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It’s not terrible, per se.
It’s not as though Zayn can barely control his body, or like he can’t remember the last time he was happy, or like he isn’t able to look at himself in the mirror.
(on the contrary, that last one)
It’s not as though his life is intolerable or horrendous or barely-a-life-at-all.
He knows that there are people (people in third world countries, people in zones of conflict, people with terminal illnesses, people who can’t afford a proper education, people who are illiterate, people in extreme poverty, people who are out of control, who don’t know happiness) who idolise his life.
(not without raison d'être, of course- anyone would lust over a life of private jets and dream careers and the world at our feet attitude)
No, things aren’t terrible, for Zayn, as such.
But they are certainly far from good.
/ / /
Zayn knows he’s not ugly, as such.
He knows he’s not repulsive or comparable to Frankenstein or the Elephant Man or Scarface or Keith Martin of London (the fattest man in the world at five-sixty kilograms)-
But he also knows he’s not gorgeous. He knows that he can’t compare to Niall or Louis or Harry or Liam (god, Liam).
The insecurities (as he classifies them- not as a disorder, because that’s too extreme, or as a flaw, because that’s not extreme enough- no, insecurities are such a perfect medium, so much more perfect than himself) aren’t without origin, either.
It’s partially inbred, embedded in his DNA, a mutation which refuses to become an evolutionary advantage.
It’s partly due to his thyroid gland, a little too slow for the desired metabolism of a teenage boy.
(out of the five of them, it took him the longest to grow out of his puppy fat, to the extent that his only memory of the first months of tour is the make-up artists prodding his puffy cheeks as they create the mask)
It’s partly his skin tone, his accent, his native tongue, so different from the cool British characteristics of the others.
It’s part Niall’s bulging biceps with no attempt on his behalf, and part Harry’s abs, revealed in the temperate Australia, and part Louis’ arse, and part the absolutely melodic way their three voices blend together.
It’s part Danielle- gorgeous, perfect Danielle, with her long legs and tight stomach and brilliant smile- and the 5”7 imprint she leaves in Liam’s memory.
(and, secretly, it’s part the constant purr in the back of his ear which taunts “if you were better, Zayn Malik, he would stare at you instead of the crowd’)
/ / /
“You look pensive,” Liam teases, their eyes catching in the reflection. “Do I sense another tweet coming on?”
Zayn blushes for a moment, and then bites back the groan of disgust when it draws attention to his cheeks. Liam’s eyes are like a weight holding him down. “I’m just getting ready,” he says defensively, but he can’t stop staring at the boy glaring back, his brown skin a little uneven, his ears a little crooked, his jawline almost unrecognisable under the swelling of his cheeks. He’s going to look away, he will, he swears, because this is not an issue or a disorder it’s just insecurities and everyone has insecurities, right, it’s normal, it’s normal to hate your reflection-
“Stop eye-fucking yourself,” Liam laughs, and for a terrifying heartbeat Zayn hears the undercurrent of revulsion. “We have an interview and we’re running late and I know you hate how exercise destroys your quiff.”
Zayn touches his hair sub-consciously and grabs a leather jacket from his bed which isn’t quite their cookie-cutter image, but hides his garish arms. “Speaking of,” he says casually, “can we run together? If we leave early-” no one will see me “- we’ll avoid the bodyguards.”
Liam looks puzzled for a moment, like he’s lost half his thought, but nonetheless nods and holds the door open.
(Zayn’s certain he sees him flinch as their bodies press together, and spends the twenty minute taxi ride glaring at his reflection)
/ / /
That afternoon, when the interviewer asks what their least favourite thing about each other is, all four boys turn to Zayn and say ‘his obsession with his reflection’ in that joking tone which simultaneously tears his heart apart and puts it back together in the wrong order.
/ / /
It’s a week later and he’s running beside Liam through an anonymous park in an equally anonymous city. The burn- the shaking of his muscles under pressure, the rush of adrenalin through his blood, the silenced hum behind his eyelids- is delicious, and the looks Liam’s shooting him make them both stumble on their own feet.
“Your lungs aren’t getting enough oxygen,” Liam laughs breathlessly, as they slow down.
Their chests are heaving and they’re so close and Zayn can almost handle it, but then Liam grins and stumbles forward to press their foreheads together and his world nearly explodes.
“Without sounding like your dad,” Liam says, like he does every time he says something incredibly sentimental, like ‘you sounded fucking awesome’ or ‘I can’t wait to see how bright you’ll burn’, “watching you grow into your handsome self has been the greatest pleasure of my life.”
Zayn grins hopelessly for a moment, biting back the ‘it’s for you I’m for you do you like it are you proud?’. His sweaty hand automatically flies to his stubbled cheek and he prods the skin there. “Shut up,” he mumbles, eyes trained on Liam’s, “I’m not-”
He’s cut off by the sound of screaming girls. Liam pulls away and that roar in his ears is back, a slur of ‘he’s lying, find a mirror, you’ll still see yourself’.
“Are so, Malik,” he laughs, brushing his hand across Zayn’s revealed tattoos. He clenches his teeth to hold back a moan and there’s still not enough space between them and it doesn’t make sense, it’s unfathomable that Liam would want to be seen with him.
“Race back to the hotel?” he asks, a little desperately, hands shaking with the nerves and the cold and the want and the lack. He’s practically vibrating, as though he’ll explode under this scrutiny, which is the only logical reasoning behind tearing out of Liam’s grip and sprinting through the city.
/ / /
When he’s coherent- when it’s silent, when he’s still, usually when Liam’s around- he knows that he’s changing. His clothes are looser and there are hints of muscles and it takes less time for him to arrange his features into something moderately attractive.
(that doesn’t, however, reduce the flare of disappointment when he stumbles into his room and his reflection is still as unfortunate as ever.)
(it also doesn’t stop the nausea creeping up his spine whenever he sees food, that day, either.)
/ / /
It’s not that he doesn’t eat anymore. He knows he needs the carbohydrates and the glucose and the vitamins, and he’s too apprehensive of his teeth to threaten corrosion with stomach acid.
He won’t eat in front of the others, though, especially after a show, when it’s like the others deserve the food more.
He won’t eat anything he doesn’t make himself, anything he can’t measure.
He won’t sleep on a full stomach, when his body is too slow to work it off.
He won’t wait more than forty minutes after food before pulling out a cigarette and chain smoking until the shaking stops.
(and he won’t be able to keep it down if Liam doesn’t shoot him that pleased smile after his solos)
/ / /
He’s halfway through a fruit salad one night when Liam cracks open the door and shoots him that smile, that one all for him, with the crinkling eyes and slightly crooked lips.
Liam- still wearing Zayn’s varsity jacket, which looks so right on him- throws him a woolly jumper. “Beer on the roof?” he asks, but it’s not a question. His hand grasps Zayn’s wrist before either of them can change their minds.
It’s silent, on the roof, and the breeze is stirring around them like a placid tornado. They sit, dangling their legs over the edge, and Liam’s still holding his hand and Zayn’s poor conflicted heart aches.
“You sounded fantastic tonight,” Liam says softly, between swigs of trashy beer, and Zayn smiles despite the purr of ‘he’s lying’. “If we were the Beatles, you’d be Paul.”
“You’d be George,” Zayn says absently, and the city lights are dancing for them.
Liam pauses and shuffles a little closer. “George is your favourite,” he says, and it’s not a question, but it sounds like one.
Zayn laughs and shuffles a little closer and bravely brushes his thumb over Liam’s and Liam doesn’t even flinch. “Exactly,” he teases, and instead of finishing the thought, he sings, “I want you, I want you so bad, it’s driving me-”
(Zayn would have finished the line, but Liam lets out this beautiful, low growl and closes the gap between their lips and Zayn’s world almost bursts, all over the city, so it’s no wonder he can’t remember the words)
/ / /
It’s subconscious, really, how easily Zayn-
Liam’s-
Liam’s the fresh breath between cigarettes and the silent hum of amps behind him and the anchor holding him down and the air pressure holding him up and-
Liam is everything.
/ / /
They say that addicts don’t lose their addictions; they just transition to something considered less detrimental to society.
Zayn transitions to Liam.
It happens one night after playing trashy video games and watching pay-per-view television. They’re eating dessert (well, Zayn’s fiddling with his sundae, but no one notices when Megan Fox is on the screen) and Zayn-
Well, Zayn’s almost salivating at the way Liam is eating his mousse, the way he’s almost fellating the fork, letting out soft noises of approval, tongue darting out to lick his lips and fuck he must be doing this on purpose, the arsehole, they hadn’t been alone for days-
“You two are sickeningly obvious,” Harry laughs, and Zayn blushes a crude shade of red.
“No decorum,” Niall teases from his spot on the floor, sprawled out like a cat. “You’re on par with Larry Stylinson.”
Louis scowls and winks at the pair. “I resent that,” he grumbles, “Harry and I have the common decency to inform you when we fuck. Li and Zayn just fellate to inanimate objects.”
Niall shoots Zayn a grin and pokes his spoon in the general direction of the hallway and Zayn’s so overwhelmed with love for the three boys who didn’t even hesitate on their relationship or sexuality and-
They stumble out the room together and once they’re out of sight, Liam crowds him against the wall and practically mauls his neck. Zayn makes a soft keening noise and he’s shaking, but for a whole different reason now.
Their lips touch tentatively and Zayn stirs his hips in approval. Liam smirks and gnaws at Zayn’s lower lip and everything melts away in their kisses, in the ‘so hot taste so good feel so good fuck’ until Liam’s hands tug at the hem of his shirt and-
Zayn scrambles backwards. Liam breaks the kiss with a frown and there’s space between them, now, and the trembling is back and how could he be so stupid, Liam would never touch him again if he saw-
“Hey,” Liam mumbles, ducking forward to kiss him, and Zayn nearly whimpers with relief, “I won’t-”
Zayn scrambles back into his arms, that delicious taste of Liam (like chocolate, like diet coke, like home) flooding his tongue.
(and it occurs to him a few moments later that maybe he doesn’t need cigarettes if he can have this)
/ / /
The four of them- they adapt to the change in Zayn so quickly that they barely register the evolution.
/ / /
He should be pleased, by now.
He’s thinner and his jaw is noticeable and the way Liam stares when he’s wearing his plaid shirt should be enough.
(it’s not, though. Now, his jaw is too noticeable, and people stare, and it feels like there’s bugs under his skin)
/ / /
It’s a fan who notices first, maybe even before Zayn does.
“You look good,” the girl says, gesturing his new collarbone tattoo as Zayn signs a CD.
He looks up to shoot her a smile. “It looks good,” he corrects.
The look she gives him is so full of sadness that the shaking starts without his accord.
(when they get back to their hotel, he does push ups until he collapses and the girl’s eyes are almost forgotten)
/ / /
He’s on the bathroom floor, later, sweat sliding down his collarbone as his arms tremble from the exertion. He’s halfway through a push up, the promise of ‘ignore the sting and the tears and the churning and focus on the still’ in the air, when-
“What are you doing?” Liam asks, a little shocked, and Zayn quickly turns away to compose himself. He must look horrific, under the fluorescent lighting with little sleep and soaked to his core in sweat. “It’s three a.m.”
(his muscles shake in an effort to maintain warmth when they’re not contracting with exertion)
“I couldn’t sleep,” he half-lies, because it’s true and it barely explains anything.
Liam makes a soft noise of disapproval and instead of walking out, like Zayn half expects, he ducks down to press a kiss to his lips. “You,” he says, almost like it’s the start of a sentence, and it occurs a moment too late that it might be the end of one instead. He nuzzles into Liam’s neck and, for a moment, the trembles curl back into his chest and around his heart and it feels wonderful. “Wake me up, next time.”
(then, of course, when Zayn’s comfortable in the situation and his position on the floor, he realises that Liam is unaware of the elephant in the room, suffocating him, and Liam would leave if he ever found out)
(the shaking travels into his blood, after that, and infects all his organs)
/ / /
They’re at a show in Connecticut and thank fuck for Harry obscenely licking his fingers with his eyes trained on Louis because the shakes are almost visible and Zayn-
Well-
They’re in the dressing room between songs and it’s almost as though his reflection is worse, glaring back at him, decayed, and he wants to cry because while the exertion flatters the other boys, it makes him look pasty and-
He catches Liam’s eyes in the mirror. He's been watching Zayn since the bathroom incident and it’s indecent, the nervous undertones of his confused stare, like he’s torn between suggesting something and smothering him in kisses.
Zayn breaks the eye contact to roll up the waistband of his jeans. Liam watches the movement carefully.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, noting how Zayn’s plaid shirt is loose against his chest.
He quickly turns around, pressing Liam against the wall and slipping a hand between them to rub softly at the outline of his cock. “Hungry for something else,” he says, and it’s not as poetic as it should be, but the way Liam’s eyes glaze over as they kiss messily is worth it.
(one day, when he’s attractive enough, he swears he’ll wrap his legs around Liam’s neck and let him feel the shivers from the inside)
(until then, though, the kisses are enough)
/ / /
He recognises a moment too late that Liam knows how Zayn’s body used to feel in his arms, and jumping on his back and wrapping his arms around his shoulders when they’ve been in this position countless times before-
(at the bungalow late at night, when the other three are inside; running down the unknown roads while Harry and Louis are sitting on that bench in Sweden; whenever he’s had three too many shots and can barely feel the ground beneath his feet)
- may not be his best idea.
Liam spins around with this smile on his face, as if he’s saying ‘come on, baby, climb on properly’, but it falters when their eyes meet.
(he opens his lips as though to say something, but the crowd roars and Zayn darts to Louis’ side before Liam notices the shaking, too)
/ / /
He’s not hiding, exactly.
However, he is being as silent as possible in a bathroom with Liam and Niall on the other side of the door. He’s still practicing the ‘it’s amazing, isn’t it, how strong you can be while running off adrenalin’ when-
“Is he okay?” Liam’s asking, pacing a hole into the carpet. “He was a little shaky during his solo and he knows the notes backwards-”
“Maybe we should get him sushi,” Niall suggests, and of-fucking-course he suggests food as the solution to his problem. “He always ducks out to that Japanese place around the corner after a bad set.”
“But seaweed makes Zayn throw up-”
Liam stops and through the crack under the door, Zayn hears a low groan, and it’s like all the gears slide into place. He hunches over the sink, trying to calm his breaths, trying to arrange his features, trying to hold the fuck on, but a pair of arms is tentatively circling his waist and the synchronised hitch in their breaths gives everything away.
‘Fuck, Malik,” he says softly, and they’re shaking, together, but it’s somewhat better than usual. His hands skid under Zayn’s shirt and the feeling of his fingers against his cold stomach for the first time is-
(well, it’s not hot or desperate but it leaves a burning trail and he has to bite back a whimper of relief when Liam refuses to pull away)
Liam turns him around and presses their foreheads together.
He leans forward to kiss him, sweet and quick and across his lips and cheeks and jaw and ‘what have they done to you, baby, you’re gorgeous, you’ve always been gorgeous, you’ll be gorgeous when you’re sixty and you’ll still be gorgeous when you’re dead,’ is falling from his lips and soft, desperate laughs are escaping from Zayn’s throat.
(and the strong “I can fix you” which Liam whispers brokenly under his breath rings in Zayn’s ears for a whole hour)
/ / /
That night, Liam presses their bodies together and whispers different synonyms for ‘beautiful’ to him until he falls asleep (including, but not limited to: gorgeous, stunning, striking, remarkable, dazzling, lovely, hot, so-fucking-hot, and phantasmal).
When he wakes up in the morning, Liam is standing by the door with two bottles of powerade and a hesitant smile across his lips and it’s so similar to the rooftop that Zayn’s heart aches.
“We’re going jogging,” he says firmly, and Zayn’s lungs fill with something suspiciously similar to love, “and if you run so much as a centimetre faster than myself, I’ll kick you in the shin.”
(and the love diffuses into his blood and fills his cells so quickly he’s left lightheaded)
/ / /
There are still a few hours before their last show in Chicago when Zayn stumbles into the kitchen to find Liam busying over the stove.
“Buttercup?” he says nervously, and Liam shoots him a smile that just about consumes the continent. “Is that a wooden spoon I see in your delicate hand?”
Liam rolls his eyes and puffs out his cheek as though he wants a kiss. Zayn drapes an arm around his collarbones and obliges. “Do you remember those weeks between the competition and the recording?” he says quietly, cuddling back into Zayn’s arms. “We were lost in London, remember? You insisted on ice-cream, even though it was literally five degrees, and we were a street away from Big Ben when you asked ‘you won’t leave me there, right?’ and you were talking about the tower and I was thinking about the future. Our wrists caught whenever we stopped and halfway through a mouthful of choc-mint, I realised how gorgeous you were.”
He blushes and sucks lightly at his neck in response.
Liam grins and twists around to kiss him back. Their tongues meet and Zayn can barely stop the sigh of pleasure. Between kisses: “well, this is me not leaving. These are free-range eggs with low-fat milk and only a tiny bit of ionised salt for your thyroids. There’s wholemeal toast on the table with unsaturated butter and vegan bacon cooked lightly in canola oil and pulp-free orange juice. It would mean a lot to me if you ate it.”
Zayn’s muscles tighten, but Liam’s teeth convert him to nothing but liquefied matter. “I don’t-”
“I know,” Liam soothes, and the backs of Zayn’s knees are hitting the chair. He sits down compliantly. “Of course I know. Which is why I won’t be watching.”
He opens his mouth to protest, but Liam sneaks a last kiss and crawls under the table and tugs down his sweatpants and-
“Beautiful,” Liam whispers, erasing his insecurities before they flare, and swallows his cock to the root.
Zayn lets out a moan of agreement and manages a few bites of toast before the pressure of Liam swallowing around his head is too much to handle. “Li,” he mumbles in warning, his hips stirring without his accord, and Liam gently eases up to shoot him a grin.
“Vegan bacon is fucking delicious,” he says huskily, and the sound alone causes a whine of protest and sympathy to escape Zayn’s throat.
He stares into Liam’s crinkly eyes and takes a careful bite of the bacon and Liam rewards him by sucking softly along the shaft.
(he eats the whole meal and only shakes from the coil of heat low in his stomach)
/ / /
He’s halfway across the stage that evening, the roar of the crowd welcome, now, when Liam grabs him from behind and drags him behind the barrier.
“You alright?” he asks, lips brushing obscenely against his neck, and Zayn blushes from the tone of beautiful concern which differs from the one he uses for the others.
(and at the recollection of shoving his hand down Liam’s jeans only an hour ago)
“Better,” he admits.
Liam grins at him and nuzzles closer. “Your body is a wonderland,” he sings softly, pressing his groin against the curve of his thigh, with a spark in his eyes that suggests he wants to say more.
/ / /
Zayn doesn’t notice until it’s too late.
He doesn’t notice his bandmates conspiring or the touches or the stares or the way that it all continues, even after they’ve torn Harry’s shirt to shreds.
He doesn’t notice until Liam sprawls across the couch, almost in his lap, as Niall preps the crowd for their covers.
He doesn’t notice until Harry and Louis smile at each other, and then at him, like they do before a prank.
(there’s a look Louis has which promises mischief- the same when he’s about to sneak them out for a night of clubbing- where his eyebrow arches cockily and his eyes twinkle and his smile twitches, and currently, it’s directed at Zayn)
“As you can gather,” Louis explains to the crowd, fiddling with his suspenders as he talks. Liam’s arm wraps loosely around Zayn’s shoulders. “We’re being a bit unconventional, tonight.”
The crowd screams in encouragement, and Louis flashes them a smile as Niall grabs his guitar from off-stage.
“Routine and normalcy are a difficult schedule to maintain when your skin doesn’t feel right,” he continues, and the audience looks a little confused. “Which is why tonight isn’t a night for Natalie Imbruglia or Gym Class Heroes or Amy Winehouse- no, tonight is a night for Zayn Malik.”
He freezes, but Liam’s drawing soft circles on his back and the world slows down, again.
“My partner in crime is going out of his mind, and it’s our job to bring him back to Earth,” Louis laughs, and Zayn feels a rush of affection catching in his throat. “We know from the tumblr photos that you all have cameras, so if you will- for Sir Malik, on my left- take a photo in three, two-”
Liam muffles his microphone in his lap and breathes hotly on Zayn’s neck. “Lights will guide you home,” he sings softly, and the flashes dancing before them are almost dizzying, “and ignite your bones, and I will try to fix you.”
(Just out of sight, Liam presses his lips to the spot behind his ear, and Zayn is too busy biting his tongue to protest)
/ / /
The boys sing, after that, and Liam stares at him with a slight smile on his lips the whole time, so it’s only natural that he barely catches-
“The wind is low, the birds will sing, that you are part of everything”
and-
“The sun is up, the sky is blue, it’s beautiful, and so are you”
(it’s also only natural that he has to bury his face into the cushion to hide his awestruck smile)
/ / /
They’re barely off stage when Liam wraps an arm around his waist and presses their bodies together.
“What was it you sang?” Liam murmurs, into the tattoo across his collarbone, walking them backwards into a dressing room with a hand pressed obscenely against his arse. Zayn grinds into the touch and the other three catcall in crude encouragement. “You should let me love you, let me be the one-”
Zayn cuts him off with a kiss and his hands are in Liam’s hair, ruffling it beyond recognition, and the noises they’re breathing into each other’s mouths are harmonised and soft and needy and-
“Up,” Liam growls, breaking the kiss and carefully lifting Zayn from the back of his thighs. He flinches, but then Liam’s hands are creeping under his shirt and lips are almost mauling his neck, so it’s no wonder he curls tightly around his strong body.
“I’m not a chick,” Zayn argues, revelling in the newfound feeling of Liam’s hard cock against his.
“Well aware, sweetheart,” Liam teases, but nonetheless he lowers Zayn to the vanity table and steps between his legs. He watches him, for a moment, as though giving him an opportunity to adapt to the situation, and then he’s ducking forward and pressing a sweet kiss to his lips which leaves no room for protest.
“Beautiful,” Liam mumbles against the warm skin of his cheekbone.
“Flawless,” he admits, into the crook of Zayn’s neck, watching his reaction, his fingers making quick work on his grey button-up.
(his fingers are fumbling, and maybe he’s as nervous as Zayn, and maybe that’s more beautiful than anything else in the world)
“Exquisite,” he whispers, running his fingers gently over his abs, and his stare is hot and his touch is hotter and the pressure is scorching.
Zayn breaks the stare first, eyes automatically searching for a mirror, but Liam makes a soft noise of disapproval and nips at his exposed chest.
“Just here, Zayn,” he says softly, “you and me. No mirrors. Just watch me.”
Zayn chokes (on the shivers, on the words, on Liam) but resumes watching.
(it’s not until those pretty lips have brushed over every inch of his chest with soft adjectives tumbled between kisses that Zayn realises)
“You’re insane,” he laughs hoarsely, a little hysterically, as Liam nuzzles across his torso and fiddles with the button of his jeans, “you don’t need-”
“And you’re dazzling,” Liam teases, tongue sneaking under the Calvin Klein waistband, and Zayn’s shivers contract around his ribcage. “I’ve spent the past two years thinking of how the back of your knees will taste. Eyes on me.”
(and watching Liam tremble with him as he thrusts gently into Zayn’s pliant body for the very first time is all the encouragement he needs)
/ / /
He wakes up at midday and Liam’s (dressed, he notes sullenly) sitting by his feet with a brown take-out bag.
“Good morning, gorgeous,” he says happily, pressing a warm kiss to Zayn’s knee, who flushes with pleasure at the memory of a tongue tracing the tendons there.
“Hey, Li,” he says huskily, and the way the boy’s eyes flash to his bare chest should make him nervous, but instead he swallows the shiver and pushes down the blankets to reveal his torso.
“You-” Liam groans and their eyes meet and, for a moment, it’s like he’s going to shove aside the bag and drag his nails down his back and thrust into him hard enough to cause a whole different tremble, but instead he grins press another kiss to his thigh. “There’s a pink Vitamin Water in the bag. There’s also a chicken burger on wholegrain bread with low-cream mayonnaise, sliced avocado, reduced fat cheese, iceberg lettuce and light fried onions. I would like it if you ate it while I tongue fucked you into the mattress.”
Zayn opens his mouth to agree, but the roar of ‘you’re perfect are you aware of that Liam Payne you’re perfect and attractive and brilliant and I never thought our parallel lines would meet’ is too loud, so instead he says- “or you could stay up here and read me the sports page,” he suggests tentatively.
Liam freezes for a second, his teeth nipping at the soft skin on the inside of his thigh, before crinkling his eyes in a smile and crawling into bed beside him.
(the first bite is hard, harder than he’ll admit, but Liam only catches his eye every few mouthfuls and their ankles are touching and that’s enough, he supposes)
Zayn’s halfway through a mouthful of Vitamin Water and Liam’s almost at the end of an article on Manchester United when he climbs into his lap, pressing their foreheads together and licking a spare drop of mayonnaise from tanned lips.
“You,” he says softly, and Zayn’s heart is clenching hard in his chest, “I love you, you beautiful boy, to absolute death.”
Zayn stares and leans up to kiss him desperately.
(between teeth and tongue and lips and moans, he manages a “I love you too”, and Liam rewards him with a soft hum of approval and a hand brushing down his chest)
/ / /
(a few months later, when an interviewer asks them to describe each other, Liam squeezes the spot on Zayn’s neck he kisses every morning and says ‘Zayn is the eigenlicht of our existence’.
and, later, when Liam whispers ‘you are my intrinsic light, Zayn Malik’ in the darkness, his lungs fill with fresh air and-
things aren’t great per se, for Zayn.
but they are certainly far from terrible)
end.