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JUNE/JULY 2014
Zayn breaks up with Perrie right before the European leg of Where We Are Tour. They don't tell anyone, not even their mothers and resolve to live together for the time being for logistical reasons and since they'll be busy to see much of each other anyway. In a haze, Zayn packs his belongings, says goodbye to his pets, whose custody rights are still being negotiatiated, and boards a plane to Stockholm, amazed at the calm he feels until he gets to the hotel and upon showering discovers he has packed an entire bag full of Perrie's clothes and has a little cry right then and there. He leaves it untouched for four days, texts Shahid, focuses on hitting his notes and catching a tolerable amount of sleep until he arrives in Paris and realises he has already exhausted the extent of his other bag and reluctantly digs out a pink jumper that smells like the perfume Perrie has worn since she was fifteen.
He rings Perrie next morning from Amsterdam and they chat for an hour and a half, mostly about Perrie and her band mates' frustration over their US tour getting cancelled. Zayn's just happy to hear her voice and offer his silent support, and even if a tiny part of his treacherous heart is disappointed at the lack of hushed confessions of regret and longing, it's mostly just of an echo of happier times that sizzled out months ago. That night he goes out with Shahid, tries out some fancy strains of weed and, encouraged by his friend's dismissive remarks. logs on to Twitter for the first time since the Video got out.
They celebrate Perrie's birthday on the 9th with a lavish funfair on the grounds of Wrotham Park, an 18th century country estate in Hertfordshire, not far from their house. He spends almost 50k on it, which Perrie deems ridiculous and excessive until Zayn admits it's more about gathering their families together for one big end of an era party than about her, even if they don't know it. The Little Mix girls are there, of course, as well as an army of siblings and cousins with their respective parents and babysitters in addition to the photographers they've grudgingly allowed in for the first half of the party, as requested by Modest.
It's a long, exhausting day posing for one photo after another, and as the hours tick by Zayn starts craving for a moment alone, if only to smoke a single cigarette. He finds an opening when everyone is distracted by the chaos caused by one of the little guests crashing into an amusement ride with a golf buggy and sneaks away from the clearing, into the trees lining the property. He sinks on the ground beneath a grand oak and pats down his pockets for a lighter, a cig already clamped between his lips, but realises his hand is shaking too much to get it to hold a flame. And even as he manages to light up the smoke keeps making him cough like a newbie along to the shallow spasms contorting his body every time he suppresses a noise-that-is-definitely-not-a-sob threatening to spill out. The party is still in full swing, somewhat literally - he can hear the observation wheel groaning and creaking above the music and laughter.
It's cool in the shade and he rubs his bare arms, which feel alarmingly bony. He hasn't had much of an appetite lately and a little too many a meal has been replaced by a blunt. Unlike most people, weed never seems to make him hungry, quite the opposite.
Zayn falls back against the oak when he hears someone coming and tenses up until she realises it's Perrie leaning over his form.
"Well then! The paps are gone. Hip hip hurray. You could have at least come wave them goodbye. Those little shits, I swear they were tryin- Babe?" She crouches down and places a gentle hand on his cheek to turn his face towards hers. "Oh no, babe," she coos when she sees Zayn's stinging eyes and wobbling lips. "Why didn't you say something? You know I'm always here for you, that's not changed."
Zayn lets himself be pulled into her soft body and snuggles around her denim-covered waist. "Sorry. I'm ruining your birthday."
"Rubbish. You're the one who made this all happen, dummy. And everyone's loving it. Even the paps went on a ride or two, wankers."
"It feels so... final, though. Like, this is the last time we're gonna be together like this, as a fam, innit?"
"Yeah. It's how we planned it, remember?"
"I know, but it's so fake. All this, pretending to be one big happy family shit, I can't take it."
Perrie sighs, fishing for words while she combs through whatever is visible of Zayn's hair, squished flat against his scalp by the beanie he's worn all day. "We may not be family anymore, but you'll always be my baby. Don't snort at me, boy, I'll make all the Mariah references I want." She clears her throat and begins to sing, one hand on an imagined in-ear monitor and another in the air, gesturing wildly, "You'll always be a part of meeee, I'm part of you indefinitely! Boy, don't you know you can't escape me-"
Zayn catches the errant hand and launches into an obnoxious riff over her voice until she pulled out his beanie and throws it into the bushes.
"I have a bad hair day," Zayn huffs and starts carding through his hair with both hands to smooth out errant tufts.
"You ain't got none." Perrie flicks him on the cheek but fetches his beanie back either way. "Feeling better? We're sticking to the plan, right? Tell them before Christmas."
Zayn nods. "When're you gonna tell the girls, though?"
"Haven't decided! What're you doing with the lads?"
"I'm not sure they really care. Or if I want them to know."
"C'mon now, of course they care." Perrie shakes him by the shoulder.
"Yeah, but with our history and all, I think they'll just..."
"Just what? Tell them so you can go out with some proper wingmen."
"And have it be all over the papers again?" Zayn smiles awkwardly.
Perrie only rolls her eyes, unwilling to delve into past miseries. "Take this as a learning opportunity. Fuck people you know won't blabber. Like your band mates. Harry, I think, is still pretty keen on you. Niall might be open to it, too, horny little man. Did you know he's already tried it with Jade and she and Sam broke it off, like, a month ago?"
Zayn almost swallows his tongue in surprise. "What?"
"I know, right? Shameless little Irish-"
"No, I mean, what d'you mean I should... with..." He trails off.
"I'm not completely daft. Remember that time I tried on one of your suits and we shagged so hard I went to a GP the next day 'coz I thought I'd torn something?"
"Doesn't mean anything."
Perrie waves a dismissive hand. "That's just what came to me first, off the top of me head. There's been lots of times when- Like, dirty talk, yeah? You really liked it when I-" She snaps her mouth shut and blinks a few times with a closed off expression. "All I'm saying is, do yourself a favour and take some time to mull things over, and that's all I'm gonna say because it's weird as hell to talk about this with your ex."
Zayn opens and closes his mouth like a fish grasping air, but settles on a petulant "Fine".
"Fine." Perrie smiles. "D'you wanna go back to the party now?"
"Let's stay here for a while, yeah? 'til I've finished my cig at least."
"'kay. We can do that. Mam's hitting on our dancers, don't need to see that anyway."
A gentle wind rustles the trees above them, the ferris wheel keeps spinning round and round, and Zayn and Perrie sit in a sweet, melancholy silence, her head tucked under his chin, lost in their respective thoughts of what the future might hold, until her mother finally catches them at it.
*
Zayn spends the latter half of July either moping around his house or chilling with Shahid, even missing Louis' mum's wedding in favour of old school Bollywood and meandering discussions over everything from fame to politics, which are in their case more often than not connected. They even make a trip to Zayn's favourite auntie's house in Bradford and sleep in bunk beds he hasn't slept in since he was a child. Technically, he's promised himself to spend more time with the lads, but there's a kind of growing disconnect there between him and them, now that the fame game has gotten old, they've savvied up on the industry and have fledgling ideas of what a life post-One Direction might mean for each of them. They will all have their individual challenges to face if and when they part ways and attempt solo careers, but none at such a variety of angles or depth as Zayn, which he is only now starting to realise in earnest. And he can't help but resent his friends a little for their inability to comprehend it.
Shahid gets it, of course, and it makes conversations with him downright intoxicating. It's not through any fault of his band mates, exactly, that they can't provide him with that, but Zayn would be lying if he didn't admit to snickering at the sly stabs Shahid and his industry friends make at their 'whiteness'. It makes up for a lot of those three years Zayn spent feeling increasingly alone with the burden of his heritage and the pressure to shut up about it.
AUGUST 2014
There's nothing Zayn loves as much as the rush the very first time he opens his mouth to sing at a concert, but it's starting to seem like it's the only pleasure he gets out of being in the band anymore. He's mostly at peace with breaking up with Perrie, finally, but now that that sorrow is fading, a hole of a different flavour is being carved out of his chest. He thought getting more involved would change things and it did - it's not like he's apathetic about the possibility of One Chance to Dance becoming their first single off the album - but when the tour kicks back into gear in Toronto on the first of August it's so massively anticlimactic he's not sure it's actually happening.
He has a feeling that Harry at least can tell how he feels, can see right through into the emptiness of Zayn's chest cavity, perhaps because he's working through the same things, in his own way. He's not forthcoming about it - it's more in the sidelong, furtive glances and the lone escapades into whatever city they're currently stationed in than in his words - and Zayn likes it that way. There are some things that don't need to be spoken aloud and he and Harry have always been good at that.
Niall is mostly the same as ever (but then, he's aways been good at keeping things to his chest), Louis an exaggerated version of himself, and Liam has all but taken refuge in Sophia and seems equally invested in planning appearances with her as their concerts. They're all exhausted, but that's nothing new, and it seems to Zayn he's the first to truly be heading off the deep end. Fuck, he's struggling just getting out of bed in the morning and not just in his usual five-more-minutes kind of way.
Which is why he does something stupid in New York. Everyone else makes use of the day off by getting up early to wander about the city, while Zayn doesn't leave his room until around six in the evening and only then heads out on his own, to a strange part of the city. He chooses a seedy club at random and bounces around for a while, incognito in his black sweats, until he spots a guy with the right sort of look. A subtle inquiry and the flash of a wad of cash later he's taken into a back alley and another man, this one with a suitcase, shows up. They try to sell him everything from coke to oxycodone, but he's only after one thing. Shrooms. He's read about them in countless biographies and Rolling Stone articles, about the life-changing trips and immediate, dramatic removal of anxiety, fear, writer's block, what-have-you. Wants that for himself.
By the time Zayn returns to the hotel with a small packet inside his jacket it's late and he realises he's forgotten the name of the mushrooms. It doesn't matter. He chops them up with a plastic knife he finds in his suitcase and swallows the pieces with M&Ms like he's been instructed due to their nasty taste. Technically one isn't supposed to do this alone for the first time, but Louis' not back yet and well- tough luck. They have obligations tomorrow and the day after that, he's not waiting until then.
For thirty minutes absolutely nothing happens, which he knew to expect. Then his vision starts getting a little fuzzy and the whites and blues of the interior become brighter. He gets off the bed and spreads his arms so he can swirl around in circles like a dervish. Giggles come pouring forth out of his mouth in a continuous stream, punctuated by stupid snorts.
The giddy phase doesn't last long: a kind of urgency takes over within half an hour. He scrambles for his notebook while the walls breathe around him and his thoughts race at impossible speeds, too fast for him to write it all down. He does fill up page after page after page, with lyrics and melodies in a crude notation style of his own making. An intoxicating urge to get off his arse and do all the things he's only dreamed of shakes him as he writes; the time to seize the moment is now, the time to write amazing tracks people will marvel at and pay massive sums of money to have on their albums, that critics will fawn over, call them inspired and raw.
A sliver of anxiety slips in all of a sudden, a fear that life is slipping by and that he needs to do something with his talent now that he still has it, while he still has the world at his finger tips. What if he's already peaked, what if his voice deteriorates without adequate challenge?
Eventually he gets sick of writing and feels like putting on music. It's amazing, all the new layers he can hear, and he lies back down, wiggling his fingers to the beat. When he checks the time he's shocked to see it's only been two hours but over the next half hour he goes through more emotions, from one end to the other, than he thought possible. From ecstasy to depression, back and forth.
It is at the two and a half hour mark that things get really strange. His body heats up from top to bottom, like he's lying on a massage bed. Sweat beads on his stomach and a tingling sensation gathers between his hips and in his belly. He's hard as a rock but also uncomfortably hot. Clumsily, he staggers across the room into the bathroom, shedding clothes as he goes, and steps into the shower-tub combo. It's freezing in the room and he should be cold but instead he's steaming, boiling from the inside like his organs are being cooked into a stew. And his dick is throbbing thick and weighty, although the real epicentre of the arousal is pulsing further behind, at his prostate, which he didn't think possible without physical contact.
He sighs with relief as cold water hits his skin but the sensation soon becomes too much, like he's a sunburn victim, so he turns it off and lowers himself into the tub, letting his mind be flooded with images.
It's a man he's picturing, tall and packed with muscle, with veiny arms hard as steel and big firm hands that pry apart Zayn's legs and stuff him with thick, blunt fingers.
This happens at times; his mind latches onto images of men, strangers mostly or the star of a recently watched superhero flick, and he typically rolls with it, revels in fantasies of things he's never experienced or sought after in reality. Perrie did indeed encourage it, as she reminded him on her birthday, talked him through scenarios in a low, dirty voice against his ear while she jerked him off.
He should go on the bed but his legs are made of jelly and there's something comforting about the cold, clean white surfaces of the bathroom, something tangible to contrast and contain the shivering mass of flesh he's been reduced to. He's reminded of Matrix, that scene in which Neo finally wakes up in the machine-dominated real world, naked and raw as he truly feels for the first time.
Zayn wants to stuff himself. It's a weird concept, this almost literal image in his head of being stuffed like a turkey at Christmas, agog on the kitchen counter, aching for a brute hand to push in between his thighs and stretch his colon to reach his intestines.
He arches back and pins his feet against the sides of the tub in awkward angles to reach between his arse cheeks, to rub at the puckering skin around the hole with his clammy fingers. Eye-meltingly delicious shivers squirrel up his spine and he keeps rubbing at the entrance for several minutes, squirming in pleasure, only dipping in the tip of his middle finger every once in a while, afraid to take the plunge. The temptation grows too much however and so, dizzy with need, heart pummeling blood into his veins to accommodate for the sudden surge in demand, he pushes in, past the silky surface tissue into a tight tunnel of hot flesh.
Searing flushes wash over him now, head to toe, and he reaches up to turn on the water again. It hits him in the chest, sprays his hair and face with fine droplets, gentle as a spring shower. Appeased, he adjusts his position, squirts conditioner on his fingers from a tiny hotel packet and pushes one back in, slowly, all the way to the knuckle while his mouth drops open in slack-jawed pleasure that only intensifies when he rubs against one particular spot, which he unfortunately can't quite put pressure on in this position. Whining like a dog, he pulls out the finger and after a few pacifying breaths pushes in anew, two fingers now. His toes curl and he slides down the tub, but he doesn't let up, keeps his thighs spread and hips tilted up like in the goddamn Exorcist, works his fingers in and out in crude, jabbing motions, whines turning into determined, sweaty grunts. The water is drumming straight against his face now, he has to angle his head far back to not drown and even so he has trouble gasping in air. It only registers peripherally; he's chasing a release unlike any he can remember and even as the water starts sloshing around his head in the tub and makes his hair swim, he persists.
At the final stretch his back snaps into an arch well past his natural limit and he comes in a series of spasms, like a garden hose on the loose. It's a relief like no other and for a few fatal seconds he actually blacks out, his head sinking below the surface of the water, which has risen alarmingly high. He comes to not being able to breath, water surging into his mouth and nose, disorienting him.
Desperate, he claws at the walls of the slippery smooth tub, near powerless, and only manages to pull himself up through some supernatural means, all the while his lungs are being wrecked through fits coughing up water. Too weak for anything but clinging to the underside of the tub's edges, he lets his forehead rest heavily on an arm and breathes in and out until his ears stop ringing and his body realigns itself. Gradually, as his heartbeat slows down, happy little sobs start rippling through his body, both because he's pretty fucking happy to be alive and because he just had the best orgasm of his life. He's drained, lightheaded and giddy all at the same time, just full-out dry-heaving with bliss.
When he finally leaves the bathroom, wrapped up in a heavy hotel bathrobe, it's been four hours since he ate the shrooms and all the intense emotions and sensations are gone, replaced with what feels like tufts of cotton between and around his organs. It's comedown time. He digs out a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and opens the balcony doors to lean on the frame while he lights up and puffs out lazy circles into the night sky, Puff the Magic Dragon playing in his head. New York is at its best after dark, an ocean of glittering neon lights and shadowy trenches, both concealing and flaunting the ugliness of the streets and its inhabitants.
He fetches the notebook from his bed and clutches it against his chest before resuming his position. Who knows, maybe he'll take over the world tomorrow. Fuck it, he will take over the world tomorrow.
*
Zayn just wants to be... dicked down. For someone, anyone, to grab his limp, helpless body and bend him over that chair or that couch or against that window and maybe he'd struggle a little, push back against rock-hard muscles and thrash in his hold like a warble in the fist of a giant. He wants this assailant to pick him up like a sack of potatoes, on his shoulder, and carry him away somewhere quiet and secluded where he will throw Zayn on a mattress or a stack of hay where he'll lie faint with breathless anticipation, watching as the man undoes his belt with his big, burly hands and lets the weight of the buckle drag down his heavy work trousers, caked in sweat and dirt because the man is of course a farmer or some other manual labourer, who's been giving Zayn sidelong glances heavy with meaning for as long as Zayn has been visiting his nonexistent country cousins. He's not wearing pants and his dick, almost as thick as Zayn's wrist, fills up slowly, like a long balloon under a tap, so heavy it only makes it to 2 o'clock.
Zayn's naked by now, maybe the man tore off his clothes before throwing him into the hay, with the practiced moves of a hunter skinning a deer. He kneels on the ground and spreads Zayn's legs to feast upon the sight, hand moving slow on his fat cock, which Zayn is already begging for. He feels the nudge of fingers on his arse and-
-jolts to attention as a hand squeezes his shoulder, Liam's warm voice tickling his ear. "Don't fall asleep, I think she's about to ask our opinion on the album cover shoot."
Zayn's pulse is all over the place as he gazes blindly at the schedule someone has handed him and thumbs the pages with shaky fingers to find the one with the same stock photo of smiling office workers everyone else is staring at. Liam has already scribbled questions all over his and from the way he's drumming the table with his pen Zayn can tell he's only waiting for a suitable pause to fire them at whoever's willing to listen.
Zayn hasn't been on top of their schedule since Buenos Aires. He remembers their very first US tour in vivid detail, the giant map that became a staple of all their future tours, with all the dates and locations marked with blue push-pins, and the excitement with which they tracked their each move on it. A tiny morsel of that enthusiasm made a comeback with the novelty of South America, but for Zayn it tapered off after their first few gigs. The heat was lovely and he will never forget the colossal Jesus of Rio, but other than that it all blended together at an alarming speed, as per usual these days.
Liam coughs, loud enough for Shannon, one of the more recent additions to their team to pause in askance. "If I could just interrupt for one little question?" he asks, as if there aren't about a dozen decorating his prints. He has manly hands, Zayn notices. Warm, heavy hands he likes to wrap around Zayn's shoulders and waist when they talk on stage or when he's trying to cheer Zayn up in the mornings. They're nowhere near as heavy or veiny as his faceless fantasy lover's, but they have the advantage of being real. Available. Once the meeting is over he could for example complain about being tired or sore and Liam would, no questions asked, massage his shoulders or rub his sides.
It wouldn't be in the slightest bit sexual for him, but Zayn's pretty sure he could still get a kick out of it, if he really milked it. His eyes flicker from Liam to Harry on the other side of the table, an expression so vacant on his face Zayn wants to take a picture of it and hang it in his living room just to remind himself he's not alone. Harry has lovely hands, much nicer than Liam's on the simple virtue of being bigger, which is all Zayn is after. They're resting on the table, intertwined, a picture of professionalism, decorated with several, clunky rings - a quirk he has literally stolen from Zayn judging by the looks of one familiar black stone on silver. A hot flare shoots up at the bottom of his spine when he realises how much smaller it looks around Harry's index finger. It's a crying shame that somewhere along the way they lost that easy, tactile way their bodies used to gravitate around each other. He's not sure whose, if anyone's, fault it is.
"Zayn, any comments?"
All eyes on him, Zayn licks his lips and opens his mouth. "You should... consider using more interesting pictures in the prints, if you're gonna have some. Like, comic strips or something."
*
When the meeting finally ends Zayn meanders slowly back to the tour bus where he's been holed up for the past few days. Niall was keeping him company earlier in the day, testing his new Polaroid camera on Zayn since he apparently looked like Al Pacino in Cruising in his leather jacket. In the lift down he notices his dick has sprung to attention and stuffs it under the waistband of his joggers, thankful he has some lone time ahead. In the lobby he, however, he comes to realisation this isn't just your everyday boner, but rather something...
Zayn looks around, spooked, and rubs his sides like he's freezing to keep himself from stuffing his hands down the back of his pants like some pervert. He knows this feeling. It's been almost three weeks but he's thought about it every single day, the otherworldly pleasure that almost drowned him in a hotel room tub. He's mulled over the rest of it too, the fierce determination to take control of his life and pursue his ambitions, the certainty that he would make something of himself as an artist and individual, but it's the orgasm he's reliving every night in bed as he strokes himself, sometimes for hours at a time, edging himself towards a climax little by little in hopes he'll capture even the tiniest drop of the ecstasy that was New York.
Unfortunately his obsession seems to be leaking into his days now, as well, in unsettling ways. Every member of the male sex he comes into contact with these days turns him on, if he thinks about it hard enough. Everyone, from Paul - who touches them much more than Zayn has ever realised, in a fatherly sort of way he should be ashamed of considering in any other light - to their roadies has been given a once over and some of them a starring role in his daydreams.
With a long gait Zayn rushes through the lobby and into the hotel's private parking area, inaccessible to the fans, where the tour buses are parked. He hesitates between them for a second but decides on Bus 2 since it has a bigger couch he can lie down on. Or maybe he should go into the shower, like last time? Undecided, he takes off his clothes anyway the moment he's inside and roams around in his bunk until he finds the lube, whose beauty he has learned to appreciate in his new anal adventures.
The bus shower stall is cramped and he can't even sit down, but he gives fingering himself a go anyway, lets hot water wash over his upturned face while his right hand works on his dick and the left rubs between his cheeks, arched out of the shower so the lube won't get washed off. He comes with wheezy little whines twice in rapid succession, with little to no effect on the throbbing in his arse. Frustrated, he switches off the shower and leans his forehead against the wall, breathing hard.
Maybe he just need to ride it out. He goes on the couch, dripping wet, and props his feet on the table, toes curling around its hard edge in an effort to keep himself from squirming. It's no use. His hips begin rutting against the leather, back and forth, like he's relieving an itch. If only he had a fucking dildo. He really ought to have bought one by now or a plug at least, but how is he supposed to manage that on tour? He would rather die than be photographed in a sex shop and he's paranoid about the package ending up in the wrong hands if he orders one to a hotel on-line. Maybe he could have one delivered to the tour bus.
Noise at the entrance of the bus alerts his attention, but there's no time to hide before Niall walks into view. He's in workout gear and sweaty, pale skin flushed red, quiff lying in clumps on his forehead. "Zayn? Figured you'd be here. 'm just here for my knee brace, Mark got me working so hard I think something snapped in there." He laughs to show he doesn't mean there's anything seriously wrong with his knee, but the laughter dies down awkwardly when he takes a closer look at the state Zayn's in, only in his towel, gripping it with both hands. "Drying off then? Was I, uh, interrupting something?" Niall waggles his eyebrows.
"Yeah. No. I'm not trying to get off. I can't," Zay grits out. Niall's attractive. In a total boy-next-door type of way, but so what? He has a dick.
Niall ventures closer. "Anything I can do?" he asks, one hand on the side of one of the beds, all casual. "I mean, obviously not with your-" He gestures at Zayn's towel.
"That'd be great, actually. Ever fucked a guy?"
"Uh. No? Wanked off a few, when I'm pissed. You're not seriously asking me to-?"
Zayn makes a helpless sound and goes limp on the couch so abruptly Niall scrambles to catch him before he melts all the way down to the floor. "Shit, Zayn, what's happening?"
"Please fuck me," Zayn chokes out. He's clinging weakly to the front of Niall's sweat-soaked shirt, like a kitten that has yet to learn to draw in his claws. "I'll pay you if I have to. I've come twice and it didn't do any good. I just need someone to fuck me."
"But what about- what about Perrie?"
"We broke up. Ages ago, on her birthday. Please, just-" Zayn reaches for Niall's dick with single-minded hunger that has little concern for asking for permission.
Niall is shocked speechless but evidently not unwilling because his legs appear to spontaneously liquefy and he drops on his knees against the couch to cradle Zayn closer, hands behind his neck. "Ya know, I always wanted to, but I never in a million years thought you would. Fuck, I would have tried it earlier otherwise."
"Mm, Perrie called you a horny little man," Zayn mumbles, distracted by the closeness of Niall's body. He may not have a lumberjack's physique, but his straight, masculine lines excite Zayn nonetheless, and he wraps his legs around Niall's waist. His towel has all but fallen off.
"Fair enough, that." Niall kisses him slowly, sucks his lips open and tongue into his mouth like an oyster from its shell until Zayn pushes him away. "What d'you wanna do? I'm not sure how this works."
"Sit. Take off your shorts and then sit. Here, next to me."
Niall complies and spreads his legs on the couch the moment his pants are off, already stroking his cock. "What're you gonna do, huh? Sit on me?" he asks hoarsely.
Zayn leans closer and noses his cheek, whispering sweetly, "I'm gonna gobble up your cock like it's made of candy. I wanna choke on it."
Niall blinks and covers his eyes, shaking with barks of laughter. "Candy! Oh my god!" His guffaws turn into coughs and hoarse moans when Zayn leans down to suckle the head of his cock into his mouth, rubbing the underside of the shaft up and down with his thumb. He wasn't looking to give head, but it feels strange to jump straight to anal when he hasn't done anything at all with a guy, except in his fantasies. Besides, his body seems to approve of this plan because he's leaking precum and his arse is pulsing like it's being directly stimulated. Niall's cock is surprisingly thick and he gags on it much sooner than he thought he would as he's sucking it in. It also tastes of sweat, which should be nasty, but apparently nasty is what Zayn's into now because he loves it.
When Zayn's managed to stuff most of Niall's cock inside he chomps down on it a little by accident, Niall arches up at the waist, moaning as he pushes Zayn's head even further down on it.
Zayn's gagging badly now, his throat in a constant state of spasms. He powers through it, swallows and swallows until his nose presses into the hair at the base of Niall's cock. A hot flush has him tingling all over and his cheeks are wet with tears, but he's moaning like a porn star, his eyes are rolling back like it's the Rapture and he's a chosen one, and he's clutching at Niall's thighs so hard the flesh is turning white.
"Shit, 'm gonna come, fucking," Niall grunts, rutting up with every word and then he comes, explosively, for ages. Afterwards his entire body falls slack for a long moments, as he watches Zayn swallowing his cum, then he digs his fingers in the pits of Zayn's arms and lugs his slack body up and on his lap with unexpected ease, until they are face to face. Zayn's cheeks are red and puffy and his lips swollen to the point of alarm, but the slow smile he gives Niall spreads smug. "Almost didn't make it, but guess I'm a natural," he drawls, wiping drool off his chin.
"Yeah." It's all Niall manages, petting Zayn's hair with mechanical movements, half-amazed, half-shell-shocked. "That you are." When he gets more of his energy back he pushes Zayn off and licks his lips in determination. "Tell me what you'd like."
"What I want?"
"Yeah, what'd you like for me to do. To you."
Zayn gazes at him with half-lidded eyes. The throbbing is back in full force and his mind is filled with images of all kinds of filthy things he wants done to himself. "I want you to eat me. Swallow me whole, like a snake."
"Done. What else?"
Zayn laughs breathlessly and gnaws on his lips. "I just wanna be fucked. And not lift a finger. Just lie back and-"
"Done and done."
Zayn trembles, pleased, and doesn't resist when Niall gets off the couch and motions for him to lie down on his stomach. The couch isn't exactly made for this, but Zayn doesn't mind staying still in an awkward position when the pleasure comes to him so easily, so good he sobs all the way through, as Niall licks slowly, lovingly, along the ridged inner walls of the cheeks, with a flat, wet tongue. Long, wet stripes all the way from the balls to the tail bone, until the rim itself is soft and slick. Only then he muscles his tongue inside and Zayn keens, tight and tortured. Loses himself into it until his jaw aches from being held open so long. Blood's rushing in his ears - whum whum whum- and Niall's face is boiling hot against Zayn's skin. "Stop. You should-" Zayn pauses to swallow "fuck me now, because if I come now, that's it."
Niall hauls Zayn's unresisting body on its side to inspect the damage. Sure enough, the cock is swollen, red and lolling limply against Zayn's hip like it's filled with water. There's a slick white mess on the couch. Niall searches Zayn's face next, sweaty clumps of lashes and hair. "If you're up to it."
He fucks Zayn slowly, eyes half-lidded, tuned to every gasp of breath and twitch of warm muscle. He's propped up on his forearms, head sunk low between his arms, while Zayn has his cheek against the bed, eyes and mouth wide open like he's forgotten how to close them. Zayn whines throughout it, too, a series of wheezy little moans, like an empty shampoo bottle. Niall noses into Zayn's wet cheek, his tongue peaking out to taste the sweat and tears, as he plows in with confident jabs, over and over.
SEPTEMBER 2014
Zayn and Niall continue to fuck for the rest of the American leg despite there being only one more occasion when he actually really needs it. Around Niall's birthday they have an entire fuckfest in Vegas, mixed in with partying and DJ'ing with various other sorted celebrities. Zayn spends little time thinking about anything else but his notes and Niall's dick and the most noteworthy event during the entire month is when he runs into 50 Cent during iHeart Festival and has feverish fantasies about it later.
OCTOBER 2014
Gloom makes a re-entrance along with October. The contrast between touring and off-time seems vaster than ever; it's like their life on the road is a dream world he dips into for week-long dives into vast forests of seaweed and reef formations, clouds of curious fish and sea creatures who surrounded him for brief, hectic moments until the current extracted him and whisked him somewhere else. It doesn't feel real to him, not the way it used to when it was new and unprecedented, when each moment was still crisp and tangible even when they could scarcely believe it was happening to them.
But it isn't the rat race of endless touring that truly leaves him gasping for air that month for worse is yet to come, in the form of album track meetings.
*
He's sat in the back of a taxi, fighting off a black wave threatening to pull him under. He's never felt as shit as he does now. Not when he thought he was getting sent home from the XFactor or when he hid backstage to avoid dancing, overwhelmed by nerves. Not when he woke up that morning after the party in his house with vague memories of a blond woman, Leon Starino passed out on his couch and his phone missing. Not even when shit truly hit the fan, Perrie came on the brink of ditching him and Twitter exploded with Islamophobia.
Nothing comes close to this absolute, bone-deep chill of rejection, this cold stone the size of a watermelon in his stomach, the soul-withering sense of worthlessness crashing into him over and over. It's like he's been cut open, right there on the oval table of the conference room at Sarm Studios, had his innards judged and measured and dismissed. Deemed lacking and unworthy. The contrast with the victorious high of that night in New York, when he thought he was writing down an album full of future masterpieces, is laughable.
He tries reminding himself he's not the only whose collaborations didn't make it. None of Niall's tracks with McFly passed scrutiny, nor did Harry's with John Legend or Kodaline - although two others of his did, but then, that was an inevitability with his status as Face of the Band. Zayn doesn't hold it against him, especially when he really likes the one about broken hearts.
Zayn couldn't even look at everyone else's faces when they first listened to the demos of One Chance to Chance and I Won't Mind back in early September and now he wishes they had never heard them to begin with. John and Julian were encouraging then, nodded along to the beat and deemed the latter 'soulful'. How things can change in but a month.
Death strike came with the bonus tracks, in particular that silly little pirate song Niall in particular has been advocating for. "It's cheeky," Louis argued in its favour and his enthusiasm infected Liam and so, before Zayn even knew what was happening, it was 3 against 1 - Harry is useless in these situations - and in the end Zayn couldn't bare to oppose it, not when he saw the excited glow rising on Niall's cheeks.
He watched the rest of it unfold from inside a cocoon, eyes trained on his bandmates' faces, watching the muscles twisting and turning into expressions, until they no longer looked like his friends or even humans.
His phone beeps. It's a text from Liam. Hey Z you ok?? you left kind of suddenly When he doesn't answer another one arrives ten minutes later, this one saying Your tracks were great, y know that right? I think I said that but in case you didn't hear or something Zayn turns off the phone at that and after a moment rolls down the passenger window to throw it on the street. It gets immediately driven over by a bus and shatters to million pieces.
*
Zayn spends the rest of October nursing his shattered ego, once again holed up in Shahid's studio, dozing off on the couch with Bob and Barry whenever he gets tired except on one occasion when he's ambushed by an abrupt, diabolical throbbing at his prostate and pays three times the standard cab fare to make it home in less than thirty minutes. It proves to be a miserable affair, reminiscent of the fervent session in New York in terms of pleasure but poisoned by a melancholy induced by all the missing furniture Perrie's hauled off in her wake.
He has no choice but to pick himself up towards the end of the month, however, as promotional activities start again and they film their second video for Four. Since all the 'dates' they're going on in Night Changes are filmed separately he's spared from seeing the others for a little while longer, but his relief disappears when he arrives on the set and is pulled into a bear hug by Ben in a tight black t-shirt. He blacks out a little for next few hours, finds himself cozying up to Ben with starry-eyed smiles and invitations to come over to his house for a proper dinner. When he gets home that day he wants to drown himself in his pool.
NOVEMBER 2014
He feels a spell creeping in during the early days of November, but doesn't call in Niall to the rescue until he can't take it anymore. If his friend is taken aback by the fervour with which Zayn latches on to his neck and manhandles him into the bedroom, he doesn't show it. He fingers Zayn for what feels like hours, poised over him in a most intimate, rigid crouch that is sure to come back at him as vicious back pain tomorrow, but doesn't complain with a single word. Zayn doesn't have the presence of mind to care, either way; he's too busy impaling himself on Niall's fingers - there must be at least four of them in there at some point - and keening like an animal in its death throes.
Afterwards Zayn asks to be left alone for a moment and lies on his side in the dark under the quilt Niall spread over him, mulling it over. This is the first time he feels like there might actually be something deeply wrong with him and the situation, that whatever that mushroom did to him runs deeper and darker than earth-shattering orgasms. He's been content to assume the effects were temporary and would diminish over time, but... This isn't normal. These strange attacks, seizures almost, that render him helpless as a baby. A perverted baby with an anal obsession, but helpless nonetheless. It's been, what, three months now? No mushroom in the world should be this potent.
Since thinking isn't going to make it better and Zayn's frankly too frightened to entertain the more fucked up explanations to his condition, he ends up dragging himself into a shower and promises himself to do some serious google-fu the moment Niall leaves. It's not like he's constantly walking around with a boner, there's no rush to seek out a doctor.
Niall's playing Footy Manager in the living room when Zayn enters. "Something happen to your phone?" he nods towards coffee table and the old Nokia Zayn is using as a back-up.
"Can't find it anywhere."
"Mh. Guess you didn't get any of our messages earlier. Was gonna ask you to the pub couple days ago. Commiserate. You know, 'coz our tracks didn't make it."
"Yeah, shame." Zayn sits on the couch next to him. "You gonna play that all night?"
*
The AMAs in the last week of November are a blast and Zayn is happy to be able to gain such positive attention after the fiasco that was the album launch event in Florida. The attacks seem to come much more frequently now and to his absolute horror he was saddled with one the day before they were supposed to fly over to Orlando on the 16th. And now, only eight days later, it looks like another one is about to strike, day after the awards. He felt a little wobbly on his feet after the ceremony so he stayed at their hotel in LA for the night with Harry, unlike the others, but to his disappointment it was only upon waking up that the familiar hot coils started writhing in his belly.
They're at the airport now, meant to embark a plane to Australia, and he can't think of a single way to weasel his way out of this. Blood is thudding in his ears, thick, like he's in a vacuum or underwater, the sounds around him muted and bass-heavy. He's just plain not going to make it through the flight, all 14 hours of it. He stops walking on the tarmac, turns around to face Preston behind him and says, with cheeks of cotton, hands pressed tight around the leather straps of his backpack, "I'm not feeling very good."
Preston frowns and glances at the doorway of the plane everyone else has disappeared through. "Like?"
"Like, I might have a fever."
"You can lie down on the plane. Take a nap and be fine by Sydney." He rubs his lips together. "You can't miss another show, man."
Preston has gotten Zayn (and Louis) out of trouble countless of times, but it's ultimately his job to make sure Zayn does his job in turn and it's not like Zayn wants to miss out on going to Australia, he's just... Panic is rising in his gut and he sniffs, desperate to keep it in. "Yeah. I know. Just feel awful."
"It's a big plane, we'll get you somewhere quiet, alone." Preston places a comforting hand on Zayn's shoulder and directs him towards the airstair.
One of the by and far most awesome perks of being filthy rich are private jets. While none of the lads own one and have no particular intentions to purchase one, they always cheer up at the sight of one waiting for them on the tarmac. This particular plane they're flying today has three separate sections with wide leather seats grouped around small tables, a kitchen, and two small bedrooms at the back, which is where Zayn is ushered for his "nap". He doesn't sleep, of course, just locks the door and lies on the bed on his back with his hand down the front of his trousers, going through his options.
There's next to no soundproofing on the plane, which means when and if the urge gets too strong, he's just going to have to live with the humiliation of people listening in to him going to town on himself for who knows how long. And that's the thing; he's not sure he can satisfy himself anymore. Niall not being here, Harry is his only hope (god forbid he hit on someone in their team or the plane's crew) and while it's still less than ideal to initiate another fucked up relationship with a band member, it just can't be helped.
He lies still for a good two hours, focusing on his breathing, a loose fist still around his dick as he hopes against hope he'll fall asleep after all or will magically master the art of zen buddhism and gain full control over his body. It's already there, however, the feverish pulse, simmering in the warm blood pumping in and out of his limbs at a steadily increasing pace. Ideally he would be able to wait for Harry to come for a nap, as he inevitably will, but it's barely noon.
Fucking fuck fuck. Zayn's so horny he's going to convulsions trying to control himself. He wants to crawl down the centre aisle of the plane bare-arsed, on his hands and knees, and beg for everyone on it to plow him until he cries.
With ginger movements Zayn pushes himself up and off the bed, for a moment angry at his predicament. What the fuck were in those mushrooms? What if he's going to be like this for the rest of his life? He slouches into the corridor, through the main cabin where Preston and the rest of their small entourage are socializing with the crew, and into the kitchen where he hastily munches on the salmon cakes in neat little displays in the fridge before continuing through to the second and smaller cabin. Harry's alone, by some divine blessing, and napping with his seat reclined, half his face covered by a SpongeBob themed sleeping mask.
"Harry?" Zayn whispers. His eyes flicker from Harry's slightly parted lips to the long triangle of sun-tanned skin framed by the open front of his white shirt, to his gargantuan hands resting above his crotch. His trousers are as tight as ever and stretch over thighs in a manner that would have amused him once upon a time when he was still a normal, non-sex-crazed individual with nothing but platonic feelings for his band mates. He's salivating now, almost shaking with the urge to touch. "Harry." Fuck, if Harry rejects him, he's just going to throw himself off the plane.
Harry stirs, mumbles some incoherent words, and fumbles with the sleeping mask until he manages to pull it up to rest on his forehead instead. "Zayn? Did you want something?" His voice is as groggy as his face and he rubs his eyes with vigour as he checks the time on his wrist watch. "Are you feeling better? I think you and I might have the same bug, my ear feels-"
"D'you want to fuck?"
Harry chews on the gum he's fished out of his pocket like a tough piece of steak, eyeballing Zayn like he's waiting for him to take it back or at least elaborate, but when Zayn only continues to stare back, deadpan, he clears his throat. "Um, Perrie....?"
"We broke up, long ago, long story. You wanna fuck or not?"
"Wow, I kind of thought that... we'd pretend 2013 never happened. I mean, that's what we've been doing, and I figured that was it, that we'd never have those Bowie-Jagger stories in the end... Although some of our fans are so enthusiastic about believing some of us are doing it either way, I guess the truth wouldn't ma-"
"Harry. You wanna fuck- or not?"
"Yeah, alright. I'm-" Harry pauses in surprise when Zayn starts fiddling his trousers open. "What, here? Thought we'd go into one of the bedrooms."
"No time. D'you have lube?"
"What d'you mean 'no time'?"
"I mean, I can't wait," Zayn snaps. "You have lube or not?"
Of course Harry does. Zayn all but wrenches the tube out of his hands as he struggles out of his trousers, cursing when they get stuck in his socks. Harry looks on silence, neither objecting or cheering him on, palms flat and flexing on the wide arm rests of his seat, like a nervous first timer at a strip club.
Zayn makes sure to lay his trousers within an arm's reach, on the back of a seat, and shimmies out of his pants next. He's not taking his shirt off; should someone walk in, he can dive onto the seat next to Harry's and cover his lower half with a blanket. "Got condoms?" he asks the still clad Harry, eyes locked on his rock hard dick now, mouth ajar.
"Erm, yeah, I'm-" He reaches down at the bag in the leg space of the seat next to his but with feeble fingers as he can't seem to tear his eyes off Zayn pouring lube on his palm. "Are we gonna, I mean, you want to-?"
"Yeah, I want you to fuck me."
Harry gives up on finding the condoms. "Have you done that before?"
"Yeah, yeah. You gonna get ready?" Zayn's digging inside himself now, back arched for a better reach, one hand gripping Harry's head rest as the fingers of the other burrow between his arse cheeks. It must be the least sexy sight imaginable, him just standing there in his t-shirt, fingering himself like a drug mule trying to extricate a bag of coke, but fuck it, he's dying to relieve the engorged pressure at the root of his spine. Thankfully, Harry's finally drawn out his cock and has it resting on his palm while he thumbs the base, back and forth. Zayn's seen it before, of course, but he's never been this happy about it before; it's a pretty awesome cock to be pounded by, he reckons. "Harry. Harry, take your trousers off."
Harry complies and the moment he's done kicking off them and the briefs under them he reaches for Zayn, a hand on the small of his back to gather him close. "How d'you wanna do this?" he asks Zayn's dick but instead of waiting for an answer he manoeuvres Zayn to sit on his lap, sideways, with his legs over the arm rest.
"This isn't gonna work," Zayn protests - why does everyone insist on having him in their laps? - but he's already rubbing his arse on Harry's erection with abandon, with a tight hold on Harry's hair for leverage. Harry in turn is holding on to his squirming body like a mall Santa a screaming toddler, unsure of what exactly to do and slightly in pain, judging by his expression. His eyes flicker at Zayn's lips, very close to his now, but Zayn has his head on lock, so he wraps a hand around Zayn's dick instead, slow and deliberate.
Zayn almost faints. He rests his head in the nook of Harry's neck and watches himself get tugged, enjoying the pulse of Harry's cock against his balls, until he gets too restless again. "I'm gonna change positions," he announces, panting heavily, and struggles to tuck in his legs so he can turn around until Harry takes pity on him and their genitals to lift him up by the waist so they're sat in the same direction. "Lemme get up."
They have a brief spat over whether or not Zayn could fit his shins on the seat wide enough to ride Harry face to face, but the arm rests won't budge so Zayn vetoes the idea and decides he's just going to sit on Harry backwards, like before. Harry insists on fingering him first and so Zayn stands crouched in front him in an awkward stance on wobbly legs, with nothing to lean on - this being a private jet the seats are in clusters rather than rows and he only has a low cocktail table in front of him - while Harry envelops one hip bone of his and delves in with two fingers.
It feels so good to submit himself like this and Zayn can't understand why he hasn't tried this before. He and Perrie explored each other in endless forms and variations in the bedroom, Perrie's restless, curious nature a good match for his willingness to serve. She never pushed too far in his direction, but there were occasions when they broached kinks he cut off early out of nerves, like that time she came home wearing those massive pvc boots and pressed one on his crotch in the middle of his WoW raid. Zayn's brain turned to mush on the spot and they took it to the bedroom, but when Perrie broke out the glass dildo they usually used on her he ended up getting cold feet.
"I think we're good to go."
The warm weight of Harry's hands is quite comforting on his sides as Zayn lowers himself on Harry's cock; it sinks in with relative ease to his relief. It hurts a little past the rim when the inside of his arse stretches out to accommodate for the intrusion - Harry's at least an inch longer than Niall - and Zayn's thighs soon begin to shake with the strain of holding himself up.
"You can put your weight on me," Harry assures him and presses a palm on his lower belly to guide him further down. Air sizzles out from between Zayn's clenched teeth in a thin stream when he bottoms out in Harry's secure hands. Fuck, it feels great having a cock inside, he should have coaxed Niall into this more often. "I think you should spread your legs over mine, like let them fall? On either side- like that. This way you can-"
Zayn pulls his hips forward then and rams them back, keening as Harry's cock slides smoothly in and out. He grinds his body up and down on Harry's dick wild abandon, like it's just a dildo, gripping the leather of the arm rests with white knuckles. Harry, caught off guard, tries to say something but the words digress into hoarse, incoherent sex grunts, which can probably be heard loud and clear in the main cabin. Praise the lord for non-disclosure agreements.
"Zayn, don't make me come yet, I thought I could bend you over?" Harry moans as they rapidly approach their respective climaxes.
"Nah, gonna get myself- off like...this," Zayn pants but to his surprise Harry's hand closes around his throat and he's pulled into a hard kiss. He's not sure about it, he and Niall never kissed after the first time on the bus and it feels like crossing a line, but he doesn't want to dampen the mood and it's hot anyway, his breath getting sucked out of him, especially as Harry starts fondling his dick and balls with both hands. He comes soon after, spills cum all over himself, but Harry keeps thrusting harder and harder, hands tight around his hip bones, and by the time he actually comes Zayn is sobbing from over-stimulation and his belly has turned into mush. It's fucking awesome.
After they've cleaned up a little Zayn takes Harry by the hand and leads him into the bedrooms where they have sex for three hours straight, Zayn coaxing Harry into it again and again until towards the end he realises mid-way through riding his cock for the fourth time that Harry has fallen asleep.
DECEMBER 2014
December is such a flurry of activities all over Europe and America that Zayn doesn't get much of a chance to stop and reflect on his life, and yet it is somehow in this month of all months that an epiphany strikes him like Thor's hammer, straight in the chest, rendering him profoundly distraught because... the truth is sad and difficult. Subconsciously he's wanted for much, much loner than he cares to admit, which is probably why a magic mushroom was needed to kick him into action.
It is his first instinct to ring Simon. He feels weightless, listening to the ringback tone, and for a split second forgets how language works when a female voice answers, "Hello, this Simon Cowell's office, how may I help you?"
"Uh, this is Zayn Malik. I need to talk to Simon Cowell, I thought this is his personal number?"
"I'm afraid all Mr Cowell's calls are being transferred to me at the moment, Mr Malik. Would you like for him to call you back? ...Mr Malik, are you still there?
"Yes. I am- fine. No need to call me back. Tell him I rang to say 'Merry Christmas'."
Zayn hangs up before she gets in another word and stares at the screen of his phone, motionless on the outside. On the inside he's going back in time, floating through the shelves of his library of memories, like Matthew McConaughey in Interstellar, searching for a particular piece of the past that has lodged itself in a separate little cabinet for safe-keeping. It's a conversation he had, or mostly listened in on, between Aiden and Savan during the XFaxtor tour, about Simon. The exact details escape him, but the gist of it was that, contrary to the view of the general public or the tabloids, Simon Cowell is not God. He's not even in charge of XFactor, let alone the biggest player in the British music industry, let alone on the other side of the pond.
Zayn rolls down his list of contacts and chooses another number.
*
The man is dressed in a gaudy banker suit, a wide orange tie and tinted glasses despite them being indoors, and the waft of his musty perfume is strong enough to make Zayn's nose tingle even across the conference room table. He's the only person out of the three Sony Music representatives to have introduced himself, with an almost theatrical handshake, other hand pulling Zayn closer by the elbow, like American politicians are taught to do to gain the upper hand in negotiations.
"Thing is, Zayn, you're going to Asia next year. You realise you're the big draw there, it would be awkward for you leave before that and... Dubai, in particular. But, after that...." The man leans back in his chair and swivels around for a bit, back and forth, right and left, before placing his elbows back on the table, a golden pencil held between his hands. "We're going to do this in stages. Have this track of yours on Mr Khan's album, test the waters, we'll back you up on it. After the AMAs there was some buzz state-side that makes us think investing in your solo career wouldn't be a complete mistake, but we'll have to see. Oh, and don't worry about Syco, Modest or Simon, I'll deal with that. I'm sure we'll find an agreement that satisfies all parties involved."
*
On the 18th a long email from Syco arrives in his inbox, regurgitating more or less every word said at the meeting with the suits. Zayn sends them a massive Christmas-themed cupcake collection, not knowing himself if it's a fuck you or thank you, and goes on a last-minute shopping spree, racking up more than 10,000 pounds worth of purchases, most of them to his sisters. He's already massively spoiled them at Eid back in October, but what's the harm, might as well while he's still raking in obnoxious amounts of cash.
Zayn's sent Perrie too a gift and they FaceTime a little on Boxing Day, which serves as a catalyst for the conversation he has been dreading when Safaa walks in on them and demands to know when she's coming to Bradford. It goes over surprisingly well as it turns out most of his family already had an inkling they were through, except for Safaa who locks herself in her room for the rest of the day and only comes after Yaser promises to make her his special haleem, which is just haleem with a sizable extra serving of ghee, but that's something everyone agrees to keep from her.
The second big piece of news to share is of course Zayn's decision to quit One Direction, but this one he keeps between him and his parents. Again, neither of them appear shocked and later Zayn even overhears his mother expressing her happiness over the new-found confidence he's exuding. It settles nicely in his gut and even if there's still the niggling secret of his bisexuality to deal with, he decides two life-changing announcements are more than enough for one Christmas.
JANUARY 2015
Zayn gets right back in the studio after his stay in Bradford. As per usual, the company of his family has rejuvenated his spirits and the wise words of his elders sharpened his focus. In order for his vision to come true, and it's a vision that he now has, he needs to set goals. Tangible goals as the fuel to push himself forward. Sony has his back on that and he's now in regular correspondence with a contact on the other side of the Atlantic, a back and forth of ideas and updates.
For now he's tasked with nothing more than a vague suggestion to "find his sound" while the negotiations between labels over Shahid's album march on, and that's what Zayn does. On the days Shahid is busy he hangs out with the various people that frequent the studio - Rocky, Emeli, Krept and Konan, among others - and either fucks around with them in the studio or in the inner courtyard of the building. Sometimes they go on rides about town, which is how they end up filming a silly little video for their No Type cover, at 3 am, high on weed and youth.
On Twitter Zayn makes it a habit to retweet fan art, especially after he shaves off the sides of his hair, moves endorsed by Purple PR he enters talks with towards the end of the month. He knows he's encountered kindred spirits when he first steps inside their stylish London office and his eyes land on a curious multi-coloured statue in the middle of their mostly white decor; it reminds him of an Iron Man suit. Purple employ hip, young people attuned to the digital age and even the two founders, who've been in the business since well before Internet times, appear to Zayn youthful and keen on keeping up with the latest trends. To his surprise the more boisterous of the two even reveals he once sang in a boyband himself, back in the day.
Every turn Zayn makes feels like a step in the right direction. He knows it because of the fire that has roamed to life in his heart, but also because of the lack of flames in cruder parts of his body. Since that call he made in December he hasn't experienced a single meltdown and while he still wanks on the regular like your usual twenty-something able-bodied person, which is to say a lot, he's no longer driven to insanity pursuing that magical off button lodged in his prostate. In fact, his exploits of the past five months or so worry him now; apart from the usual texts at Christmas and New Year he hasn't been in contact with any of his band mates and the him of last year seems like a completely different person, in a myriad of ways, which makes him worried he'll have trouble re-connecting with everyone else.
FEBRUARY 2015
Australia. Fucking. Rocks. Zayn is pretty sure he hasn't had this much fun on tour in three years. His voice sounds stronger and cleaner every day, the sun is shining, and there's no trace of awkwardness between him, Niall and Harry, none! Their friendships may not anything like they were in their heyday, but maybe they don't have to be. Maybe it's fine if they're just amicable co-workers doing a stressful job together, making their best out of it, or in his case, doing their best to get out of it.
On their last day in Sydney Louis and Liam start talking about renting out a yacht with El and Sophia, who've flown in to see them. Niall is eager to join them, but Zayn declines, citing a desire to Skype with his sisters, and to his surprise Harry makes his excuses as well. In truth Zayn has a conference call scheduled with to lock down pieces in the press plan for his departure; it occurs to him that perhaps Harry has similar intentions. After all, it's not been a secret to anyone in the band how deep Harry's connections lie and how deliberate his moves over the past few years have been.
Zayn is on the phone for almost two hours - an argument ensues over whether or not Zayn would be partaking in the American leg of the tour, which isn't selling half as well as they were been hoping it to - and takes a long shower afterwards. There's a knock on his door when he's tying the belt of his bathrobe and Zayn's surprised to find a bashful Harry on the other side, hands behind his back like when he poses on the red carpet. "Hey. Are you done Skyping?"
"Uh, yeah, just finished. What's up?"
Harry changes legs. "Not much. Thought we could... relax? If you wanna."
Zayn ogles him in silence until it clicks in his head and his jaw loosens. "Oh. Right. You want to fuck. 'Coz we did that, last year." He smooths over the skin under his chin, thoughtfully.
"Well, obviously we don't have to, again." Harry's eyebrows have risen in alarm. "Just thought we might as well, with everyone else gone..."
"I see your point. It's just- I don't really need that anymore." Should he attempt to explain everything? Harry of all people might be open to the truth.
"I don't follow," Harry says, a tiny frown between his brows.
"I was a bit desperate, last year. I mean, like... I fucked you and Niall only because I needed someone, anyone male, to tide me over the fits."
"You fucked Niall?"
"Right. You didn't know that. I thought, maybe he told you."
"Was I before or after? Niall, I mean."
"Err, after."
Harry crosses his arms. "Thought you two looked cozy in America. What was that bit about desperation again?"
Zayn wets his lips, nervously. "Well, basically, I took this drug that made me super horny in New York. Don't judge me, yeah?"
"O-k," Harry says, stretching the 'o' and nods a few times. "Viagra?"
"Why would I take Viagra? I don't have erection problems. If anything, I have the very opposite."
Harry blinks. "Then what did you take?"
"I don't know, I forgot the name. And it was actually a mushroom. I can see you're judging me now."
"Uh, yeah? Could've been dangerous."
Suddenly Zayn feels impatient and exhausted, realising how long and hard this might actually, explaining his actions, and leans onto the door frame with his arms crossed. "I was in a bad place, 'k? Either way, the shrooms did something to me. To my preferences."
"You took mushrooms, once. in New York and afterwards you only wanted to get rammed by hot guys. Sorry, but that doesn't sound right."
Zayn makes a helpless gesture. "I've always been- well, Perrie thinks I'm bi or something, but I don't know and I've never really tried to find out. Until I took this mushroom. It's not just the sex thing, there were other things, positive things that were swimming under the surface and which I was afraid to explore. But the urges were a problem. I got intrusive thoughts about anyone and everyone male. Fuck, I had fantasies about, like, Preston."
Harry makes a face. "Well. I'm feeling a whole lot less special now. Does it have to mean you're turning me down now, though? I mean you said that you were afraid to explore things, before. Can't you explore them even if you're not drugged up? I mean, we already had sex."
The silence between them stretches as Zayn chews on his lip, conflicted but growing aroused; Harry looks good in his dark jeans and t-shirt, hair a little damp and curling on his shoulders. His piqued interest must be evident because Harry's eyes keep returning to his lips and he's getting that heavy-lidded look that says he's imagining what he'd like to be doing to them right now. A slow smile spreads on Zayn's face and he reaches for the hem of his friend's t-shirt; having a round of sex the normal, non-intoxicated way might be good for him, in the end.
Harry doesn't need more encouragement; he squishes Zayn into the door frame with the entire length of his body, hands cradling his jaw to lift his face into a demanding kiss, fingertips tickling the skin behind Zayn's ears and at his hairline. That discussion about kissing and boundaries should probably happen right now, but Harry's a great kisser and the intimate way their tongues work together, relaxing and parting, slipping in and out into the wet interiors of their mouths... it doesn't equal romance.
They move inside the room after a while and get rid off Harry's clothes, Zayn yanking the jeans off his legs with such vigour a seam rips open at the crotch. After a stunned moment they burst into laughter and Harry removes his underwear while Zayn searches the jean pockets for lube and condoms.
"How'd you know I had them?" Harry asks, surprised.
"You came to my door for sex, didn't you? And anyway, you told me once you never go anywhere without condoms, not even a funeral."
"That- does sound like something I might have said."
Zayn only smirks and crawls on the bed on all fours to sit in the middle, cross-legged. "Coming?"
"Mm-hm, I'm just gonna-" Harry leans towards him, propped on a fist, and gently pulls out the band keeping Zayn's hair in a small bun on the top of his head. "Looks nicer." He ruffles it loose to swing down the other side and over Zayn's face and surges forward to kiss him renewed urgency, hard and fast, leaving Zayn scrambling to react in his half-blinded state. It turns into an unspoken competition, each trying to establish dominance over the other, but in the end Zayn gladly forfeits when Harry forcefully grabs his hair and crawls over him until Zayn's back touches the bedspread.
"Good?" Harry pulls back to ask, breathless.
"Yeah. Yeah," Zayn pants. His head is still being held back by Harry's firm hand, his throat exposed, and he wants to cry with how good it feels.
Harry grins and crawls backwards on the bed to open the belt of Zayn's bathrobe and suck his dick into his mouth.
*
Days until the Australian sun pass by all too quickly in between concerts and the daily cycle of texts and calls from family, Shahid and label reps. On Valentine's Day Harry, Liam, Niall and Louis hit the Melbourne club scene together as a foursome while Zayn stays behind to entertain Kieron, who's flown in to trim his hair. Harry and Niall corner him the next day to inform him, with strange, inappropriately serious expressions, that they've decided it best to not sleep with him anymore, out of concern for band relations. Zayn only nods, hands in the pockets of his joggers, and assures them he finds it a wise, prudent decision. Inside, his head is all question marks.
In truth, as much have as Zayn is having on stage, he feels a little out of sync with his band members. He hasn't said a word about his plans yet and and not just because he's under strict orders not to; he's scared of the reactions. It's been confirmed that he won't be writing for the next album, and there's already been more than one awkward moment with Liam gushing about getting to work on it while interrogating Zayn on what he and Shahid have been so holed up in the studio for.
And it's not just their professional lives where Zayn's been cut out of the loop. Louis breaks down on the night before their Adelaide concert and informs him he and Eleanor have called it quits. Of course Zayn knew about the various troubles they'd been having during the past six months or so, but he'd been too wrapped up in his the bizarre rollercoaster adventure his life had turned into to have a proper chat about it. Immediately regretful, he offers to take Louis on a mini-break anywhere he fancies before their last Australian concert despite having promised to fly over to LA for a meeting. Louis cheers up immediately and picks a resort on Hamilton Island, on the Great Barrier Reef, where they're almost ambushed by a cyclone.
Zayn still has to make his visit to LA, though, and he reschedules in after Perth while on the island. Louis, who overhears the conversation, insists to know what the hell he's going to LA for and in his panic Zayn spills out a PG-rated version of last year's bedroom shenanigans (with Harry and Niall's names omitted), citing a need for a quick health check with a specialist after prolonged effects from an unknown shroom. Louis listens with raised eyebrows, berates him for keeping it all to himself and announces his intention to tag along, all in one breath, and dismisses Zayn's objections with a stern glare. It can't be helped, Zayn is just going to make sure Louis won't attempt to follow him to the doctor's.
The hand of fate aids him with his cover story in Perth in the form of sudden nausea that forces Zayn off the stage early. Despite the temptation to just take off without Louis, he doesn't, and they make the long flight over the Pacific together, napping and chatting over random things. It doesn't feel right, pretending like everything's normal, but he's come such a long way keeping secrets that revealing them now seems impossible. He does manage to imply that he and Perrie are more or less on the rocks, which is better than nothing, he supposes.
MARCH 2015
Zayn spends the break in touring with Jawaad, who's agreed to help him move in some new furniture, staying up late watching films and listening to classics, and completely upending his sleeping rhythm, which is terrible because he misses three flights to Singapore on the 11th and doesn't touch down at Changi airport until around 5 pm. His hair is greasy, he's wearing yesterday's tangy shirt and the weather in Singapore hits him in the face like a massive wet blanket lifted straight out of boiling water. He almost turns back on his heel to retreat into the coolness of the airport, but his handlers aren't letting him out of their sight; he's all but manhandled into a car and half out of spite, half because he really needs a positive human connection right now, Zayn asks the driver, a local, to pull over when he sees a cluster of fans in hijabs, waving at the car as they navigate through slow airport traffic.
"Two minutes, Zayn," Shannon barks just before Preston slides the door open and steps out first to prep the girls.
Zayn does the usual hugs and poses and just before he goes back in one of the girls asks him, "Are you real?"
"Of course I'm real," he mutters with a little laugh but once he's back in the car and speeding towards the stadium again he wonders. Is he real? His life as one fifth of One Direction doesn't feel real to him - does that mean Zayn Malik isn't real either? He likes stalking their fans on Twitter and knows they're very knowledgeable about the details of their professional and private lives, sometimes to frightening degrees, but there are occasions when he feels like he's reading about some fictional Zayn Malik, a cartoon character in a long-running series called One Direction, complete with catch phrases and narratives, apparently orchestrated to the tiniest detail by their management.
His thoughts run in circles on Singapore's National Stadium throughout the concert, body on autopilot, floating weightlessly from one end of the stage to the other. This isn't real, echoes in his head like the screensaver on his laptop. Real... real... real...
Out of the songs they're doing tonight, he's written on maybe six or seven, a handful of words on each; what does it matter if the front row knows every word by heart? Just as much as it matters that they bought the band's latest book, which they had no part in designing, or flood the inbox of some poor bastard daring to criticize their no-effort stage productions. Don't these people ever get tired of supporting them? They're not stupid: they engage in endless conversations over the band's hectic schedules and general well-being, even if with limited and sometimes erroneous assumptions about what goes on behind the scenes. It doesn't seem to matter when they pour into the stadium, they are all up on their feet and screaming at the top of their lungs the moment the screens switch on. How is one supposed to talk to these people with any semblance of honesty seeing their ecstatic reactions over as little as a glance in their direction?
Seventeen more dates. Seventeen dates, fourteen cities and ten weeks, and then he's free, it's been agreed. After Helsinki. The thought of it straightens his back, adds a spring in his step and fills his lungs with air that has his voice swelling and soaring into the rafters with ease that night.
Afterwards he and Louis jump on a plane straight to Bangkok where they party the night away and Zayn tries to talk about his feelings somewhere between the vodka shots and that pretty yellow cocktail with kiwi fruit slices he ends up dropping on the floor of a nightclub bathed in blue and pink lights. Louis nods emphatically at every confession Zayn slurs in his ear and rubs their cheeks together but a moment later he starts talking about Thai girls and his need to get laid, so Zayn isn't entirely sure he quite got the words out right.
Jawaad joins them the next day and the three of them continue partying throughout their stay in Thailand. It gets a little out of hand and when Zayn wakes up the day before their concert in Hong Kong in the luxury villa they've rented in Phuket, he realises he doesn't remember much of the past three days.
A much bigger problem, however, is the familiar throb in his backside.
He slips a hand into the back of his pants and feels around the wrinkly rim of his anus. It's swollen and hot to the touch, but there's nothing arousing about it. In fact, it hurts, like someone's been ramming him in the arse for five hours straight. Which is of course possible.
Zayn rolls on his back and feels around the pillow for his phone, which tells him it's almost five in the afternoon. The switch to the bedside lamp is much harder to find and he fumbles for it for a good five minutes, reluctant to move beyond what's necessary. His bleary gaze flickers from the dark wooden fretwork panels covering the sliding doors on the right to the bamboo furniture set on the left; he appears to be alone. A second look at his phone shows seven new calls and ten new messages, which he ignores in favour of peeling off the sheets and propping himself up on one of the giant pillows on the bed. There are voices coming in from somewhere in the house; Louis talking on the phone, he thinks. He feels numb.
Half an hour later he's in the shower under freezing cold water, but it does absolutely nothing to the burning in his arse or the insistent half-chub he's sporting. A tight fist of dread around his intestines, he gets dressed and goes downstairs where Jawaad is watching television and Louis' holding a beer. "Evening, sunshine! You've woken up just in time," the latter croaks with almost desperate cheer.
"For? When're we flying to Hong Kong?"
Louis spreads his hands. "Tomorrow! Tonight we have plans. I've invited some girls over. Brits. So no worries of a language barrier."
"What," is all Zayn manages at the same time as the bottom of his stomach jolts, half in arousal and half in pain. Will sex cure this? He can't even bare the thought of someone touching him right now. "Louis, 'm not feeling very well."
"Well, you better cheer up 'coz the ladies are gonna be here any moment now. I've had a chef make us snacks and everything."
Jawaad looks slightly more sympathetic. "I have aspirin?"
"No, that's not gonna- It's more like a stomach ache."
"Alcohol on an empty stomach," Louis nods wisely. "Help yourself to the snacks. They're out on the patio, buffet-style."
Zayn chews on his lip, hard. If he's truthful about the intensity and location of the pain, they're just going to make him go see a doctor and that is the absolute last thing he wants, a medical professional poking around his arse, asking awkward questions. Is there even anything to be done about it? Why have the attacks come back? What is he doing wrong?? He only has ten weeks left. Unless this is a sign that's something's going wrong and instead of being let out of his contract they're stringing him along with false promises?
Shit, he's getting paranoid. He'll make some phone calls, take some pain killers - something hell of a lot stronger than aspirin, Jawaad, thanks - and lay off the alcohol. Chill.
"You really don' look so good, cuz, maybe we should get you checked out," Jawaad says, half-way up the couch. He's been looking forward to the good times Zayn promised him for a long time, but Zayn knows he's also been asked to keep an eye on him by their family, not that the boy is anywhere near enough responsible for that.
"Nah, 's cool. I'm- gonna go sit in the pool. Drink some water. Chill out."
Zayn speedwalks through the house and into the garden, pulling out his phone the moment he's out of hearing distance. He calls Modest first and this time is passed through straight to Simon, who at first assures him in his blunt style that everything is going according to plan and that they'll have a band meeting with official announcements the second they're done with Jakarta, but the longer he keeps talking the more suspicious Zayn gets. Apparently the negotiations over the North American leg aren't quite as done a deal as presumed. There's unexpected pressure from sponsors, problems with the redistribution of solos, a deal with a South American TV channel threatening to fall through, etc etc. Zayn pinches his nose and shuts the phone. He ought to be calling Sarah Stennett, his awesome future manager, next, should have done so to begin with, but he now also has a headache in addition to arse ache, and so he instead does what he told Louis and Jawaad. Plops down in the shallow end of the pool.
The girls, who arrive twenty minutes later, are an annoying distraction, but he plasters on a smile for Louis' sake and watches him and Jawaad get cozy with a couple of them. The third does her best to engage Zayn but soon grows tired of his grunts and evasive eyes; they don't end up in a bed together that night. In fact, Zayn is fairly sure he might have ended in Louis' bed in addition to her friend.
*
Zayn's phone blows up overnight. Forty-three calls, countless text messages, even snapchats. He's had a good night's sleep, courtesy of Ambien and a cold, wet towel around his waist, but it doesn't save him from the unspeakable weight of mental exhaustion that settles onto his chest as he lies on his bed, listening to Sarah's report on the "incriminating picture" and the cheating allegations gaining ground on Twitter.
He does go to Hong Kong. Pale as a zombie, barely uttering a word to anyone, but singing his heart out for what he realises is, by the time they're down to the final song, the very last time he will in this band. After the show it all becomes a blur. He's pretty he has a breakdown of some sort; one moment he's screaming, the other holding back tears, and somewhere in between they all get back to the hotel where pretty much every member of their team tries to calm him down, endless phone calls are made and his band mates huddle somewhere in the periphery confused and upset.
Finally they have everyone in a room together and Simon's unfeeling face on a laptop screen. More words are said, in an orderly, polite fashion this time, but Zayn stays firm, repeats over and over that he's not going to the Philippines, no matter what. Liam, forever the band spokesman, finally raises his voice to ask in a disbelieving voice if he's got it right, if what he's hearing is that they've been planning for Zayn to leave for months now. Zayn doesn't look at them, doesn't as much as flinch at the accusation there, not until he announces he's taking a bathroom break fifteen minutes later and walks past them on his way to the door.
Liam's face is both limp and hard, seeking answers in Zayn's face and promising support if only Zayn would talk to him. Louis has his arms wrapped tightly around his torso and stares at him with such hatred in his eyes Zayn wonders if he's lost a friend forever. Niall doesn't look at him at all, fiddling with a tear at his jeans instead, face pale and blank. And Harry looks... sad. Just sad. And tired.
Zayn goes into his room, gathers his bags and orders a taxi. When he arrives at the airport an hour later the pain at the bottom of his spine has all but vanished. And even as his friends' faces haunt him in the clouds he sees out of the airplane window on his way home, the most prominent feeling in his gut is... relief.