i don't care, i like you
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Zayn thought this was it. This was it. This was the height of his upswing, what he'd be waiting for - the publishing deal, the slinky stray cat, and waking up with Liam wrapped tightly around him in the morning. He didn't know how badly he'd wanted it until he had it ripped away from him.
He should have know that would end in loss. In his loss.
He turns off his phone and computer and kicks his notebooks under the couch. He ignores his work, emails he knows he has from clients and newspapers and publishers and sleeps for indiscriminate amounts of time. He finds himself drinking, bottles materializing in his hand and there’s no one around to tell him to think about what he’s doing or stop or anything because he hasn’t seen Harry in days. He hasn’t really been paying attention.
Not even picking up his pen could break him out of his funk, because whenever he thinks about drawing he thinks about Liam, the real one and the fake one and how they might as well be the same person. A person who was too good to be true, too perfect to be real, to anything to be everything, blah blah blah.
He has to leave the flat eventually, to mail a packet of sketches to a company in the US. He makes to turn left and there’s a body in front of him, leaning none too gracefully against the drainpipe.
Liam blinks like he can’t believe Zayn’s actually right there in front of him. His mouth gapes open for a second, but Zayn doesn’t give him time to speak.
“What are you doing?” Zayn asks, exasperated and in no way prepared to have this conversation.
“This is going to sound ridiculous, but I can explain.” Liam takes a step toward him. “Everything.”
“I don’t care,” Zayn lies, and in that moment he’s sure it’s the most painful lie he’s ever told.
“I can explain,” Liam says again.
“I don’t want to hear it.” Zayn takes a step backwards, moving back into the doorway of his flat.
Liam shakes his head, standing up straight. “This isn’t what I wanted to happen.”
“You think this is what I wanted to happen?” Zayn shouts. "Are you still in the fucking closet or something? Are you using me? Because I don't fucking know to deal with that."
"No, no no -- " Liam starts.
"I should have fucking known you were too perfect," Zayn spits. He leans out and pushes Liam, gets both hands flat against his chest and shoves him, because he needs more space between them. Liam stumbles into a huge step back, falling into the path of pedestrian traffic. When he looks at Zayn, there’s a glassy woundedness to his eyes.
"Just fucking waltzing into my life. Should've known it wouldn't last. It's like I made you up."
" Zayn -- " Liam tries, but Zayn interrupts him.
"You know what? I'm just going to pretend I did," Zayn tells him, and slams the door in Liam's face. The package never makes it out of the foyer.
He doesn’t move for an entire day, burrowed deep under the covers in his bed and patently uninterested in the outside world. When he finally encounters Harry on one of his treks between his bedroom and the refrigerator, he waits for him to start throwing barbs: you look like hell, who fucked you up, who did you fuck, etc., etc.
Instead, Harry’s face falls when he sees Zayn’s rumpled form. He must be a bigger mess than he thought.
“I thought you were sick... I didn’t want to bother you.”
“I would rather be sick,” Zayn tells him, and Harry envelops him in a hug that means a lot more than Zayn can bear to articulate.
Harry drags him out to the couch and doubles back to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Zayn faceplants into the cushions and Harry shouts, “Where’d you find him?”
“That place I’ve been drawing, the coffee shop,” Zayn says into a pillow. He feels Harry’s footfalls enter the room, and he crawls onto Zayn’s legs to make a spot for himself on the couch.
“And what did he do?” Harry asks.
Zayn thinks for a second. He sits up and makes the mistake of looking at Harry, who squints back at him suspiciously.
“He left, the morning after. And I saw him with a girl.”
“Zayn, you can’t do this,” Harry tells him with frightening force. “You can’t do this to yourself, making everything more complicated by assuming things. You don’t even know who she is.”
“She was on his lap -- ”
“So? I’ve sat on your lap before.”
Zayn shakes his head. “It wasn’t like that.”
“How do you know?” Harry bugs his eyes out wide, trying on a sage, knowing look. “How do you know?”
And just as Zayn envisions himself rearing back to throw a punch at Harry because of how insufferably, optimistically right he probably - hopefully - is, and how idiotic he makes Zayn feel on such a consistent basis, Casper hops up onto the arm of the couch and settles down into Harry’s lap, light as a feather.
“See? He knows I’m right too,” Harry says, and this is why it’s easier to live without a cat or a flatmate.
“You haven’t even said anything,” Zayn mumbles.
Harry smirks triumphantly for a second, but comes back to earth quickly. “Really, mate. Talk to him?”
“I don’t know where I’d even start,” Zayn admits.
“You fuck yourself up over things like this and it’s not fair. To you, or to him.” Harry reaches over Casper to lay a hand on Zayn’s shoulder. “I’ve seen you less torn up about people you’ve known for years,” Harry says quietly. “He matters.”
Zayn sighs. “You incisive bastard.”
Harry’s smiling again. “Someone swallowed a dictionary this morning!” and with that he throws Casper into Zayn’s lap and heads back into the kitchen, mug in hand. “Talk to him!”
“Insufferable!” Zayn calls after him. But as Casper starts to purr and Harry starts to clink around in the sink with the pots and pans, Zayn thinks about Liam and his stupid happy smile and his huge hands and perfect laugh and knows what he has to do.
He ends up back at the coffee shop, hand-shaking, dry-mouthed nervous. It’s early and quiet and he wants to talk to Liam alone. The bell jingles and Liam doesn’t even turn around; there’s something in the slump of his shoulders that signals he knows exactly who has just walked in.
“If you were asleep on my couch, I don’t think I’d have the courage to wake you up,” Zayn starts, and it’s stupid and absolutely meaningless, but Liam hasn’t disappeared out the back or slung any crockery at his face, so Zayn thinks he might have something going here.
“Come here,” Liam tells him, and Zayn meets him at the counter.
“I’m too ashamed to say anything but ‘I’m sorry,’” Zayn says. He can barely look at Liam. “I’m so sorry.”
Liam grips his chin lightly, tilting Zayn’s face upward. “You don’t even have to say that.”
“Yes I do,” Zayn says. “I shouted at you on the street. I pushed you. On the street.”
Liam shrugs. “It happens. I know what you saw, and how shit it looked -- ”
“But I’m so stupid,” Zayn pleads.
“ -- and she’s just an old friend, from forever and ever ago -- ”
“So stupid,” Zayn says again.
“ -- and I’ve always thought apologies were just a waste of precious time -- ”
“Stupid,” Zayn whispers.
“ -- because - and I hope I’m not being presumptuous here - I’m going to say that your anger was proportional to how much you like me.” Liam smiles expectantly, his cheeks reddening softly. Zayn’s never seen anyone blush so goddamn beautifully.
“I think I’ve almost figured out, Zayn,” Liam tells him. “I think you’ve just got to trust me.”
Zayn has always associated pangs of fear with statements like that: I know you, I can tell what you’re thinking, I’ve figured you out. But as he looks at Liam, smile ready to break into a grin, he knows what he’s really saying is I’ve figured out and this is what I’m here for. I’ve figured you out; let’s have a go.
“Not presumptuous at all,” Zayn mumbles, and Liam takes his glasses off his face and kisses him in the quiet of the empty shop.
When Liam comes over that night, Zayn gives him a tour of the place and even lets him talk to Harry for a few minutes before he drags him into his bedroom and sucks his dick with painstaking care. Liam writhes and pants Zayn’s name and they only stop when Zayn hears Harry let Casper into the room, because Harry is not below interrupting apologetic blowjobs for the sake of some light ridicule.
Harry cooks and Liam doesn’t bother putting his shirt back on. He leans in a bites Zayn’s neck whenever Harry leaves the room, and he lets Casper press and knead into his shoulders as he lays across the couch, head in Zayn’s lap.
“Having someone like you around is going to take some getting used to,” Zayn tells him, petting his hair.
Liam scowls. “What’s that s’pposed to mean?”
“You’re so...” Zayn can’t think of the word. “You’re so good.”
Liam rolls over and noses at Zayn’s crotch. “I’m not that good.”
When they’re finally falling asleep - Liam on one side, Casper on the other, and Harry’s snores leaking through the thin walls - and Liam asks him, voice hoarse and eyes all sleepy, “How did the fifth issue come out?” Zayn finally feels it all click.
Zayn thought this was it. This was it. This was the height of his upswing, what he'd be waiting for - the publishing deal, the slinky stray cat, and waking up with Liam wrapped tightly around him in the morning. He didn't know how badly he'd wanted it until he had it ripped away from him.
He should have know that would end in loss. In his loss.
He turns off his phone and computer and kicks his notebooks under the couch. He ignores his work, emails he knows he has from clients and newspapers and publishers and sleeps for indiscriminate amounts of time. He finds himself drinking, bottles materializing in his hand and there’s no one around to tell him to think about what he’s doing or stop or anything because he hasn’t seen Harry in days. He hasn’t really been paying attention.
Not even picking up his pen could break him out of his funk, because whenever he thinks about drawing he thinks about Liam, the real one and the fake one and how they might as well be the same person. A person who was too good to be true, too perfect to be real, to anything to be everything, blah blah blah.
He has to leave the flat eventually, to mail a packet of sketches to a company in the US. He makes to turn left and there’s a body in front of him, leaning none too gracefully against the drainpipe.
Liam blinks like he can’t believe Zayn’s actually right there in front of him. His mouth gapes open for a second, but Zayn doesn’t give him time to speak.
“What are you doing?” Zayn asks, exasperated and in no way prepared to have this conversation.
“This is going to sound ridiculous, but I can explain.” Liam takes a step toward him. “Everything.”
“I don’t care,” Zayn lies, and in that moment he’s sure it’s the most painful lie he’s ever told.
“I can explain,” Liam says again.
“I don’t want to hear it.” Zayn takes a step backwards, moving back into the doorway of his flat.
Liam shakes his head, standing up straight. “This isn’t what I wanted to happen.”
“You think this is what I wanted to happen?” Zayn shouts. "Are you still in the fucking closet or something? Are you using me? Because I don't fucking know to deal with that."
"No, no no -- " Liam starts.
"I should have fucking known you were too perfect," Zayn spits. He leans out and pushes Liam, gets both hands flat against his chest and shoves him, because he needs more space between them. Liam stumbles into a huge step back, falling into the path of pedestrian traffic. When he looks at Zayn, there’s a glassy woundedness to his eyes.
"Just fucking waltzing into my life. Should've known it wouldn't last. It's like I made you up."
" Zayn -- " Liam tries, but Zayn interrupts him.
"You know what? I'm just going to pretend I did," Zayn tells him, and slams the door in Liam's face. The package never makes it out of the foyer.
He doesn’t move for an entire day, burrowed deep under the covers in his bed and patently uninterested in the outside world. When he finally encounters Harry on one of his treks between his bedroom and the refrigerator, he waits for him to start throwing barbs: you look like hell, who fucked you up, who did you fuck, etc., etc.
Instead, Harry’s face falls when he sees Zayn’s rumpled form. He must be a bigger mess than he thought.
“I thought you were sick... I didn’t want to bother you.”
“I would rather be sick,” Zayn tells him, and Harry envelops him in a hug that means a lot more than Zayn can bear to articulate.
Harry drags him out to the couch and doubles back to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Zayn faceplants into the cushions and Harry shouts, “Where’d you find him?”
“That place I’ve been drawing, the coffee shop,” Zayn says into a pillow. He feels Harry’s footfalls enter the room, and he crawls onto Zayn’s legs to make a spot for himself on the couch.
“And what did he do?” Harry asks.
Zayn thinks for a second. He sits up and makes the mistake of looking at Harry, who squints back at him suspiciously.
“He left, the morning after. And I saw him with a girl.”
“Zayn, you can’t do this,” Harry tells him with frightening force. “You can’t do this to yourself, making everything more complicated by assuming things. You don’t even know who she is.”
“She was on his lap -- ”
“So? I’ve sat on your lap before.”
Zayn shakes his head. “It wasn’t like that.”
“How do you know?” Harry bugs his eyes out wide, trying on a sage, knowing look. “How do you know?”
And just as Zayn envisions himself rearing back to throw a punch at Harry because of how insufferably, optimistically right he probably - hopefully - is, and how idiotic he makes Zayn feel on such a consistent basis, Casper hops up onto the arm of the couch and settles down into Harry’s lap, light as a feather.
“See? He knows I’m right too,” Harry says, and this is why it’s easier to live without a cat or a flatmate.
“You haven’t even said anything,” Zayn mumbles.
Harry smirks triumphantly for a second, but comes back to earth quickly. “Really, mate. Talk to him?”
“I don’t know where I’d even start,” Zayn admits.
“You fuck yourself up over things like this and it’s not fair. To you, or to him.” Harry reaches over Casper to lay a hand on Zayn’s shoulder. “I’ve seen you less torn up about people you’ve known for years,” Harry says quietly. “He matters.”
Zayn sighs. “You incisive bastard.”
Harry’s smiling again. “Someone swallowed a dictionary this morning!” and with that he throws Casper into Zayn’s lap and heads back into the kitchen, mug in hand. “Talk to him!”
“Insufferable!” Zayn calls after him. But as Casper starts to purr and Harry starts to clink around in the sink with the pots and pans, Zayn thinks about Liam and his stupid happy smile and his huge hands and perfect laugh and knows what he has to do.
He ends up back at the coffee shop, hand-shaking, dry-mouthed nervous. It’s early and quiet and he wants to talk to Liam alone. The bell jingles and Liam doesn’t even turn around; there’s something in the slump of his shoulders that signals he knows exactly who has just walked in.
“If you were asleep on my couch, I don’t think I’d have the courage to wake you up,” Zayn starts, and it’s stupid and absolutely meaningless, but Liam hasn’t disappeared out the back or slung any crockery at his face, so Zayn thinks he might have something going here.
“Come here,” Liam tells him, and Zayn meets him at the counter.
“I’m too ashamed to say anything but ‘I’m sorry,’” Zayn says. He can barely look at Liam. “I’m so sorry.”
Liam grips his chin lightly, tilting Zayn’s face upward. “You don’t even have to say that.”
“Yes I do,” Zayn says. “I shouted at you on the street. I pushed you. On the street.”
Liam shrugs. “It happens. I know what you saw, and how shit it looked -- ”
“But I’m so stupid,” Zayn pleads.
“ -- and she’s just an old friend, from forever and ever ago -- ”
“So stupid,” Zayn says again.
“ -- and I’ve always thought apologies were just a waste of precious time -- ”
“Stupid,” Zayn whispers.
“ -- because - and I hope I’m not being presumptuous here - I’m going to say that your anger was proportional to how much you like me.” Liam smiles expectantly, his cheeks reddening softly. Zayn’s never seen anyone blush so goddamn beautifully.
“I think I’ve almost figured out, Zayn,” Liam tells him. “I think you’ve just got to trust me.”
Zayn has always associated pangs of fear with statements like that: I know you, I can tell what you’re thinking, I’ve figured you out. But as he looks at Liam, smile ready to break into a grin, he knows what he’s really saying is I’ve figured out and this is what I’m here for. I’ve figured you out; let’s have a go.
“Not presumptuous at all,” Zayn mumbles, and Liam takes his glasses off his face and kisses him in the quiet of the empty shop.
When Liam comes over that night, Zayn gives him a tour of the place and even lets him talk to Harry for a few minutes before he drags him into his bedroom and sucks his dick with painstaking care. Liam writhes and pants Zayn’s name and they only stop when Zayn hears Harry let Casper into the room, because Harry is not below interrupting apologetic blowjobs for the sake of some light ridicule.
Harry cooks and Liam doesn’t bother putting his shirt back on. He leans in a bites Zayn’s neck whenever Harry leaves the room, and he lets Casper press and knead into his shoulders as he lays across the couch, head in Zayn’s lap.
“Having someone like you around is going to take some getting used to,” Zayn tells him, petting his hair.
Liam scowls. “What’s that s’pposed to mean?”
“You’re so...” Zayn can’t think of the word. “You’re so good.”
Liam rolls over and noses at Zayn’s crotch. “I’m not that good.”
When they’re finally falling asleep - Liam on one side, Casper on the other, and Harry’s snores leaking through the thin walls - and Liam asks him, voice hoarse and eyes all sleepy, “How did the fifth issue come out?” Zayn finally feels it all click.