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The gig honestly isn’t the biggest thing Zayn’s played, but it’s an audience for his music, so he’s practically bubbling with anticipation as he sets up on stage. It doesn’t show on his face though, with the way his brows are drawn tight as he tunes his guitar, and scuffs the tip of his shoe against the legs of his stool, but with anticipation also comes an unending stream of nerves.
To an extent, Zayn knows he’s a good musician, that he’s talented both in voice and strum, but it’s the fact that the sea of eyes watching him are only his second biggest critic - second to himself, that is - that makes his voice crack when he speaks into the microphone, “Hey there, my name is Zayn and, uh, I’ll be playing a few songs for you tonight.” The crowd cheers when he pauses for a breath but it does wonders for his confidence, and if he sits a bit straighter, he doesn’t think anyone will really notice. “So I hope you enjoy,”
“This is Comes And Goes.” There’s another cheer but Zayn doesn’t focus on that this time. No, call him a sentimental, but he pulls out a necklace tucked into his shirt and brushes his lips over it for a fraction of a second before he returns it to its rightful place against his chest and presses his fingers to their respective cords. The song comes easy after that, especially when he closes his eyes and pretends he’s back in his room, just practicing instead of actually performing.
That leads him down a dangerous road though, one that reminds him of a soft hand threading through the hair at the nape of his neck, a mouth smearing vanilla lipgloss against his temple and his jaw, incessant humming and lithe arms around his waist, and he did write the song for her after all, about her more like, but even just thinking about her reminds him of the last time he actually saw her, after the crash, when she was more machine and wire than skin.
It makes him fumble up the chorus a little bit, the thought of leaving her in that hospital bed, but he doesn’t think- he prays that people don’t notice. There are some in attendance singing along with him and they don’t seem to care, and seeing as they’re the ones that actually know the song Zayn figures he’s good. It’s smooth after that, with Zayn’s attention focused solely on a point far enough in the room while he has his eyes open, on the imagined scene of sheet music propped up with a pillow while he has his eyes close, and before long, he’s playing himself out of the song and the crowd erupts in cheers.
He’s still reeling a little from the song so it takes him a couple clears of his throat before he can speak. “That was a sombre start,” he chuckles, practically relaxing now that he’s gotten through the first song. It’s always the hardest, not to mention a good indication of how the night’s going to go, but he isn’t too worried here. If they got through Comes And Goes, they can get through anything. “How about Pretty Melody to continue?” The roar of the audience is as good an answer as Zayn’s going to get but it makes him smile all the same as he fixes his guitar on his lap.
Zayn plays a couple more of his songs and then a couple requests, says that he loves about three different people when they shout it at him, and then he’s finished. It feels like a blink by the time Zayn’s zipping his guitar into its case and shoving it all into the back of his van but his watch is clearly saying that three hours have passed. Zayn’s not going to lie, it feels a bit like the twilight zone now that he’s finished, but he can’t say he’s not relieved.
See these things always stress him out, like one day someone’s just going to think that he actually sucks and will throw something at him on stage, and Zayn doesn’t know if he can handle that, let alone the rejection. Even though it’s imaginary, the mere thought hits him hard and Zayn runs a crisp hand over his face. He could seriously use a drink so he wanders back inside and heads toward the bar, sliding into a stool and flagging down one of the people stood behind it.
Zayn has to lean over the counter to speak near their ear as the music gets turned up, something off the Billboard Top 100 but Zayn isn’t too bothered. He knows - he hopes - he’ll get there, one day. It’s just a matter of hard work and time, and maybe a little dash of liquid luck. So he’s just sliding his palm around a cool glass of beer when someone sits down on the stool beside him, elbows wily and sharp, nearly knocking Zayn off balance.
“Sorry man!” It’s a guy, a black cap pulled tight over choppy brown hair and he has such lush blue eyes that Zayn feels like he could write sonnets about them. There’s a crooked smile playing across his lips as he looks Zayn from head to toe and Zayn can just about see the recognition dawning on this guy’s face. The guy leans in unnecessarily close but Zayn’s pretty much used to it by now, what with overzealous people in his audience (he doesn’t think he can call them fans just yet). “Hey,” the guy croons, tapping a finger against the counter halfway between them. “I heard your set before. You’re really talented.”
“Thanks.” Zayn tilts his glass in appreciation and takes a long pull, partially hoping for the end of this fruitful conversation but he’s never that lucky. The guy beside orders a drink and pretty much stays put, glancing at Zayn twice every few seconds like he wants to say something and isn’t quite sure how to put it, and it’s just enough to make Zayn feel antsy. “You’re not a scout by any chance, are you?” Zayn offers to break the ice, twisting a little in his seat so that his knees are angled toward the stranger.
What Zayn doesn’t expect is for the guy to bark out a laugh, tossing his head back and exposing the length of his neck. His eyes are practically shining when he tilts back down, scrunched up in the corners to match his wide smile and he’s still laughing by the time he speaks, “Shit outta luck, man, sorry.”
Zayn honestly didn’t think he was being that funny but there’s still something about this guy that makes him stay instead of downing his beer and giving some half-hearted excuse to leave. So they get to talking and Zayn figures out this guy is actually named Louis, and that he sometimes bartends here when they’re short-staffed which is why he heard Zayn play, but wasn’t in the audience. Louis goes to classes at the local university during the day and works at the local library most nights, and his life is so painfully average that Zayn is almost jealous.
Because Zayn doesn’t have a routine job and he has at best a high school diploma, and they’re just at a lapse in conversation when Louis asks, “Where are you putting your head tonight?” and Zayn remembers that he absolutely doesn’t have a comfortable place to sleep every night. While he does get to travel sporadically around the UK, in an orbiting circle around Bradford, he does miss the luxuries of living in a house, like running water, and a kitchen, and walls that aren’t paper thin, a mattress, and a comforter in the winter, and a family that always make the bad days a little bit easier.
“My van, actually.” Zayn admits because, at least for the night, he will be pulling into a parking spot and hiding his head under a blanket, hoping that no one spots him before at least dawn. The problem is that Zayn couldn’t rent a motel room fast enough before they were all sold out for some convention in town and he’ll miss the shower but he has a blanket and a back seat that isn’t too hard on the spine. It won’t be the first time he’s done it either, and probably not the last, so he just shrugs it off.
Louis looks a bit appalled though, like the thought had never even occurred to him, and Zayn just holds back from quipping about the life of a struggling musician. He can’t resist a little bit, smiling wryly, “I don’t make enough of a constant income for an apartment, and this is kind of a full time job. Well,” he amends almost instantly, remembering what his mother had shouted at him when he’d told her he still wasn’t going to university after his gap year had ended. “It’s not but,” Zayn shrugs like that explains it all and, surprisingly, Louis seems to get it.
“Yeah, I understand.” Louis nods somberly but the way he turns back to his drink makes Zayn feel like he’s done something wrong. It’s just the way Louis’ staring at it like it’ll give him an answer to a question he hasn’t posed that makes Zayn start to speak, but Louis twists around so sharply that it makes Zayn’s tongue fall short. “I’ve got an extra bed you can sleep in, if it’s not too weird.” Louis says and Zayn is so stunned by his words that he doesn’t say anything for a moment. It’s not like he’s ever had this happen before, certainly no one this kind, but Louis must take his silence for hesitance or something like that because his eyes widen in something akin to panic.
“No, yeah, I get it.” Louis babbles quickly, pausing for the briefest moments to down his own drink and the way he slams his glass back down on the counter is just on this side of hard. In his haste, his beer has dribbled down his chin so he swipes at it with a careless hand, before holding them out in clear evidence that he’s backing off, and Zayn isn’t sure that’s what he wants right now. “I’m not a serial killer or anything like that. Although, I think I’d be a pretty shitty killer if I admit to it.” Louis barks out a laugh but it’s forced, a clear sign that he’s feeling awkward, and he looks about ready to turn tail and run, but Zayn’s reaching out for him before he’s even really conscious of it.
“You know what, yeah,” Zayn says, closing his fingers around Louis’ arm and, if Zayn thought he was panicked before, it’s nothing compared to how he looks now, skin all flushed of color and eyes so wide Zayn can see the red in the corners of them. “I mean, I’ll accept your offer.” Zayn explains quickly, pulling his fingers away just in case Louis is thinking about retracting his invitation but then Louis visibly relaxes like a puppet with its strings cut, a small but easy smile spreading across his lips. Zayn feels the need to express his gratitude even more, inclining his head softly as he says, “Thank you.”
“Yeah, no problem,” Louis shrugs and slides back into his chair, and part of Zayn wants to make Louis understand just how big of a deal it is, the fact that he’s willing to open his doors up for a complete stranger just in the name of a good night’s sleep is immensely insane, but Zayn bites his cheek. It’ll be weird if he over sells it but his chest is flush with gratitude.
Louis still seems antsy though so Zayn finishes his drink quickly and leaves a tip on the counter, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair before nodding toward the door so that Louis can lead the way. Except, there again he hesitates, picking at a string on the hem of his shirt. “I don’t live too far so I usually walk home but if you have a car we can take it?” Louis ends on a question with the uncertain raise of his eyebrow, and a part of Zayn is already heading for the door but there’s another, smaller part that is just crying about how trusting Zayn is, too trusting.
He can see the M.O. already, how any witnesses would say they’d seen them leave together, and Zayn’s van would be found without any signs of a struggle or forced entry, and Zayn would probably be far too fatigued to realize that Louis had taken him somewhere nefarious until it was too late. Sure, Louis doesn’t seem like that kind of person but then again they never do. However, a bed is a bed and it’s not long before Zayn’s starting up his car with Louis buckling into the passenger seat. “Where do I go from here?” he says when he’s far enough from the bar to be asking for directions.
“Hm?” Louis starts distractedly and Zayn peers over to see him engrossed in his phone, the screen light turning his face pallor. “Oh, just keep going straight. It’s really not far.” Louis gestures down the street with the edge of his phone, laughing a little at the tail end of his words like he’s said something funny but Zayn doesn’t really get it. It probably has something to do with what Louis said about walking home, but Zayn’s coming down from his show high so he’s just tired enough that he doesn’t really care.
Zayn does glance over at Louis’ phone at the first red light he stops at, for no other reason than he’s a bit of a nosy brat, but what he doesn’t expect to see is something that looks strikingly like the side of his face and the inside of his van on an instagram post with Louis’ face superimposed by his shoulder and an exaggerated pout on his lips, the caption: picked up a new friend x. Louis catches Zayn looking because of course he does, but instead of snapping like Zayn expects him to, he looks cowed, “Uh, sorry, I just felt like,” Louis shrugs jerkily, shutting his phone off before he turns it back on so it looks less like he’s trying to hide the stolen picture.
“They’ll have my face on record so they’ll come to me first if anything.” Louis blurts out, almost incoherently, but Zayn gets the gist of it. The weird part is that it actually kind of makes Zayn feel better, that Louis is taking extra measure to make Zayn feel better, like he’s stepping on eggshells to prove he isn’t a killer. “I can take it down if you want.” Louis rushes to say but Zayn waves his hand to dispel the words.
“It’s fine.” Zayn says because it is. He doesn’t think anyone he knows will end up seeing the picture or wondering who this guy is, mostly because his social circle extends only to his family and maybe one friend that doesn’t gripe too much at the constant lack of contact. It helps Zayn feel like he’ll sleep well tonight and so he smiles, actually smiles completely and genuinely for the first time that night with the feeling of finally being at ease.
Zayn drives steadily forward when the light turns green, and it does give him a little bit of time to process everything, despite the way Louis is twitching restlessly at his side like Zayn’s answer wasn’t enough to calm him down but Zayn isn’t too sure what else he can give. “You’re really strange,” is what he ends up deciding on at the next red light, grinning crookedly when Louis looks up at him and smiles like he’s been complimented.
“I’ve been called worse.” Louis laughs and shoves his phone into his pocket before pointing through the windshield toward a large grey building with a couple towering trees out front. “That’s the complex, on the right.” Louis says and Zayn pulls into the parking lot, circling a couple times before he finds an adequate parking spot. They get out and Zayn grabs his duffle from the boot, complete with a change of clothes and pajamas, as well as bathroom essentials and a bottle of water for those times when he doesn’t have a sink.
Louis leads them through the front door of the building and up three flights of stairs covered in red carpet, down this beige coloured hall with warm wooden door leading to each individual unit until they wind up at apartment 421. Louis has to check his pockets for keys before he sighs and swipes at the top of the doorframe, pulling a spare key from its hiding spot to open the door. “I swear, one of these days I’ll remember my keys,” he mumbles to himself as he stashes the key back in its spot before he steps inside and then he waves a hand at the living room, “Welcome to Casa Horan-Tomlinson.”
Zayn toes off his shoes gingerly as Louis literally kicks them off, letting them stay where they land before strolling further inside but Zayn doesn’t really care about that, it’s not his place anyway. “Horan-Tomlinson?” Zayn asks instead because he’d been wondering about that, how Louis has a second bed just free for use, or whether they were going to be sharing a bed. Louis is obviously not talking about the couch because they, well, they don’t really have one. They have a plush multicolored carpet on the living room floor to soften up the hardwood and several bean bag chairs strewn around but that’s pretty much it.
Well, they do have a television in the corner of the room, a bicycle against the far wall, an imposing wooden cabinet filled with what Zayn can only imagine are DVDs and CDs and such other things. And they have a stubby coffee table and three mismatched stools that look into the kitchen from a section cut out of the wall, but none of those are things that Zayn can actually sleep on. If that’s what Louis’ thinking, Zayn is going to have to politely decline his offer but he is going to leave his van in the car park until morning. It’ll be a bit better than finding another spot to camp out in.
But Louis is quick to correct him, gesturing down the hall, “My roommate - Niall - he’s out of town, hence the extra bed.” Louis offers, beckoning Zayn as he heads away from the living room and the kitchen. Zayn follows if only to not be left alone in the dark entryway but the hallway might be a little worse with the way it trips Zayn up under warped floorboards. It’s not such a far walk that Zayn is worried though, as Louis shows him into the bathroom, the first door on the right, and then his own bedroom, the only door on the left, before finally winding down in Niall’s bedroom, the second door on the right.
It looks like Louis won the luck of the draw because his bedroom is a little bit bigger than Niall’s, but Niall’s is connected to the bathroom so Zayn’s not sure who fares better after that. Niall’s room is, cluttered to say the least, with piles of clothes on the floor and spilling from a tall wardrobe in the corner. He does have guitars on the wall though, both painted on and real, as well as one by his bedside which Zayn thinks must be his favourite so he won’t dare touch it. Zayn sets up on the other side of the bed, clearing himself a little space on the floor before he looks up at Louis, “Is he coming home tonight?”
“He said tomorrow so you should be good.” Louis offers, clearing up a bit of trash from Niall’s desk, some candy wrappers he’s just left around, and he empties Niall’s garbage out before he comes back with a glass of water for Zayn, setting it on the cleared bedside table. “Sleep well,” Louis chirps but he doesn’t give Zayn any time to officially be out of the house and, though he doesn’t want to overstay his welcome, Zayn certainly isn’t going to push his luck.
“Thank you again. I owe you one.” Zayn says a little sheepishly, knowing he has nothing to give Louis in payment. He’d offer to make Louis breakfast but he doesn’t even have food to cook with, so it’d just be labor but that might be enough. Either way, it’s something to think about in the morning. All Zayn has to do right now is get ready for bed.
In the end, he feels a little weird getting into someone else’s bed and sliding under their comforter, resting his head on what might be their favourite pillow, but he’s tired and this could very well be his last good rest for a long time so he’s certainly going to make the most of it.
Except, Zayn suddenly wakes up at two in the morning, - 2:43 AM to be exact, according to the digital clock on the bedside table. He doesn’t really know why he’s stirred though, and anyway, sleep is sore behind his eyes as fatigue tugs at his eyelids like he’s about to tip off again, but some mild form of panic keeps him awake. He just wants to know why, maybe a car roaring past or a tree branch hitting a window, or the creak of floorboards by the foot of the bed.
Zayn twists in the sheets a little to see the shape of a person stripping off their shirt halfway into the room. He has words on the tip of his tongue but they get lodged in his throat when the person clambers onto the mattress, having shucked their pants before Zayn woke up because all they’re wearing are a little pair of black briefs that Zayn can see quite clearly thanks to the moonlight filtering in through the thin curtains.
It’s not Louis because this person is thinner, lithe in the arms but broad in the shoulders, and the familiarity with which they climb onto the bed makes Zayn think that this might be the owner. Zayn wants to complain that Louis said he’d have the bed until at least morning, but it comes out more of a strangled groan than anything else, “Ngh,” punctuated by a click in Zayn’s throat.
Niall, assuming that this is who Zayn thinks it is - and it probably is - hushes him and tucks low against his side, even though Zayn’s pretty sure they don’t know each other, but then again, the bed isn’t the biggest thing in the world. It probably helps that Zayn is all sleep warm because Niall tucks cold feet against his ankles, and Zayn may hiss and jerk a little, but Niall loops an arm around Zayn’s waist to keep him close.
“Go back to sleep,” Niall mumbles, sliding his ankle between Zayn’s legs in such a way that’s almost familiar, like they could’ve done this a million times before and will a million times more, but Zayn is pretty damn sure that he would’ve remembered someone who sounds like this. Because Niall’s voice is a little bit gruff but Zayn chalks that up to just coming in late, and it’s thick as it curves around consonants, whistles over vowels, and it’s just the slightest bit melodic even now, like something Zayn feels he could listen to while he falls back asleep. He settles for the sound of Niall’s breath slowly fading into sleep, the way his inhales get deeper and he starts snoring softly, and then Zayn’s tipping off himself shortly after.
He has the best sleep he’s had in weeks but he doesn’t want think about whether that has something to do with his bed mate or not. He wakes up to the feeling of being watched, scrunches up his brow a little before he reaches out for the water Louis gave him last night, and when he finds it, he pretty much downs it in one go, letting it soothe his sleep sore throat. He’s awake now, so he should find out where that itchy feeling on the back of his neck is coming from, but when he opens his eyes, he promptly feels his breath catch in his throat.
It’s not that this guy is especially handsome but Zayn feels like he’d be lying if he said he isn’t, especially in the bright morning light. There’s just something about the way his shoulders taper into his thin waist that makes Zayn feel like his hands would probably settle nicely into the dips, and he’s got a spattering of moles all the way down to where his body disappears under the blankets that Zayn wonders just how far it goes, not to mention what it would look like if he played connect the dots with his tongue.
It’s something to do with the shine of his hair under the sun’s rays despite the way it’s all messy from being slept on. It just makes Zayn want to bury his fingers in it and tug a little, expose the brown roots he can just get the faintest hint of now. But the worst is probably the way his eyes are twinkling bright blue, studying Zayn almost as intensely as Zayn is studying him, like Zayn’s some kind of code he’s going to crack if he just looks a little longer.
If he’d been a little bit drunker, Zayn would think that he’d gotten an excellent lay last night but, as it stands, he just feels his cheeks flush a little brighter than he would at being found in someone else’s bed. It’s a bit more embarrassing when he didn’t do anything to warrant his being here, but Louis will back him up, if he’s still around. Zayn doesn’t hear him in the other room but it stands to reason that Niall would’ve gone to him first for an answer as to why there’s a stranger in his bed.
“Morning,” Niall hums softly, propping himself up on an elbow as his thin pink lips stretch in a lazy smile, and Zayn doesn’t even know what to say, whether he should offer his hand in some form of introduction or if he should lean in for the kiss he kind of wants and show Niall his gratitude, but no, that seems wrong. Zayn would like to hear him say more than two things before propositioning sex, so he stays quiet as Niall drops his eyes down to the sheets and pulls at a loose string with nimble fingers. It takes a while but Niall finally looks up, bright eyes shining nearly mischievously but then his words sound nearly innocent, “Want some breakfast?”
“Uh, sure.” Zayn hesitates, wondering if this is going to lead with him on his ass outside but Niall just rolls out of bed without another word, scratching at the back of his head sleepily before he lifts his arms in a yawn and Zayn has to swallow a couple times before his tongue stops sticking to the roof of his mouth at the way Niall’s back bunches up.
Zayn’s starting to think he should just cut his losses and get the hell out of dodge when Niall’s head pokes back into his room (jesus, Zayn should probably get out of this guy’s room). “Some coffee?” Niall asks as an afterthought, grinning like he knows exactly why it takes Zayn a couple seconds to answer, if only for the lewd way Niall’s fingers curl around the doorframe.
Zayn barely manages to bob his head in a nod and then he can hear Niall hum as he walks away, the creak of floorboards underfoot announcing his path, but it’s only when he sounds far enough that Zayn slides out of bed, feeling like he’d go sprawling on the floor if Niall was still there watching him. Now that he’s alone though, Zayn takes the time to straighten out the bed sheets, rubbing at a stain on one of the pillows that looks suspiciously like drool but he’s not sure if it’s his own or Niall’s. He just prays that it’ll dry before he heads out of the room, tip toeing like he’s walking on eggshells whenever the floorboards let out the slightest groan.
Zayn can’t help but notice that Louis’ room is empty when he looks through the open door, and it doesn’t sound like Niall’s talking to him so, that’s great. At least Zayn isn’t dead but his alibi is kind of shot now that Louis is gone, and he’s going to probably have a hard time explaining himself without sounding like a creepy stalker. Either way, food sounds ideal right now so Zayn walks through the living room to the kitchen doorway, in time to see Niall pulling a cereal box from the cupboard, two bowls already on the counter, and Zayn can’t help but laugh. “Oh, breakfast,” he gestures at the bowls when Niall looks at him, brow furrowed, but then again he does seem the kind of person to think making someone a bowl of cereal counts as breakfast.
“What, did you want something else?” Niall asks, sounding genuinely stumped, and the way he looks from the empty bowls to the box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and back to Zayn’s face is so adorably confused that Zayn can’t help but smile, at least a little bit. “This is the good stuff,” Niall argues wholeheartedly, and Zayn kind of wants to thumb the pout from his lips. “Not that Weetabix shit Louis eats.”
“Or I can make you something.” Zayn offers, cautiously because, much like he was thinking before he fell asleep, it won’t be his food that he’s using to cook nor his dishes that’ll have to be washed, but neither of those things seems to matter to Niall because his face practically lights up with anticipation. Zayn is quick to add a clause though, “You just have to point me to where everything is,” and Niall does, taking out a pan and a spatula, two eggs and four pieces of toast at Zayn’s request before he slides onto one of the stools.
“I think I kind of like a man making me breakfast.” Niall laughs, voice teasing and Zayn doesn’t know why he feels his heart thump a little bit faster at being called ‘a man’ but the way it sounds out of Niall’s mouth should probably be reason enough. He nearly drops an egg on his foot too and he does manage to save it, but if anyone asks, he has no idea how. Zayn leaves the pan to warm up and sets the eggs in a small bowl, puts toast in the toaster before he turns around. The way Niall’s staring at him makes him feel like a bug pinned to a butterfly board. “It’s weird that I still don’t know your name.” Niall says, cocking his head to the side as his eyes narrow and Zayn has to fight every inch of his body to keep from stiffening.
Zayn’s starting to feel like he should’ve introduced himself as soon as he’d woken up but the weird thing about this whole situation is that Niall doesn’t look angry when he has every right to be. But he hasn’t seemed even a little bit mad, not even when he crawled into his own bed only to find someone already in it. “It’s Zayn,” he offers, feeling like he’s coming up short, but then the butter he put in the pan starts sizzling in the silence and he’s almost grateful for the reprieve. “How do you like your eggs?”
“Easy, really easy,” Niall laughs a little like he’s made a joke, and it does almost sounds like a double entendre so it’s just enough to make Zayn crack a smile down at the stove. It’s quiet after that, but Zayn can feel the beat of Niall’s gaze on the back of his neck. He kind of wants to stay still but it won’t do anything to help him except turn him into something more akin to prey. Still, Niall doesn’t speak whenever Zayn looks over his shoulder at him, just smiles and waggles his fingers in Zayn’s direction. It’s not until Zayn sits down on a stool and sets their plates of food on the counter that Niall crosses his arms seriously in front of his chest, “So, Zayn, do you normally sleep in stranger’s beds?”
This time, Zayn can’t hold back a flinch, pulling his hand away from where he was reaching for the salt almost sheepishly. “No, I just,” Zayn lets out a frustrated grunt and pushes a hand through his hair, dropping his hand to his toast just so he has something to do with himself. “Louis offered me a place for the night and I’ll take anything that isn’t the backseat of my van.” Zayn mumbles, tearing off his crusts restlessly but it’s not that he’s embarrassed. He honestly just doesn’t like talking about it because people always seem to feel bad for him, and it’s annoying, the way they always seem to give him a bigger plate or an extra blanket, like he needs it.
He doesn’t and, to an extent, Louis had felt bad for him as well but he hadn’t pitied him, not like Niall is now, with the way his eyes soften a little. Zayn can feel his eyes hardening in response and he twists away, stuffing crust in his mouth in the hopes that this’ll be the end of their conversation but he’s not so lucky because Niall presses his fingers gently against Zayn’s elbow, “Are you homeless?”
“No!” Zayn nearly shouts so he has to make a conscious effort to calm down, taking a deep breath and swinging around, almost too much because his knees knock against Niall’s. “I’m a musician. Struggling. Sort of a musician.” Zayn explains, brushing his crumby fingers against his thighs before he gestures a hand around. “I guess I don’t have a home like this, but I’m not on the streets or anything like that.”
“Alright,” Niall bobs his head and pretty much leaves it there, and Zayn’s worried that maybe he’s yelled too much or something, but then Niall just starts eating. Zayn follows his cue, glancing over carefully until it seems like Niall really isn’t bothered, and the silence is a little prickly but Zayn doesn’t dare break it. They’re halfway through eating when Niall knocks their knees together, drawing Zayn’s attention from his plate. “So musician? You play guitar?”
“Yeah, my dad taught me.” Zayn smiles softly, reverently thinking about all the time he spent with his father, pouring over a guitar that was a little too big for his arms but he eventually grew into it. Zayn thinks about the night before he left, when his father had sat at the edge of his bed and pressed that same guitar into Zayn’s hands, saying Zayn would need it more than he ever would. It makes Zayn’s smile wane a little, “I haven’t seen him in a while.”
Zayn starts a little when Niall cups his cheek, but he doesn’t pull away when Niall pushes his thumb into the corner of Zayn’s mouth, forcing his smile so that even when it starts to fade, Niall keeps it there by sheer force of will, like he’ll hold it for as long as it takes until his smile comes back, twofold and genuine. Zayn can’t help but raise an eyebrow with his smile though, confused at Niall’s antics because, technically, they’re still strangers, but technically doesn’t seem to mean anything here. Niall shrugs, pulls his thumb away once he’s made sure that Zayn’s smile will stay, “You’ve got a nice smile. It’d be a shame not to use it.”
“Yeah, okay.” Zayn speaks almost without thinking, like the words just come to him from somewhere in his hind brain, but they sound right because Niall relaxes back against his chair, the slightest bit of tension that had been left in his body leaking out. He twists his foot and hooks it around Zayn’s ankle, a grin on his mouth as he turns back to his food, dunking toast into his popped yolk.
“Tell me about your father. What’s he like?” Niall says so suddenly that Zayn’s stumped, because they probably skipped a bunch of steps where they talked about themselves first, but then again, that feels a little too close, like they somehow aren’t ready for that. It is easy talking about his father though, the words coming softly in between bites of breakfast, and Niall just seems to sit there and take it all in, with attentive eyes and a vivid smile. He doesn’t move his foot, not until he stands up from the table, and piles their empty plates. It’s during a lapse in conversation so Zayn doesn’t really mind, watching as Niall dumps their dishes in the sink and leaves them there.
Zayn has a half hearted protest in his throat, that he should at least clean up after himself but Niall waves his words away before he can even speak them, tilting his head to the side in question, “So, do you want to go back to bed?” Niall asks, and Zayn will admit that he’s a little taken aback by the question but it’s just because it’s not as cut and dry as Niall’s making it sound.
Sure, it could just be the fact that Niall’s tired from a late night in and he doesn’t trust Zayn alone in their apartment but, for some reason, it doesn’t sound like that, not to Zayn. Of course, he could be reading into things but it doesn’t sound like a proposition either, no matter how much Zayn wants to get his hands on Niall’s skin. What it does sound like is a promise, less about actually going to bed and not about sleeping at all, but more about Niall. Zayn thinks that Niall could’ve asked him to leave at any moment but he hasn’t, and that’s got to mean something, hasn’t it?
Except, Zayn doesn’t want to admit it, even to himself, that he’s felt more in these few hours with Niall than he has in years, when he thought he was too broken for anyone to fix. And now he can’t make that promise, that he’ll be here the next day or even for the rest of today.
But Zayn wants to, for Niall, because when he squints, Niall’s hair is just the wrong shade of blonde, and when he touches Zayn, the few times that he did, Zayn doesn’t feel like he’s being strangled by a seat belt drawn too tight, and when Zayn talks, it looks like Niall actually listens to him, no matter what he’s saying, no matter how stupid. And it’s just so easy like it hasn’t been in a long time that Zayn nods. He nods his head and pushes back his chair, wipes his hands on the back of his pants like they’re dirty or something. He takes Niall’s hand when he holds it out.
Niall leads the way back to his room even though Zayn’s pretty sure he knows where it is by now, and it takes the two times Niall looks back to make sure Zayn’s still with him to realize that maybe Niall needs this as much as he does, something meaningless but powerful all the same. And though they don’t say it, they both know this won’t last, at least not forever, but the way Niall curls up under Zayn’s chin as they lie down, tucks his knee between Zayn’s legs and hums right against his throat makes Zayn want it to.