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until he walks through the jingling door that he sees who‟s sat on a

couch by the window: Liam. And he‟s not alone.

Zayn instinctively dives behind a display of coffee mugs, peering out

from around them to get a second look. There‟s a woman with him—a

beautiful woman, if Zayn is being fair, which he has exactly zero plans

to do—on the couch, right up next to him with her hand on his arm.

Liam is smiling, which means this isn‟t some stranger encroaching on

his personal space. This is a beautiful woman that he knows and likes

and wants touching him and Zayn is contemplating feeding himself into

the coffee grinder.

She squeezes Liam‟s arm and says something that makes him laugh,

and all Zayn can think of is how many months it took him to work up

the nerve to touch him like that, how lucky he felt when he finally got

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the chance. He‟s angry and sad and humiliated and he‟s got one foot in

a basket of seasonal roasts and a pensioner staring at him from a nearby

table, but mostly he‟s filled with mad, fight-or-flight adrenaline,

because he either needs to make what‟s happening stop or he needs to

stop seeing it. Right now.

Flight seems like the safer option, and the one that requires him to have

the least motor control. He extracts his foot, whips around, and walks

back out the door, praying that Liam didn‟t see him as he crosses back

to the other side of the street. A taxi nearly hits him, screeching to a

stop a few inches from his legs, but in another unkindness the universe

fails to put him out of his misery. He looks at the driver and lets out a

sort of strangled, wordless yell that utterly fails to encapsulate the

depths of his misery before moving on.

Okay. Okay. He‟s fine. He‟s totally fine. He knew that there was still

work to do, so this isn‟t a huge surprise. He can live with this. And hey,

Liam‟s the friendliest human to ever walk the earth, after all. For all

Zayn knows, he met that girl ten minutes ago and was never going to

see her again. Liam would probably let known axe murderers grope in

him in coffee shops without putting up a fuss. This is fine. He‟s okay.

He needs to talk to some gin about this.

The gin has a lot of things to say, some of which Zayn may have

actually been mumbling to himself face-down on his couch, but when

he wakes up with a near-fatal hangover the next morning it‟s on top of

a sketchpad that he apparently scrawled several thousand words into

with a light blue colored pencil sometime over the course of the night.

It‟s misspelled and somewhat incoherent and some of it isn‟t English,

but it‟s still words—and it‟s good, or will be. Zayn doesn‟t even bother

to shower, afraid he‟ll lose whatever streak he‟s started. He just puts

the kettle on, boots up his laptop, and starts moving things from page to

screen, editing as he goes.

It‟s like the floodgates have opened, and for the rest of break Zayn is as

productive as he‟s ever been, only stopping writing to eat, sleep, and

call up his artiest friends from uni to see if he‟s getting the details of

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being in a band right. His editor is thrilled with him, and he‟s pretty

thrilled with himself if he‟s being honest. He‟s on track to finish his

final draft by the end of autumn, even a little bit ahead of schedule

now, and he‟s found himself in one of those good headspaces where he

actually thinks he might deserve to get published. Liam might be

fighting destiny, but it‟s springtime and Zayn refuses to give up. He

just needs to change strategy, that‟s all.

He‟s so distracted by his newfound efficiency that he does something

he‟s rather ashamed of—he forgets about Louis. Okay, he doesn‟t

forget, not really, but when he remembers it‟s always beaten back by

the tide of words pouring out of him, always filed under “to do when I

take a break,” and he forgets to take breaks. So, by the transitive

property—he wasn‟t completely pants at maths, no matter what his

report cards said—he forgets about Louis.

He realizes it the night before school starts again, as he lays out his

clothes for the next day, and promptly feels like complete shit. He is the

worst friend alive. All right, not the worst, what with the whole slaving

endlessly over a musical that wasn‟t even his job thing, but still. He‟s

fallen below his own standards. The only thing to do is to go to Louis‟

room before classes start and apologize. He‟ll bring along some tea the

way Louis takes it, too, as a peace offering.

Except when he gets there in the morning, Louis‟ car isn‟t in the

carpark and he‟s not in his room. Zayn thinks he might be running

late—it‟s always hard to come back after break—but he doesn‟t show

up for lunch, either. Harry does, though, and when Zayn asks, Harry

says Louis‟ sick and that he texted him as much the night before.

“He didn‟t say anything about it to you?” Harry says, looking sincere

but a bit nervous. Zayn just shakes his head. When he swings by Louis‟

room, though, he sees a supply teacher inside, so whether or not Louis

is actually sick, he‟s definitely not at work.

Louis continues to not be at work for the rest of the week, and, aside

from a singular and perfunctory i‟m sick response to Zayn‟s frantic

texts, seems uninterested in being in contact with anyone at all. It

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would be one thing if Zayn thought Louis were really ill, but when

Louis is ill he never stops moaning about it, and this radio silence

makes Zayn completely sure that there‟s something else going on.

Something Harry-related. The fact that Harry seems utterly ignorant

just makes him annoyed with them both.

Finally, when Friday comes and goes and Zayn still hasn‟t heard a

damn thing, he turns left instead of right when he pulls out of the

school carpark at the end of the day and makes his way to Louis‟ flat.

He sees Louis‟ car parked out front, so at least he knows that Louis

really is in town. He parks behind him and makes his way up the stairs,

taking them two at a time and preparing to put his foot up Tomlinson

arse.

He pounds on Louis‟ door, waits, and then pounds again. Remembering

that Louis has started keeping a key under the mat for Harry, he lifts it

up, but there‟s nothing there. Hm. Zayn frowns and knocks again, and

this time shouts too, not particularly caring if he disturbs the neighbors.

“I know you‟re in there, Lou!” he yells. “Let me in, or I‟ll call Liam

and tell him you‟ve fallen and hurt yourself and he‟ll come break your

door down with an axe.”

There‟s a silence, and the quality of it confirms to Zayn that Louis is

inside because he can goddamn hear Louis sulking without a sound.

Then, finally, come the soft pads of feet over to the door and the clunk

of it unlocking before it opens to reveal one perfectly healthy-looking

Louis Tomlinson.

“You‟re a dick,” Zayn says, pushing his way inside. “I‟ve missed you.

How are you? Have I mentioned you‟re a dick?” He pulls Louis into a

hug and then punches him hard in the arm. “Where the hell have you

been?”

“I told you,” Louis says, rubbing his arm, “I‟ve been sick.” He gives a

halfhearted sniff that ought to get his acting degree revoked.

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“With what, arsehole disease?” Zayn snorts. “Come off it, mate, I know

something‟s up, you were dodging me all break.” When Louis stays

quiet, Zayn rolls his eyes and pushes him toward the living room and

the sofa. “Is this to do with Harry? And London?”

Louis flops onto the sofa and looks at him with eyes that are far too

innocent. “What are you talking about? Why would that make me

dodge you? Which I haven‟t been doing, by the way.” He hooks his

ankle around Zayn‟s and trips him onto the sofa with a grin.

“Twat,” Zayn says, reaching out to smack Louis across the head and

mostly hitting air. “At least admit you were ignoring my texts.”

Louis heaves a sigh, tipping his head back against the cushions. “Fine, I

was ignoring your texts. I was ignoring everyone‟s texts. I just wanted

some time with my family, yeah? It‟s not a big deal.”

Zayn hums in not-quite-agreement. “So. Harry and London. That has

nothing to do with you wanting family time?”

“No, Zayn, I did actually love my family before I met Harry, as you

may remember,” Louis says. “Just because your life is a constant

melodrama doesn‟t mean everyone‟s is. Harry and London is a thing,

and I‟ll deal with it, but I‟ll deal with it my own way, all right? Let it

go, mate, you‟re actually worse than my mum.”

“She‟s a lovely woman and I‟m honored by the comparison,” Zayn

says as poshly as he can muster, but he lets the rest of it lie. Louis is

clearly full of shit, but if he‟s this determined not to talk about it then

there‟s nothing Zayn can do that won‟t end in a fight, and he‟s missed

Louis too much to want to be on the outs with him right now.

“So,” Louis says after a beat. “How goes the next great British novel?

And the next great British power couple?”

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“The novel‟s good,” Zayn says, putting a mental pin in the London

thing to remind him to return to it later in the conversation. He knows a

Louis Tomlinson deflection when he sees one, but he‟ll take the bait for

now. “Really good. Nearly two-thirds done now, I think.”

“Wa-hey!” Louis shouts joyfully, throwing his arms up. Zayn flinches a

little, startled by the volume of his voice, the exaggerated animation of

the gesture. “That‟s brilliant, Zayn, seriously. Knew you had it in you.

And the eye candy? Is he rewarding your genius with sexual favours

yet?”

This time it‟s Zayn‟s turn to sigh heavily. “No. Haven‟t made as much

headway there—“

“Filthy,” Louis says with a broad smile.

“Fuck off,” Zayn laughs. “I dunno, I feel like I‟ve hit a wall there?

Like, I‟m stalled with him or something. I‟m gonna try a new tactic, I

think, see what it turns up. I‟ll let you know how it goes.”

“I‟m sure you will,” Louis says. “Hey, do you want to stay for dinner? I

can order something in.” He stretches languidly, and Zayn is reminded

of Duchess. Owners and pets really do start to act alike.

“Sure,” he says. “Want to ask the other boys „round? I‟m sure Harry‟d

be thrilled to see you up and about.” He looks at Louis pointedly.

“Zayn,” Louis says, flopping a hand over his eyes. “Please do not

meddle. Please. For the love of all that is holy. You get a look on your

face like you think you‟re being clever and it‟s all I can do not to

murder you. Leave it alone.”

“I‟m not going to leave it alone unless I know you‟re okay.”

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“I‟m okay!” Louis says, half-shouting. It‟s bullshit. Zayn knows it‟s

bullshit, knew things were bad when he confirmed for himself that

Louis has been faking sick for a week. He knows it now, too, can read

it in the fact that Louis won‟t make eye contact with him. Kudos to

Louis for knowing that Zayn could spot a lie in his eyes, but he‟s a fool

if he thinks that‟s all he has to do to throw him off.

Zayn would be a fool, though, if he thought that pressing the issue

would get him anywhere. As far as he can tell, right now Louis is at

least willing to pretend to talk about whatever the hell is going on with

him for the sake of acting like he‟s okay. Zayn wants to pry, but he‟s

pretty sure that if he pushes any further Louis will go full-on brick-

wall, which doesn‟t do anybody any good at all.

The waiting game it is, then. “I‟ll promise not to meddle if you promise

to deal with whatever it is you‟re pretending isn‟t bothering you,” Zayn

says. Louis wordlessly extends his pinkie, and Zayn links it with his.

“Deal,” Louis says. “All right, moving on to more important things.