[fic] liam/zayn: random drabble
Liam is asked by an interviewer what he likes best about travelling, before he deflects it-“Hey Zayn, what do you like best about travelling?” And Zayn says something silly like, “The world,” mostly to cover up the fact that he almost says, “You.”
What it is-what confuses Zayn-is that they’ve been travelling a lot, and all this border-hopping is teaching him things. Turns out that he actually likes planes, though he still likes sleep better, and that transatlantic flights are infinitely improved by the soft give of Liam’s thighs as the two of them slump together in blatant disregard of empty seats, boundaries, and leg room.
“Zayn, no,” Liam groans whenever he does this, those thick eyebrows swooping in a grimace. But it’s easy to ignore and Zayn soon learns that Liam certainly has an interesting set of priorities, inasmuch as he doesn’t ever shift till Zayn wakes even if he has to piss like mad and they’re both a little too warm at the end.
And so it’s like this; Zayn has known for a long time that he likes Liam the best, but after nine months of shuffling time zones, a different question begins to formulate, and at ten Zayn thinks he starts to answer it, might even do something about it-
(it’s the way Liam looks sometimes when he’s sleeping, puppy-face subdued into the seat, his palm secure over Zayn’s hip;
the way country after country, miles and miles of tarmac and lanes and fields are made familiar by the pressure of the curly head at his shoulder)
-except that at eleven months he gets the call, and then pretty much everything is thrown on hold.
-
It’s full daylight in a crowded room in Santa Monica, which is weird because Zayn’s watched so many B-movies he’s started to convince himself that bad news always arrives in the dark.
Instead, they’re at one of those proper events circumscribed by a white tent, full orchestra, and crab cakes, the kind of veneer that takes months to plan and a minute to ruin. Management and PR are keenly aware of this, and train them for it ages in advance until their smiles droop, then settle back to nod from the sidelines as the boys pinball off of industry leaders and other people of note racking up points like crazy.
Zayn is standing with Liam by the buffet table in a swath of California sunshine when the phone goes off in his pocket. Liam does most of the legwork, gesturing expansively, effortlessly carrying Zayn’s deadweight on the joke he’s telling to some label exec and his wife-so that at the flash of Doniya’s name on the screen, it’s easy for Zayn to smile an excuse and set down his drink.
If Zayn’s being completely honest, he’s relieved to have the distraction. This has never been his strong suit-the selling, the sucking up to authority. While the others are ridiculously game-recently he’s even had this odd feeling that he could listen to Liam spout small talk all day-Zayn’s always left feeling silly, even more out of place than he usually does, and with a huge hankering for a smoke.
Zayn walks to a large bay window to take the call, slipping behind its white shade so that he’s kind of sealed between the fabric and a breathtaking harbourview.
“Hey,” he whispers, bringing up a finger to lightly touch the glass. “I’m just in-“
“Zayn, it’s-you’ve got to come home right now.”
Zayn doesn’t know at what point in the next ten seconds he drops the phone, but Liam have been watching because he is across to him in three strides. Zayn feels him yanking the shade aside and then being pushed against a wall of soft grey as Liam lets Zayn ruin his brand new waistcoat without a word exchanged.
Later he’ll realize that security was frantically signalling as the other boys startled from their drinks and PR magically uncoiled to massage everything into submission, but in the moment he’s only grateful that Liam ignores it, the entire circus, and just folds him closer, mutters, “Fuck, Zayn-I-“ before cutting off like a ruined radio.
What it is-what confuses Zayn-is that they’ve been travelling a lot, and all this border-hopping is teaching him things. Turns out that he actually likes planes, though he still likes sleep better, and that transatlantic flights are infinitely improved by the soft give of Liam’s thighs as the two of them slump together in blatant disregard of empty seats, boundaries, and leg room.
“Zayn, no,” Liam groans whenever he does this, those thick eyebrows swooping in a grimace. But it’s easy to ignore and Zayn soon learns that Liam certainly has an interesting set of priorities, inasmuch as he doesn’t ever shift till Zayn wakes even if he has to piss like mad and they’re both a little too warm at the end.
And so it’s like this; Zayn has known for a long time that he likes Liam the best, but after nine months of shuffling time zones, a different question begins to formulate, and at ten Zayn thinks he starts to answer it, might even do something about it-
(it’s the way Liam looks sometimes when he’s sleeping, puppy-face subdued into the seat, his palm secure over Zayn’s hip;
the way country after country, miles and miles of tarmac and lanes and fields are made familiar by the pressure of the curly head at his shoulder)
-except that at eleven months he gets the call, and then pretty much everything is thrown on hold.
-
It’s full daylight in a crowded room in Santa Monica, which is weird because Zayn’s watched so many B-movies he’s started to convince himself that bad news always arrives in the dark.
Instead, they’re at one of those proper events circumscribed by a white tent, full orchestra, and crab cakes, the kind of veneer that takes months to plan and a minute to ruin. Management and PR are keenly aware of this, and train them for it ages in advance until their smiles droop, then settle back to nod from the sidelines as the boys pinball off of industry leaders and other people of note racking up points like crazy.
Zayn is standing with Liam by the buffet table in a swath of California sunshine when the phone goes off in his pocket. Liam does most of the legwork, gesturing expansively, effortlessly carrying Zayn’s deadweight on the joke he’s telling to some label exec and his wife-so that at the flash of Doniya’s name on the screen, it’s easy for Zayn to smile an excuse and set down his drink.
If Zayn’s being completely honest, he’s relieved to have the distraction. This has never been his strong suit-the selling, the sucking up to authority. While the others are ridiculously game-recently he’s even had this odd feeling that he could listen to Liam spout small talk all day-Zayn’s always left feeling silly, even more out of place than he usually does, and with a huge hankering for a smoke.
Zayn walks to a large bay window to take the call, slipping behind its white shade so that he’s kind of sealed between the fabric and a breathtaking harbourview.
“Hey,” he whispers, bringing up a finger to lightly touch the glass. “I’m just in-“
“Zayn, it’s-you’ve got to come home right now.”
Zayn doesn’t know at what point in the next ten seconds he drops the phone, but Liam have been watching because he is across to him in three strides. Zayn feels him yanking the shade aside and then being pushed against a wall of soft grey as Liam lets Zayn ruin his brand new waistcoat without a word exchanged.
Later he’ll realize that security was frantically signalling as the other boys startled from their drinks and PR magically uncoiled to massage everything into submission, but in the moment he’s only grateful that Liam ignores it, the entire circus, and just folds him closer, mutters, “Fuck, Zayn-I-“ before cutting off like a ruined radio.