too sore for sound.
One Direction. Lady!Niall/Lady!Zayn. 8047 words. Explicit.
Not true, etc.
Written for this prompt, though it is loosely faithful at best. I have a lot of thoughts about this, but I will spare you and just say: Thanks to Diana, Geena, theviolonist and twist204 for letting me bother them with this nonsense. Endings are hard and this one is likely temporary. All remaining typos and missing capitals are mine. Title from Bon Iver's "Wash."
Zayn doesn’t realize how much she missed Niall until she sees her again. She’s standing in the kitchen with her back to Zayn, and just the sight of her is enough to make Zayn’s heart kickstart. It’s been a month. Could have been a year, for all Zayn got used to it.
The others are nowhere to be seen, but Zayn can hear the shuffle of their footsteps in the bungalow. She shuts the door behind her quietly. Niall doesn’t seem to have noticed her yet, and Zayn’s content to keep her silence for a few more moments. Her throat feels embarrassingly tight, anyway. She doesn’t think she could say much of anything.
Zayn waits until Niall bends down to get something out of the fridge, and then she sneaks up behind her, brushes her fingers against the strip of skin above Niall’s shorts. Niall reacts immediately, reaching out behind her to grab whatever body part she can get.
“Motherfucker,” she says, “don’t--”
“Hello to you, too,” Zayn says, pressing her knuckles firmer against Niall’s back to jostle her.
“You know I hate when people sneak up on me.”
“I couldn’t resist, sorry.” She squeezes past the fridge, ducking her chin down to keep Niall from seeing her smile. “Where’s Liam? I left all my shit in the car.”
“Somewhere,” Niall replies, and then Zayn feels Niall’s arms around her waist. “Thought you were supposed to be here hours ago.”
“I got caught up at my parents’,” Zayn tells her. Niall nods. Zayn tolerates the squeeze of her arms around her ribs for a few more moments, and then she turns around, hugs Niall back properly. She presses her face against Niall’s neck because she can. “Hey.”
“Hiya,” Niall says, her face tucked against Zayn’s collarbone.
“How you been?”
“You’d know if you ever returned my calls,” Niall says, but she pulls Zayn a little closer when Zayn takes a half-step back. “I’ll be fucking pissed at you later. I’m too happy you’re here now to do it right.”
“Alright,” Zayn says. When she lifts her head, Niall’s got her eyes closed, and she pushes closer like she wants to get under Zayn’s skin. She seems to settle for getting under Zayn’s clothes, shifting until her arms are under Zayn’s jacket. Zayn touches the pale ends of her hair, says, “For what it’s worth, I missed you.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” Zayn asks.
“Don’t ruin the moment,” Niall says, and Zayn says, “Sure,” because even Niall’s irritation makes her body thrum with fondness.
They stand there for another minute. Zayn re-catalogs the things she thought she’d forgotten about Niall: the way her shampoo smells, the warmth of her skin, how the shape of her fits against Zayn. Niall stays quiet, one of her palms moving up and down Zayn’s spine like Zayn needs the comfort. Zayn wonders if her want feels tangible. She wants to crawl inside Niall’s skin, too, only she knows she won’t be able to get close enough.
Eventually she hears heavy footsteps, and then Harry’s saying, “Zayn! Hey, Louis, group hug time--”
“It’s not--” Zayn starts, but it doesn’t keep Harry’s clumsy weight from folding against her. Niall laughs, nearly silent, as she stumbles against the impact. Her breath is damp against Zayn’s neck. Zayn thinks Harry possibly bites her hair.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Harry says, pressing their heads together. “Liam told us we couldn’t open the booze until you were.”
“That was thoughtful of her,” Zayn says.
“Not really,” Harry replies. “I think she’s freaking out and micromanaging everything. We didn’t even get to pick our own rooms. And I think she started unpacking my bags when I went to the bathroom.”
“Like you were going to do it,” Louis tells her. She holds onto Zayn’s hip and peppers a few kisses on her face in hello, before Zayn feels her push Harry back. “Now come on, I told Liam I would go steal silverware from your mum’s.”
“We don’t have any,” Harry explains.
“Or cups,” Niall says, breaking the hug. Zayn’s hands still hang on her hips for a few moments before Niall shifts free of that, too.
“We have no silverware and no cups,” Harry says, as she stuffs her feet into a pair of Liam’s flats, “and my mum’s not supposed to be home for a few hours, so.”
“I’m going to grab the fancy ones.”
“Okay,” Harry says, flashing Louis a quick smile. “They don’t really use them that often, anyway, I think.”
“Godspeed,” Niall says.
Zayn missed all of them, really.
*
The bungalow is as small as it’s always been, two bedrooms and a bath around a cramped living space. Niall’s already set up camp on the couch; Louis and Harry are sharing one of the rooms. Zayn has apparently been assigned the other with Liam, who she finds sitting on a bed with her phone pressed against her ear. She looks like she hasn’t slept in a week.
Liam gestures that she’ll be done in a minute, and Zayn waves her off. It can wait; they have a month of nonstop album promotion to catch up. She tosses her bag in the direction of the closet and flops down next to Liam.
It was windy and a bit wet when she left Bradford, but Holmes Chapel is just this side of too warm. She thinks the heat is on, too. She toes her sneakers and shrugs her jacket off, leaving them in a pile next to the bed. When she’s done, Liam’s conversation has dwindled into monosyllabic responses.
Zayn flicks her thigh, mouths, Who is it?
“Danielle,” Liam says, then, “No, sorry, Zayn just got here, wanted to know who it was.”
“Hi, Danielle,” Zayn says.
“She says hi back,” Liam replies, with a small smile, and Zayn leans her chin against Liam’s shoulder. Liam turns her face just slightly and rests her cheek on Zayn’s hair. The quiet murmur of her conversation makes Zayn want to sleep.
That’s how Niall finds them. She stands in the doorway, watching them with a half-smile, and Zayn just looks back at her. She’s dressed down already, wearing an old white shirt and sleep shorts, bare-footed. Somewhere between the room and the kitchen she pulled her hair up into a lopsided ponytail. Zayn misses the proximity of her skin already.
“Did she fall asleep?” Liam asks after she hangs up. It takes Zayn a second to realize it’s directed at Niall.
“No,” she answers anyway. It draws out into a yawn, and Liam smooths her hair down.
“Good!” she says. “Because we’re going to have a fantastic weekend, and you’re going to miss out if you’re sleeping.”
“What are we doing?” Zayn asks.
“Absolutely nothing,” Liam replies.
*
Zayn eats too little and drinks too much and wakes up the next morning with a pounding headache and a rather desperate thirst. She still lays in bed for fifteen minutes, trying to pretend like she can go back to sleep now that she’s aware of Liam’s snoring a few feet away. She gives in when her bladder makes itself known.
She pees and then showers, because she doesn’t know how else to wake up from a hangover. Nobody’s awake when she gets out. She slips into a pair of sweats and a stray t-shirt and carefully treads to the kitchen. Niall is crashed out on the couch pull-out under a pile of blankets; Zayn can only see her feet peeking out of the end. For someone who doesn’t like tight space, Niall sleeps like she’s hibernating.
The microwave clock reads half seven. Zayn doesn’t really know what to do with herself at half seven, but making tea feels like a good place to start.
She prepares a kettle in the half-dark, fumbling around for a tea tag and sugar. She finds both in the corner of a cabinet. They might have gathered a bit of dust, but Zayn’s had worse. She’s had worse in the past week, even.
The kettle whistles when it’s ready, because that’s what kettles do, but Zayn still startles, says, “Oh, shit, fuck.” It feels like her heart is trying to push out of her ribs; she’s not awake enough for this shit.
It doesn’t whistle for more than a few seconds, but by the time it’s quiet, Niall’s gravelly voice says, “Are you fucking kidding me,” and Zayn sees her peek out from her blanket mountain.
“Sorry.”
“What time is it?” Niall asks, squinting in Zayn’s general direction.
“Uh,” Zayn says. “Early.”
“No shit,” Niall replies. “Jesus Christ.”
She burrows back into her blankets, and Zayn finishes making her tea very quietly.
She’s leaning against the counter, waiting for it to cool down, when Niall shifts to sit up. She doesn’t make it very far, leaning against the back of the couch and closing her eyes again. Her hair looks like a bird’s nest and the collar of her t-shirt droops against her chest. Zayn absently thinks that she should be embarrassed by how much she wants her, anyway.
“Tea,” Niall croaks.
“I’m not going to bring it to you,” Zayn says, but she reaches for another mug.
It takes Niall a few minutes before she actually gets up, trading her slump on the couch for a slump over the breakfast bar. “Thanks,” she murmurs when Zayn sets the mug down in front of her. She looks at it like it’s going to lift itself up.
“Sure. Sorry for waking you up.”
Niall shrugs. “I need to get used to it, anyway.”
Zayn just nods. Niall doesn’t like to talk much right after she gets up -- doesn’t like to get up, period -- and Zayn hasn’t got much to say. Mostly she just wants to fit herself in the space between Niall’s legs, but. Even if she had the nerve, Niall’s prickly in a way Zayn knows has nothing to do with the time. She probably doesn’t want to be touched.
Niall’s slightly more awake by the time Zayn finishes her cup, although no less lazy. She just nods when Zayn asks if she wants more and shifts her mug a little closer. When Zayn refills it, she says, “Thanks,” and, “Pissed at you now, by the way.”
“I figured,” Zayn says. “Do you want sugar?”
“No,” Niall says, bringing the cup to her mouth. She takes a sip and then makes a face, and Zayn throws a sugar packet at her. “Tit.”
“You’re a tit,” Zayn replies, and Niall’s mouth cracks into a smile like she can’t help it.
Zayn wrinkles her nose back, and Niall turns her face into her elbow, hides for a minute. The tips of her ears are red, because her whole body flushes when she laughs, and Zayn feels so fucking love with her for a moment.
“I can’t look at you and be angry at the same time,” Niall says, muffled.
“Then don’t be angry.”
“Fuck you, I get to be angry,” Niall replies, without bite. “You practically dropped off the face of the earth for a month--”
“It wasn’t--”
“Right, no,” she mumbles, ”because you were still talking to Louis and updating your goddamn Twitter. At first I thought I did something wrong, because you always bottle shit up like that, but then I realized you were just being a fucking arsehole.”
“Yeah,” Zayn says. She can’t deny it. Denying it means admitting she stopped picking up because the distance made her feel impulsive and stupid and scared. It sounds like a shitty excuse, anyway: I wanted you too much to have you. She doesn’t think it makes it any better. “Look, for what it’s worth--”
“You’re sorry,” Niall finishes.
“Yeah,” Zayn says, making a face.
“And.”
“And what?” Zayn asks.
“You’re not going to bother giving me an excuse, yeah?”
“I don’t--” Zayn starts, looks down at her hands. The paint on her nails is chipping. “What do you want me to say?”
Niall’s silent for so long Zayn isn’t sure she even heard, but eventually she lifts her head. “I don’t know,” she says, pressing her cheek against her shoulder. The corner of her mouth curls up. “You already said you missed me. That, probably.”
Niall’s letting her off easy; Zayn doesn’t know not to allow it. By the time she swallows, Niall’s already shifted her energy. She gives a pointed glance to the fridge and then back to Zayn. “I might forgive you a little more if you make me breakfast.”
“I bet that was your plan all along, wasn’t it,” Zayn says, because it’s easier to play along.
“No.” Niall grins. “But I figured it was worth a shot.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Zayn says, trying to smother her own smile. She sets her tea down on the counter and wipes her unsteady hands on her sweats. “I can’t manage anything complicated.”
“I don’t think Harry remembered to buy anything other than eggs, anyway,” Niall says.
Harry didn’t, so Zayn makes her eggs. She’s cracking them into the pan when she hears Niall gets up. A handful of seconds later, she feels the warmth of Niall along her back. “What?”
“Just wanted a hug,” Niall says, pulling Zayn back by the waist. Zayn allows it, lets Niall curl her fingers in the worn fabric of her t-shirt, lets herself lean back enough to feel the curve of Niall’s breasts. Niall’s silent for a few beats, just breathing, and then, “Your hair smells different.”
“Used Hazza’s shampoo this morning, I think,” Zayn tells her, pushing the eggs around and trying to ignore the shiver underneath her skin.
Niall’s still standing there, holding Zayn’s weight to her, when Louis comes stumbling out of her room. Zayn feels the squeeze of Niall’s hands on her hips before she realizes she’s tense, and then Niall slips away with, “Scramble faster. I’m starving.”
“What are we doing?” Louis asks, squinting sleepily at them.
“I’m making breakfast,” Zayn says, gesturing with the spatula. “I don’t know what you’re doing. Why are you up so early?”
“Harry’s being selfish with the duvet,” Louis says, “and I could hear you guys moving around. Are you going to share?”
“These are my guilt eggs,” Niall tells her. “Get your own.”
*
They’re all milling about by noon and bored by three. There are only so many things they can do in Harry’s tiny bungalow to burn off the nervous energy they’re too sober to handle. The TV cabinet is filled with late nineties action films and none of them can decide what to watch on cable. In a lull of silence, Harry says, “Well, I’m going swimming.”
“I don’t think I brought any sunscreen,” Liam says, but she follows them outside, anyway.
Zayn’s not fond of water, really, even if the pool is shallow enough to only reach her shoulders. She just sits on the edge, letting the water lap at her calves. It’s just hot enough to be uncomfortable but not uncomfortable enough to get in. She’s not sure it’d be worth it, even if it were hotter; she can’t swim and the chlorine does something awful to her hair and someone (Louis) never fails to push her head under.
They found a pool noodle near the shed, which Harry is currently using to blow water at Louis. Louis is caught in a battle between defending her face and her honor, while Niall floats near them and laughs so hard she has to grab the side to keep upright. Zayn spares a half-moment’s fear that she will laugh herself to death or drown trying.
Liam’s sprawled out in the grass a safe distance away, her phone tucked between her cheek and her shoulder. Zayn watches them in the pool for a few more minutes before the possibility of peace lures her away from the pool.
She’s shifting back when Niall reaches out and grabs her ankle. “Where’re you going?” she asks, a little breathless.
“Just to join Liam,” Zayn says. “It’s only a matter of time before one of you tries to pull me in.”
“I wouldn’t--” Niall says, but her grip on Zayn’s ankle tightens dangerously.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Zayn tells her, and there’s a moment where Niall looks so delighted that Zayn could almost forgive her. It fades, though, and Niall lets go, flicking water in Zayn’s direction and laughing when Zayn can’t scramble up fast enough.
She feels warm and worn and a bit happy when she flops down on the ground next to Liam. Liam looks over like she’s a little startled to see her, but she hangs up the phone a few seconds later after a murmured, “I’ll call you later, yeah, love you too.”
“Sorry,” she says, to Zayn. “I just--”
“Danielle again?” Zayn asks, knocking her knee into Liam’s.
“Yeah,” Liam says, pushing hers back. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s just easier to talk to her, you know,” Liam says. She glances at Zayn for a second before she looks back up at the sky. “I don’t feel guilty being scared and whatever.”
They talked about it last night, but Zayn’s an absent drunk. She only remembers it in fuzzy fractions: Louis’ high-pitched voice, Niall’s barely verbalized worries, Harry crying over a spilled bottle of what turned out to be shit Merlot. Zayn had just sat there, mostly quiet, and thought about how much better they were at this the first time. They’re on the wrong side of fame now. It doesn’t feel like they’re getting a chance to succeed as much as they’re getting a chance to not fuck it up this time around.
Zayn thinks about comforting Liam, now, but her head is empty. She’s always been rather shit at comforting people. She ends up saying, “I think we’re all scared.”
“I know,” Liam replies. “That’s why I don’t -- I don’t need to add to it. Someone needs to pretend there’s nothing to worry about.”
“But you’re not doing a very good job,” Zayn says, rolling onto her side. The sunlight is slanting into her eyes; she folds her arm over her face and peers at Liam through her lashes. “Of pretending, I mean.”
“I don’t know,” Liam says, with a hint of a smile. “I thought I was pretty convincing.”
“Right,” Zayn scoffs. “Was this before or after you started folding Harry’s socks?”
“I didn’t actually,” Liam says. “I was just picking her shit up after she dumped her suitcase out all over the floor.”
“Like I said.”
“Let me keep my delusion.”
“Sure,” Zayn says. Liam pats her side in thanks.
They lay there for a handful of minutes in something like silence, drowsy from too much sun. The grass makes Zayn’s skin feel vaguely itchy. She wants for another shower and a longer nap, but it feels like a waste of their weekend. She knows she’ll want for this, too -- feeling like they’re the only ones in the world for a little while. Zayn loves her life but sometimes it’s a little too easy to lose herself in it.
Harry suddenly lets out a noise that sounds like a battle cry, and Zayn lazily blinks her confusion at Liam, who shifts up onto her elbows, says, “They talked to us about the biting, come on, guys.”
“Harry, stop--” Louis says, but she’s laughing.
“Please,” Liam adds, sort of plaintively.
There’s a splash, and then Zayn can hear Louis coughing. She knows it’s Louis because Harry’s saying, “Are you okay? Sorry, sorry,” and Niall’s still laughing like she hasn’t managed to catch her breath. When Zayn finally bothers to look over at them, Louis is playfully fighting off Harry’s attempts to hug her and Niall’s climbing out of the pool. Zayn allows herself a two-second glance at the bare curve of her hip before she looks away.
She can’t stop seeing her, though. Zayn feels all of sixteen for a moment, wasting the summer away next to someone’s pool with a half-naked girl locked in her periphery. The only difference is she’s twenty now, and Liam is sending her a look that Zayn can translate with frightening ease. She regrets letting Liam find out.
“Don’t,” Zayn tells her, throwing an arm over her eyes.
Liam makes a noise like she wants to, anyway, but then Niall says, “I think I’m burning; I’m gonna head inside,” and Liam’s need to fret overwhelms her unnecessary want to make sense of something Zayn’s not even sure she wants to unravel.
The press of her hand on Zayn’s thigh as she gets up feels like respite. Zayn blindly swipes the air and ignores it.
*
There is an unofficial smoking ban in the bungalow. They never say anything to her, but Zayn knows they don’t like it, either. It’s easier to respect when she can sneak away for a fag in an alleyway or in the relative privacy of a hotel room; at the bungalow, privacy is nearly impossible.
She manages to hold out until Saturday night. She likes to think she’s not addicted, but then the headaches kick in and she can’t think about anything else, let alone function. Louis makes a face when Zayn untangles their legs and says she’s going to step outside. Harry says, “Boo,” and throws a piece of popcorn at her. Zayn doesn’t know if she should be grateful or irritated, so she slips outside quietly and settles for neither.
It’s cold now that the sun has set. Zayn curls up in a lounge chair and wishes she were wearing a jumper, wishes she could bring herself to go back in and grab one. She doesn’t really want to deal with Liam’s concerned stare twice.
A couple minutes pass before the door slides open. “Hey,” Niall says, giving a brief wave with her beer.
Zayn nods back, says, “What’s up?”
“Was wondering if you wanted company,” Niall replies with a shrug, pushing her hair out of her face.
“Sure,” Zayn says. She pokes the chair next to hers with her toes. “Pull up a seat.”
Niall flashes her a quick grin and does just that. She mirrors Zayn’s pose, curled up with her legs beneath her, her knees toward Zayn. She looks tired. Zayn thinks of reaching out and pushing the fringe out of her face, pressing her mouth against the slightly upturned corner of Niall’s, but her free hand feels more interested in flipping the top of her lighter over and over again. She doesn’t say anything because Niall’s quiet when she’s tired and also because she doesn’t want to. Sometimes Zayn just runs out of things to say.
It takes her a moment to notice that Niall’s reaching out, flicking the side of her chair. “Can I--” she starts.
“Hmm?”
“Get a drag, or.”
Zayn feels her eyebrows peak. “Since when do you smoke?”
“Since whenever,” Niall replies, shrugging and drawing her arm back.
Zayn waits a few beats, but it’s clear Niall’s not going to offer more than that. She hesitates for a moment before she sticks her cigarette in her mouth and shakes out out a spare. “Here,” she mumbles, “but you know they’re gonna know when you go back in.”
“I’ll just blame it on you,” Niall says, and she grins at Zayn before she presses the end of the cigarette against her mouth and leans forward. “Thank you,” she murmurs.
“Liam’s going to kill me,” Zayn says, flicking the lighter on. Niall holds the cigarette steady with one hand and pulls Zayn’s closer with the other. Zayn takes it as permission to stare at her mouth for a second too long. If Niall notices, she doesn’t show it.
Niall smokes like an amateur. She barely holds the smoke in her lungs before she moves on to the next drag, like she’s anticipating getting caught. Zayn thinks if it were anyone else, she’d mock them for it, but it’s Niall. Niall blinks and Zayn feels like her ribcage is too small. The curl of her mouth against the filter makes Zayn uncomfortably aware of her body; she can’t shift without being reminded of how turned on she is.
Niall finishes her cigarette when Zayn’s midway through her second one. She stubs the end on the patio and slips the butt into a stray bottle, before she fights the chair into full-recline and sprawls out like it’s a bed and not made of wicker. She settles her beer between her thighs.
“Zayn?” she asks, minutes later.
“Yeah?” Zayn asks, looking away. She takes a final drag of her cigarette and slips it into the bottle, too.
“I missed you too,” Niall says, turning her face against her shoulder. “Realized I hadn’t said it before.”
Zayn hadn’t realized it until now, either. She feels relief like something tangible, can’t keep herself from smiling. She turns it into something sillier when Niall notices, says, “How much?”
“How much did I miss you?”
“Yeah,” Zayn says.
“Probably more than you missed me, you arse,” Niall says, and it catches Zayn unaware.
She has perhaps had a beer too many, and she asks, “Do you really think that?” in a small voice that doesn’t sound right coming out of her mouth.
“What?” Niall asks, around a laugh. She squints at Zayn in the dark.
“You think I didn’t miss you.”
“That’s not what I said,” Niall replies, her mouth quirking in confusion. “But sure, yeah, if I’m being honest. Doesn’t really matter, though, does it?”
“It matters,” Zayn says, in the same stupid voice, “because I did miss you.”
Niall’s silent for so long it’s uncomfortable, and then she asks, “Did you?”
“Niall--”
“Because I don’t think you’re allowed to say you missed someone when you’re the one who wasn’t there,” she says. “I think that’s kind of bullshit, actually.”
Zayn wants to argue with her, but it does sounds like bullshit when Niall says it. And it makes her feel stupid and small and kind of angry, even though she knows she has no right to be. It’s easier to be angry at Niall for not letting it go than it is to admit she fucked up.
“What do you want me to say?” she asks, rubbing her face. There’s a lump in her throat she can’t clear away.
“I don’t know, Zayn,” Niall says. She just looks at Zayn for a few more moments before she slips her legs over the edge of the chair and pushes herself up. “I’m gonna head back inside.”
“Alright,” Zayn says, swallowing.
Zayn doesn’t know if she’s projecting or if Niall looks disappointed when she walks away, but she can’t bring herself to follow, either way.
*
Zayn goes to bed a little before eleven because she’s tired and there is only so much she can drink before it starts to get depressing. She spends a half hour looking at the inside of her eyelids and wishing they would all shut the fuck up before her body gives up fighting and lets her sleep.
When she wakes up, it’s too dark to be morning. She reluctantly opens her eyes before they droop shut again, and then she feels a tug on her duvet.
“Come on, move over,” someone whispers.
“Hmm,” Zayn says, rolling onto her side. The room only moves a little more than it should. “Louis?”
“Yeah, it’s me,” Louis replies, crawling into bed with more noise than necessary. She puts her head on Zayn’s pillow and her cold feet between her calves. “Hazza wanted to sleep alone tonight.”
“What’d you do.”
“Nothing,” Louis says, sounding offended. “The bed’s just tiny, and I was selfless enough to find somewhere else to sleep.”
“Then why can’t you find Liam’s bed?” Zayn asks, yawning.
“Because Liam’s not nearly as quiet or cuddly as you,” she says, pinching Zayn’s side for emphasis. Zayn thinks she’ll be offended in the morning, but for now, it’s easy to just fit herself back into the frame of Louis’ arms. Louis noses at her shoulder. “G’night, love.”
“Night,” Zayn says.
A minute later, Louis whispers, “Are you asleep yet?”
“Yeah,” Zayn murmurs. Louis seems to actually accept it, because she doesn’t say anything else, and Zayn lies there for another minute before she sighs. “Why?”
“Never mind,” Louis says, and then, “I’m just feeling kind of restless now, don’t know if I can just go to sleep.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“Keep me company,” Louis says. She cuddles closer, pushes her cold hands under Zayn’s t-shirt. Zayn grabs one before it can slip higher, because she’s not wearing a bra and there are boundaries she likes to give the impression of keeping, even if they are constantly worn down. Louis doesn’t apologize, but she does settles her hands in the safe space below her ribs.
Zayn wavers in between sleep and consciousness, too tired to wake up but too aware of Louis to go back to sleep. When Louis say, “It still doesn’t feel real, you know,” Zayn just nods. Louis manages to press a little closer. “Sometimes I’m afraid I’m going to wake up and be late for uni.”
“You wish,” Zayn mumbles.
Louis laughs quietly; Zayn can feel the shake of it against her back. “Sometimes,” she says. “Twenty-two is a crappy age. I’m not ready to be an adult yet.”
Zayn yawns. “At least you can drink in America now.”
“I suppose.” Louis falls silent, and Zayn spares a second of hope that she will be able to go back to sleep when Louis adds, “But really, every time I’m waiting to get on stage, there’s a part of me that feels like I’m about to audition all over again.”
“Hmm,” Zayn says.
“Don’t ‘hmm’ me,” Louis tells her, fitting her chin over Zayn’s shoulder. “I’m having a genuine crisis right now. What if it never changes? What if we release six albums and I still want to puke before I go on stage?”
“Let’s get through our second one first.”
“Zayn,” Louis whines.
“What,” Zayn says, and Louis just sighs in her ear like she’s heavily disappointed. Zayn squeezes her eyes shut and counts to five before she rolls over, bumps her knees against Louis’. When she blinks her eyes open, Louis’ got a half-smile on her face like she got what she wanted. “What do you want me to tell you, Lou?”
“That I’m overreacting,” Louis says after a moment.
“You’re overreacting.”
“And our success wasn’t just a fluke.”
“It wasn’t.”
“And you’re not just saying this because you want me to shut the fuck up.”
“It’s still true,” Zayn replies, leaning forward to bump her forehead against Louis’. “Can we continue this in the morning? I’m fucking tired.”
“Fine,” Louis says, with another sigh.
“Thank you,” Zayn says. She scoots back a foot, so she can breathe without breathing in Louis’ air. Louis has still got her feet tangled in Zayn’s, though, and she runs her fingers through Zayn’s hair, rubs against the prickly softness of the shaved strip above her ear.
Zayn lets her. Sometimes she thinks the absence of this -- this constant, uncomplicated intimacy -- is what unsettles her the most. She can’t remember the last time she touched Niall without it meaning too much, can’t remember the last time they were lying like this, touching in more places than they weren’t, and Zayn didn’t have to worry about what Niall meant by it, either.
Maybe it’s the stupidly fond look on Louis’ face or just how fucking exhausted Zayn is, but she backtracks, shifts forward again and kisses Louis. It’s close-mouthed and dry. Louis presses back a few times with the softest pressure until Zayn sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, and then she pulls back a fraction, says, “Hey.”
It’s not the first time they’ve kissed. It’s not even the fifth or sixth -- Louis tends to kiss everyone when she’s in the mood for it -- but Zayn thinks it might be the first time Louis has pulled away first. “Sorry,” she says, because she feels like she should.
Louis just sort of hums at her, keeps her hand steady on the nape of Zayn’s neck like an anchor. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Zayn replies, pulling her mouth into a grimace. She blinks her eyes shut for a second too long. “Why can’t I just kiss you?”
“You just haven’t in awhile, is all.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s alright,” Louis says. “Harry might be a bit pissed that you tried to slip me tongue, though.”
“Whatever.”
Louis squeezes the back of her neck, and Zayn just lays there and tries to pretend like her eyes aren’t prickling, and Louis says, “Probably shouldn’t tell Niall, either--”
“Don’t,” Zayn says. She doesn’t have the energy to act like she doesn’t know what Louis is talking about. The thing about being in the band is that secrets are only under the guise of being unknown, and rarely that, if left up to Louis.
“Why not?” Louis asks.
“Because I don’t want to talk about it,” Zayn tells her.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t,” Zayn says, shrugging Louis’ hand off. She rolls onto her other side and takes most of the duvet with her. “Leave it alone.”
Louis just follows her, pushing her knees against the back of Zayn’s. She rubs the cold tip of her nose against Zayn’s neck. “I don’t understand why you won’t just tell her.”
Zayn tries to keep her stubborn silence, but she can’t keep herself from murmuring, “Because it’d be rather shit.”
“Because it’s not shit to make her feel like you barely want to speak to her,” Louis says, and after a pointed pause, “‘cause I think it is actually.”
“Okay,” Zayn says, because she knows Louis won’t take silence for an answer, and Zayn doesn’t want to tell her that it’s easier to fuck things up for wanting Niall too little than wanting her too much.
“Okay,” Louis replies, softly mocking. “I’m just trying to help.”
“Well, you’re not.”
“Zayn--”
“Goodnght, Louis,” Zayn says, and Louis pinches her tit instead of arguing this time. Zayn just keeps her eyes closed and tries not to think about it anymore.
*
When she wakes up, it’s maybe six o’clock and Louis is already gone. Zayn’s glad, because Louis sleeps like an octopus and it’s a fight trying to get away from her when she doesn’t want to let you go.
Liam’s fast asleep in the next bed, and Zayn tiptoes out to the hallway and into the bathroom. She pisses and rinses the morning breath out of her mouth, washes Friday’s mascara from under her eyes. She still looks like shit when she’s done, but at least she’s slightly more awake. It doesn’t really feel worth it to go back to sleep. She’s got a slight headache that would probably bloom into something worse if she conked out for longer, anyway.
Niall’s still sleeping, like Zayn expected. Zayn fumbles around in the near-dark as she makes tea and doesn’t let the water quite reach a boil. It doesn’t seem to make much of a difference, though, because she hears Niall’s quiet voice say, “Zayn?” as she’s stirring sugar into her tea.
“Yeah,” Zayn says, clearing her throat. “Morning. Didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“I wasn’t sleeping much,” Niall replies. “Time is it?”
“Bit past six, I think. You should go back to sleep.”
Niall makes a noncommittal noise, and Zayn can see her sleepy face peeking out from the blankets before she says, “I don’t know if I can now.”
“Alright,” Zayn says. She tries not to feel responsible. “Do you want a cuppa?”
“Not really.”
“Toast?”
“No.”
“Do you want anything?”
“Bit of silence would be good,” Niall says. Zayn tries not to let it sting, but she probably fails miserably, because Niall adds, “Sorry. My head hurts.”
“It’s fine.”
“I could use a glass of water,” Niall says quietly, a minute later, “and a cuddle, if you're feeling sorry enough for me.”
“If you promise not to puke on me,” Zayn says, like she’s not already reaching for a cup.
Niall crosses her heart, or at least she says she does, which is satisfactory enough for Zayn. She makes a fresh cup of tea in case Niall changes her mind and sets both down on the coffee table. Niall reaches for her instead, pulling at the hem of her t-shirt and looking so pathetic that Zayn doesn’t flick her fingers off.
“Come here,” Niall says.
“I am here,” Zayn says, but she lets Niall pull her down on the bed. It’s a bit awkward -- Zayn can just barely make out the shape of Niall’s body underneath the covers and possibly knees her in the kidney, and then Niall tries to make space next to her and ends up fighting half the blankets onto the floor. Zayn ends up squished between the back of the couch and Niall, who promptly tucks her chin down and curls up against Zayn’s chest.
“I hate vodka.”
“I don’t think it’s very fond of you, either,” Zayn replies.
“It’s ‘cause I’m Irish,” Niall mumbles, like it’s supposed to make any sense.
Zayn just nods sort of absently and tries to focus on something other than the soft swell of Niall’s torso against hers. Then Niall takes a deep breath and curves into her a little more, and it feels impossible to stop.
“My head really hurts,” Niall says.
“Hmm.”
There’s a beat, and then Niall says, “That was a hint.”
“Was it,” Zayn murmurs, and she feels Niall nod. Zayn’s arm is lying stiff against her side; she shifts and drapes it over Niall, hesitantly touches the nape of her neck until Niall pushes back into it.
Zayn’s kind of awful at it, really, never quite knows what to do with her hands. She mostly ends up scratching her nails up and down in a steady one-two-three-four rhythm, but Niall doesn’t seem to care that much. She stays quiet except for a questioning murmur when Zayn loses her rhythm a few times.
“Better?” Zayn asks quietly.
“Ten more minutes.”
Zayn’s wrist can’t handle ten more minutes. She does two and then runs her fingers through Niall’s hair because it seems like a stupid idea to stop touching her. Niall’s breathing slow and deep, like she’s asleep, but when Zayn looks down at her, she’s blinking like she’s trying to fight it away. Zayn doesn’t think she’s ever wanted to kiss her more than in that moment, and she feels a bit of déjà vu, except it’s Louis and she’s saying: because it’s not shit--
“Hey,” Zayn says, before she thinks about it too much.
“Yeah?”
“I wanted to talk to you,” she says, staring at some spot on the wall in front of her. “Before, I mean. I always want to talk to you.”
“Funny way of showing it,” Niall replies, after a moment.
“I know.”
“Kind of a piss poor way to apologize for it, too.”
“I know.”
“Doesn’t matter if you know or not,” Niall says, sluggishly shrugging Zayn’s hand off. “I don’t know half the fucking time, and I feel like a goddamn idiot for not caring the rest of the time because at least you’re paying attention to me--”
“Niall--”
“Fuck, never mind,” she says, and she shifts like she’s going to get up, and Zayn doesn’t know what else to do but kiss her, so she does.
She catches the corner of Niall’s mouth, just barely. Niall curls her fingers around the collar of Zayn’s t-shirt, and Zayn anticipates a shove but gets nothing. Niall doesn’t move until Zayn starts to pull back, and then it’s only to keep Zayn still.
“Are you going to pretend it was an accident now?”
“I don’t know,” Zayn tells her. “Would you believe me?”
“Probably, yeah,” Niall says.
But she lets Zayn go, and there’s something about the uncertain curve of her mouth that makes Zayn ask, “And if I didn’t?”
Niall gives a little shrug. “Then it still wouldn’t make any sense, but I’ll probably be less angry at you later.”
She says later like it could be a week, or a month, or ten minutes from now. Zayn doesn’t really know what to do with that. She doesn’t think she’s ever known the right thing to do with Niall. She does what she wants, and Niall lets her. Zayn never really thought about where they intersected, except now she’s a foot away from Niall and it feels like they still can’t stop missing each other.
“Anyway,” Niall says, glancing away. “Thanks for the tea, I forgot--”
“I just wanted to,” Zayn says, and she doesn’t know what’s worse: the fact that she says it at all or that it comes out sounding like a question.
Niall pauses, says, “What?”
“Kiss you,” Zayn replies. “I’ve been wanting to.”
“Right,” Niall says.
Zayn doesn’t know how to read her tone. She says, “Yeah, so.”
“And that’s why you’ve been avoiding me?”
“I never said I was any good at it.”
“No, you’re not,” Niall tells her, pushing against Zayn’s side.
“Hey,” Zayn says, and then Niall curls her fingers in her shirt, says, “You’re kind of the shittiest,” and kisses her first this time.
She still eases in three times, like she’s wary, and cups the back of Zayn’s head on the fourth. She kisses Zayn with her mouth closed until the slick slide of their lips makes it feel pointless. She lets out a shuddery exhale at the first touch of Zayn’s tongue, and Zayn shifts forward until their hips are touching, cups her jaw.
Zayn thinks this could mean a lot of things, and she doesn’t want to understand any of them. They just kiss until her mouth feels swollen, until Niall’s on her back and Zayn’s above her, settled in the cradle of her thighs. Niall’s hands are gentle on her waist, over her shirt. They tighten whenever Zayn shifts, and Zayn feels a quick desperation that sets her on edge. She wants in a way she doesn’t have words for, wants to bite the inside of Niall’s wrists, her biceps, her neck, her thighs.
Zayn doesn’t know how much time passes before she has to stop to catch her breath. She drops her head against Niall’s shoulder, listens to her rough inhale and thinks she could get off to that alone.
“Zayn,” Niall says, drawing her unsteady fingers up Zayn’s spine, “Hey, we shouldn’t--”
Zayn nods like she’s listening, rubs her sore mouth against Niall’s neck to feel Niall shiver. She bites down when Niall presses into it.
“Shit.” Zayn can feel the blunt edges of her nails for a second. “Someone might--”
“Nobody’s going to wake up,” Zayn says.
“Liam probably will. She wants to clean up before we leave.”
“Then she can watch me eat you out,” Zayn says, and Niall’s exhale is sharp and audible. “I don’t really care, I can’t -- you have no idea how long I’ve wanted you.”
“How long?” Niall asks, quietly.
“I don’t know,” Zayn says. “A while.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm,” Zayn says, sucking a bruise behind Niall’s ear. “Please.”
“If Liam--”
“I don’t care,” Zayn repeats, turning her face against Niall’s. She has to resist the temptation to sink her teeth into her jaw. “Tell me you don’t want to and I’ll stop, but I don’t--”
Niall hesitates for a moment before she dips her chin and catches Zayn’s mouth again. Zayn pushes back a little harder, bites her neck. When Niall pushes her down, Zayn shoves her shirt up and sucks on her nipples until she’s making little hurt noises in the back of her throat. Zayn has to squeeze her own thighs together for a moment, and Niall makes the noise again when Zayn sinks lower.
Niall’s just wearing knickers. there’s something dizzying about having such little barrier between her and Niall’s cunt, and Zayn draws her finger up where her clit should be just to feel her twitch. She knows Niall’s responsive -- they’ve spent too much time in close quarters for Zayn to not know how easily she can get herself off -- but it’s another thing entirely to be the cause of it. For a moment, Zayn almost doesn’t want to get her off, wants to leave her wet and waiting for as long as she can.
Niall doesn’t leave her much of a choice, though. She slips her hands under the waist of her knickers and pushes them down her thighs; Zayn’s helpless to do anything but hold them splayed open and watch as Niall slides two fingers against her cunt. Zayn ducks her head down after a long moment and licks between the v of Niall’s fingers, rides out the jerk of her hips before she holds them down.
“Oh, fuck,” Niall whimpers, “fuck--”
She’s too loud when Zayn sucks her clit, and Zayn squeezes her ankle in warning. She doesn’t think Niall actually understands, but she presses her forearm against her mouth when she comes, shifting tight against Zayn’s mouth before she flinches back.
Zayn follows anyway, and Niall lets out a soft, sharp, “Oh,” that Zayn can’t quite decipher. The minute shift of Niall’s hips seems too sensitive, but she still threads her fingers in Zayn’s hair and holds her there. Zayn keeps her tongue gentle as Niall trembles through another orgasm.
Niall shifts her whole body back when it’s over. Zayn wipes the back of her hand over her wet mouth, presses her face against Niall’s thigh and pushes two fingers into her cunt. Niall shivers underneath her when Zayn lets out an embarrassingly high-pitched whine and bites the soft fleshiness of her thigh.
“Shit,” Niall whispers, grabbing Zayn by the hair a little harder, “don’t just -- come here, come up here.”
Zayn crawls back up her body until they’re face to face. Niall’s flushed, her mouth red, and she asks, “Can I?”
It takes Zayn a moment to realize what she’s asking, and by that time Niall’s pushing her hand under the waist of her sweats. Zayn just nods, and she feels Niall follow the line of her hand to where her fingers disappear inside her body. Niall presses her fingertips in, just barely, and it doesn’t take more than the heavy pressure of Zayn’s palm against her clit before she comes.
She rides out the aftershocks until it feels too sharp, and then she drops her head down on Niall’s chest, wipes her hand on the sheets. Niall’s hand is hesitant against the inside of her thigh, and there’s something startlingly intimate about the fact that she can feel the involuntary tremor of her muscles. Zayn lets her keep it there until she shifts her weight firmer onto her knees.
Niall touches her other fingers to Zayn’s temple, traces the shape of Zayn’s hairline, runs them down the bridge of Zayn’s nose. When she touches Zayn’s mouth, Zayn drags her teeth against the pad of her thumb.
Niall lets out a breathy, “Ha,” and pulls it away. It seems to set her off; she’s suddenly laughing, sinking back against the bed and putting both of her hands over her face. “I can’t believe we just did that.”
Zayn can’t, either, but she just says, “Stop,” and flicks Niall’s side. “You’re definitely going to wake them up now.”
“Now you care,” Niall says, but her laughter quiets down into something softer before she groans a little. “Oh christ, my head.”
"Liam probably has aspirin or something.”
“Yeah,” Niall replies, and she just looks at Zayn with a half-smile on her face that makes Zayn feel transparent.
“What?” she asks, leaning back. “Do you want me to get for you?”
“Sort of,” Niall says. “Not sure I trust you to come back, though.”
“Where would I go?”
“I don’t know,” Niall says. She shift up onto her elbows. “Back to your room. Back to London.”
“Niall--”
“Zayn.”
Zayn makes a face at her, and Niall makes one back, and then Zayn ducks in to kiss her because Niall’s sleep-worn, flushed face is lovely and because she can. When Niall’s mouth curves into a smile under hers, Zayn feels like she’s done the right thing, for once.