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do you know everyone?” he hears Louis ask Niall, who just sort of

shrugs.

It seems that more people waiting outside than there are inside because

it‟s not too crowded yet, and they take advantage and head straight to

the bar. Clinging to his buzz for courage, Zayn turns to Liam. “What

d‟ya want? I‟m buying.”

“You don‟t have to—” Liam starts.

“No,” Zayn says, cutting him off and allowing himself to put his hand

on his arm. Mmm, arm. “Heroes don‟t buy drinks. What‟ll it be?”

Liam grins and nudges him with his shoulder. Bliss. “Just a beer, I

think. Don‟t want to get too pissed.”

“Good idea,” Zayn says, because all of Liam‟s ideas are good. He

nudges him back, because he can, dammit, and he‟s going to get as

much physical contact in as possible before he sobers up too much. He

flags the bartender down and orders two lagers, trying not to wince

when he hears how overpriced they are. It‟s a worthy cause, and to be

honest most of the time he goes to bars he‟s the one getting bought

drinks, so it‟s only fair.

All five of them crowd around a single table together and settle in for a

while, shouting things at each other above the noise and taking turns

fetching refills. It‟s loud, but it‟s good company, and Zayn feels like

it‟s going well. It‟s going really, really well. He loses track of how long

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they‟ve been there, so he‟s not exactly sure when Niall breaks off and

heads for the billiards table he‟s been eyeing all night, pint in hand and

eager to separate some unsuspecting patrons from their money.

When it‟s Harry‟s turn to get the next round, Zayn finds himself alone

with Liam and Louis staring at them from across the table. Normally

that would make Zayn break into an anxious sweat, but Louis seems to

want to play the wingman tonight, just chiming in to keep conversation

moving whenever Zayn gets completely tongue-tied. Granted, that

means Louis is keeping up about half of the conversation, but still,

Zayn appreciates that he isn‟t taking this particular opportunity to

humiliate him.

Louis keeps getting quieter and quieter, though, and eventually Zayn

realises what‟s distracting him. Harry‟s still at the bar, but he isn‟t

alone—there‟s a tall bloke in a Chelsea shirt who looks entirely too

pleased to be talking to him. Zayn doesn‟t like the look of him, but he

likes the way Louis‟ eyes are narrowing less.

“Excuse me,” Louis says, putting his pint glass down heavily. He slides

his chair back and stands up. “I‟ll just be a moment.”

“I‟m actually going to run to the toilets, myself,” Liam says, getting up

as well. “Zayn, will you be all right here?”

“What? Yes,” Zayn says, suddenly finding himself alone at the table.

He takes a moment to watch the lines of Liam‟s back as he walks away,

and then turns his attention to the drama at the bar. Louis is

approaching the bar, settling in a little farther down than Harry and his

new friend and hailing the bartender.

It‟s interesting to watch, actually, because he knows Louis probably

thinks he‟s passing himself off as nonchalant, but Zayn can see the

tense set of his shoulders and the cold way he‟s eyeing the situation. He

knows Louis has a wide streak of protectiveness and possessiveness,

but in all the time they‟ve know each other, Zayn‟s never seen him get

jealous over a guy. Food, parking spaces, the right to wear braces?

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Sure. A guy? Never. Mostly because he‟s never seen Louis get attached

enough to someone to even care if he fucked anybody else. Once again,

it seems like Harry is the exception.

The man in the Chelsea shirt laughs at something Harry says and leans

in to squeeze Harry‟s hip, and that‟s it, Louis abandons his spot at the

bar and walks over to introduce himself into the conversation. He

smiles at Harry when he sidles up, sliding a hand over his lower back,

but if it‟s meant to mark his territory, the man either doesn‟t notice or

doesn‟t care. Louis says something, but the man waves him off.

Louis says something else, and Zayn can tell just from the set of Louis‟

chin and the slant of his mouth that it‟s one of those patented Tommo

one-liners that‟s designed to utterly decimate a human as viciously and

succinctly as possible. The man finally does drop his attention from

Harry at that, and Louis takes a step away from Harry and closer to

him. It‟s suddenly clear that the man is several inches taller than Louis,

even taller than Harry. Louis wobbles a little but doesn‟t back down.

The part of Zayn‟s brain that isn‟t screaming oh shit is pretty impressed

that Louis can manage such a look of pure, icy disdain after so many

beers.

The next few things happen very, very quickly:

One, Louis says one last thing, and the man pushes him so hard that he

falls over the barstool behind him.

Two, Liam steps out of the toilets.

Three, Niall puts down his beer.

Four, the song on the speakers next to Zayn changes to “Helter

Skelter.”

Five, Harry yanks the man around by his shirt and clocks him in the

mouth.

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Someone screams near the bar and Zayn is elbowing his way through

the crowd as Liam closes in from the other side, and shit, Zayn is too

fucking drunk for this. He can still see Harry and Louis over the heads

of the crowd, the bartender yelling at them as Louis hauls himself

upright, roughed up but in one piece.

Satisfied that Louis isn‟t going to bleed out on the floor, Zayn turns his

attention to the next most pressing issue: the angry Chelsea fan

dragging himself up off the floor. He‟s bleeding from a cut lip and

looks murderous, and judging by the way Harry is nursing his hand,

that first blow was more blind luck than anything. Shoving people

aside, Zayn can‟t help but wish his friends had chivalrous impulses that

didn‟t lead to anyone getting the shit kicked out of them.

Liam gets there first, sliding between Harry and the bleeding man with

his hands raised, the very picture of mediation, and Zayn would write a

sonnet comparing him to Benvolio if he had the time. Or if that

particular play ended differently. God fucking dammit, when did the

entire population of the greater Manchester metropolis find their way

between him and the bar? The bartender is still yelling, but Zayn doubts

that he‟ll be able to shut this down before it gets worse, and he needs to

fucking get over there. He spills at least three pints of lager on his way

through the crush and doesn‟t apologize for a single one.

He finally breaks through the crowd in time to hear the trail end of

Liam‟s “all right, lads,” but Chelsea isn‟t having it, fisting a hand in

Liam‟s t-shirt and growling something at him through bloody teeth that

changes the set of Liam‟s jaw and—oh. Hmm. Zayn had always

thought “seeing red” was a metaphor, but judging by the way his vision

is burning at this idiot‟s hands on Liam, he guesses not.

He‟s snapped out of it by a literal SNAP—and looks over to see Niall,

manic grin on his face, holding two halves of a billiards cue that he‟s

apparently just broken over his knee.

“Let‟s fucking go, big man,” he shouts, gleefully staring down Chelsea

and completely ignoring the eyes of every other person in the bar fixed

on him.

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Chelsea hold on Liam‟s shirt loosens and his jaw falls slightly open.

“What are you playing at, mate?” he demands.

Niall reaches up and turns his hat around so the brim faces backwards

and jumps up and down in place, shaking his arms out. “You want a

fight? I got your fucking fight, ya cunt,” and he tosses one half of the

pool cue to Zayn, who catches it two-handedly more out of reflex than

anything else.

“Um,” Zayn says. He can hear the bartender calling the police.

Chelsea dropped Liam‟s shirt completely now. “You‟re fucking

mental,” he says, and Zayn adds a silent co-sign. The crowd that had

been watching is fleeing quickly, apparently not eager to be around for

whatever happens next.

Niall throws his head back and lets out a banshee laugh. “Mate,” he

snickers, “I‟m fucking Irish.” He licks his lips, and to his credit,

Chelsea only trips over one barstool as he beats his retreat to the bar‟s

back room.

“We should go,” Liam says. “Now. We should go now.” Zayn nods

vehemently, feeling much more sober than he did three minutes ago.

They spill out into the street on a wave of noise and adrenaline, Zayn

practically dragging Niall by the collar of his shirt. He may have just

saved their arses, but he‟s also fucking batshit and Zayn‟ll be damned if

he lets him out of his sight. Harry and Louis are in the middle of some

kind of argument, and Liam is bringing up the rear, walking backwards

to make sure that nobody comes at them from behind.

“You were flirting with him,” Louis is saying as he stumbles a couple

of feet down the sidewalk.

“I wasn‟t flirting with him, I was just being nice,” Harry says,

following after him.

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“Right, by flirting with him,” Louis says.

“You‟re jealous,” Harry says, and Zayn doesn‟t have the time or brain

power to try to intervene, especially not when he‟s too busy holding

Niall in a bear hug from behind in an attempt to wrangle him away

from the club.

“Let me go back in!” Niall says, still clutching half a billiard stick,

which Zayn distantly thinks they should maybe get rid of because it

could probably count as evidence. “I haven‟t gotten to trounce anybody

in ages, c‟mon—”

“Shut up, you lunatic,” Zayn grunts. He looks at Liam, who‟s standing

nearby, looking sort of lost. “I am so fucking sorry, I swear to God

things aren‟t normally like this when we go out.”

“It‟s really fine,” Liam says with a laugh. “Kind of exciting, actually.”

“You are incredible,” Zayn says before he can even think about

stopping himself. “We need to get out of here before the police show

up. Where‟s—?” He turns around and finds that Harry and Louis have

stopped arguing and are now ravishing each other on the hood of a

parked car instead. “Oi! Get off of there, Jesus, you don‟t even know

whose car that—”

The question is answered at that moment when Chelsea exits the bar

flanked by two equally large friends, spots Harry and Louis, and

freezes in his tracks.

“You‟ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Zayn and Chelsea say in

unison.

“Shit,” Louis says, almost falling over as he scrambles upright, and

Chelsea‟s friends are closing in.

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“Taxi!” Zayn yells, shoving Niall at Liam and throwing his arms out

for the fucking godsend of a taxi that has just turned onto their street.

The driver stops by the curb and Zayn yanks the door open and shoves

Niall into the passenger seat, slamming the door in his face.

Niall‟s got the window down and he‟s shouting something that sounds

like “shower of cunts” at the men on the sidewalk while Liam slides

into the back seat of the cab first, and it‟s a sign of how out of control

everything has gotten that Zayn doesn‟t even panic over having to

squeeze in next to him. Louis shoves Harry in next, and then he climbs

directly into Harry‟s lap and immediately picks up where they left off.

“Jesus Christ,” Zayn says, just barely managing to avoid getting one of

Louis‟ knees to his crotch. Louis is sitting astride Harry‟s hips, head

brushing the ceiling of the cab and looking exactly the opposite of

concerned about anybody else in the car witnessing this event.

“Where to?” the driver says. He seems entirely unfazed by the

proceedings, and Zayn feels a fleeting sense of thanks that at least he

won‟t report them to the police.

It takes him two tries to get the address out right, though, because right

next to him Louis has got his tongue in Harry‟s mouth and wow, even

in the middle of everything else, the sight of Harry‟s hands sliding

down Louis‟ back to his arse is really fucking distracting. Louis arches

into Harry‟s hands and grabs at Harry‟s hair and kisses him hard, and

one of his feet is on Zayn‟s knee, and Zayn has no fucking idea what to

do with himself.

Niall is still ranting from the front seat, on and on about “could‟ve

fucking taken „im” and “know who I fucking am,” apparently choosing

to ignore the fact that Louis is giving Harry an extremely intimate lap

dance two feet away from him. Zayn‟s thankful for that too, though,

because it‟s the only noise in the car other than Harry and Louis‟ heavy