Open your eyes, I'll keep mine closed.
Title: Open your eyes, I'll keep mine closed (curriculum).
Author: transgenicveins
Pairing: Liam Payne / Zayn Malik
Rating: Uh N-17 I suppose?
Warnings: Real person slash, slight slight slight teacher!kink undertones, blatant use of AAR lyrics.
Summary: 'Liam isn't quite certain what it is which makes him agree to this crazy, masochistic plan of Zayn's..'
A/N: Based on a 1DKINKMEME prompt, which (in summary) was about Zayn being clueless and Liam being in love and the two partaking in 'lessons' to solve both of those issues. Oh, and if I owned the AAR lyrics or the 1D boys, I would have combusted by now, so no infringement intended.
Liam isn’t quite certain what it is which makes him agree to this crazy, masochistic plan of Zayn’s. Of course, if he thinks it through, with the little circulating blood he has left (the rest has permanently rushed to his cock when Zayn had said ‘teach me’), he can reason that maybe it was Zayn’s voice- the way he sounds a few days after he’s ‘quit’ smoking for the thirty-seventh time, all low and all soft and all for Liam. Or maybe it was the way his over gelled quiff flops after a night of dancing around the stage, so much so that he needs to push it off-and-to-the-side of his forehead as he whispers to Liam in the darkness. Or maybe it was that look in his eyes, the same one he gives Liam, the one where he positively lights up.
Or maybe it’s the way that Liam is hopelessly and infuriatingly in love with Zayn, and he couldn’t say ‘no’ when his every pore was screaming yes-yes-yes-yes.
That might be it.
///
Liam’s different to the others in the sense that he’s quite content with brooding. He doesn’t need Zayn’s attention or affection or affinity to function. He knows that the chances of Zayn being (a) gay or (b) attracted to him are infinitely small and he’s content, really, with wrapping a brotherly arm around his shoulders and whispering in interviews and eating cereal over Friends. He’s not like Harry, who needs the constant reassurance of physical contact; or Niall, who needs to make everyone smile; or Louis, who cannot stop staring.
Liam likes watching Zayn. He likes unravelling Zayn, knowing him better than anyone else, the enigma of Zayn Malik being more a revelation. He likes knowing that Zayn licks his lips when he’s nervous and has this sleepy, crooked smile, all for Liam, and does a gentle role of his hips in time to particularly fantastic music.
He’s so preoccupied with watching Zayn’s lips move in thoroughly obscene ways as he bites into the strawberry (throaty hums of approval, teeth scraping the red skin, a drop of juice falling to his jaw, tongue practically caressing the side, holy fuck) that he barely acknowledges the warm body crawling into his lap until- “Gosh, Li, at least attempt to hide your erection.”
Liam squirms and smothers his blush in the crook of Louis’ neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbles, watching Zayn’s throat clenches as he swallows and wondering how it would feel around his cock- stop. “I’m not hard.”
“Sweetheart, you’re aching,” he teases, tangling his fingers in Liam’s hair. It’s shaggier than usual, growing out in the lull between tours, and all it had taken was a sleepy ‘it looks hot like that’ from Zayn to convince him to blacklist every hairdresser in London. “Besides, he’s pretty fucking hot in that leather jacket. We don’t-”
“We?” Liam repeats, and he really should stop staring, but the hints of Zayn’s skin which are revealed when he rolls his shoulders are too addictive to ignore.
“Me and Niall,” Louis says, and when Liam lets out a strangled groan, he adds, “he’s the one who told me.”
“Niall knows?”
Louis laughs, low and throaty, and Zayn shoots Liam a smile that does absolutely nothing for his nerves. “He figured it out at the Kid’s Choice Awards. I knew before that, though.”
“How!?” he whines, and Zayn is watching them with a newfound curiosity that makes Liam’s heart hurt.
“You clearly don’t Google yourself-”
He groans, and Zayn narrows his dark eyes ever-so-slightly and maintains eye contact as he bites into a grape and surely this was banned by the Geneva Convention because it was torture. “You egotistical bastard-”
“You enjoy hair products as much as the rest of us,” Louis teases. “And your eyes practically sparkle during his solo in What Makes You Beautiful. Just ask Harry.”
“Harry knows?”
“Harry’s known since we recorded. He and Paul-”
“No.”
“- Update your mum after every show on whether or not the two of you have finally fucked-”
“Stop stop stop Lou-”
“And then, of course, there’s Simon-”
“Simon?!” Liam repeats, ten times louder than necessary. “As in Cowell?”
Louis rolls his eyes dramatically, and Liam manages to tear his eyes away from Zayn and his stupid messy hair and equally stupid smirk and infinitely stupid cherry pink lips. “As in Pegg,” he says sarcastically. “Why do you think the two of you always room together? Simon’s known since the competition.”
“I didn’t know during the competition,” he argues. And then, when Zayn is adequately distracted by something on Twitter, he adds, “does-”
“No, he’s as oblivious as you,” Louis mumbles, under his breath, and he bites his lip as though he wants to say more. But Zayn has somehow crossed the busy room to shove Louis off Liam’s lap and clamber on and after that Liam is too busy controlling the urge to stroke his hair to pay attention to anything else.
///
He knows when his insane curiosity turned into this all-consuming infatuation, of course. It wasn’t when anyone expected. It wasn’t during the competition, when they were so close but so unknown, like a limb that you couldn’t control; and it wasn’t during their tour, when they were so finely tuned with each other that all it took was a quiver in his voice and Zayn would be close; and it wasn’t after their Brit win, when Zayn pulled him aside and said ‘this was all you, Li’.
No, it was somewhere in the between of all of that, in the seconds-minutes-hours of holding hands through tetanus shots and Zayn teaching him how to fix his hair and sharing muffins before breakfast interviews.
It took a few weeks of a certain heaviness in his chest for him to realise what had changed. The weight was bad when Zayn was out of sight and even worse when in reaching distance.
It happened (it being the first of numerous occasions where Zayn would be so undeniably himself that Liam would need to excuse himself from conversations or look away or take a pretty deep fucking breath to control the litany of ‘I love you’ falling from his lips) one night after a band dinner. They had just finished a leg of their tour and really, the lack of personal boundaries was borderline disturbing, but they were so in tune and being apart was wrong.
They were about to crawl into bed together and nothing would have changed if he hadn’t turned around and seen Zayn carefully folding the shirt he’d borrowed from Liam. Zayn had kissed him sloppily on the forehead and cuddled up and breathed out a ‘night’ and that was all it had taken for Liam to realise that yes, he was infatuated, and yes, it hurt, and yes, it was uncontrollable.
///
Zayn corners him a few days after the Fruit incident (as Liam mentally catalogues it for the times when he wants to wank himself raw). It’s after a show, in his changing room, and his head is light with Toto-I-have-a-feeling-we’re-not-in-Wolverhampton-anymore.
He’s staring in the mirror, still wearing the varsity jacket which smells of seven types of home, when Zayn sneaks in. Their eyes catch in the reflection and they grin at each other and Liam’s so fucking grateful of Louis and Harry just about grinding through their set list, because the media will be too busy begging them for answers to note the look of awe on Liam’s lips.
“You do this after every show,” Zayn says, fiddling with the first few buttons of his borrowed plaid shirt, and it should be a question, but it’s not.
Liam fiddles with the light switch and he can only see Zayn’s cheekbone in the darkness. “Do what?”
Zayn laughs, that brilliantly hoarse sound that Liam simultaneously wishes he revealed to the public and wants to keep to himself. “You sit in a dark room and hook up your iPod and stare in the mirror until you convince yourself that it’s real.”
Liam blushes and Zayn rests his chin on his shoulder. They sway to the music in the same way that others breathe, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I can be pensive / You can be so sure.
“I need your help,” Zayn admits quietly, with only centimetres between their lips.
“I can buy you nicotine patches in the morning,” he teases, and Zayn bites at the collar of the varsity jacket in disapproval.
“Don’t be such a dolt,” he scowls, pressing a little closer. “This is hard, okay, but I’m so fucking clueless and I really need your help.”
You’ll be the poison / You’ll be the cure.
“Of course, Zayn,” he says, while on the inside he’s thinking ‘was it murder is someone pregnant who’s in hospital maybe he needs to leave- no.
Zayn mumbles something into his shoulder before catching his eye in the reflection again. “I need to learn how to kiss properly,” he says quickly, before he can bite his tongue. “And, well, there was that one time we were drunk and sparring, so it won’t be like we’ve never done it before. Teach me, Li?”
And when you do your very worst / It feels the best.
Liam stumbles and throws out the rhythm of their sways. He swallows the automatic ‘yes’ and this is everything he wants and the opposite at the same time because no, he doesn’t want to be offered paradise for a few moments and be thrown in Guantanamo the next, but at the same time yes, yes, yes, yes- “Couldn’t Lou teach you?”
“Lou would laugh,” he sulks and the knowledge that he could turn his head and meet his lips is slowly driving him insane. “And Harry- well, we don’t want Wellington to happen again.”
Liam nudges back against Zayn in a completely unintentional way to avoid the rush of want seething through his lungs.
“It’s okay,” Zayn soothes, “I’ll understand if you-”
Liam can’t help it, he really can’t, because the downwards twist of Zayn’s lips is nearly as dreadful as the promise of ‘this will hurt later, Liam Payne, you should have kept your heart in the pit of your stomach instead of on your sleeve’. He twists to grab at Zayn’s collar and smashes their lips together hungrily.
Zayn makes a soft noise of approval and Liam swallows the rush of ‘holy fuck’ to wrap an arm around his waist. “Open,” he orders, and Zayn presses him gently against the mirror and complies.
He tastes so good, like chocolate and powerade and the remnants of tobacco and Liam knows he should loosen his grip on Zayn’s collar, but the promise of over is so close and he doesn’t want to face it.
“Is this okay?” Zayn asks, his tongue sneaking out to caress Liam’s, and he can barely hold back the whimper of encouragement.
“Brilliant,” he breathes, and that must be some kind of encouragement for Zayn, who slips a hand into Liam’s hair. That time, he can’t hold back the approving whine. “Try biting my lip.”
Zayn gnaws on his lower lip so hard it nearly draws blood and it feels fucking wonderful, but Liam’s body is responding without consent and there’s no fucking way that Zayn can ignore the hardness prodding at his hip.
“Gentler,” he reprimands, and that’s so much worse because it’s like Zayn actually cares. It doesn’t help that he’s making these soft sounds against Liam’s lips, or that the hand in his hair is tender, or that they’re still swaying to the music and Liam just can’t-
Zayn pulls away. His lips are red and slightly swollen and Liam’s the last person people will expect to have caused it. He presses his forehead against Liam’s and grins. “Thank you, Li,” he says softly, and Liam wishes he could say that he walked away, but instead he stands there, tangled up with Zayn, until security come to escort them.
Sometimes we both lose our minds / And find a better road.
///
The next morning, Zayn pretends it never happened, and Liam pretends he doesn’t care.
///
They don’t mention it for a fortnight and Liam wishes he could say that things were tense between them but he and Zayn still cuddled and joked and everything was normal, at least for them.
That is, until a signing when they’re a whole band apart. The air between them is palpable and it’s different, so different, and the other three are noticing. The fans are too preoccupied with the screaming and crying and ‘spoons-carrots-leprechaun-Harry-are-you-and-Lou-dating-Zayn-what-does-your-tattoo-mean- you-boys-are-my-life’ to notice the tension.
Louis keeps him busy, distracted, ruffling his hair and whispering obscene jokes in his ear until Liam is laughing. He forgets, for a while, what it’s like to be maddeningly in love with someone so unattainable.
The relief of normal disappears, however, when he and Zayn stumble back into their apartment. He’s sitting in his favourite armchair with a mug of coffee and his shirt unbuttoned when Zayn straddles his lap and places his cup on the end table and starts pressing messy kisses down his neck.
“Next lesson,” he says against the curve of Liam’s neck, using his tongue, biting, just like Liam taught him. “I’m not a preacher’s daughter- what now?”
Liam tries to control himself and fails miserably. His hands slip under the tight shirt and the contrast between his tanned skin and his own light hands is so fucking hot. “I’d say you’re too confident for a preacher’s daughter,” he teases.
Zayn hums low in his throat and pulls away to tear off his shirt. Liam automatically presses his fingers over his abdominals. “Teach me,” he mumbles, brushing his lips over Liam’s. “Teach me how to leave a mark.”
Liam groans and uses all his willpower on keeping his hips still. Instead, he wraps one hand around the nape of Zayn’s neck and presses his lips to the hollow of his collarbone. “You mean a love bite?” he says, his tongue lapping at the so-very-Zayn taste there. “It’s bursting blood vessels under pressure, by the way. Pretty fucking hot.”
Zayn squirms against Liam’s hips in response.
“You need to place intense stress on a spot, Malik,” he teases, gnawing slightly. He grinds back. “Any ideas how?”
“Biting?” Zayn guesses, and Liam bites him in approval. His teeth leave an imprint.
“How else?”
“Sucking?” he says, more confidently, this time, in hope of reward.
Liam presses his lips to the marked skin and sucks eagerly, relishing in the feeling of distressed skin that’s entirely his. He nearly pulls away, but then Zayn makes this wonderful whimpering noise and rubs purposefully against Liam’s cock.
“Teach me how to get off?” he sighs, practically thrusting, and maybe Liam should stop or be responsible or pull away, but instead he slips a hand between their bodies and unbuttons their jeans with practised fingers. Zayn helps him shove their clothes down to their thighs and latches onto his neck and the jolts of pleasure shooting up Liam’s spine are too fucking good to ignore.
“The thing with guys,” he explains, as their legs tangle together off the seat of the chair, “is that there’s all this friction that there isn’t with girls.”
Zayn experimentally grinds their hips together and they both groan at the skin-on-skin contact. Liam simultaneously wants to look down to see their bodies tangled together and doesn’t want to shoot his future sex life in the foot because nothing would compare to it.
He restrains himself, for a while, but eventually the need to wrap his hand around Zayn’s shaft is too overwhelming to ignore. He wriggles his fingers between them and strokes him with zero warning and it’s so worth it when Zayn practically sobs in relief.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” he teases, and Zayn’s hand is hesitantly touching his erection and fuck, it wasn’t the touch which made him gasp, it was the softness of Zayn’s palm and the slight callous of his cigarette-burnt fingertips and the fact that they were jerking each other off and-
“Am I doing this right?” he asks, and if he keeps up this pace, Liam really isn’t against begging.
“A bit tighter,” Liam whispers, drawing these perfect moans from Zayn, and they’re close and grinning and their knuckles bump on every uncoordinated stroke and it’s perfect. “And faster- fuck, guys are different, we don’t need slow, we need-”
Zayn experimentally rubs his thumb over the exposed head and Liam can’t help the whimper of ‘that’ which falls from his lips. It’s lost in the noises Zayn’s making, all for Liam, and they’re kissing desperately now to hold back their moans.
“Good?” he asks breathily.
Zayn moans, thoroughly obscenely, and shifts to kiss him messily, teeth bumping together with clumsy passion. “So fucking good,” he agrees, and then their conversation is lost in a whole different language of sighs and moans and disjointed ‘fuck Zayn a little faster yes that’s it so so so hot’.
Liam’s trying to go slow, trying to categorise Zayn’s noises and movements and fucking facial expressions, but he accidentally catches sight of their cocks sliding together and Zayn, fuck, his erection is long and straight and so dark compared to his own. Zayn catches him watching and looks down too and his hips stutter, causing the head to catch on Liam’s foreskin and then Liam’s gone, coming hotly between them, biting at the exposed line of Zayn’s neck.
When he gains coherency, Zayn is curled against his chest, and the way their legs are blending into a monster of forgotten denim is almost too much for Liam to bear.
“Hi,” he says nervously, and Zayn grins at him.
“Hey you,” he teases. “Do you mind if we watch the History channel?”
Liam fiddles with the remote and touches the sore mark on his neck, missing the way Zayn smirks smugly at the motion.
///
It’s different, after that. When he stumbles out of his room the next morning after a fantastic wank to the memory of Zayn chanting his name, he’s greeted with bacon and ice pack and a ‘because you look like you’ve been mauled by a mountain lion and we have an interview’.
They don’t kiss or hold hands or feed each other pieces of toast, but somehow all it takes is one pointed stare at the purple bruise on his neck and Louis is whispering to Niall and Paul during an ad break.
The ‘lessons’ become a part of their hectic schedule (in the car after shows, running of adrenalin, plane bathrooms as they fly to the continent when there’s a little turbulence, just fucking because on their lazy days off).
They’re getting overconfident, though, and more desperate- whispering lazy taunts during songs and sneaking out together and Zayn’s started staring back and it’s bad and risky and so fucking good.
Liam’s well aware that it will end, though, because eventually Zayn will find a boy he wanted to do more than ‘learn’ from, or figure out how Liam feels, or Liam will simply combust with affection for the boy.
But in the mean time, it’s the two of them and acoustic music and dark rooms and that’s enough, for now.
///
Eventually, though, the burn low in his stomach begs for more. He wants to learn how the skin on the insides of his thighs and small of his back and over his ankles smells and feels and tastes, and that desire for knowledge is what drives him to throwing a woolly blanket over their laps and leaning over the airplane chair to whisper in Zayn’s ear.
“Time for your next lesson,” he says softly, tugging at the drawstrings of Zayn’s joggers.
Zayn smirks at him. The plane is silent in this hour between night and morning, and it’s just their slow breaths and the gentle whir of the engine. “They’ll know,” he whines, compliantly toying with Liam’s belt. They’re not kissing as much as they’re sharing oxygen. “But what’s the lesson, professor?”
Liam nips at his neck in response to that mischievousness and buries himself under the blanket to suck at the head of Zayn’s cock without the slightest hint of warning. The other boy grasps desperately at his shaggy hair, more to anchor himself than control Liam, and the movement alone convinces Liam to gently work his way down the shaft until Zayn’s nudging at the back of his throat.
Zayn tugs at his hair and Liam pulls off compliantly “It’s good, isn’t it?” he teases, running his tongue down the shaft, and Zayn’s watching his every move. He slips his lips over the head to the root before a litany of ‘you’re so fucking hot it sometimes causes me physical pain’ can fall from his lips and he tastes so good, so musky and like lavender body wash and Liam can’t help but wonder if he’s the first person to discover this, the Neil Armstrong of Zayn Malik.
“What are you doing?” Zayn asks curiously, as Liam eases up to lap messily at the precome gathering at the tip. “I mean- fuck- what about- fuck-”
“The gag reflex is like a muscle,” Liam explains, teasingly sucking at the head until Zayn’s hips stutter in protest. “If you practise long enough, it stretches.”
Zayn bites into the palm of his hand and tightens his grip on Liam’s hair and mumbles something that he doesn’t quite catch.
“You just need to suck a little,” he says quietly. “And gain momentum and avoid the teeth and just enjoy it- your guy will get off on you enjoying it, Zayn, when you show him-”
The lust blowing out Zayn’s pupils dims for a moment and he looks like he’s going to say something and that something could be ‘oh him that’s right stop Liam’, so the only appropriate response is to swallow around Zayn’s head like a fucking pornstar until his hips are stirring and every breath is a ‘Liam’ and Liam’s moaning, now, not faking, because Zayn’s so hot and he doesn’t even know. He allows him to fuck shallowly into his mouth and swallows obediently when he comes and Zayn pulls him up and kisses him messily.
A part of Liam is in hysterics, a soft monologue of ‘Zayn you stupid prat all that tobacco and hairspray is slaughtering your brain cells how in the fucking world don’t you know’, but Zayn shoots him this beautiful, sleepy smile and all articulate thoughts are lost when Zayn cuddles closer instead of pulling away.
///
Liam wakes up some three hours later to a text from Louis saying- you’re worse than me and Harry on a bad day.
Zayn sees and instead of panicking, he kisses him hard on the mouth, and Liam finds out how his ankles taste after all.
///
It’s a week later and Liam’s stuck.
The euphoria of Zayn shoving aside his crossword and swallowing him to the root with zero warning (the rude prick) and no mention of the ‘lessons’ (the fantastic prick) has worn off, and now Liam is nervous and tense and there’s only sex left but sex is so much more intimate than a blow job and-
He’s going insane. That’s the only logical reasoning for sneaking out before Zayn can wake up and with his messy hair and warm chest and sleepy eyes, and hiding in Niall’s empty hotel room.
There’s no logical reasoning behind his tension, though. He’s fucked boys before and been fucked before and he’s been callous and he’s been caring but he’s never been with Zayn.
And that’s how Louis finds him an hour and a half later- whining into a pillow with a full notebook and a split screen of porn and anatomy.
“Really, Payne?” he teases, cuddling up beside him. They’re wedged together and the feathery strands of Louis’ hair are tickling at Liam’s neck as he watches the video. “You’re resulting to filthy porn?”
“I’m resulting to suffocation,” he mumbles into the pillow.
Louis cuddles closer. “You’re a monster in bed,” he soothes mischievously, “not that you ever let me and Harry research first hand.”
“Don’t pout,” he admonishes. “This is a life or death situation-”
“Melodramatic,” he scowls, smiling cheekily. “Stop panicking, okay? Play pretentiously alternative music. Maybe light some candles. And then he can fuck the nerves right out of you. He’s probably as nervous-”
Liam shifts to glare at the boy. “He posted a video of himself grinding to Usher last week,” he mumbled. “He couldn’t be nervous if he tried.”
They stare at each other for a few minutes with the moans of strangers filling the air, before Louis tugs him closer and closes the laptop.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks softly. For a moment, Liam is reminded of how mature Louis can be when Liam needs it. “It’s a little masochistic.”
He nods into the crook of Louis’ neck.
Louis smiles. “Then- fuck- do you remember before the Brit awards performance, and Harry was freaking out about his solo and you told him to ‘take a deep breath and let the rest come easy’? Take your own advice for once and stop being a fucking salmon and just swim with the tide.”
///
The first time is hot and fast and perfect and Liam tries his hardest to be disconnected, but the entire time Zayn is watching him with this expression of awe and all he can think is ‘I love you, I love you, I fucking love you’.
It’s not as though it’s okay afterwards, either, because now he knows Zayn better than anyone, probably better than he does himself. He knows that Zayn brutalises his lower lip to hold back moans and clenches his hands when he’s coming and just about demands kisses and he can’t just watch Zayn in public, anymore, because he knows that Zayn’s polite laugh is so different to the one he makes after sex and how he tastes in the morning and he knows everything-
He should stop. He has no reason to continuously grind his heart into dust and expect it to keep pumping. Zayn’s ‘education’ is complete. But that doesn’t stop him the second time, or the fifth, or the eighteenth.
The nineteenth time, though, is different. They’re in his bed, under the thick afghan, and Bright Eyes is playing in the background and it’s just unfamiliar, the way Zayn pulls out his fingers and gently pushes his lubed up cock into Liam.
“Wow,” Zayn breathes, as they adjust to the feeling of full. He’s pressing gentle kisses on Liam’s neck and caressing the ankle resting on his shoulder and Liam stirs his hips as he starts thrusting.
It’s slow, though- gentle- and it’s not just the hand on his leg or the other in his hair or the lips on his neck- it’s the sunlight playing on Zayn’s back and the warmth which makes Liam’s breath hitch.
They’re harmonising, just like they do on stage. Their thrusts are synchronised and just when Liam is about to beg, Zayn goes that little bit deeper and nudges against his prostate. Zayn’s hipbones are digging into Liam’s and he’s nibbling a line of marks at Liam’s neck and this, this feeling of belonging, wasn’t in the curriculum.
Liam’s three seconds from pushing Zayn away when hot breath slips to his ear. “You’re so fucking tight,” Zayn whispers. “Just- perfect- you’re- just-”
Their lips meet messily and they’re out of sync, now, hips stuttering, nails clawing at skin, non-sequitur breaths of ‘harder’ and ‘Li’ and ‘yes’ being forced into his mouth.
Zayn comes and it’s the way he stares at Liam with that stupid beautiful smile and grabs Liam’s hand instead of the sheets which makes him whine and come hotly between them.
He wishes he could pretend it was the euphoria which makes him bury his face in Zayn’s neck and tangle a hand in his hair, but it’s more because he’s just overflowing with love and he can’t stop the-
“I love you,” he says softly, muffled by the crook of his neck, arms tangled around Zayn like he’s afraid he’ll leave. “I love you and I’m sorry and I can’t keep being so fucking clinical-”
He’s cut off by an amused noise and a gentle peppering of kisses across his jaw. Liam’s about to kiss back, about to give in, because it’s been a full three seconds without the promise of Zayn and it’s already terrible, but-
“Stop,” he mumbles, and Zayn stops kissing just short of his lips. Their exhales intertwine. “I don’t want half, Malik, just-”
Zayn cuts him off with a bark of laughter. Truthfully, it’s a bit uncomfortable, with come cooling between them, but it’s so warm in Zayn’s arms. “Lou wasn’t lying,” he says bluntly. The chocolate irises are dark and remind Liam of post-show coffee and cuddles. “You have no idea.”
He scrunches his nose in confusion. “What?”
Zayn raises an eyebrow and a hand tangles in Liam’s hair. “Paul hooked you up with unlimited internet for a reason, you prick.”
“Paul?” Liam repeats, and the conversation feels too familiar.
“How are you the only one who doesn’t know?” Zayn asks, but something in his eyes suggests that he doesn’t want an answer. “Have you ever Googled yourself? Is Tumblr some unknown entity which you have no desire to- just, fuck, look-”
He shoves his phone between them and no, Liam’s never seen that photo, the one of Zayn in a letter jacket staring at an oblivious Liam with that single minded intent.
(If he had, it would be a wall feature in his apartment, and possibly a backdrop in the set list so the crowd would know that Zayn was all his)
“I asked you to teach me after seeing Lou in your lap,” Zayn teases, pulling Liam out of bed. He’s too busy staring at the photo to argue. “I called you every day when I had to leave the tour. I stopped smoking for you. I love-”
Liam kisses him hard enough to push him against the opposing wall and Zayn lets out a breathy ‘you’. When they separate for air, the sun is setting over the skyline, and despite the blue tint to the room, it’s still so warm.
“Simon will be thrilled,” Zayn mumbles against his lips, and they’re stumbling towards the bathroom without separating and colliding with every wall and coffee table in their path.
“Simon knows?” Liam asks quietly, fiddling with the taps, more for the sake of talking as opposed to wanting an answer because Zayn- beautiful, unattainable Zayn- is soft and plaint and willing under his fingertips.
Zayn smirks against his lips and tugs him under the freezing water, but his warm skin is enough to prevent the shivers. “Li, Simon suggested this.”
Author: transgenicveins
Pairing: Liam Payne / Zayn Malik
Rating: Uh N-17 I suppose?
Warnings: Real person slash, slight slight slight teacher!kink undertones, blatant use of AAR lyrics.
Summary: 'Liam isn't quite certain what it is which makes him agree to this crazy, masochistic plan of Zayn's..'
A/N: Based on a 1DKINKMEME prompt, which (in summary) was about Zayn being clueless and Liam being in love and the two partaking in 'lessons' to solve both of those issues. Oh, and if I owned the AAR lyrics or the 1D boys, I would have combusted by now, so no infringement intended.
Liam isn’t quite certain what it is which makes him agree to this crazy, masochistic plan of Zayn’s. Of course, if he thinks it through, with the little circulating blood he has left (the rest has permanently rushed to his cock when Zayn had said ‘teach me’), he can reason that maybe it was Zayn’s voice- the way he sounds a few days after he’s ‘quit’ smoking for the thirty-seventh time, all low and all soft and all for Liam. Or maybe it was the way his over gelled quiff flops after a night of dancing around the stage, so much so that he needs to push it off-and-to-the-side of his forehead as he whispers to Liam in the darkness. Or maybe it was that look in his eyes, the same one he gives Liam, the one where he positively lights up.
Or maybe it’s the way that Liam is hopelessly and infuriatingly in love with Zayn, and he couldn’t say ‘no’ when his every pore was screaming yes-yes-yes-yes.
That might be it.
///
Liam’s different to the others in the sense that he’s quite content with brooding. He doesn’t need Zayn’s attention or affection or affinity to function. He knows that the chances of Zayn being (a) gay or (b) attracted to him are infinitely small and he’s content, really, with wrapping a brotherly arm around his shoulders and whispering in interviews and eating cereal over Friends. He’s not like Harry, who needs the constant reassurance of physical contact; or Niall, who needs to make everyone smile; or Louis, who cannot stop staring.
Liam likes watching Zayn. He likes unravelling Zayn, knowing him better than anyone else, the enigma of Zayn Malik being more a revelation. He likes knowing that Zayn licks his lips when he’s nervous and has this sleepy, crooked smile, all for Liam, and does a gentle role of his hips in time to particularly fantastic music.
He’s so preoccupied with watching Zayn’s lips move in thoroughly obscene ways as he bites into the strawberry (throaty hums of approval, teeth scraping the red skin, a drop of juice falling to his jaw, tongue practically caressing the side, holy fuck) that he barely acknowledges the warm body crawling into his lap until- “Gosh, Li, at least attempt to hide your erection.”
Liam squirms and smothers his blush in the crook of Louis’ neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbles, watching Zayn’s throat clenches as he swallows and wondering how it would feel around his cock- stop. “I’m not hard.”
“Sweetheart, you’re aching,” he teases, tangling his fingers in Liam’s hair. It’s shaggier than usual, growing out in the lull between tours, and all it had taken was a sleepy ‘it looks hot like that’ from Zayn to convince him to blacklist every hairdresser in London. “Besides, he’s pretty fucking hot in that leather jacket. We don’t-”
“We?” Liam repeats, and he really should stop staring, but the hints of Zayn’s skin which are revealed when he rolls his shoulders are too addictive to ignore.
“Me and Niall,” Louis says, and when Liam lets out a strangled groan, he adds, “he’s the one who told me.”
“Niall knows?”
Louis laughs, low and throaty, and Zayn shoots Liam a smile that does absolutely nothing for his nerves. “He figured it out at the Kid’s Choice Awards. I knew before that, though.”
“How!?” he whines, and Zayn is watching them with a newfound curiosity that makes Liam’s heart hurt.
“You clearly don’t Google yourself-”
He groans, and Zayn narrows his dark eyes ever-so-slightly and maintains eye contact as he bites into a grape and surely this was banned by the Geneva Convention because it was torture. “You egotistical bastard-”
“You enjoy hair products as much as the rest of us,” Louis teases. “And your eyes practically sparkle during his solo in What Makes You Beautiful. Just ask Harry.”
“Harry knows?”
“Harry’s known since we recorded. He and Paul-”
“No.”
“- Update your mum after every show on whether or not the two of you have finally fucked-”
“Stop stop stop Lou-”
“And then, of course, there’s Simon-”
“Simon?!” Liam repeats, ten times louder than necessary. “As in Cowell?”
Louis rolls his eyes dramatically, and Liam manages to tear his eyes away from Zayn and his stupid messy hair and equally stupid smirk and infinitely stupid cherry pink lips. “As in Pegg,” he says sarcastically. “Why do you think the two of you always room together? Simon’s known since the competition.”
“I didn’t know during the competition,” he argues. And then, when Zayn is adequately distracted by something on Twitter, he adds, “does-”
“No, he’s as oblivious as you,” Louis mumbles, under his breath, and he bites his lip as though he wants to say more. But Zayn has somehow crossed the busy room to shove Louis off Liam’s lap and clamber on and after that Liam is too busy controlling the urge to stroke his hair to pay attention to anything else.
///
He knows when his insane curiosity turned into this all-consuming infatuation, of course. It wasn’t when anyone expected. It wasn’t during the competition, when they were so close but so unknown, like a limb that you couldn’t control; and it wasn’t during their tour, when they were so finely tuned with each other that all it took was a quiver in his voice and Zayn would be close; and it wasn’t after their Brit win, when Zayn pulled him aside and said ‘this was all you, Li’.
No, it was somewhere in the between of all of that, in the seconds-minutes-hours of holding hands through tetanus shots and Zayn teaching him how to fix his hair and sharing muffins before breakfast interviews.
It took a few weeks of a certain heaviness in his chest for him to realise what had changed. The weight was bad when Zayn was out of sight and even worse when in reaching distance.
It happened (it being the first of numerous occasions where Zayn would be so undeniably himself that Liam would need to excuse himself from conversations or look away or take a pretty deep fucking breath to control the litany of ‘I love you’ falling from his lips) one night after a band dinner. They had just finished a leg of their tour and really, the lack of personal boundaries was borderline disturbing, but they were so in tune and being apart was wrong.
They were about to crawl into bed together and nothing would have changed if he hadn’t turned around and seen Zayn carefully folding the shirt he’d borrowed from Liam. Zayn had kissed him sloppily on the forehead and cuddled up and breathed out a ‘night’ and that was all it had taken for Liam to realise that yes, he was infatuated, and yes, it hurt, and yes, it was uncontrollable.
///
Zayn corners him a few days after the Fruit incident (as Liam mentally catalogues it for the times when he wants to wank himself raw). It’s after a show, in his changing room, and his head is light with Toto-I-have-a-feeling-we’re-not-in-Wolverhampton-anymore.
He’s staring in the mirror, still wearing the varsity jacket which smells of seven types of home, when Zayn sneaks in. Their eyes catch in the reflection and they grin at each other and Liam’s so fucking grateful of Louis and Harry just about grinding through their set list, because the media will be too busy begging them for answers to note the look of awe on Liam’s lips.
“You do this after every show,” Zayn says, fiddling with the first few buttons of his borrowed plaid shirt, and it should be a question, but it’s not.
Liam fiddles with the light switch and he can only see Zayn’s cheekbone in the darkness. “Do what?”
Zayn laughs, that brilliantly hoarse sound that Liam simultaneously wishes he revealed to the public and wants to keep to himself. “You sit in a dark room and hook up your iPod and stare in the mirror until you convince yourself that it’s real.”
Liam blushes and Zayn rests his chin on his shoulder. They sway to the music in the same way that others breathe, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I can be pensive / You can be so sure.
“I need your help,” Zayn admits quietly, with only centimetres between their lips.
“I can buy you nicotine patches in the morning,” he teases, and Zayn bites at the collar of the varsity jacket in disapproval.
“Don’t be such a dolt,” he scowls, pressing a little closer. “This is hard, okay, but I’m so fucking clueless and I really need your help.”
You’ll be the poison / You’ll be the cure.
“Of course, Zayn,” he says, while on the inside he’s thinking ‘was it murder is someone pregnant who’s in hospital maybe he needs to leave- no.
Zayn mumbles something into his shoulder before catching his eye in the reflection again. “I need to learn how to kiss properly,” he says quickly, before he can bite his tongue. “And, well, there was that one time we were drunk and sparring, so it won’t be like we’ve never done it before. Teach me, Li?”
And when you do your very worst / It feels the best.
Liam stumbles and throws out the rhythm of their sways. He swallows the automatic ‘yes’ and this is everything he wants and the opposite at the same time because no, he doesn’t want to be offered paradise for a few moments and be thrown in Guantanamo the next, but at the same time yes, yes, yes, yes- “Couldn’t Lou teach you?”
“Lou would laugh,” he sulks and the knowledge that he could turn his head and meet his lips is slowly driving him insane. “And Harry- well, we don’t want Wellington to happen again.”
Liam nudges back against Zayn in a completely unintentional way to avoid the rush of want seething through his lungs.
“It’s okay,” Zayn soothes, “I’ll understand if you-”
Liam can’t help it, he really can’t, because the downwards twist of Zayn’s lips is nearly as dreadful as the promise of ‘this will hurt later, Liam Payne, you should have kept your heart in the pit of your stomach instead of on your sleeve’. He twists to grab at Zayn’s collar and smashes their lips together hungrily.
Zayn makes a soft noise of approval and Liam swallows the rush of ‘holy fuck’ to wrap an arm around his waist. “Open,” he orders, and Zayn presses him gently against the mirror and complies.
He tastes so good, like chocolate and powerade and the remnants of tobacco and Liam knows he should loosen his grip on Zayn’s collar, but the promise of over is so close and he doesn’t want to face it.
“Is this okay?” Zayn asks, his tongue sneaking out to caress Liam’s, and he can barely hold back the whimper of encouragement.
“Brilliant,” he breathes, and that must be some kind of encouragement for Zayn, who slips a hand into Liam’s hair. That time, he can’t hold back the approving whine. “Try biting my lip.”
Zayn gnaws on his lower lip so hard it nearly draws blood and it feels fucking wonderful, but Liam’s body is responding without consent and there’s no fucking way that Zayn can ignore the hardness prodding at his hip.
“Gentler,” he reprimands, and that’s so much worse because it’s like Zayn actually cares. It doesn’t help that he’s making these soft sounds against Liam’s lips, or that the hand in his hair is tender, or that they’re still swaying to the music and Liam just can’t-
Zayn pulls away. His lips are red and slightly swollen and Liam’s the last person people will expect to have caused it. He presses his forehead against Liam’s and grins. “Thank you, Li,” he says softly, and Liam wishes he could say that he walked away, but instead he stands there, tangled up with Zayn, until security come to escort them.
Sometimes we both lose our minds / And find a better road.
///
The next morning, Zayn pretends it never happened, and Liam pretends he doesn’t care.
///
They don’t mention it for a fortnight and Liam wishes he could say that things were tense between them but he and Zayn still cuddled and joked and everything was normal, at least for them.
That is, until a signing when they’re a whole band apart. The air between them is palpable and it’s different, so different, and the other three are noticing. The fans are too preoccupied with the screaming and crying and ‘spoons-carrots-leprechaun-Harry-are-you-and-Lou-dating-Zayn-what-does-your-tattoo-mean- you-boys-are-my-life’ to notice the tension.
Louis keeps him busy, distracted, ruffling his hair and whispering obscene jokes in his ear until Liam is laughing. He forgets, for a while, what it’s like to be maddeningly in love with someone so unattainable.
The relief of normal disappears, however, when he and Zayn stumble back into their apartment. He’s sitting in his favourite armchair with a mug of coffee and his shirt unbuttoned when Zayn straddles his lap and places his cup on the end table and starts pressing messy kisses down his neck.
“Next lesson,” he says against the curve of Liam’s neck, using his tongue, biting, just like Liam taught him. “I’m not a preacher’s daughter- what now?”
Liam tries to control himself and fails miserably. His hands slip under the tight shirt and the contrast between his tanned skin and his own light hands is so fucking hot. “I’d say you’re too confident for a preacher’s daughter,” he teases.
Zayn hums low in his throat and pulls away to tear off his shirt. Liam automatically presses his fingers over his abdominals. “Teach me,” he mumbles, brushing his lips over Liam’s. “Teach me how to leave a mark.”
Liam groans and uses all his willpower on keeping his hips still. Instead, he wraps one hand around the nape of Zayn’s neck and presses his lips to the hollow of his collarbone. “You mean a love bite?” he says, his tongue lapping at the so-very-Zayn taste there. “It’s bursting blood vessels under pressure, by the way. Pretty fucking hot.”
Zayn squirms against Liam’s hips in response.
“You need to place intense stress on a spot, Malik,” he teases, gnawing slightly. He grinds back. “Any ideas how?”
“Biting?” Zayn guesses, and Liam bites him in approval. His teeth leave an imprint.
“How else?”
“Sucking?” he says, more confidently, this time, in hope of reward.
Liam presses his lips to the marked skin and sucks eagerly, relishing in the feeling of distressed skin that’s entirely his. He nearly pulls away, but then Zayn makes this wonderful whimpering noise and rubs purposefully against Liam’s cock.
“Teach me how to get off?” he sighs, practically thrusting, and maybe Liam should stop or be responsible or pull away, but instead he slips a hand between their bodies and unbuttons their jeans with practised fingers. Zayn helps him shove their clothes down to their thighs and latches onto his neck and the jolts of pleasure shooting up Liam’s spine are too fucking good to ignore.
“The thing with guys,” he explains, as their legs tangle together off the seat of the chair, “is that there’s all this friction that there isn’t with girls.”
Zayn experimentally grinds their hips together and they both groan at the skin-on-skin contact. Liam simultaneously wants to look down to see their bodies tangled together and doesn’t want to shoot his future sex life in the foot because nothing would compare to it.
He restrains himself, for a while, but eventually the need to wrap his hand around Zayn’s shaft is too overwhelming to ignore. He wriggles his fingers between them and strokes him with zero warning and it’s so worth it when Zayn practically sobs in relief.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” he teases, and Zayn’s hand is hesitantly touching his erection and fuck, it wasn’t the touch which made him gasp, it was the softness of Zayn’s palm and the slight callous of his cigarette-burnt fingertips and the fact that they were jerking each other off and-
“Am I doing this right?” he asks, and if he keeps up this pace, Liam really isn’t against begging.
“A bit tighter,” Liam whispers, drawing these perfect moans from Zayn, and they’re close and grinning and their knuckles bump on every uncoordinated stroke and it’s perfect. “And faster- fuck, guys are different, we don’t need slow, we need-”
Zayn experimentally rubs his thumb over the exposed head and Liam can’t help the whimper of ‘that’ which falls from his lips. It’s lost in the noises Zayn’s making, all for Liam, and they’re kissing desperately now to hold back their moans.
“Good?” he asks breathily.
Zayn moans, thoroughly obscenely, and shifts to kiss him messily, teeth bumping together with clumsy passion. “So fucking good,” he agrees, and then their conversation is lost in a whole different language of sighs and moans and disjointed ‘fuck Zayn a little faster yes that’s it so so so hot’.
Liam’s trying to go slow, trying to categorise Zayn’s noises and movements and fucking facial expressions, but he accidentally catches sight of their cocks sliding together and Zayn, fuck, his erection is long and straight and so dark compared to his own. Zayn catches him watching and looks down too and his hips stutter, causing the head to catch on Liam’s foreskin and then Liam’s gone, coming hotly between them, biting at the exposed line of Zayn’s neck.
When he gains coherency, Zayn is curled against his chest, and the way their legs are blending into a monster of forgotten denim is almost too much for Liam to bear.
“Hi,” he says nervously, and Zayn grins at him.
“Hey you,” he teases. “Do you mind if we watch the History channel?”
Liam fiddles with the remote and touches the sore mark on his neck, missing the way Zayn smirks smugly at the motion.
///
It’s different, after that. When he stumbles out of his room the next morning after a fantastic wank to the memory of Zayn chanting his name, he’s greeted with bacon and ice pack and a ‘because you look like you’ve been mauled by a mountain lion and we have an interview’.
They don’t kiss or hold hands or feed each other pieces of toast, but somehow all it takes is one pointed stare at the purple bruise on his neck and Louis is whispering to Niall and Paul during an ad break.
The ‘lessons’ become a part of their hectic schedule (in the car after shows, running of adrenalin, plane bathrooms as they fly to the continent when there’s a little turbulence, just fucking because on their lazy days off).
They’re getting overconfident, though, and more desperate- whispering lazy taunts during songs and sneaking out together and Zayn’s started staring back and it’s bad and risky and so fucking good.
Liam’s well aware that it will end, though, because eventually Zayn will find a boy he wanted to do more than ‘learn’ from, or figure out how Liam feels, or Liam will simply combust with affection for the boy.
But in the mean time, it’s the two of them and acoustic music and dark rooms and that’s enough, for now.
///
Eventually, though, the burn low in his stomach begs for more. He wants to learn how the skin on the insides of his thighs and small of his back and over his ankles smells and feels and tastes, and that desire for knowledge is what drives him to throwing a woolly blanket over their laps and leaning over the airplane chair to whisper in Zayn’s ear.
“Time for your next lesson,” he says softly, tugging at the drawstrings of Zayn’s joggers.
Zayn smirks at him. The plane is silent in this hour between night and morning, and it’s just their slow breaths and the gentle whir of the engine. “They’ll know,” he whines, compliantly toying with Liam’s belt. They’re not kissing as much as they’re sharing oxygen. “But what’s the lesson, professor?”
Liam nips at his neck in response to that mischievousness and buries himself under the blanket to suck at the head of Zayn’s cock without the slightest hint of warning. The other boy grasps desperately at his shaggy hair, more to anchor himself than control Liam, and the movement alone convinces Liam to gently work his way down the shaft until Zayn’s nudging at the back of his throat.
Zayn tugs at his hair and Liam pulls off compliantly “It’s good, isn’t it?” he teases, running his tongue down the shaft, and Zayn’s watching his every move. He slips his lips over the head to the root before a litany of ‘you’re so fucking hot it sometimes causes me physical pain’ can fall from his lips and he tastes so good, so musky and like lavender body wash and Liam can’t help but wonder if he’s the first person to discover this, the Neil Armstrong of Zayn Malik.
“What are you doing?” Zayn asks curiously, as Liam eases up to lap messily at the precome gathering at the tip. “I mean- fuck- what about- fuck-”
“The gag reflex is like a muscle,” Liam explains, teasingly sucking at the head until Zayn’s hips stutter in protest. “If you practise long enough, it stretches.”
Zayn bites into the palm of his hand and tightens his grip on Liam’s hair and mumbles something that he doesn’t quite catch.
“You just need to suck a little,” he says quietly. “And gain momentum and avoid the teeth and just enjoy it- your guy will get off on you enjoying it, Zayn, when you show him-”
The lust blowing out Zayn’s pupils dims for a moment and he looks like he’s going to say something and that something could be ‘oh him that’s right stop Liam’, so the only appropriate response is to swallow around Zayn’s head like a fucking pornstar until his hips are stirring and every breath is a ‘Liam’ and Liam’s moaning, now, not faking, because Zayn’s so hot and he doesn’t even know. He allows him to fuck shallowly into his mouth and swallows obediently when he comes and Zayn pulls him up and kisses him messily.
A part of Liam is in hysterics, a soft monologue of ‘Zayn you stupid prat all that tobacco and hairspray is slaughtering your brain cells how in the fucking world don’t you know’, but Zayn shoots him this beautiful, sleepy smile and all articulate thoughts are lost when Zayn cuddles closer instead of pulling away.
///
Liam wakes up some three hours later to a text from Louis saying- you’re worse than me and Harry on a bad day.
Zayn sees and instead of panicking, he kisses him hard on the mouth, and Liam finds out how his ankles taste after all.
///
It’s a week later and Liam’s stuck.
The euphoria of Zayn shoving aside his crossword and swallowing him to the root with zero warning (the rude prick) and no mention of the ‘lessons’ (the fantastic prick) has worn off, and now Liam is nervous and tense and there’s only sex left but sex is so much more intimate than a blow job and-
He’s going insane. That’s the only logical reasoning for sneaking out before Zayn can wake up and with his messy hair and warm chest and sleepy eyes, and hiding in Niall’s empty hotel room.
There’s no logical reasoning behind his tension, though. He’s fucked boys before and been fucked before and he’s been callous and he’s been caring but he’s never been with Zayn.
And that’s how Louis finds him an hour and a half later- whining into a pillow with a full notebook and a split screen of porn and anatomy.
“Really, Payne?” he teases, cuddling up beside him. They’re wedged together and the feathery strands of Louis’ hair are tickling at Liam’s neck as he watches the video. “You’re resulting to filthy porn?”
“I’m resulting to suffocation,” he mumbles into the pillow.
Louis cuddles closer. “You’re a monster in bed,” he soothes mischievously, “not that you ever let me and Harry research first hand.”
“Don’t pout,” he admonishes. “This is a life or death situation-”
“Melodramatic,” he scowls, smiling cheekily. “Stop panicking, okay? Play pretentiously alternative music. Maybe light some candles. And then he can fuck the nerves right out of you. He’s probably as nervous-”
Liam shifts to glare at the boy. “He posted a video of himself grinding to Usher last week,” he mumbled. “He couldn’t be nervous if he tried.”
They stare at each other for a few minutes with the moans of strangers filling the air, before Louis tugs him closer and closes the laptop.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks softly. For a moment, Liam is reminded of how mature Louis can be when Liam needs it. “It’s a little masochistic.”
He nods into the crook of Louis’ neck.
Louis smiles. “Then- fuck- do you remember before the Brit awards performance, and Harry was freaking out about his solo and you told him to ‘take a deep breath and let the rest come easy’? Take your own advice for once and stop being a fucking salmon and just swim with the tide.”
///
The first time is hot and fast and perfect and Liam tries his hardest to be disconnected, but the entire time Zayn is watching him with this expression of awe and all he can think is ‘I love you, I love you, I fucking love you’.
It’s not as though it’s okay afterwards, either, because now he knows Zayn better than anyone, probably better than he does himself. He knows that Zayn brutalises his lower lip to hold back moans and clenches his hands when he’s coming and just about demands kisses and he can’t just watch Zayn in public, anymore, because he knows that Zayn’s polite laugh is so different to the one he makes after sex and how he tastes in the morning and he knows everything-
He should stop. He has no reason to continuously grind his heart into dust and expect it to keep pumping. Zayn’s ‘education’ is complete. But that doesn’t stop him the second time, or the fifth, or the eighteenth.
The nineteenth time, though, is different. They’re in his bed, under the thick afghan, and Bright Eyes is playing in the background and it’s just unfamiliar, the way Zayn pulls out his fingers and gently pushes his lubed up cock into Liam.
“Wow,” Zayn breathes, as they adjust to the feeling of full. He’s pressing gentle kisses on Liam’s neck and caressing the ankle resting on his shoulder and Liam stirs his hips as he starts thrusting.
It’s slow, though- gentle- and it’s not just the hand on his leg or the other in his hair or the lips on his neck- it’s the sunlight playing on Zayn’s back and the warmth which makes Liam’s breath hitch.
They’re harmonising, just like they do on stage. Their thrusts are synchronised and just when Liam is about to beg, Zayn goes that little bit deeper and nudges against his prostate. Zayn’s hipbones are digging into Liam’s and he’s nibbling a line of marks at Liam’s neck and this, this feeling of belonging, wasn’t in the curriculum.
Liam’s three seconds from pushing Zayn away when hot breath slips to his ear. “You’re so fucking tight,” Zayn whispers. “Just- perfect- you’re- just-”
Their lips meet messily and they’re out of sync, now, hips stuttering, nails clawing at skin, non-sequitur breaths of ‘harder’ and ‘Li’ and ‘yes’ being forced into his mouth.
Zayn comes and it’s the way he stares at Liam with that stupid beautiful smile and grabs Liam’s hand instead of the sheets which makes him whine and come hotly between them.
He wishes he could pretend it was the euphoria which makes him bury his face in Zayn’s neck and tangle a hand in his hair, but it’s more because he’s just overflowing with love and he can’t stop the-
“I love you,” he says softly, muffled by the crook of his neck, arms tangled around Zayn like he’s afraid he’ll leave. “I love you and I’m sorry and I can’t keep being so fucking clinical-”
He’s cut off by an amused noise and a gentle peppering of kisses across his jaw. Liam’s about to kiss back, about to give in, because it’s been a full three seconds without the promise of Zayn and it’s already terrible, but-
“Stop,” he mumbles, and Zayn stops kissing just short of his lips. Their exhales intertwine. “I don’t want half, Malik, just-”
Zayn cuts him off with a bark of laughter. Truthfully, it’s a bit uncomfortable, with come cooling between them, but it’s so warm in Zayn’s arms. “Lou wasn’t lying,” he says bluntly. The chocolate irises are dark and remind Liam of post-show coffee and cuddles. “You have no idea.”
He scrunches his nose in confusion. “What?”
Zayn raises an eyebrow and a hand tangles in Liam’s hair. “Paul hooked you up with unlimited internet for a reason, you prick.”
“Paul?” Liam repeats, and the conversation feels too familiar.
“How are you the only one who doesn’t know?” Zayn asks, but something in his eyes suggests that he doesn’t want an answer. “Have you ever Googled yourself? Is Tumblr some unknown entity which you have no desire to- just, fuck, look-”
He shoves his phone between them and no, Liam’s never seen that photo, the one of Zayn in a letter jacket staring at an oblivious Liam with that single minded intent.
(If he had, it would be a wall feature in his apartment, and possibly a backdrop in the set list so the crowd would know that Zayn was all his)
“I asked you to teach me after seeing Lou in your lap,” Zayn teases, pulling Liam out of bed. He’s too busy staring at the photo to argue. “I called you every day when I had to leave the tour. I stopped smoking for you. I love-”
Liam kisses him hard enough to push him against the opposing wall and Zayn lets out a breathy ‘you’. When they separate for air, the sun is setting over the skyline, and despite the blue tint to the room, it’s still so warm.
“Simon will be thrilled,” Zayn mumbles against his lips, and they’re stumbling towards the bathroom without separating and colliding with every wall and coffee table in their path.
“Simon knows?” Liam asks quietly, fiddling with the taps, more for the sake of talking as opposed to wanting an answer because Zayn- beautiful, unattainable Zayn- is soft and plaint and willing under his fingertips.
Zayn smirks against his lips and tugs him under the freezing water, but his warm skin is enough to prevent the shivers. “Li, Simon suggested this.”