back to his bunk, where his legs and head hurt too badly to sleep but at least the curtain blocks out the light.
Someone peels back the curtain a few minutes later and Louis doesn’t know who he wants it to be, but it’s Harry, holding a glass of water.
“No,” Louis says, trying to roll away.
“Come on,” Harry says. “It’ll help.”
“I will vomit and I will aim for you.”
"What did you do last night?" Harry says.
"Nothing," Louis says. "Why? What did he say?"
"Who?" Harry asks.
"No one," Louis snaps. "Fuck off and die."
"Drink this and then I'll see what I can do," Harry says, giving Louis an annoyingly sweet smile. Once Louis is up for it, he's going to find something sticky to put in Harry's hair while he sleeps.
He takes the water and chokes back a few sips. The problem with water is that compared to alcohol, it's so heavy and thick and nauseating. Louis's body is used to alcohol, it doesn't know how to handle water anymore.
"This is disgusting," Louis says, trying to pass the glass back to Harry.
"Just a little more," Harry says.
"I don't deserve this," Louis says, throwing a wretched face after he manages to swallow three more baby sips.
Harry takes the cup -- fucking finally -- and rests his free hand over Louis's forehead. His palm is cool and the weight on Louis's head is just firm enough to be comforting. He closes his eyes and lets Harry watch over him.
--
He actually manages to fall asleep with Harry holding his head, and when he wakes up a few hours later, his head feels less like a natural disaster alert system that is firing on all cylinders. He's not happy to have to leave his bunk, but it's not as much of a catastrophe.
They're early to the studio where they're taping two songs and doing a three minute outro interview that's going to air sometime next week. He puts on the outfit Caroline has picked out for him. Lou's working on Niall's hair, so he's still got some time to himself.
He makes his way down the hallway, passes by the elevator and rounds the corner to find an emergency exit. Likely it's not connected to an alarm, so he pushes it open -- yes, no alarm, those signs always lie -- and walks out into the narrow side yard separating the studio from the building next door.
It's quiet except for the hum of the fan or furnace or whatever mechanical device is making that humming sound, and Louis walks along until he finds a ledge in the brick and can scoot up on the perch. It's not quite wide enough to sit comfortably, but he can balance.
The edge of the brick is digging into his tailbone, but he waits it out and eventually his arse goes numb.
He expects someone else to come, but he thinks maybe it'll be someone who works in the studio. Maybe a group of twelve year olds, which is really what he needs to keep an ear out for. Nothing like being cornered in an alley with fans.
Instead it's Zayn slinking between the buildings, wearing sunglasses, his hands stuffed into his pockets.
He looks sheepish when he realises that someone else is there, then when he looks up and realises it's Louis, he says, "Oi," and pulls his hand and a pack of smokes out of his pocket.
"Naughty," Louis says, pushing away from the brick and landing hard on the ground.
Zayn leans back against the wall and lights his cigarette, taking a long drag and then tipping his head back as he blows out smoke.
He murmurs, "Yeah," and takes another drag, curling his shoulders back happily, like he's having a bit of a cuddle with the brick wall.
He looks like someone should be taking pictures of him, even though it’s probably the last thing he wants right now. There are always cameras shoved in their faces, so they don’t spend much time taking shots of each other, but in this moment Louis wishes he had a camera. The black of Zayn’s hair against the red brick of the wall, the curl of his fingers around the cigarette -- with a camera they would just be colours and shapes, but standing here without one means that Louis has nothing to do with his hands.
“What are you thinking about?” Louis asks, because he’s worried if he waits Zayn will ask him the same question.
“Just tired,” Zayn says. “Late night.”
Louis clears his throat, trying to push down the tight feeling. “I haven’t eaten yet.”
“Me neither,” Zayn says. “They’ve got a spread in the green room.”
Louis wraps his arm around his own chest to cup his palm over his opposite shoulder and says, “I was smashed last night.”
Zayn takes a slow drag, cutting his gaze sideways to give Louis a careful look.
“Don’t really remember too much about what we got up to,” Louis says.
“Yes you do,” Zayn says. He doesn’t sound mean about it, but, like -- firm.
“So do you,” Louis snaps, immediately defensive, even though Zayn isn’t the one claiming otherwise. He reaches over and snatches Zayn’s sunglasses off of his face, catching him a bit in the nose with the frame but otherwise making a clean grab.
“Are you trying to apologise?” Zayn asks.
“Does it seem like I am?” Louis folds up the sunglasses and puts them in his back pocket.
“Don’t know what’s going on in your head, to be honest,” Zayn says. “You haven’t been talking much lately.”
“You’re the only person who’s ever said I don’t talk enough,” Louis says. He keeps getting these flashes where he remembers kissing Zayn, like when he couldn’t stop touching his mouth in the shower, even though logically he knew they didn’t kiss long enough for him to get beard burn. Everything’s just going on like normal today, and Louis knows that if he gets outside of his head enough he’ll be able to go along with it -- to act like he’s supposed to and forget about whatever else. But the bigger part of him doesn’t want to, would rather be hiding outside the studio where he can smash things around in his brain with the hope that the hazy memories will eventually go clear.
He’s not necessarily ready for Zayn to be here as well, like actual Zayn and not the image that Louis keeps turning round and round in his head, but there he is, standing right in front of Louis.
“Not about whatever’s happening here,” Zayn says and pokes Louis between the eyebrows.
Louis frowns, takes a step back, ducking away from Zayn’s hand.
“Don’t,” Louis says. His voice sounds tighter than he means it to, a little panicked. His body doesn’t know how to be touched like that by Zayn anymore, like playful and easy and meaningless, and he feels everything Zayn does high in his chest, in that stupid epicenter where all the longing starts before splintering outward.
Zayn throws the butt of his cigarette to the ground, squares off in front of Louis and reaches out to poke him again, his finger digging into Louis’s forehead. It kind of hurts; Zayn is stronger than he looks.
“Arse,” Louis says. He remembers what it was like to be normal around Zayn well enough that he could probably go through the motions -- this is when he’s supposed to take a swing and miss and then they can turn it into play fighting. He should pretend to kick out Zayn’s knees and then fall back against the brick wall, wait until they’re both out of breath before throwing a heavy arm around Zayn’s shoulders to walk back into the studio.
Instead, Louis takes another step backward, crossing his arms over his chest. He turns his face away.
“It’s just that you were drunk,” Zayn says, like maybe in spite of everything he still knows Louis, still has him figured out.
But he doesn’t know everything, because then he asks, “Do you still want to when you’re sober?”
Louis flushes. There should theoretically be a time that he doesn’t want to with Zayn, but he hasn’t found it yet. Being sober doesn’t help.
Zayn leans against the wall, standing on one foot with his other foot crossed over his ankle. He stays quiet for a minute, working it out in his head before asking, “Like mates or that you’re curious or ‘cause you’re lonely?”
Any of those -- all of those except none of them capture the sick feeling hiding under Louis’s rib cage where all of the wanting has gone rotten from being left to fester for too long.
“What’s it for you?” Louis asks in lieu of answering, skipping over what should actually be the first thing he asks -- is it anything for you?
“Been thinking about it,” Zayn says, which doesn’t actually mean that much because Zayn also spends long periods of time thinking about what it means to be a human and whether Drake is better than Usher and if he should continue his sleeve all the way up his arm or start tattooing other parts of his body instead.
“Because of last night?”
“Because of a lot of things.”
“Well. Me too,” Louis says. He feels like he’s about to get absolutely wretchedly cross but it’s still just skirting in the background; Zayn’s still staying calm enough that it rubs off on Louis and he can keep it at bay.
“Do you want to, like. Actually, you know, when we’re not drunk at a club?”
“Do you?” Louis asks, because maybe he can just keep asking questions until he tricks Zayn into giving it all away.
“Been thinking about it,” Zayn says again.
“I don’t want to have a fucking chat,” Louis says, his heart pounding so hard that his fingertips have gone numb. “Yes or no.”
Zayn tilts his head and Louis can see the way his jaw clenches as he purses his lips. Louis palms are sweating, and he doesn’t know if Zayn can tell that his hands are shaking a bit. He’s standing up very straight, tilting his weight forward onto his toes, so if this drags out any longer, he can go. He’ll be gone.
He watches Zayn, because he can’t convince himself to look away, so even though there's hardly any movement, he sees when Zayn nods.
"Yeah?" Louis asks, hushed. His voice is doing that kind of squeaky raspy thing that he hates because it makes him sound, like. Needy.
"Try it out," Zayn says, shrugging, like it's actually that easy.
"Okay then," Louis says. If he ignores the huskiness in his voice, he basically sounds like he's got this covered. "If that's what you want."
Zayn snorts, pushes away from the wall. He throws his arm around Louis's shoulders, rubbing his fingertips on Louis's arm, warm and friendly and possessive -- exactly like how he always touches Louis. Louis has to drive his elbow into Zayn's stomach to stop himself from leaning in closer, and even then there's no give to Zayn's stomach and it makes Louis want to push him back against the wall, crowd up against him, set his teeth into Zayn's neck and mess up his hair and --
He kicks at Zayn's shin as distraction and then runs the rest of the way to the door, ignoring the heavy feeling of his cock in his trousers.
--
Part Two