we were just kids in love
Title:we were just kids in love
Author: transgenicveins
Pairing: Liam Payne / Zayn Malik
Rating: Uh NC-17 supposedly
Word count: ~4800
Warnings: Real person slash, terrible paragraph structure, severely unlinear events.
Summary: 'it's just Liam and Zayn and red dirt and the hot sun and a whole new uncharted world of music.' (alternatively, One Direction at Warped Tour)
A/N: This is the outcome of combined (a) Ziam feels because of always, (b) Panic! feels because of tweets and (c) intense nostalgia over the best day of my life.
It’s because of the moment, Zayn chants- softly, in his head, as though the rest of his subconscious is afraid to let him hear- while he watches Liam absorb Ft. Lauderdale one last time. It’s because of the crowd and the last six months and attachment issues and he’s like a brother, that’s what we said, right, a brother, a brother, a shoulder angel, a voice of reason, a best friend, the sole bane and blessing of existence-
Zayn hasn’t felt this disconnected or conflicted in years, not since Simon had leant over his glass desk and offered them a future on a silver platter, and Zayn had signed away his voice without a second thought. He feels like there are a billion different nerve messages and hormone responses and words thumping through his spinal cord and bloodstream and they’re all trying to escape, seeping through his pores and clenching in his muscles and clogging his throat. Liam’s right there with an arm wrapped firmly around his shoulders when it stumbles out.
“I love you,” he says clumsily, and Liam barely reacts at all.
It’s not like he should react, though. This isn’t a new development in any sense: Zayn’s loved his bandmates since the competition, when they spent dozens of nights rehearsing so he felt comfortable in his own skin, and he tells the four of them every time he drinks a little too much, and one day, over a post-show English Breakfast at midnight, he mumbled it to Liam and realised that he couldn’t just say it to him, anymore, he had to feel it, too.
(Liam doesn’t know about that latest development, though)
(and this is the first time he’s said it out loud in months)
(and it sounds so fragile in his throat)
(so Liam should, at least, flinch or inhale or something)
Instead, he shoots Zayn that smile that’s entirely for him- where his eyes crinkle a little and twinkle and his tongue sneaks between his shiny teeth- and whispers “I’m proud of you, mate,” without a second thought.
And Zayn’s been doing a brilliant job at ignoring the whole situation, but their eyes meet and he has to look away so he doesn’t drown in the uncharted waters.
/ / /
He locks himself in a bathroom backstage and spends a whole twenty minutes schooling his features into something that doesn’t scream ‘holy fucking god I adore you you gorgeous bastard you convert oxygen into perfection to contribute to this fucked up atmosphere’.
Once successful (which takes a water bottle thrown through his hair and half a cigarette and a whole passage of quoted Bukowski), he stumbles to his dressing room, and a hand - foreign, stronger than those he holds onto in thunderstorms and turbulence and traffic- tugs him into a closet.
“The fuck-” he starts, but long blonde hair is tickling his cheekbones and a light is being flicked on and a very distinguishable Andy is grinning at him.
“Mate,” Andy says, raising a cocky eyebrow, “your infatuation was visible from the rooftop.”
Zayn groans into the collar of his shirt. “We’re just friends,” he mumbles, ignoring the burn in his lungs that insists otherwise.
Andy makes a noise of protest and looks curiously at his face, that hint of a grin across his lips which promises trouble. “Oblivious,” he scoffs, but more like he’s surprised as opposed to disapproving, “you should stop smoking and smouldering-”
“Staring,” Zayn corrects automatically.
“- because obviously it’s making you fucking blind.”
He scowls and reaches an arm around Andy to flick off the light because really, the blush heating his cheeks is a little embarrassing.
“It’ll be on tumblr within the hour,” he teases, pressing their cheeks together, “and your blush is radiating-”
The door opens and Liam mumbles an ‘um, am I interrupting?’ which makes Zayn want to kiss the frown right off his pink lips.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Li,” Andy laughs, wrapping his fingers in Liam’s shirt and tugging him inside, and Zayn’s so grateful for the darkness because the absolute pining is exceptionally hard to hold back when others are touching Liam.
(Liam’s hand is wrapped around his wrist, though, pressing delicately against the microphone tattoo which covers the other ink he wasn’t quite prepared to show the world, and his accelerated heartbeat dilutes the longing in his lungs)
“You know that you would be the feature of any of my experimental sodomy acts,” Andy teases, sucking obscenely on Liam’s neck. He pushes himself against Zayn in an effort to escape the contact and Zayn never wants to leave this dusty closet, not for London or cigarettes or oxygen or anything.
“Oh please,” Liam says, and he’s squashed against Zayn’s side but it’s still the most comfortable he’s been in days, “the fans would throw a fit. You know I’m only allowed to engage in bondage-wax-play-cross-dressing-masochism-daddy-dominant-costume-kink orgies with the band when we’re emotionally vulnerable.”
Andy shoots Zayn a grin and he deliberately knocks his head against the shelf behind him in response.
“About that,” he starts, and Zayn stomps hard on his foot in protest.
“Wax play?” Liam laughs (giggles, truthfully, and Zayn’s heart expands to about three times its normal size), “Andy, you kinky fuck.”
Andy smirks cheekily and wraps an arm around both of them. “I was more highlighting the ‘emotionally vulnerable’ portion,” he laughs, waving two tickets in the dark. “This tour was your lovechild-”
(Zayn pinches the tender inside of Andy’s bicep and revels in the yelp of protest)
“- and there’s no better way to get over the panic than to enter a warped reality-”
Liam makes an unfathomable noise and starts squeezing Zayn’s arm sporadically. “Puns,” he breathes, and he should be looking at Andy but he’s staring at Zayn, and the grin across his lips makes his heart ache. “Please Andy-”
“- which is why you two are going to Warped Tour feat. Panic-exclamation-point at the Disco in Texas tomorrow.”
“Andy, you fucking angel,” he says, like a prayer, and he releases Zayn’s wrist to throw his arms around his oldest friend.
(and Zayn would feel that crush of jealous longing, except Liam twists in Andy’s grip to flash him a smile, and it fills his blood with happiness so quickly it leaves him dizzy)
/ / /
“We’re just friends,” Zayn repeats to the mirror, some ten hours later in the gentle light of the jet.
Louis scoffs from his bed and, okay, so they were a little affectionate and sensitive last night, but his constant state of debauchery is completely unjustified. “Yeah, best friends on a date.”
Zayn ruffles his thick hair and he just doesn’t look right, doesn’t look like he deserves Liam, like his eyes are too hooded and his body doesn’t fit his skin and his shoulders aren’t broad enough for Liam to claw as he rocks into Zayn’s pliant body-
He blushes and meets Louis’ eye in the mirror. “Warped isn’t a date.”
“Leeds was a date,” Harry teases, wrapping a sleepy arm around Zayn’s waist and stretching his singlet to expose more of his sternum and whispering a ‘stop it you look fucking hot’.
“Michael Buble with Josh was a date,” Niall says, flashing him a frankly civilized grin that contradicts his grinding hips on stage.
“The Honda Centre with Eleanor was a date,” Andy calls from behind his laptop.
Zayn swats Harry’s hands out of his hair and bends over to roll up the cuffs of his jean shorts and ignores Louis’ cat-call. “Those were with people you shared a mutual attraction-”
Niall makes a gurgling sound of protest from his chair. “Boys,” he says roughly, but that’s more from sleep than overuse, and it reminds Zayn of how Liam sounds in the morning (confused, gravelly, ethereal, like he’s suspended in a dream). “Hands up if you remember Zayn hiding his erection behind the couch when Liam sang Climax last week?”
Zayn mashes his cheek against the mirror in protest as three of his bandmates and Andy raise their hands, and he’s never been quite this thankful for his best friend’s absence. “Stop,” he protests weakly, “we’re not-”
Harry smirks. “And hands up if you can remember Liam groaning into his keyboard when Zayn posted that video of him thrusting?”
“Groaning with shame,” Zayn corrects, shifting to glare at him, “and he’s a thin lining of aluminium away so shut the fuck-”
“Hands up if you remember Zayn waxing drunken poetic nonsense about his laugh-”
“- or Liam giving him his jacket when we were filming One Thing-”
“- or Zayn saying ‘it was a joke, I swear’ while he drowned his regrets in whiskey-”
“- that’s nothing in comparison to ‘we all know Zayn’s got the prettiest voice’-”
“- or the time Zayn flicked the crowd the finger when a girl asked Liam to take off his shirt-”
“Paul!” Zayn gasps, and the other four are laughing and it’s echoing and he feels like he needs an oxygen mask.
“I’m sick of the sexual tension,” Paul says sternly. Liam chooses that moment to exit the bathroom looking so fucking dapper in his light denim shorts and loose t-shirt that exposes his collarbones and-
“One more,” Harry says slowly, and he sounds confident, but his hand is wrapped in the back of Zayn’s shirt like an anchor, and his eyes are locked on Liam’s like a promise. “Hands up if you remember the two of them spending the past six months cuddling and whispering and nuzzling and staring and-”
“Point made,” Zayn scowls, but Liam looks shy and is shooting him that smile and the air pressure in the cabin is a little warmer than usual and-
well-
(the sun shines a little brighter and Harry lets go of his singlet and Liam will keep him safe in this unexplored ocean, at least for now)
/ / /
Andy drives them to the venue and there’s not a screaming girl in sight.
(well, there is, but they’re screaming at each other and singing to each other and it’s so fucking refreshing to be this anonymous)
“It’s going to be different,” Andy says (repeats), turning down the radio, and Liam makes a noise of protest, “but you two need some abnormality to find your normal.”
Liam squirms in his spot beside Zayn and grins at him as if they’re sharing a secret or a moment or both.
Andy scowls at them in the revision mirror, but the sweet smile on his lips ruins the effect. “And make sure you reapply sunscreen and drink plenty of water and keep your phones safe and-”
(“I thought you were meant to be the dad,” Zayn whispers, and the two share a laugh and he just wants to spend the entire day in this space between breaths)
“- and you only have a few hours before the fan girls come exploring-”
(“I thought you were meant to be all brooding and silent,” Liam replies, and no, Zayn wants to spend forever here)
“- and have fun okay?” Andy rushes out, and Zayn flashes him a grin before pulling Liam out of the car and into the whole new world.
/ / /
It’s just so different, at Warped.
“Fuck,” Liam breathes, and Zayn can’t help but agree.
They walk through the gates and it’s nothing like the ghostly, empty stadiums they’re used to- there’s red dirt and the hot hot sun and twelve different bands blaring out twelve different songs.
Zayn flashes him a smile and Liam wraps a hand around his wrist. As far as disguises go (considering Zayn went blond for a weekend of freedom in Paris), their Aviators and Raybans and Zayn’s snapback are pretty weak, but bar the few curious glances, no one stops them.
They walk and order two Heinekens at Liam’s insistence and his hand is still stroking Zayn’s tattoo and it’s fun, walking around and eating hot dogs and listening to half a dozen bands from the outskirts of the crowd and watching Liam’s eyes crinkle with happiness and-
“Zayn,” Liam groans, and it’s sexual enough to shock him out of focus from the acoustic number. “Brendon Urie is approaching Brendon bloody Urie is smiling at me Zayn save me-”
“Hey,” the guy says happily, with wide eyes and a big smile and tight jeans. Liam’s grip tightens. “You’re from the boy band, right?”
Liam just squeezes Zayn’s arm. “The British boys with the hair,” Zayn teases, “that’s us.”
Brendon grins. “Well, you’re brilliant for what it’s worth,” he says, and Liam makes an incoherent noise. “We’re kids, just like you guys. We make music for ourselves.”
Liam stares at him. “Can you write that down for me?”
“Li,” Zayn teases, as Brendon pulls a receipt out of his pocket, “I thought you didn’t want tattoos.”
Liam only squeezes on the head of the microphone stained on his forearm in response.
They’re staring at each other and Zayn doesn’t notice the longing in his eyes until Brendon sighs lightly. “I remember that,” he says, handing Liam the scribbled receipt, with a sweet smile across his lips to match the tone of his voice. “I hope to see you at the set.”
They get a quick photo together, Brendon in the middle, with Liam’s hand touching his wrist behind their backs, and Brendon mock-salutes them with that huge smile and disappears in the clouds of dirt.
“What do you think would happen if we were in our crowds?” Liam asks.
Zayn laughs and tenses the tendons under his grip. “I think we would have equal chances of getting head or being castrated.”
“Probably both,” Liam snipes, and this isn’t the ‘sensible’ boy who stays in and makes sure they wear seatbelts- no, this is the boy who sat with them on the edge of the Empire State building with a bottle of champagne and the boy who took Zayn to the race course and flew them down a hill at 200 km/h.
The two of them grin at each other for a moment, a little shy, before Liam punches his shoulder and whispers ‘c’mon, cowboy’ and drags him into the closest crowd.
And they don’t know the song and they’ve never heard of the band but everyone around them is so happy, and the line ‘want to chase forever down, with you all around’ rings in his ears, and Zayn rediscovers the music that made a fifteen year old boy in Bradford comfortable in his skin.
/ / /
Panic!’s set is still twenty minutes away but they’re in the crowd already, pushed together a few rows from the front. The crowd is nothing in comparison to the nineteen thousand of a week ago but they’re a different type of restless, a different type of young, a different type of excited, and Zayn feels like a different type of himself.
Liam’s bent over, whispering in his ear with a gentle hand on his wrist as the sun sets fire to their shoulders, when a girl in front of them rotates to shoot them a smile.
(different, Zayn thinks, his reflex smile melting into a more genuine one in the obscene heat, different in the clothes and the smile and the sparkle of the eyes)
“I know you wanted a normal day,” she says apologetically, and Liam shoots her a smile that warms the atmosphere more than the water vapour or ozone or hot, Texan sun, “but could you write ‘Warped 2012’ on me?”
They grin and take the offered Sharpies and scribble it on her exposed shoulder. Liam’s making small talk about the city and the music and the band and ‘but no tattoos until you’re legal, lady, and nowhere that would stunt your employment possibilities, I don’t want to be a cause of homelessness’-
- and Zayn’s not quite sure what triggers the undeniable groan of his heart, but he’s sure it’s a combination of Liam’s carefree smile and the way his eyes look, with the low sun streaking pink through the sky, highlighting the gold, and the way his big hand feels on the small of his back.
(he manages to swallow his words, but only because Liam’s fingers start stroking through his singlet, and only because of the smile across his lips that Zayn can’t bear to ruin, and only because of the roar of the crowd as the band walks on stage)
/ / /
Zayn doesn’t know the setlist half as well as Liam, but it doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter because the crowd more than compensates, singing the words and absorbing the moment as though it’s the oxygen for their lungs, dancing and thrumming to the heavy beat, laughing at the band’s antics just like they do for One Direction.
It doesn’t matter because Zayn was completely unaware that other bands were like them, that other bands touched and groped and fooled around, and it makes him feel a little less alone when Brendon sheds his shirt and starts singing a cover of lets get it on hotly in his guitarist’s ear.
It doesn’t matter because Liam is wedged sideways, and every few lines he’ll shoot him this smile that promises ‘hello you, we’re together, right, you and me, me and you, this is happening, we’re happening, the world’s happening, and we’re not the centre, right now, we’re just a satellite in today’s orbit’.
It doesn’t matter because the dust kicked up by a thousand pairs of shoes is both clogging and clearing his lungs and coating his skin and washing away the last six months of oppression and management and image and hotel rooms.
It doesn’t matter because the music, here, while so different to their own sound and Zayn’s own taste, is still like the hymn for this choir.
And it doesn’t matter because Liam’s grip on his wrist hasn’t loosened and Zayn hasn’t seen him this beautifully blithe in months and for a second (just one) he wonders if he could keep that smile on his lips for the rest of his life.
/ / /
Halfway through the show, Liam leans close and sings a ‘ever since we met, I only shoot up with your perfume’ that leaves him dizzy and in the clouds.
/ / /
The band’s just finished a song that sounds more like lyrical sex than anything Zayn’s ever heard, and Liam looks so gorgeous in the stage lights, less harsh than their own, and he wants to spend the rest of his life trying to find a word to adequately describe the feeling in the pit of his heart.
He’s about to taste a ‘flawless’ on his tongue when Brendon brings out a keyboard, and Liam nearly faints with anticipation.
“Hello sexy,” Brendon says, propping himself on a stool and dropping his voice to a growl. Everyone in the crowd is holding onto their breaths. “I’m positive you’re waiting for New Perspective, but I have a proposition for you-”
Someone in the front row yells ‘yes I will have sex with you’, and Brendon exposes the long line of his neck as he laughs.
“Call me when you’re legal, sugar,” he teases, playing a haphazard chord that is so dysfunctional it’s almost pretty. “But this song was written by a group of boys trying to find their place in this fucked up world, and is sung by one who finally thinks he’s found his. This is Northern Downpour and I miss you, Ross.”
He swirls around to yell something similar to ‘without tears’ at the drummer, who flashes him a smile. An acoustic guitar is playing soft chords and Liam’s behind him, now, an arm twirled around his hip, singing softly into his neck.
Tripping eyes and flooded lungs / Northern Downpour sends its love.
They’re swaying softly to the music and Zayn has never felt this buoyant before in his entire life, which makes as little sense in his head as it does out loud, and he can’t help but lean back and nuzzle into the touch and forget about the press and the fans and the future, at least for the duration of the song.
I missed your skin when you were east / you clicked your heels and wished for me.
He’s about to tell Liam that he would happily drown in this crowd with him and just stay in the dirt and plastic cups and hot sun for the rest of his forever when one of the guards sprays a hose over the crowd, saturating their clothes and swirling in the late breeze and dancing in the pink sky.
He flashes a grin at Liam and runs his hand through his damp hair to push it off his forehead, only to have another set of fingers swat them away to mimic the action.
They smile at each other, unaware of the gentle rock of their hips, and Liam shifts closer to sing along.
“I know the world’s a broken bone,” he harmonises, tightening his hold on Zayn’s waist, and they’re soaked and overheated and fuck his hand’s burying itself in the hair at the nape of Liam’s neck, massaging the muscle there, and Zayn can’t help it, he couldn’t help falling in love and he couldn’t help telling him last night and he certainly can’t help it now- “but melt your headaches, call it home.”
“I love you,” Zayn says hopelessly, squeezing at his tendons, pressing their foreheads together, but the crowd drowns them out with soft echoes of ‘hey moon, please forget to go down’ and Liam’s eyes are scrunched and Zayn just wants to pull them wide.
The crowd continues swaying and echoing long after the song finishes, but he can’t blame them for the momentum, can’t blame them for wanting to hold on to the hour, because he would throw away his world to spend this uninterrupted time with Liam all over.
/ / /
The amps are still ringing in Zayn’s ears as they stumble out of the crowd, his knees still locked, his throat still dry, a smile still across his lips.
Liam grips his wrist again and pulls him close, lifting his feet off the ground with the hug. “I will show you this world, Zayn Malik,” he says softly, but Zayn isn’t sure if he’s aware of his moving lips, “it’ll be our haven from the chaos.”
(Liam pulls away and a gentle blush stains his cheeks, and it takes Zayn a moment to realise that these uncharted waters are scary for him, too)
He strokes the tattoo and in the soft light of the dark blue sky, his lips twitch into a smile. “C’mon,” he says, dragging him across the dirt field to the nearest merch stand and buying a pullover with Warped ’12 on the front. “You never were able to keep warm at night.”
He grins and sheds his drenched singlet (only just missing the way Liam’s eyes linger on his abs with a certain hunger), pulling on the jumper. Liam’s fingers sneak under the cuff.
“What’s under the microphone?” he asks, in the shadows of the tent, with the city lights of Houston dancing in the distance.
Zayn inhales a little too sharply and catches his eye in the dark. “Stay. Fight. Live. Take it. Cry. Cry. Cry.”
/ / /
Liam pauses, almost like he needs a moment to process the information, before his grip tightens. “Do you understand the significance of that quote?” he asks, a little harshly, as if he expects a harsher response.
/ / /
(and yes, Zayn does recognise the significance of the quote he had injected into him for two fucking hours: he remembers going from the euphoria of the tour to the trepidation of the funeral and calling Liam who didn’t offer a ‘it will be okay he would be proud of you he had a good life it was his time he’s in a better place now’- no, he had sung Ella Fitzgerald until he’d calmed down and read that James Frey book until his lungs stopped aching)
(he also remembers waking up and being completely and infuriatingly in love with Liam, but that moment of clarity is one of his few secrets and he decides to hold onto it, for now)
(at least until Liam holds his hand properly)
(then it might spill out)
/ / /
He nods slowly, hair falling in his face. Liam pushes it back for him and it’s tense, for a moment, but then Liam drags him into the closest crowd and, it’s rougher than the fragility of Northern Downpour, but Zayn barely notices, because-
“You arsehole,” Liam groans, knocking off his snapback, and then ducks to press his lips hard against Zayn’s, and the whole world starts spinning anti-clockwise. It’s so hot and rough and Liam doesn’t even pause before he gnaws on his bottom lip and slips an utterly indecent tongue into his mouth and-
He’s dying, truthfully, his hands sneaking under the collar of Liam’s shirt and clawing at the skin and his heart is racing in time with the beat and ‘the summer was full of mistakes we wouldn’t learn from’ echoes true in his ears.
/ / /
They’re stopped just outside the exit by a girl with a heavy camera and a memory card in hand. “When you leave, this will feel like a dream,” she says, passing him the chip, “this is to remind you.”
(and later, much later, Zayn frames the photo of them tangled up in the middle of the crowd with their foreheads pressed together and a shower of water clinging to their cheeks, right next to the one of the five of them at the Brit awards in his hallway)
(and later still, close to Christmas, he gets a painter to etch the photo of them kissing onto a blackboard wall in a spare room, and when Liam sees, he grabs him by the shirt and drags him to his bedroom and fucks him for the very first time)
(but that’s a whole era away)
(and Zayn wants to focus on the present)
/ / /
They stumble into Louis’ waiting car and tangle their limbs together the second the door closes, their lips meeting soft then colliding hard and their hands running under shirts and teasing waistbands and-
“Hello sailor,” Louis teases, and they both spare a hand (Zayn’s from his hair, Liam’s from the shallow of his back) to flick him two fingers. “Are you the type to fuck on a first date?”
“Fuck off, Lou,” they chorus, but Zayn catches his eye and smiles in the review mirror. That’s forgotten, though, when Liam crawls over to straddle his lap and lick into his mouth and whisper ‘I’m sorry I’m so fucking sorry I thought you were kidding we won’t be a gâchis we will not be a wasted opportunity I love you, Zayn Malik-’
(and Zayn makes a noise that he will come to associate with him and soft kisses, and Liam presses a little closer, and Louis has the good sense to leave the car in the hotel parking lot as they sprawl across the backseat)
“All day,” Liam mumbles, as they quickly unbutton their shorts and shove them down and start an awkward and unconventional rhythm of their hips that leaves Zayn breathless. “Your lips- that fucking bottle- and your smile and your shoulders, Zayn, I swear your cruelty was intentional-”
Zayn mouths the tanned column of his neck, tonguing at the edge of the birthmark, and Liam grasps his hips and takes control and their cocks rub rough together and Zayn just wants the heat fogging the windows to swallow him whole.
Their heavy breaths lose synchronicity and regain that desperation that saturates Zayn’s blood. Their hips stutter and their moans catch and their fingers interlace as they come, and the air in the car smells of sex and dirt and sweat.
(and Zayn never wants to leave)
/ / /
A few months later, after a You Me At Six gig in London and with a blanket around their ankles, Liam brushes his lips across his cheekbone and presses his fresh ‘make music for yourself’ tattoo against Zayn’s chest. “You are at the top of my lungs,” he whispers shyly, as though he’s not quite sure if it’s allowed.
“And you’re at the bottom of my heart,” Zayn replies, and Liam grips his wrist a little tighter.
(and they’re slowly mapping out these uncharted waters)
Author: transgenicveins
Pairing: Liam Payne / Zayn Malik
Rating: Uh NC-17 supposedly
Word count: ~4800
Warnings: Real person slash, terrible paragraph structure, severely unlinear events.
Summary: 'it's just Liam and Zayn and red dirt and the hot sun and a whole new uncharted world of music.' (alternatively, One Direction at Warped Tour)
A/N: This is the outcome of combined (a) Ziam feels because of always, (b) Panic! feels because of tweets and (c) intense nostalgia over the best day of my life.
It’s because of the moment, Zayn chants- softly, in his head, as though the rest of his subconscious is afraid to let him hear- while he watches Liam absorb Ft. Lauderdale one last time. It’s because of the crowd and the last six months and attachment issues and he’s like a brother, that’s what we said, right, a brother, a brother, a shoulder angel, a voice of reason, a best friend, the sole bane and blessing of existence-
Zayn hasn’t felt this disconnected or conflicted in years, not since Simon had leant over his glass desk and offered them a future on a silver platter, and Zayn had signed away his voice without a second thought. He feels like there are a billion different nerve messages and hormone responses and words thumping through his spinal cord and bloodstream and they’re all trying to escape, seeping through his pores and clenching in his muscles and clogging his throat. Liam’s right there with an arm wrapped firmly around his shoulders when it stumbles out.
“I love you,” he says clumsily, and Liam barely reacts at all.
It’s not like he should react, though. This isn’t a new development in any sense: Zayn’s loved his bandmates since the competition, when they spent dozens of nights rehearsing so he felt comfortable in his own skin, and he tells the four of them every time he drinks a little too much, and one day, over a post-show English Breakfast at midnight, he mumbled it to Liam and realised that he couldn’t just say it to him, anymore, he had to feel it, too.
(Liam doesn’t know about that latest development, though)
(and this is the first time he’s said it out loud in months)
(and it sounds so fragile in his throat)
(so Liam should, at least, flinch or inhale or something)
Instead, he shoots Zayn that smile that’s entirely for him- where his eyes crinkle a little and twinkle and his tongue sneaks between his shiny teeth- and whispers “I’m proud of you, mate,” without a second thought.
And Zayn’s been doing a brilliant job at ignoring the whole situation, but their eyes meet and he has to look away so he doesn’t drown in the uncharted waters.
/ / /
He locks himself in a bathroom backstage and spends a whole twenty minutes schooling his features into something that doesn’t scream ‘holy fucking god I adore you you gorgeous bastard you convert oxygen into perfection to contribute to this fucked up atmosphere’.
Once successful (which takes a water bottle thrown through his hair and half a cigarette and a whole passage of quoted Bukowski), he stumbles to his dressing room, and a hand - foreign, stronger than those he holds onto in thunderstorms and turbulence and traffic- tugs him into a closet.
“The fuck-” he starts, but long blonde hair is tickling his cheekbones and a light is being flicked on and a very distinguishable Andy is grinning at him.
“Mate,” Andy says, raising a cocky eyebrow, “your infatuation was visible from the rooftop.”
Zayn groans into the collar of his shirt. “We’re just friends,” he mumbles, ignoring the burn in his lungs that insists otherwise.
Andy makes a noise of protest and looks curiously at his face, that hint of a grin across his lips which promises trouble. “Oblivious,” he scoffs, but more like he’s surprised as opposed to disapproving, “you should stop smoking and smouldering-”
“Staring,” Zayn corrects automatically.
“- because obviously it’s making you fucking blind.”
He scowls and reaches an arm around Andy to flick off the light because really, the blush heating his cheeks is a little embarrassing.
“It’ll be on tumblr within the hour,” he teases, pressing their cheeks together, “and your blush is radiating-”
The door opens and Liam mumbles an ‘um, am I interrupting?’ which makes Zayn want to kiss the frown right off his pink lips.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Li,” Andy laughs, wrapping his fingers in Liam’s shirt and tugging him inside, and Zayn’s so grateful for the darkness because the absolute pining is exceptionally hard to hold back when others are touching Liam.
(Liam’s hand is wrapped around his wrist, though, pressing delicately against the microphone tattoo which covers the other ink he wasn’t quite prepared to show the world, and his accelerated heartbeat dilutes the longing in his lungs)
“You know that you would be the feature of any of my experimental sodomy acts,” Andy teases, sucking obscenely on Liam’s neck. He pushes himself against Zayn in an effort to escape the contact and Zayn never wants to leave this dusty closet, not for London or cigarettes or oxygen or anything.
“Oh please,” Liam says, and he’s squashed against Zayn’s side but it’s still the most comfortable he’s been in days, “the fans would throw a fit. You know I’m only allowed to engage in bondage-wax-play-cross-dressing-masochism-daddy-dominant-costume-kink orgies with the band when we’re emotionally vulnerable.”
Andy shoots Zayn a grin and he deliberately knocks his head against the shelf behind him in response.
“About that,” he starts, and Zayn stomps hard on his foot in protest.
“Wax play?” Liam laughs (giggles, truthfully, and Zayn’s heart expands to about three times its normal size), “Andy, you kinky fuck.”
Andy smirks cheekily and wraps an arm around both of them. “I was more highlighting the ‘emotionally vulnerable’ portion,” he laughs, waving two tickets in the dark. “This tour was your lovechild-”
(Zayn pinches the tender inside of Andy’s bicep and revels in the yelp of protest)
“- and there’s no better way to get over the panic than to enter a warped reality-”
Liam makes an unfathomable noise and starts squeezing Zayn’s arm sporadically. “Puns,” he breathes, and he should be looking at Andy but he’s staring at Zayn, and the grin across his lips makes his heart ache. “Please Andy-”
“- which is why you two are going to Warped Tour feat. Panic-exclamation-point at the Disco in Texas tomorrow.”
“Andy, you fucking angel,” he says, like a prayer, and he releases Zayn’s wrist to throw his arms around his oldest friend.
(and Zayn would feel that crush of jealous longing, except Liam twists in Andy’s grip to flash him a smile, and it fills his blood with happiness so quickly it leaves him dizzy)
/ / /
“We’re just friends,” Zayn repeats to the mirror, some ten hours later in the gentle light of the jet.
Louis scoffs from his bed and, okay, so they were a little affectionate and sensitive last night, but his constant state of debauchery is completely unjustified. “Yeah, best friends on a date.”
Zayn ruffles his thick hair and he just doesn’t look right, doesn’t look like he deserves Liam, like his eyes are too hooded and his body doesn’t fit his skin and his shoulders aren’t broad enough for Liam to claw as he rocks into Zayn’s pliant body-
He blushes and meets Louis’ eye in the mirror. “Warped isn’t a date.”
“Leeds was a date,” Harry teases, wrapping a sleepy arm around Zayn’s waist and stretching his singlet to expose more of his sternum and whispering a ‘stop it you look fucking hot’.
“Michael Buble with Josh was a date,” Niall says, flashing him a frankly civilized grin that contradicts his grinding hips on stage.
“The Honda Centre with Eleanor was a date,” Andy calls from behind his laptop.
Zayn swats Harry’s hands out of his hair and bends over to roll up the cuffs of his jean shorts and ignores Louis’ cat-call. “Those were with people you shared a mutual attraction-”
Niall makes a gurgling sound of protest from his chair. “Boys,” he says roughly, but that’s more from sleep than overuse, and it reminds Zayn of how Liam sounds in the morning (confused, gravelly, ethereal, like he’s suspended in a dream). “Hands up if you remember Zayn hiding his erection behind the couch when Liam sang Climax last week?”
Zayn mashes his cheek against the mirror in protest as three of his bandmates and Andy raise their hands, and he’s never been quite this thankful for his best friend’s absence. “Stop,” he protests weakly, “we’re not-”
Harry smirks. “And hands up if you can remember Liam groaning into his keyboard when Zayn posted that video of him thrusting?”
“Groaning with shame,” Zayn corrects, shifting to glare at him, “and he’s a thin lining of aluminium away so shut the fuck-”
“Hands up if you remember Zayn waxing drunken poetic nonsense about his laugh-”
“- or Liam giving him his jacket when we were filming One Thing-”
“- or Zayn saying ‘it was a joke, I swear’ while he drowned his regrets in whiskey-”
“- that’s nothing in comparison to ‘we all know Zayn’s got the prettiest voice’-”
“- or the time Zayn flicked the crowd the finger when a girl asked Liam to take off his shirt-”
“Paul!” Zayn gasps, and the other four are laughing and it’s echoing and he feels like he needs an oxygen mask.
“I’m sick of the sexual tension,” Paul says sternly. Liam chooses that moment to exit the bathroom looking so fucking dapper in his light denim shorts and loose t-shirt that exposes his collarbones and-
“One more,” Harry says slowly, and he sounds confident, but his hand is wrapped in the back of Zayn’s shirt like an anchor, and his eyes are locked on Liam’s like a promise. “Hands up if you remember the two of them spending the past six months cuddling and whispering and nuzzling and staring and-”
“Point made,” Zayn scowls, but Liam looks shy and is shooting him that smile and the air pressure in the cabin is a little warmer than usual and-
well-
(the sun shines a little brighter and Harry lets go of his singlet and Liam will keep him safe in this unexplored ocean, at least for now)
/ / /
Andy drives them to the venue and there’s not a screaming girl in sight.
(well, there is, but they’re screaming at each other and singing to each other and it’s so fucking refreshing to be this anonymous)
“It’s going to be different,” Andy says (repeats), turning down the radio, and Liam makes a noise of protest, “but you two need some abnormality to find your normal.”
Liam squirms in his spot beside Zayn and grins at him as if they’re sharing a secret or a moment or both.
Andy scowls at them in the revision mirror, but the sweet smile on his lips ruins the effect. “And make sure you reapply sunscreen and drink plenty of water and keep your phones safe and-”
(“I thought you were meant to be the dad,” Zayn whispers, and the two share a laugh and he just wants to spend the entire day in this space between breaths)
“- and you only have a few hours before the fan girls come exploring-”
(“I thought you were meant to be all brooding and silent,” Liam replies, and no, Zayn wants to spend forever here)
“- and have fun okay?” Andy rushes out, and Zayn flashes him a grin before pulling Liam out of the car and into the whole new world.
/ / /
It’s just so different, at Warped.
“Fuck,” Liam breathes, and Zayn can’t help but agree.
They walk through the gates and it’s nothing like the ghostly, empty stadiums they’re used to- there’s red dirt and the hot hot sun and twelve different bands blaring out twelve different songs.
Zayn flashes him a smile and Liam wraps a hand around his wrist. As far as disguises go (considering Zayn went blond for a weekend of freedom in Paris), their Aviators and Raybans and Zayn’s snapback are pretty weak, but bar the few curious glances, no one stops them.
They walk and order two Heinekens at Liam’s insistence and his hand is still stroking Zayn’s tattoo and it’s fun, walking around and eating hot dogs and listening to half a dozen bands from the outskirts of the crowd and watching Liam’s eyes crinkle with happiness and-
“Zayn,” Liam groans, and it’s sexual enough to shock him out of focus from the acoustic number. “Brendon Urie is approaching Brendon bloody Urie is smiling at me Zayn save me-”
“Hey,” the guy says happily, with wide eyes and a big smile and tight jeans. Liam’s grip tightens. “You’re from the boy band, right?”
Liam just squeezes Zayn’s arm. “The British boys with the hair,” Zayn teases, “that’s us.”
Brendon grins. “Well, you’re brilliant for what it’s worth,” he says, and Liam makes an incoherent noise. “We’re kids, just like you guys. We make music for ourselves.”
Liam stares at him. “Can you write that down for me?”
“Li,” Zayn teases, as Brendon pulls a receipt out of his pocket, “I thought you didn’t want tattoos.”
Liam only squeezes on the head of the microphone stained on his forearm in response.
They’re staring at each other and Zayn doesn’t notice the longing in his eyes until Brendon sighs lightly. “I remember that,” he says, handing Liam the scribbled receipt, with a sweet smile across his lips to match the tone of his voice. “I hope to see you at the set.”
They get a quick photo together, Brendon in the middle, with Liam’s hand touching his wrist behind their backs, and Brendon mock-salutes them with that huge smile and disappears in the clouds of dirt.
“What do you think would happen if we were in our crowds?” Liam asks.
Zayn laughs and tenses the tendons under his grip. “I think we would have equal chances of getting head or being castrated.”
“Probably both,” Liam snipes, and this isn’t the ‘sensible’ boy who stays in and makes sure they wear seatbelts- no, this is the boy who sat with them on the edge of the Empire State building with a bottle of champagne and the boy who took Zayn to the race course and flew them down a hill at 200 km/h.
The two of them grin at each other for a moment, a little shy, before Liam punches his shoulder and whispers ‘c’mon, cowboy’ and drags him into the closest crowd.
And they don’t know the song and they’ve never heard of the band but everyone around them is so happy, and the line ‘want to chase forever down, with you all around’ rings in his ears, and Zayn rediscovers the music that made a fifteen year old boy in Bradford comfortable in his skin.
/ / /
Panic!’s set is still twenty minutes away but they’re in the crowd already, pushed together a few rows from the front. The crowd is nothing in comparison to the nineteen thousand of a week ago but they’re a different type of restless, a different type of young, a different type of excited, and Zayn feels like a different type of himself.
Liam’s bent over, whispering in his ear with a gentle hand on his wrist as the sun sets fire to their shoulders, when a girl in front of them rotates to shoot them a smile.
(different, Zayn thinks, his reflex smile melting into a more genuine one in the obscene heat, different in the clothes and the smile and the sparkle of the eyes)
“I know you wanted a normal day,” she says apologetically, and Liam shoots her a smile that warms the atmosphere more than the water vapour or ozone or hot, Texan sun, “but could you write ‘Warped 2012’ on me?”
They grin and take the offered Sharpies and scribble it on her exposed shoulder. Liam’s making small talk about the city and the music and the band and ‘but no tattoos until you’re legal, lady, and nowhere that would stunt your employment possibilities, I don’t want to be a cause of homelessness’-
- and Zayn’s not quite sure what triggers the undeniable groan of his heart, but he’s sure it’s a combination of Liam’s carefree smile and the way his eyes look, with the low sun streaking pink through the sky, highlighting the gold, and the way his big hand feels on the small of his back.
(he manages to swallow his words, but only because Liam’s fingers start stroking through his singlet, and only because of the smile across his lips that Zayn can’t bear to ruin, and only because of the roar of the crowd as the band walks on stage)
/ / /
Zayn doesn’t know the setlist half as well as Liam, but it doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter because the crowd more than compensates, singing the words and absorbing the moment as though it’s the oxygen for their lungs, dancing and thrumming to the heavy beat, laughing at the band’s antics just like they do for One Direction.
It doesn’t matter because Zayn was completely unaware that other bands were like them, that other bands touched and groped and fooled around, and it makes him feel a little less alone when Brendon sheds his shirt and starts singing a cover of lets get it on hotly in his guitarist’s ear.
It doesn’t matter because Liam is wedged sideways, and every few lines he’ll shoot him this smile that promises ‘hello you, we’re together, right, you and me, me and you, this is happening, we’re happening, the world’s happening, and we’re not the centre, right now, we’re just a satellite in today’s orbit’.
It doesn’t matter because the dust kicked up by a thousand pairs of shoes is both clogging and clearing his lungs and coating his skin and washing away the last six months of oppression and management and image and hotel rooms.
It doesn’t matter because the music, here, while so different to their own sound and Zayn’s own taste, is still like the hymn for this choir.
And it doesn’t matter because Liam’s grip on his wrist hasn’t loosened and Zayn hasn’t seen him this beautifully blithe in months and for a second (just one) he wonders if he could keep that smile on his lips for the rest of his life.
/ / /
Halfway through the show, Liam leans close and sings a ‘ever since we met, I only shoot up with your perfume’ that leaves him dizzy and in the clouds.
/ / /
The band’s just finished a song that sounds more like lyrical sex than anything Zayn’s ever heard, and Liam looks so gorgeous in the stage lights, less harsh than their own, and he wants to spend the rest of his life trying to find a word to adequately describe the feeling in the pit of his heart.
He’s about to taste a ‘flawless’ on his tongue when Brendon brings out a keyboard, and Liam nearly faints with anticipation.
“Hello sexy,” Brendon says, propping himself on a stool and dropping his voice to a growl. Everyone in the crowd is holding onto their breaths. “I’m positive you’re waiting for New Perspective, but I have a proposition for you-”
Someone in the front row yells ‘yes I will have sex with you’, and Brendon exposes the long line of his neck as he laughs.
“Call me when you’re legal, sugar,” he teases, playing a haphazard chord that is so dysfunctional it’s almost pretty. “But this song was written by a group of boys trying to find their place in this fucked up world, and is sung by one who finally thinks he’s found his. This is Northern Downpour and I miss you, Ross.”
He swirls around to yell something similar to ‘without tears’ at the drummer, who flashes him a smile. An acoustic guitar is playing soft chords and Liam’s behind him, now, an arm twirled around his hip, singing softly into his neck.
Tripping eyes and flooded lungs / Northern Downpour sends its love.
They’re swaying softly to the music and Zayn has never felt this buoyant before in his entire life, which makes as little sense in his head as it does out loud, and he can’t help but lean back and nuzzle into the touch and forget about the press and the fans and the future, at least for the duration of the song.
I missed your skin when you were east / you clicked your heels and wished for me.
He’s about to tell Liam that he would happily drown in this crowd with him and just stay in the dirt and plastic cups and hot sun for the rest of his forever when one of the guards sprays a hose over the crowd, saturating their clothes and swirling in the late breeze and dancing in the pink sky.
He flashes a grin at Liam and runs his hand through his damp hair to push it off his forehead, only to have another set of fingers swat them away to mimic the action.
They smile at each other, unaware of the gentle rock of their hips, and Liam shifts closer to sing along.
“I know the world’s a broken bone,” he harmonises, tightening his hold on Zayn’s waist, and they’re soaked and overheated and fuck his hand’s burying itself in the hair at the nape of Liam’s neck, massaging the muscle there, and Zayn can’t help it, he couldn’t help falling in love and he couldn’t help telling him last night and he certainly can’t help it now- “but melt your headaches, call it home.”
“I love you,” Zayn says hopelessly, squeezing at his tendons, pressing their foreheads together, but the crowd drowns them out with soft echoes of ‘hey moon, please forget to go down’ and Liam’s eyes are scrunched and Zayn just wants to pull them wide.
The crowd continues swaying and echoing long after the song finishes, but he can’t blame them for the momentum, can’t blame them for wanting to hold on to the hour, because he would throw away his world to spend this uninterrupted time with Liam all over.
/ / /
The amps are still ringing in Zayn’s ears as they stumble out of the crowd, his knees still locked, his throat still dry, a smile still across his lips.
Liam grips his wrist again and pulls him close, lifting his feet off the ground with the hug. “I will show you this world, Zayn Malik,” he says softly, but Zayn isn’t sure if he’s aware of his moving lips, “it’ll be our haven from the chaos.”
(Liam pulls away and a gentle blush stains his cheeks, and it takes Zayn a moment to realise that these uncharted waters are scary for him, too)
He strokes the tattoo and in the soft light of the dark blue sky, his lips twitch into a smile. “C’mon,” he says, dragging him across the dirt field to the nearest merch stand and buying a pullover with Warped ’12 on the front. “You never were able to keep warm at night.”
He grins and sheds his drenched singlet (only just missing the way Liam’s eyes linger on his abs with a certain hunger), pulling on the jumper. Liam’s fingers sneak under the cuff.
“What’s under the microphone?” he asks, in the shadows of the tent, with the city lights of Houston dancing in the distance.
Zayn inhales a little too sharply and catches his eye in the dark. “Stay. Fight. Live. Take it. Cry. Cry. Cry.”
/ / /
Liam pauses, almost like he needs a moment to process the information, before his grip tightens. “Do you understand the significance of that quote?” he asks, a little harshly, as if he expects a harsher response.
/ / /
(and yes, Zayn does recognise the significance of the quote he had injected into him for two fucking hours: he remembers going from the euphoria of the tour to the trepidation of the funeral and calling Liam who didn’t offer a ‘it will be okay he would be proud of you he had a good life it was his time he’s in a better place now’- no, he had sung Ella Fitzgerald until he’d calmed down and read that James Frey book until his lungs stopped aching)
(he also remembers waking up and being completely and infuriatingly in love with Liam, but that moment of clarity is one of his few secrets and he decides to hold onto it, for now)
(at least until Liam holds his hand properly)
(then it might spill out)
/ / /
He nods slowly, hair falling in his face. Liam pushes it back for him and it’s tense, for a moment, but then Liam drags him into the closest crowd and, it’s rougher than the fragility of Northern Downpour, but Zayn barely notices, because-
“You arsehole,” Liam groans, knocking off his snapback, and then ducks to press his lips hard against Zayn’s, and the whole world starts spinning anti-clockwise. It’s so hot and rough and Liam doesn’t even pause before he gnaws on his bottom lip and slips an utterly indecent tongue into his mouth and-
He’s dying, truthfully, his hands sneaking under the collar of Liam’s shirt and clawing at the skin and his heart is racing in time with the beat and ‘the summer was full of mistakes we wouldn’t learn from’ echoes true in his ears.
/ / /
They’re stopped just outside the exit by a girl with a heavy camera and a memory card in hand. “When you leave, this will feel like a dream,” she says, passing him the chip, “this is to remind you.”
(and later, much later, Zayn frames the photo of them tangled up in the middle of the crowd with their foreheads pressed together and a shower of water clinging to their cheeks, right next to the one of the five of them at the Brit awards in his hallway)
(and later still, close to Christmas, he gets a painter to etch the photo of them kissing onto a blackboard wall in a spare room, and when Liam sees, he grabs him by the shirt and drags him to his bedroom and fucks him for the very first time)
(but that’s a whole era away)
(and Zayn wants to focus on the present)
/ / /
They stumble into Louis’ waiting car and tangle their limbs together the second the door closes, their lips meeting soft then colliding hard and their hands running under shirts and teasing waistbands and-
“Hello sailor,” Louis teases, and they both spare a hand (Zayn’s from his hair, Liam’s from the shallow of his back) to flick him two fingers. “Are you the type to fuck on a first date?”
“Fuck off, Lou,” they chorus, but Zayn catches his eye and smiles in the review mirror. That’s forgotten, though, when Liam crawls over to straddle his lap and lick into his mouth and whisper ‘I’m sorry I’m so fucking sorry I thought you were kidding we won’t be a gâchis we will not be a wasted opportunity I love you, Zayn Malik-’
(and Zayn makes a noise that he will come to associate with him and soft kisses, and Liam presses a little closer, and Louis has the good sense to leave the car in the hotel parking lot as they sprawl across the backseat)
“All day,” Liam mumbles, as they quickly unbutton their shorts and shove them down and start an awkward and unconventional rhythm of their hips that leaves Zayn breathless. “Your lips- that fucking bottle- and your smile and your shoulders, Zayn, I swear your cruelty was intentional-”
Zayn mouths the tanned column of his neck, tonguing at the edge of the birthmark, and Liam grasps his hips and takes control and their cocks rub rough together and Zayn just wants the heat fogging the windows to swallow him whole.
Their heavy breaths lose synchronicity and regain that desperation that saturates Zayn’s blood. Their hips stutter and their moans catch and their fingers interlace as they come, and the air in the car smells of sex and dirt and sweat.
(and Zayn never wants to leave)
/ / /
A few months later, after a You Me At Six gig in London and with a blanket around their ankles, Liam brushes his lips across his cheekbone and presses his fresh ‘make music for yourself’ tattoo against Zayn’s chest. “You are at the top of my lungs,” he whispers shyly, as though he’s not quite sure if it’s allowed.
“And you’re at the bottom of my heart,” Zayn replies, and Liam grips his wrist a little tighter.
(and they’re slowly mapping out these uncharted waters)