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right? People always want what they can‟t have. So Zayn hasn‟t texted

Liam in a while. In fact, he won‟t do anything at all until Liam contacts

him first. It‟s a brilliant strategy.

It had better be, anyway, because it‟s stressing him the hell out. His

eye-bags are getting out of control, and he pokes at them unhappily in

the mirror. Puffy. Swollen with the burden of dragging destiny along.

Whatever, it‟ll be fine. He‟s definitely not worried. Liam will call him

any day now for sure.

He‟s about to pull on the spare shirt when he hears someone else come

into the bathroom. Normally it wouldn‟t matter, but when he hears the

man‟s voice he recognizes that it‟s Harry. “Sorry, mum, go ahead,” he

says, and Zayn realises he must be on the phone.

He‟s about to call out a greeting, maybe make fun of Harry for being

the mummy‟s boy that he is, when Harry continues. “Yeah, no, it‟s

okay. I‟m alone now, I can talk.”

Zayn freezes, his mouth halfway open, and stands motionless as the

appropriate moment to reveal himself sails by. He should say

something, he really should, but it‟ll already be awkward.

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Okay, maybe that‟s not the main reason. Maybe it‟s just that everything

has been so off since Harry got the internship and he doesn‟t

understand what‟s happening and nobody will fucking tell him

anything and he‟s worried. Is he still a bad friend for standing there

paralyzed while Harry has a private conversation if he‟s doing it out of

concern? Anyway, the stressed note in Harry‟s voice has him curious.

Zayn‟s witnessed a full range of emotions from Harry—happiness,

anger, mischief, compassion, utter madness—but he‟s never heard him

sound this tired.

“No, mum, I‟m excited about it too. I‟m the one who applied for it,

remember? I want this. It‟s just—” He lets out a long breath. “I don‟t

know. Things are complicated now. You know how important he is to

me.”

Wait. No. This is, oh God, this is bad. This was a bad idea. Zayn should

not be hearing this. When he gets out of his room, he should break into

Louis‟ emergency scotch—because apparently that‟s an emergency

stockpile worth having—and get so blackout drunk that he forgets

everything he‟s hearing.

“Mum, come on. You‟re making it sound a lot simpler than it is,” Harry

says. “He‟s not „just‟ anything, all right?”

Zayn winces silently, glancing up into his own huge, panicked eyes in

the mirror. He would actually plug his ears with his fingers if he

weren‟t afraid that any movement would alert Harry to his presence.

“The offer is amazing,” Harry says, sounding like he‟s trying very hard

to keep his voice even, “I know it is, but I love him too, and, God, um,

I don‟t know what to do. I don‟t know what I want anymore.”

Fuck.

If Zayn weren‟t already holding his breath, he would be now. Harry

loves him. Harry loves Louis. And not only that, but he said it casually,

like he‟d said it a thousand times before. Fuck.

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Has he told Louis yet? If he has, Louis hasn‟t said a word to Zayn

about it. Then again, for being his best mate in the world, Louis doesn‟t

tell Zayn a lot of things. But he said he would talk to Harry about this

stuff, right? It‟s been over a month since then. Surely they‟ve talked

about this. They must have talked about it by now.

He can‟t handle the thought of hearing Harry say that he loves Louis

before Louis ever hears it himself. He can‟t deal with that reality.

On the other side of the bathroom, Harry laughs harshly at something

his mother‟s said. When he speaks again, he sounds weary, worn-out.

“Yeah, I know. I know. This was always—yeah. I‟ll talk to him. It‟s

just, he‟s so... I haven‟t wanted to—” He falls silent as she interrupts.

Zayn shouldn‟t know this. Zayn can‟t know any of this, can‟t have

inside information on what‟s coming down the pipeline for Louis in

this quasi-relationship-whatever.

“I will, mum, okay? I promise. I promise,” Harry pauses. “I‟ll figure

this out somehow.” Another pause, and then he laughs again, sounding

a bit more genuine this time. “Thanks for the support, I guess? Okay,

mum, I‟ve got to run, but I‟ll talk to you soon, yeah?” A final pause.

“Thanks, mum. Love you too. Bye.”

He hangs up the phone and Zayn is briefly thankful for his freedom, but

Harry but doesn‟t leave. Zayn can hear him pacing back and forth, can

hear the soft pad and squeak of his trainers on the floor tile. The

footsteps stop, and the sound of the tap running fills the room. There

are a few splashing sounds followed by a heavy sigh, and Zayn can

picture Harry leaning over the sink, his face wet from where he just

rubbed his hands over it.

Finally, finally, Harry leaves. Zayn waits until he can no longer hear his

footsteps in the outside hallway before he unsticks his joints. He tries to

carry on buttoning up his shirt, but his fingers are trembling slightly,

and he feels unsettled all over. What he would give to take back the

fleeting instinct of wanting to know what‟s going on. He feels guilty,

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and like he‟s violated Harry‟s privacy, and sick, and even more

confused than he did before. He doesn‟t like where any of this is going,

and he doesn‟t like how unstable it all feels.

He straightens his collar in the mirror, pulling on his spare cardigan

over his shirt. He‟ll just have to, you know, pretend this never

happened. That‟s all. Just pretend it was some kind of weird midday

fever dream and never mention it to Louis or Harry or anyone ever lest

he reveal what a nosy prick he is. And Harry and Louis have already

talked about this, so it‟ll be worked out. And Liam will call him

eventually, even though it‟s been weeks, he‟s probably just been busy

but he‟ll definitely call soon. Definitely. Okay. Everything will be fine,

right? All of them will be fine.

Maybe Louis was right about the emergency booze supply.

It‟s a Saturday night, nothing good is on telly, and Louis can‟t think of

a thing to do that doesn‟t involve calling up Harry. He stares at his

empty flat. He did things before he met Harry. He lived for two and a

half decades before he met Harry. Surely he hadn‟t been twiddling his

thumbs the whole time.

“This is ridiculous,” he says to Duchess, who‟s sat in his lap. He

strokes her fur idly. “I know people. I have friends.” She kneads her

claws into his leg affectionately as a response.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and sends a text to Zayn. Zayn will

probably be out, doing something that involves a lot of people with

excellent bone structure, but it‟s worth a shot. He‟s seemed a bit

subdued lately; maybe he‟s moping around too. Misery loves company.

bored. movie night? i‟ll even let u pick what to watch.

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Louis prowls around aimlessly as he waits for a response, marking

time. When his phone buzzes he‟s checking the refrigerator for the

second time, hoping idly that something appetizing will have

materialised.

sure. be over in an hour.

He lets the fridge door fall closed softly. No emoticon. No “x.” This is

bad. This is unprecedented levels of bad. Zayn once told Louis that

he‟d broken his wrist via text and still managed at least a winky face.

By the time Zayn reaches his flat, Louis has three kinds of alcohol and

two flavors of ice cream on the kitchen counter. He‟s laid them out

strategically, knowing Zayn will grab for the merlot and the mint

chocolate chip and curl up on the couch with them both as soon as he‟s

through the door. It‟s just as well. Louis could probably do with a little

sympathy boozing tonight.

The minute he lets Zayn in, though, he bypasses it all and heads straight

for the balcony, not giving even the wine a second glance. Duchess

hisses at him from the safety of Louis‟ room, but Zayn doesn‟t even

bother to make a snide comment before unlatching the balcony door

and walking out into the night.

All right, then. It‟s that kind of night, Louis supposes. He grabs the

corkscrew from a drawer in the kitchen and the bottle of red, eyeing

Zayn‟s tense shoulders through the open door as he follows him

outside.

“Spill, Malik,” he says sternly as he steps outside, uncorking the wine

as quickly as he can.

There‟s a tight pause as Zayn sets and unsets his jaw before fishing a

pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

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“There‟s nothing to spill,” he says tersely, tapping a cigarette out of the

pack and lighting it in short, tense movements. He takes a long drag

before he continues, setting the pack down on the railing. “Nothing that

I‟m not the last person to figure out, anyway.”

The cork of Louis‟ bottle comes loose with a doleful pop. He offers it

to Zayn, who waves it away silently. That‟s new. Louis takes a long

pull himself, not bothering with a glass.

“Well, I‟m in the dark,” Louis says, wiping his lips. He steps up

carefully, leaning up against the railing next to Zayn. “Catch me up.”

Zayn snorts humorlessly, taking another drag. He stares out at the view,

which is less a view of the city and more a view of another housing

complex exactly like Louis‟. Appropriately depressing, Louis thinks.

He wonders if Zayn ever feels as trapped as he does. They don‟t talk

about it much.

“I haven‟t seen Liam all month. Haven‟t heard a word. D‟you know

why?” Louis shakes his head. “Because I haven‟t tried to. Because I

haven‟t done anything to make it happen.” Another drag, and the

cigarette is already burnt down almost to the filter.

Louis furrows his brow and is quietly thankful that Zayn didn‟t take the

whiskey that‟s still on the kitchen counter. “I‟m not following.”

Zayn laughs quietly, pulling another cigarette from the pack and

lighting it with the old one before flicking the butt over the side of the

balcony. “I‟d think the infinitely cynical Louis Tomlinson would get it

right off the bat,” he says.

Louis just blinks at him. Zayn takes another drag.

“He doesn‟t care, Louis. All, all this,” he says, gesturing vaguely to

himself, “all the time we‟ve spent together? Doesn‟t matter. I could

never speak to him again and he wouldn‟t miss me.” He blows a long

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stream of smoke out into the night air. “Probably wouldn‟t even

notice,” he says softly.

Louis sets the wine down gingerly. “Zayn. You don‟t believe that.”

“I do, actually,” Zayn snaps, still not looking at him, “Because I‟ve,

Jesus, I‟ve considered the fucking evidence, and you know what? If this

were actually something, I wouldn‟t be doing all the work. I wouldn‟t

be making all, all the goddamn effort. If this, whatever it is, if it dies

the moment I stop bending over fucking backwards, then it doesn‟t

exist. It‟s not anything.” He breathes out hard through his nose. “And

I‟ve been wasting my fucking time.”

Louis looks nervously at how fast he‟s already burnt through the

second cigarette. “Zayn—”

“No, Louis,” Zayn interrupts, his voice hoarse. “It‟s a waste of time,

it‟s always been a waste of time, and you‟ve fucking known it from the

start, so don‟t you dare,” he takes a deep breath, “don‟t you dare try to

turn this around on me now. Not now.” He drops his head down into

his hands, elbows braced on the railing. “Fucking destiny. I really

thought it was destiny. Christ, I‟m so stupid.”

Louis swallows, unsure of what Zayn wants to hear. He reaches back

down and picks up the wine again, taking a long sip before he speaks, if

only to buy himself a few seconds. “All right. But, even, even if it‟s not