Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

~These streets are yours, you can keep them. I don't want them. They pull me back, and I surrender to the memories I run from~

These Streets

They’d just sat down to dinner when Harry’s mobile rang, startling Louis out of a slump. He looked at Harry blankly, face creased and bleary-eyed with exhaustion, as if he couldn’t fathom where the sound was coming from. They’d just returned from a short holiday in the Maldives - suitcases still lying open on the bedroom floor for Harry to sort the washing - only for Louis to plunge head first into the rigors of a new premier league training season. Harry had come home from the grocery, jostling the pram and his keys in one hand and three reusable shopping bags in the other, to find Louis passed out in the living room, face smushed sideways into the couch cushions, TV tuned to the teleshopping channel - a tanned, fit older woman prattling on about the Air Bra’s patented technology.

Harry stared at his mobile screen for several seconds in disbelief before he accepted the call, giving Louis an apologetic shrug as he ducked out of the kitchen to get some privacy. “Hello?” he whispered, voice overloud in the quiet corridor.

Harry hadn’t spoken to Zayn in several months - he kept meaning to find the time, but then something else would come up - one of the twins was running a fever or he had to call the landlord because the garbage disposal was stuck again or Louis wanted him to Fedex something or other to his hotel that he’d forgotten to pack. Calling Zayn got lost among a litany of other things, forgotten like socks fallen behind the dryer, and it wasn’t as if Zayn called him either.

Harry didn’t blame him. Zayn had been busy since Uni. While Harry had dug his heels in and settled into a life of wedded domesticity - leaky faucets and dirty diapers and a mutual bank account - Zayn had been off seeing the world. He’d modeled for a couple of years - shows taking him to Paris and Milan and Russia - even managing to get Harry and Louis front row seats to London Fashion week three years in a row. But after a while, Zayn had grown tired of the easy access to designer drugs and the lavish parties and most of all, the people who drifted through his life like ghosts, continually replaced by thinner, younger versions. Zayn was getting older and finding that being young and pretty just wasn’t enough anymore - wasn’t rewarding or sustaining in the long run. He’d returned to London very briefly - crashing in Harry and Louis’ guest room, though he could easily afford a hotel - before joining the Peace Corps and spending the next two years building a schoolhouse in a remote village in Ghana.

He’d returned to London on a drizzly, grey day in early April - thin and rangy, skin two shades darker from the African sun, and he’d left again in August when he was invited to holiday on a friend’s yacht. The long weekend yachting had turned into a year-long stint and the last time Harry had seen Zayn was over a year ago now, when he’d invited Harry and Louis to join him while Louis was on break.

Corsica was beautiful - the waters of the Mediterranean a jeweled turquoise blue and the white sand as fine as sugar - but the whole encounter had left Harry with a sour taste in his mouth. Zayn had a much older French boyfriend, Xavier, with silvered hair and an impeccable manner who held Zayn’s arm just a little too tightly in public for Harry’s liking. Xavier had a full mouth of sparkling white veneers, but he had the predatory smile of a shark and despite his charming demeanor and over-the-top graciousness as a host, Harry got the distinct impression that he was compensating for something. Harry couldn’t shake the sense that there was something rotten underneath his careful manners, like food gone spoiled. When Zayn had dropped Harry and Louis off at the airport to head back to London, Zayn had held onto Harry a bit longer then usual and when they’d pulled apart, there were tears glistening in his amber eyes.

“Come home with us,” Harry had pleaded, verging on desperation.

“I am home,” Zayn insisted, but there was a haunted look in his eyes that would shadow Harry for months to come.

When Harry finally returned to the table, Louis had mashed potatoes spattered across his cheek and Sully was rapidly kicking his heels against the rungs of his high-chair, laughing and clapping his chubby hands in unmitigated glee. Louis’ eyes were crossed and he was sticking his tongue out at the toddler, but his expression sobered when Harry came in, walking straight to the center island to pour himself another glass of wine.

“Who was that?” Louis asked curiously, blowing a raspberry into the sole of Sully’s foot, eliciting another peel of hysterical laughter. Normally, Harry would scold Louis for getting their son so riled up before bedtime, but they both looked so happy it made something seize up in Harry’s chest and he swayed slightly on his feet, gripping the edge of the counter for support.

“Zayn,” Harry said, taking a long swallow from his glass. “He’s coming home.”

***

Zayn stared through his reflection in the plate-glass window at the planes taxiing on the runway, the sunlight glinting off the metal arms of his chair. He was exhausted and wrung out, near comatose from the pills and two fingers of scotch he’d taken on the plane to force himself into an uneasy, medicated sleep. It was winter in London and he’d not even been off the plane a minute before the cold stabbed right through him, making him breathless. It had been six months since the accident and while he managed his pain well enough with a barrage of prescription pills, he could still feel the changes in temperature acutely, the cold splintering through his bones like fissures spreading out over the surface of a frozen lake.

The air hostess who’d helped him off the plane had been beautiful - the type of girl he’d have had no trouble pulling just a year ago - but behind the veneer of her careful makeup and thinly-restrained smile, she’d eyed him warily and seemed anxious to take her leave of him. He wondered if it was the chair that made her nervous or if she’d formed some deep-rooted connection in her mind between Arabs and terrorism. He wondered which was worse.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Malik?” she’d asked, cautiously polite as she set his leather attaché case onto his lap.

“I’m fine, thank you,” he’d insisted, trying and failing to suppress a yawn into the turned-up collar of his jumper. He’d spent most of the last six months in a hospital bed, with books as his only company, and he’d forgotten just how wearisome he found small talk, most especially with strangers.

“Is someone coming for you?” she’d asked nervously, tucking a stray strand of dyed blonde hair behind her ear. Zayn guessed her to be in her late twenties or early thirties, but the gesture made her appear very young.

Zayn gave a tight, curt nod and her face displayed guilty relief. “Well then. Thank you for flying Virgin Airlines. Have a lovely day.”

Zayn had no doubt that he wouldn’t. Two broken ankles, a fractured pelvis and hip, the bones of his left leg all but shattered, he’d endured seven surgeries, including a total hip replacement and there was still only a ten percent chance he’d ever walk again. Once he’d gotten over the initial shock, Zayn’s diagnosis had been shadowed by debilitating apathy - an inability or unwillingness to take joy or solace in the small things as he once had. The accident marked the beginning of his slow retreat from life.

He’d been staying in a hotel for the past two months and one chilly night, he’d accidentally overdosed on pain medication, saved only because the cleaning lady had found him passed out on the bathroom floor when she made her rounds, lying two feet from his chair in a pool of his own vomit. It was just the wake-up call Zayn needed. He’d fallen out of touch with most of his friends in the past year - Xavier had been exceedingly suspicious and fiercely possessive - and often it just seemed easier not to incite his jealousy. Not even Zayn’s own family knew where he was or that he’d been in an accident. He’d always been an independent person and he hated to ask people for help, but after the overdose, he was scared that if he was left to his own devices, he’d end up dead before too long.

When Zayn glanced up and saw Harry walking towards him, his throat tightened. Harry paused in his stride, the shock briefly registering in a lift of his brows before he smoothed his face back into a normal expression. Harry bent down and circled Zayn in a crushing hug that brought to mind the last time they’d hugged at the airport and Zayn had been scared to let him go. It didn’t escape his attention that if he’d just gotten on that plane with Harry like he wanted to, he might actually be able to walk today. Zayn worried that if the hug went on for a second longer, he would start to cry from sheer happiness and relief. It had been ages since anyone other than a doctor or a surgeon had touched him and it felt like too much and not enough at the same time.

Harry reluctantly released him, with a lingering kiss to his temple. “Let’s get you home.”

***

“The kids are at my sisters,” Harry explained, as he pushed Zayn’s wheelchair into the darkened foyer, pausing to lock the door behind him and hang up his keys. “And Lou’s overnight in Manchester for the match tomorrow. So it’s just us.”

Zayn didn’t say anything, but his shoulders sagged with visible relief. He loved his godchildren, but he just wasn’t ready to face the inevitable barrage of questions. “Are you hungry?” Harry asked, taking Zayn’s coat and scarf from him to hang up beside his own.

Zayn hadn’t been hungry in ages - had lost his taste for it after months of metallic tasting hospital fare and wet, bland food from hotel room-service - but the thought of a home-cooked meal sat nicely with him. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

“I hope you still like spaghetti,” Harry said, leading Zayn into the kitchen.

“Yeah,” Zayn’s voice came out slightly rusty from underuse. “Spaghetti’s great.”

Thirty minutes later, Zayn was enthusiastically mopping up the vestiges of marinara sauce from his plate with a hunk of crusty French bread while Harry showed him recent pictures of the twins on his tablet. The twins were adorable - with giant, ponderous blue eyes and chubby, pinked cheeks - Sully’s hair all wispy blond fluff and brunette Ruby with her hair tucked up into tiny, endearingly lopsided pigtails. When he saw how much they’d grown, Zayn felt guilty for missing so much time in his god children's lives, and for what? To spend years cowering in the presence of a charming, violent man who had left Zayn a ruined shell of himself? He was grateful Harry hadn’t said anything about the wheelchair yet - Harry had always been very intuitive and probably sensed Zayn’s reluctance to talk about it - carefully steering the conversation elsewhere during dinner. But inevitably, it would be brought up and inevitably, Zayn would have to live through it all over again.

Part of him thought if he never spoke of the accident aloud, it would be as if it never happened. So long as the awful knowledge was only his own, it wasn’t quite real. Like a nightmare, his horror belonged to him alone; speaking it aloud seemed to invite the nighttime ghouls into his waking life, tearing away chunks of him until there was nothing left. Worse than being paralyzed, worse than the flashbacks and PTSD, was the feeling that Xavier had taken away some private, essential part of him. That he was like a cup filled with cracks - unable to hold love or kindness or happiness or any of the things that made life worth living - ever again.

“It’s nice to have you here,” Harry confided when there was a lull in the conversation, squeezing Zayn’s hand in his own. “You start to go a bit mad when you spend all your time with two toddlers.”

Harry’s cheeks were flushed from the wine and the heat of the kitchen, their heads bent conspiratorily close. Zayn tried not to think of how much it was like the old days - eating their lunches together in the art room - how easy it had always been to fall back in with Harry, no matter how much time had passed.

Zayn laughed softly, which segued into a yawn. “I’m sorry. You must be exhausted,” Harry apologized, patting Zayn’s leg. “I’ll show you to your room. I just put new sheets on the bed and if you’re cold, there’s extra blankets in the airing cupboard.”

“Thanks.” Harry led Zayn through the narrow hallway, allowing him to roll his own wheelchair so he didn’t feel like a complete invalid. Harry always seemed to know what every situation required, which minimized the moments where Zayn felt like a complete burden. At the airport, he hadn’t made a big deal of lifting Zayn out of his wheelchair and tucking him away in the passenger seat of the Rover. And he’d folded up Zayn’s chair like a seasoned pro, well-practiced after two years of wrangling prams. Zayn felt a reassuring wave of happy exhaustion wash over him and he knew he’d made the right choice in coming here.

Harry cracked the door to the guest bedroom, flicking on the light. The room was just as Zayn remembered it - the bed covered in a patchwork quilt Louis’ grandmother had sewn, bedside table crowded with ornate, silver-framed photos of Harry and Louis on their wedding day, a tiny bouquet of dried lilacs on top of the old, scarred oak dresser. Harry had left a few books out for Zayn as well, including a well-worn copy of his first novel, which Zayn had already read three times. The tiny guest bedroom felt as close to home as anything had in the past few years.

“Tomorrow we’ll talk, yeah?” Harry said meaningfully, giving Zayn a quick close-mouthed kiss on the mouth. Zayn winced at his words, but covered it with a smile as he rolled himself to the guest bathroom to freshen up.

It took Zayn longer to get ready these days - luckily he’d always been a patient person - unlike Louis, for whom the chair would have been a veritable prison sentence. Zayn was stubborn and valued his independence, so often it took him three times as long to do things he could have easily asked someone to help him do in a minute, but he still did them. If anything, having limitations had taught him to be resourceful - when he found the guest sink was too high for him to comfortably wash in, he ended up brushing his teeth and rinsing his face under the tap in the bath.

Zayn was exhausted and out of breath by the time he wrestled himself into his pajamas, but he didn’t dare call out to Harry for help. He’d finally situated himself in bed with a good book when he heard a soft rapping on the door. “Come in.”

Harry ducked his head in, looking faintly sheepish. “Settling in okay?”

Zayn peered at him over the edge of his book. Harry was wearing horn-rimmed glasses and an oversized grey jumper over a pair of black Calvin Klein pants. His legs were as endless as they’d been fifteen years ago, maybe even more so. He was gorgeous, but there had always been a childishly sweet, unfinished quality about him, like no matter how old he got he would never quite grow into himself. “Fine. Thanks.”

“Not too cold?” Harry fussed, running a hand over the blanket on Zayn’s bed.

“‘m fine.” When it became clear that Harry was lingering, folding Zayn’s discarded clothes atop his suitcase, Zayn put down his book with a sigh. “What’s up?”

Harry blushed. “Would it be okay - would you mind - do you think I could sleep in here?” Harry stumbled. “You can say no,” he rushed. “I just - I don’t like sleeping alone. When Louis is away, I usually let the twins crawl in with me.”

Zayn laughed, holding back the blanket for Harry to get in. He’d been expecting Harry to prod him about his injury and was pleased to find his worry was for nothing.

“Thanks,” Harry said, looking pleased as punch as he snuggled himself down between the wall and Zayn’s back. Zayn couldn’t remember the last time he’d been touched by someone that wasn’t a medical professional - cold and clinical - and the intimacy and tenderness Harry displayed with him had him near tears. Harry’s chest melded itself to Zayn’s back, his body giving off heat like a furnace, and Zayn relaxed back into him, letting go of control for the first time in sixth months.

“This okay?”

“Mhm,” Zayn murmured, falling into an untroubled sleep for the first time since the accident, with no help at all from his pills.

***

The next thing Zayn was cognizant of was tiny hands patting his face and hair and wet, slobbery kisses being smushed into his neck. He was briefly disoriented, imagining himself back in the hotel room in France being woken by a panicked maid slapping his face and shoving her fingers down his throat in an attempt to dredge up the pills he’d swallowed. It hit him all at once that he was back in England. When he blinked open his eyes, there were two tears clinging to his outers lashes, poised like perfectly-formed pearls.

“What time is it?” he groaned, cracking an eye against the sunlight spilling into the room. Someone - presumably Harry - had drawn back the curtains he’d closed the previous night and watery, winter sunlight flooded the small space. Two round faces peered down at Zayn, two startlingly similar sets of blue eyes crowded over him.

“Unka Zayn, wake up,” Sully crowed, patting Zayn’s hair with a chubby, slightly wet hand, that Zayn was pretty sure he’d just retrieved from his mouth.

Harry rushed in, wearing an apron and wielding a spatula shaped like a monkey. “Sorry, I tried to stop them. Come on guys, let Zayn sleep.”

“It’s okay,” Zayn grinned, sitting up with a groan, muscles protesting the quick movement as he drew the twins in for hugs. “Unka Zayn’s face is scwatchy like daddy’s,” Ruby said, scrunching up her nose as Zayn rubbed his face to her baby-soft cheek. She smelled like milk and animal crackers and everything right in the world.

“I miss daddy,” Sully pouted, folding his arms across his chest and giving Harry a ridiculously adorable pout.

“He’ll be home tonight, sweetheart,” Harry said, hitching Sully up onto his hip to press a kiss into his fine blonde curls. “But I bet Zayn will play with you if you eat all your breakfast like a good boy.”

“Bweakfast!” Sully roared, squirming out of Harry’s arms to run toward the kitchen. Harry shrugged and ran off after him, the boy’s excited squeals ringing down the corridor.

“Don’t you want breakfast?” Zayn asked Ruby, who was still perched on his lap, gently patting his arm hair.

“I want to eat with you,” she said softly.

“Okay. It’s just gonna take me a minute. Can you help bring me my chair?” Zayn pointed it out, wincing as he straightened himself. The pain was always the worst in the mornings and evenings, when his muscles were still warming up. Ruby hopped down off the bed to dutifully push his chair over to him. Zayn instructed her how to angle it and how to set the brake and then used his arms to ease himself backwards into it.

Ruby watched him quietly, her brow furrowed in concern, looking like a mirror-image of Harry, as Zayn struggled to right himself in his chair. “Why do you sit in that?” Ruby asked, when he was finally seated.

“Well, I was in an accident so my legs don’t work as well as they used to,” Zayn explained.

Ruby frowned, patting his leg. “Ow. Boo boo?” she asked, kissing his knee through his thin flannel pajamas.

“Yeah, I have a boo boo,” he said, throat constricting around the words. “But you’ve made it feel much better. Now, do you want to go for a ride?” he asked, artificially bright as he patted his knees. Ruby crawled up his legs and plonked herself down in his lap, giggling at Zayn’s corresponding, “Oof”.

Harry was just setting a steaming plate of pancakes on the table when Zayn rolled into the kitchen, Ruby perched on his lap like a tiny queen.

“Took you two long enough,” Harry said, trying to sound exasperated, but his smile was so fond that Zayn had to turn his face away a moment to compose himself.

***

Harry blew on the steam rising from his paper cup of tea, watching his kids run themselves ragged around the playground. It was freezing out, but it was hard being cooped up in their flat all winter. He and Louis kept meaning to look at houses - more spacious places with room to grow and an actual yard for the twins to run around in - but despite their current flat’s drawbacks, it held a certain bedraggled charm and besides, it had been their first flat together (and it went without saying that they were both sentimental sops).

“How bad is it?” he asked Zayn, softly, without taking his eyes off the twins, who were currently attempting to join in with some older kids climbing on the jungle gym.

“Ninety percent chance I won’t walk again,” Zayn said somberly, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Xavier?”

“Dead.” Zayn shivered. Harry had scolded him for wearing his leather jacket - said it was too thin for the weather - but Zayn wasn’t ready to completely let himself go. They’d finally compromised that Zayn would wear a rug over his lap and Zayn was glad of it now, as tiny sinister needles of cold splintered through the metal and ruined bone of his legs.

Zayn pulled his cigarettes from the inner pocket of his leather jacket, trying to hide the tremor of pain in his hand as he tamped the pack down into his palm. “Do you mind?”

Harry shook his head.

Zayn struggled to light his cigarette against the relentless wind until Harry finally took mercy on him and reached over and cupped his hand around the flame. Zayn took a drag, holding it in his lungs and letting the smoke expand like a parachute, like it was the only thing keeping him afloat. “I had plane tickets booked. I was trying to leave him. Guess he didn’t want me to go.”

“What happened?” Harry asked.

“He drove us into a brick wall. He died on impact. My legs were crushed. Had to get air-lifted out. I don’t remember much of it honestly,” he lied.

“Why didn’t you call?” Harry asked, legs jiggling to keep warm.

“At first, because I was just so out of it. But then,” Zayn glanced away, releasing a stream of smoke from his nostrils, “because I was ashamed.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Harry insisted, reaching out to take Zayn’s hand. He gave it a quick squeeze, and they held hands in companionable silence while Zayn smoked the last of his cigarette and Harry finished his tea.

As they were getting ready to go, Harry turned back to Zayn, tears sparkling in his green eyes. “I knew,” he said softly. “The last time we were there, I knew something was wrong. I didn’t want to get on that plane without you. I should have insisted - I should have never let you go.”

“It’s not your fault,” Zayn rasped.

But Zayn would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought the very same thing, doped up in a hospital bed in a foreign country with no familiar faces in sight. How had he gotten there? Had it been as simple as one wrong turn, one poor choice, or was it a series of things over time, knotted around him like barbed wire until he was snared? What if he and Liam had never broken up? What if he’d never taken his first modeling gig? What if he’d never met Xavier at that party in Cannes and been so dazzled by him? What if he’d gotten on that plane instead of chickening out? What if what if what if? It was enough to make a person go mad.

***

It took Zayn a while to notice that things weren’t quite as they should be in the Tomlinson-Styles household. During the day, he was distracted by the twins, who were constantly dragging him into their play, and at night, it was his own morbid thoughts that kept him occupied. It wasn’t until he’d been there a full month that the reality of the situation began to reveal itself.

Louis was rarely home and Harry, determined to give the twins a normal upbringing, was nearly always home. Zayn babysat a few times so Harry could go meet some of his old university friends for brunch and once or twice at night for drinks. But Harry was never gone long and he seemed the happiest when he was snuggled on the couch at night with Zayn and the kids watching a Disney film.

When he was home, Louis often slept on the couch, citing that it was better for his back. And Harry crawled into Zayn’s bed more often than not while Louis was away (and sometimes when he wasn’t). At first, Zayn thought it was Harry’s attempt to comfort him, but now he understood that it was also so Harry wouldn’t have to sleep alone. Some nights, it was crowded, with the two of them in the narrow guest bed, the cat wedged between their bent knees, and one twin or the other drifting in in the middle of the night, but Zayn didn’t mind. He felt surrounded, cushioned by love and familiarity. When he woke from bad dreams, it was to Harry gently stroking his back through his sweat-soaked t-shirt or pressing a comforting kiss to his bare shoulder blade, whispering, ‘sssh, sssh you’re all right’.

There were awkward moments too - waking up with Harry’s leg draped over him, their morning hard-ons pressed together. Louis returning from a training trip early and finding them in bed together with a disapproving scowl.

Zayn overheard them Skyping sometimes when the pain woke him up in the middle of the night (the flat was old and poorly insulated and noises carried). Louis’ voice was always tired and dispassionate and Harry’s always had a note of pleading to it. He never outright asked Louis to come home, but there was nights his voice cracked when he said, ‘I miss you’ that tore Zayn’s heart into a million bits.

Louis and Harry had been a couple for sixteen years (Harry had never even dated anyone else) and husbands for seven, and in that time, Zayn had never seen them look at each other with anything but absolute fondness and love. In fact, they were often the golden standard by which he measured his own relationships. But as of late, they moved around each other like someone vacuuming around furniture - aware of, but not overly interested in the other’s presence.

One day, while the twins were down for their afternoon nap, and Zayn was in the kitchen making tea, he heard the muffled sound of crying in the master-bathroom. He knocked softly and Harry sniffled back a teary sob before saying, “come in.”

Harry had always been relentlessly polite, even when he was in pain or might have preferred to be alone. When Zayn opened the door, he found Harry sitting on the closed toilet seat lid, clutching a flannel in one hand and trying to look as if he hadn’t been crying into it. The forced, miserable smile he gave Zayn looked like a crack in his face.

“All right Harry?”

“Yeah, sorry. I’m just - it’s silly - I don’t want to bother you with it.”

“It’s no bother. I’ve just set the kettle. Would you like some tea?”

“Yes, please,” Harry sniffed, mopping at his red puffy face.

By the time Harry had composed himself and was sat in the kitchen, Zayn had tea and biscuits ready. They sat by the window, white and streaked with condensation from the cold, hands wrapped around their mugs for warmth.

“So what’s all this then?”

Harry ran a hand back through his hair and shook it out, in a gesture so self-conscious and familiar, it was like the clock had turned back and they were both sixteen again. “I think Louis might be cheating on me.”

“What?” Zayn’s head snapped up surprise. “Why...why would you think that?”

“I went to the shops to pick up a present for Ginny’s birthday and I ran into my dad.” Harry’s hands trembled slightly as he raised his mug for a sip and Zayn squeezed his knee under the table. “He was drunk and panhandling on the streets. It was such a shock. My arms were full of packages and I had the twins in their pram. He asked for change and I gave him some, but he didn’t - he didn’t even recognize me. His own son."

“Harry, that’s awful. But what’s it got to do with Louis?”

“Well, I was so shaken after, I tried to call him. But it went right to voice-mail. Which was strange because he said he was at his mum’s for the day and normally he’ll pick up when he’s there. I was just trying again when I walked past this restaurant - and there he was sitting in the plate glass window as clear as day - having lunch with another man. And the worst part -” Harry took a deep, gasping breath, “the worst part is, he lifted his phone from the table and glanced at it and then declined the call. He saw it was me and he declined it.”

Zayn stared at Harry, horrified. “Did you confront him about it?”

“I tried...but he’s always so tired and tetchy when he gets home and I don’t want to get into a full-on strop about it. I promised myself I would never be that guy - who’s checking his husband’s phone and emails and snooping through his stuff. I should trust him. I mean...what if it’s my fault? I’ve put on some weight since the kids...what if he’s just not attracted to me anymore?”

“Harry, don’t be ridiculous. You need to talk to him.”

Harry chewed his lip. “I don’t know. What if I do and he wants to leave me?” he croaked miserably, holding his head in his hands.

“Then he’s an idiot,” Zayn said firmly.

Chapter Text

~These streets are yours, you can keep them. I don't want them. They pull me back, and I surrender to the memories I run from~

 

These Streets

Louis yanked back the curtains; white winter light exhausting the shadows from every corner of the room. It was nearly one in the afternoon and he’d come home between shooting an ad for Burberry and an afternoon press conference to have lunch with Harry and the kids, only to find Zayn sleeping the day away. Louis loved having him there; loved that it alleviated some of the strain of being an at-home parent off of Harry, but he was worried Zayn wasn’t getting better. That he didn’t want to get better.

Louis was adept enough at wallowing himself to recognize it when he saw it. He nudged Zayn’s sleeping form with his knee. “Get up.”

“Piss off,” Zayn grumbled, burying his face in his pillow.

“You know, this whole feeling sorry for yourself thing is starting to get old.”

“I’m not feeling sorry for myself. I’m sleeping,” Zayn protested, throwing an arm over his eyes to shield them from the sun.

“You need to leave the house more. It isn’t right - being cooped up like this all the time.”

“It’s winter. In England. Where exactly do you propose I go?” Zayn asked, leaning up on his elbows to better glare at Louis.

“I made you an appointment with my physical therapist. In an hour. I take it you’ll want to shower before then. Your hair looks like crap,” Louis smirked, taking a cheap shot at Zayn’s vanity.

“Not this again,” Zayn groaned, while trying to pat his hair into a reasonable formation.

“Oh come on. He’s great. You’ll like him. When I hurt my leg last season -”

“I’m paralyzed, Louis. It isn’t as if I have a pulled hamstring,” Zayn snapped.

“Well, at the very least you’ll get out of the house for a bit and let Harry clean. It smells like a Taiwanese brothel in here,” Louis said, gazing fixedly at the ashtray on the window-sill that Zayn really needed to make a better effort to hide.

Zayn crossed his arms, doing his best impression of a petulant Sully refusing to eat his peas at dinnertime. “I’m not going.”

***

Zayn sat with his back to the room, watching the traffic from his sixth-floor perch. He was glad to be alone again; he’d felt panicked and anxious around so many people on the street. Every time a car backfired, he’d jumped, the memory of the accident crackling across his synapses like heat lightning. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw blood and broken glass, heard the horrible rending shriek of metal as the car slammed into the wall. In that moment, he thought he would die, but he didn’t and now he wasn’t sure which was the worst punishment - escaping the world forever or being forced into a chair for the rest of his life.

Only Louis’ solid hand on his shoulder had kept Zayn from shaking apart. And now Louis was gone and if Zayn had the ability to use his legs, he would have already walked out. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be anywhere. He just wanted to read and sleep and let the world fall away. He didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to remember.

Just when Zayn’s eyes were started to glass over, the door clicked open behind him and he heard footsteps approaching. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” a soft, male voice said.

Zayn turned his chair slowly to face the room’s other occupant, in no hurry to get started. Halfway there, his hands froze on the push-rims, the chair halting to a stop with a loud squeal on the laminate floor.

He hadn’t seen him in years, but he looked just as if he had walked out of Zayn’s memories of him, skin golden like a sepia-tinged photograph. Zayn’s throat felt dry and his hands trembled, nausea rolling over him in a wave that brought pinpricks of sweat to the surface of his skin.

“Liam?” Zayn blurted at the same moment Liam said, “Zayn?”

“What are you…what are you doing here?” Zayn choked, fumbling for the right words.

Liam eyed him sadly, lifting his shoulders into a little shrug. When they’d broken up, Zayn’s modeling career had just been taking off and Liam had been a rising football star on the Arsenal football team. As far as Zayn knew, Liam and Louis were still close, but both Louis and Harry had carefully skirted the subject of Liam over the years and Zayn never watched football, so he’d just assumed. He’d just assumed Liam was in the same place as he’d left him

Liam tapped his leg. “Shattered my femur two years ago. Career-ending injury and all that. It was all over the news. Surprised you didn’t hear about it.”

“I don’t read the papers,” Zayn mumbled, unable to take his eyes off Liam. He was no longer the thin, rangy boy he’d been in uni, the one who had cried his heart out when he’d dropped Zayn at the airport and hugged him goodbye for the last time. His shoulders had filled out and his hair was styled in a quiff shaved close on the sides. He was wearing a flannel shirt, open over a fitted white vest and gray jogging bottoms, a day’s worth of scruff on his face. He seemed more solid somehow, more in in his own skin. Even the slight limp in his step spoke to a new confidence.

It wasn’t strictly true that Zayn didn’t pay attention to the news. In fact, his mission trip to Africa had coincided with the media maelstrom over Liam’s marriage. At the time, Zayn couldn’t walk by a newsstand in London without seeing their stupid, smiling faces beaming out at him. He tortured himself with it at first - buying every gossip rag that so much as mentioned Liam’s name - hurting himself with the knowledge that they had one of those white Bichon Frise dogs Liam had always claimed to hate, that Natalie wanted to have kids “right away”, that they’d honeymoon in Bora Bora and that her dress was from the same designer who’d done Kate Middleton’s gown.

Natalie was a bland, pretty blond who was famous for being on some reality TV show or another - the exact opposite of the type Zayn would have guessed Liam would end up with. Not that she wasn’t worthy of him or that she wasn’t a good person - she was active in several charities and had a bevy of similarly pretty girlfriends who probably got pedicures together every weekend. There just didn’t seem to be any heat, any friction, any of the stuff that had made their relationship together so passionate and raw. Natalie was a safe choice. But after Zayn, he suppose he didn’t really blame Liam for that.

“So, I guess we should get down to it then,” Liam said, masking his nervousness in professionalism.

Zayn turned his wheelchair back toward the window. He had no right to be angry. Liam had a right to be happy, to marry whoever he damn well pleased. Zayn had broken up with him.The thing was, Zayn could bear the scrutiny just fine, but he didn’t miss the way Liam’s shoulders jumped when they were walking alone at night and some twat spit, “faggots” at them. He didn’t miss Liam’s furrowed brow when he looked up in the stands and saw a sign reading, Payno is a little queer. Likes to take it in the rear. He recalled, with a wince, Liam dropping his hand when he saw some tough bloke sizing them up in a club one night. He remembered feeling ashamed and embarrassed when Liam fumbled to introduce him at parties, “this is uh - Zayn-”. Not my boyfriend Zayn, not even Zayn, the guy I fucked into the mattress last night. He was just...some guy.

Liam’s team was doing amazing and he should have been flying high, not saddled with an anchor around his neck. Zayn figured it would be easier for him to find a pretty little wife and live the life he’d been meant to have, but he hadn’t anticipated just how much it would hurt, even after all this time.

Their session together was excruciating. Liam had lifted Zayn easily from his chair, arm muscles bulging under his shirt as he gently set Zayn down onto the exam table. His thick, capable hands had stretched Zayn’s legs out, rotated his ankles, kneaded his muscles, bent his knees to his chest. They didn’t speak, Liam breathing heavily with exertion, moisture beaded in the hairs on his upper lip, as he moved Zayn’s body around and Zayn stared quietly up at the ceiling or out the window. It was raining again.

As Liam slid his palms under Zayn’s thighs, Zayn tried not to think of Liam pushing his knees up to his shoulders as he pushed gently into him, of the way he used to breath “I love you’s” into Zayn’s hair and neck, always so fucking gentle and considerate, nothing at all like Xavier, who wanted to possess Zayn, mark him, pull him apart. He was like a spoiled child who ruined his toys because he could, because they were his. Not like Liam, who had treated Zayn like he was precious, like a china doll he kept up on a high shelf. Zayn felt like barking, I’m already paralyzed. You needn’t be so careful with me, but he swallowed it down. He wasn’t angry at Liam; he was angry with himself.

Liam disappeared into an adjoining room and returned with a tiny box with wires coming out of it. He explained what it was and what it did as he pressed the sticky pads of the electrical stimulator against Zayn’s legs, using a thin smear of lubricant as a conductor. It was weird to look down and see his legs moving and know he wasn’t doing it, that it was just the electrical current jolting through his muscles.

“Can you feel anything?” Liam asked from the foot of the bed, where he was gently massaging Zayn’s toes. Zayn couldn’t actually feel his toes, but it looked like it would feel nice.

Zayn shook his head, laying back so his chin was tilted up toward the ceiling, the paper on the bed crinkling beneath him. Liam abruptly dropped Zayn’s foot. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”

Liam stood up, pacing the length of the short room, running his hands through the shorn areas of his hair, restlessly stalking like one of the caged big cats at the London Zoo. “This is just like Louis. He’s always pushing people into awkward situations. I swear, he does it for his own amusement. You very obviously don’t want my help.”

Zayn just stared at Liam, not saying anything. “If you don’t want to be here, you should just say it so we’re not both wasting our time.”

“Fine. I don’t want to be here,” Zayn said woodenly. Liam’s face dropped, shoulders sagging forward so his chest collapsed in on itself. Zayn forgot just how awful it was when Liam looked about to cry. Like kicking a puppy, honestly.

But Liam straightened up quickly this time, no longer the lanky, self-conscious boy he’d been. “Great. Because I’ve got better things to do,” he said angrily, punching his arms into the sleeves of his jacket.

Zayn glanced at his chair, all the way over by the window. “You’re just going to leave me here then?”

“What, like you left me at the airport?” Liam snapped. Zayn gaped at him, the words cutting through him like barbs. Of all the things Liam could have said to him, that one hurt the worst. Liam’s eyes grew big and round, shuffling his feet anxiously, hands shoved down in his pockets. “I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

Zayn let out a heavy, whistling breath through his nose. His fingers twitched atop the bed, itching for a cigarette or a pill, anything to calm his frayed nerves. He wanted to kill Louis for putting himself in this situation. “Listen, it’s not - it’s not you, okay? It’s just...this isn’t going to do anything for me. And I’m afraid -”

“To get your hopes up?” Liam finished softly. Zayn nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Then let me, yeah? I’ll hope for you. All you have to do is show up.” Zayn let out a ragged sigh, scrubbing his hands over his face. He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He blew out the breath he was holding and tried not to let Liam’s beaming smile sink too far under his skin.

***

Louis and Zayn went for lunch after his appointment at a dingy deli near their flat, sitting at a table near the back where Zayn pointedly avoided looking at his reflection in the mirrors lining the walls. The deli was nearly empty, thank Christ, and the sandwiches had thick cuts of meat and cheese slathered with spicy brown mustard. Zayn swallowed two pills dry while Louis filled their sodas at the fountain, hands twitching for a cigarette. Louis hadn’t let him smoke in the car and Zayn had spent the ride sulking and staring out the window.

Louis returned, shaking out a bag of crisps on the wax paper wrapping between them, popping one in his mouth. “So...how did it go?” he asked, voice annoyingly bright.
 

“You didn’t tell me it was Liam,” Zayn said grumpily.

“Oh, did I forget to mention that?” Louis said, lightly. “Oops.”

“You’re an arse,” Zayn laughed, throwing a crisp at Louis because it was hard to be properly angry with him. Louis feinted to catch it with his mouth, but missed. It bounced off his chin and fell onto the floor instead.

Louis looked down at it sadly. “Waste of a perfectly good crisp.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” Zayn said, breaking off a hunk of his bread, more to keep his hands busy than anything else. He was starving, but he didn’t eat much these days. A steady diet of coffee and cigarettes kept him thin, an old habit from his modeling days. Louis raised a curious eyebrow at him. “I’ll keep going to see Liam if you sort things out with your boy.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about mate,” Louis said, shoving half his sandwich in his mouth in one go.

Zayn rolled his eyes and shook out another two pills into his palm, washing them down with a sip of coke, ignoring Louis’ judgemental stare. “He cries in the bathroom sometimes when he thinks I can’t hear. He’s overwhelmed being home with the kids all the time. He’s barely written any of his new book. He misses you. When’s the last time you even slept with him?”

Louis’ face turned red, looking indignant. His Yorkshire accent was thick when he spoke, the way it got when he was angry or upset and forgot to reign it in. “That’s none of yours, mate. Maybe if he wasn’t in your bed all the time playing nurse Harry-”

“He’s unhappy,” Zayn said softly. “He saw you with some bloke in the city and he thinks you’re cheating on him.”

Louis gaped. “He said that?”

“I’m not getting in the middle of anything. You’re my best mates. But you should take care of him. Take him out maybe. I can watch the kids for a night. Give him a blowie or summat.” Louis pursed his lips into a thin line, contemplating his sandwich like it held the answers to all his problems.

“Just do something, yeah?” Zayn sighed, balling up a piece of bread with his fingers.

“I didn’t. Cheat, I mean,” Louis clarified in a small voice, head hanging low over his tray.

“I didn’t ask,” Zayn shrugged. “Just make it right.”

***

Physical therapy sessions with Liam became a regular thing after that. Normally, Louis would drop Zayn off on his way to or from practice, but sometimes when Louis had an away match or when Liam couldn’t find a babysitter, he came to the house, toddler in tow. Liam’s eighteen month old was the spitting image of him - with big doe eyes and a plump mouth that always seemed to be wrapped around a pacifier or a bottle.

Ben was a quiet baby, preferring to play with his blocks in an out of the way corner or nap on the couch with his butt hoisted in the air, a far cry from the rambunctious Sully, who was fond of screeching as he streaked nude through the house before bath time, a harried looking Harry stumbling along after him. When Liam was over for their sessions, Ben sometimes crawled up into Zayn’s bed, wordlessly, sucking on his thumb as he snuggled into Zayn’s armpit. It startled them both the first time it happened, but now it was a regular enough occurrence that they didn’t make a big deal of it.

While Liam worked him over, Zayn would begin to read whatever book he was currently reading aloud and Ben would often fall asleep that way, clinging to Zayn’s waist, leaving a spot of milky drool on his shirt. Liam watched them quietly without comment, but there was something soft in his expression when he looked at them together that made Zayn’s stomach feel funny. Married, Zayn reminded himself. Married with a kid.

Liam and Zayn weren’t exactly friends, but they’d developed a comical working relationship, in which Liam remained brightly optimistic and Zayn rolled his eyes at everything Liam said. It was a bit like their relationship had been. Zayn had no doubt Liam was wasting his time, but he was happy for the company anyway. It did get a bit tiresome sitting around the flat all day with the twins, watching Bear Behaving Badly on the telly and getting disappointed looks from Hary every time he snuck out onto the balcony for a cigarette.

Liam had started a round of acupuncture in their latest course of treatment and Zayn spent most of those sessions reading as he didn’t like to look down and see all the needles sticking out of him. Occasionally, he snuck a glance at Liam, the tip of his tongue poked out the side of his mouth in concentration, but otherwise, Zayn was content to ignore him. One rainy Sunday, while Zayn was paging through the Historian and Liam was making him into a pin-cushion, Zayn felt a heavy tingling sensation in his left foot, a prickling heaviness like his foot had fallen asleep.

“Quit it,” he snapped at Liam, irritatedly. Liam froze with his hands on Zayn’s foot, staring up at him incredulously.

“Did you - did you feel that?” he asked, driving the needle deeper into the sole of Zayn’s foot. Zayn yelped.

“Course I felt it. You’re jamming fecking needles into my feet,” Zayn whined, trying to worm away from Liam’s grasp.

It was nothing much, just a quick fanning of the toes, but they both froze, staring at his foot as if it had suddenly, inexplicably begun speaking Russian.

“Zayn,” Liam said, in a breathless voice. “Do it again.”

“What? This?” Zayn asked, setting his book face-down on the mattress and concentrating on wriggling his toes. They responded to his efforts, scrunching and unscrunching slowly. Something inside Zayn flickered, but he quickly snuffed it out. No, he wasn’t going to let himself hope. The odds were stacked against him and he didn’t want to spend his whole life striving for something that would likely never happen. That was the quickest path to unhappiness.

“Zayn! Oh my God,” Liam dropped his foot and threw himself at Zayn, wrapping him up in an unexpected hug. Zayn endured it stiffly and Liam pulled back, grinning even as he apologized, face flushed red with exhilaration. “Sorry. Sorry! It’s just so exciting! We need to celebrate!”

“What’re we celebrating?” Harry asked, drawn in from the living room by the commotion. He had fingerpaint in his hair and was balancing Ruby on one hip. Ruby stretched to hand Zayn her stuffed rabbit.

“Nothing,” Zayn said, giving Liam a firm look, as he took the stuffed animal from Ruby, booping her nose as he thanked her. Liam had the decency to look vaguely apologetic.

Harry looked back and forth skeptically between them before heaving a defeated sigh. “Right. Anyone down for lunch?”

“Pee-at bubber jey-wee!” Sully screeched from somewhere in the flat and they all laughed.

***

True to his word, Louis began an exhaustive campaign of romantic gestures following his conversation with Zayn. The flat was soon overflowing with flowers, one or two vases in every room, and Louis came home with good wine and chocolates every other night. He booked twice-weekly massages for Harry and sent a private instructor to the house to do yoga and pilates. Harry blossomed under Louis’ attention and he seemed more energized and glowing than he’d been since the twins were born.

It was actually quite irritating. Every morning, Harry was up at six doing Pilates in the living room, humming to himself as he cooked breakfast at seven, getting the twins bathed and dressed and bundled up for the park or errands by ten, before Zayn had even managed to wheel himself into the bathroom to struggle through his morning routine. Harry had offered to get Zayn a live-in nurse, but forcing himself through the paces gave Zayn something to work at, something to live for. It took him three times as long to do things that would take an able-bodied person only a few minutes, but he took grim satisfaction in the small victories. He felt proud whenever he managed to wash and shave and dress himself. If he made his bed, he felt like a King.

Which wasn’t to say he did those things every day. Sometimes, on the bad days, when pain filleted through his bones like tiny knives, he sat shivering by the window, draped in blankets, smoking cigarettes down to their nubs. Sometimes, Ruby came to sit with him on those days, scrambling up into his lap like a house-cat, tracing the path of the rain on the window with a tiny fingertip. If Zayn had an appointment with Liam, he’d call to cancel, but Liam would show up anyway, skipping the rigors of therapy in favor of making Zayn tea and rubbing his socked feet while they watched movies together, Zayn glassy-eyed and numb on pain medication. They didn’t talk much, but then they’d never had to. They’d always been content to enjoy each other’s company in silence.

Harry was much happier, whistling as he cleaned the flat and gathered Zayn’s laundry, but Zayn still worried. Louis disappeared all the time, and once or twice, Zayn caught him in an outright lie, though he knew better than to ask. Zayn and Louis’ relationship had always hinged on them being quietly there for each other, an arrangement that had worked for them well enough for the past sixteen years . After Fizzy lost her battle with cancer at nineteen, Louis had spent a month of days shut away in Zayn’s tiny fifth-floor walk-up getting spectacularly stoned and walloping Zayn at Fifa. Zayn knew it was avoidance then and he knew it was now, but he didn’t mind being Louis’ escape, so long as things eventually returned to normal. Louis would come out with whatever was bothering him as he always did in time and Zayn just hoped that whatever it was, it wouldn’t be enough to tear him and Harry apart.

***

Harry was sitting at his desk, cursor blinking in an open work document when Louis snuck up behind him, tightening his arms around Harry’s waist. “Kids are asleep,” he said in a low, raspy voice, nosing at Harry’s neck. “Come to bed, love.”

“Need to finish this chapter,” Harry protested, chewing his bottom lip as he squinted at the last paragraph he’d just typed. “Trying to meet a deadline.”

Louis silently sank to his knees, wheeling Harry’s chair back from his desk. Harry slid off his glasses, rubbing at his bleary eyes. “What’re you doing?”

“Nothing. Don’t mind me,” Louis smirked, mouthing at Harry’s soft cock through the thin material of his jogging bottoms.

Harry’s breath hitched and he dug his nails into his thighs, stomach jumping at the sensation. He and Louis had always had a pretty satisfying sex life, but lately the fire had sort of fizzled. Louis was always on the road and when he wasn’t, half the time he collapsed onto the couch fully-dressed after practice and didn’t move until the next morning. Harry’s first novel had been a huge success and he’d been awarded the Man Booker Prize for New Fiction, but the second one had gotten lambasted by the critics and he was trying to redeem himself with the third, but he was struggling to write anything. It was hard to feel inspired when his hair was gummed up with applesauce and the most exciting human interaction he’d had all week was with the local dry-cleaner when he picked up Louis’ kits. He loved his kids fiercely, and wouldn’t give them up for anything, but some days he wished it were just him and Louis.

“Zayn-” Harry protested feebly as Louis flexed the waistband of his pants, dragging them down off his hips. Zayn’s room shared a wall with Harry’s study and Harry could often hear Zayn’s moving around at night when he got up to go to the loo or get a glass of water from the kitchen. He slept even less than Harry - which was a feat considering Harry was often up until two or three AM writing, only to be woken by the twins promptly at six.

“Is sound asleep,” Louis insisted, licking a stripe up the underside of Harry’s cock. Harry let out a low moan, leaning back in his chair. “You taste so good,” Louis groaned, nostrils flaring as he took Harry into his mouth. Harry was hard in no time at all as Louis’ tongue laved over him, pausing only to bite the tender insides of his thighs.

Harry let out an indignified squeak when his cock-head brushed the back of Louis’ throat and he could feel Louis try to smirk around him. When he looked down, his husband’s big blue eyes were peering up at him from under a wing of messy fringe, cheekbones hollowed alluringly, and Harry’s stomach gave a corresponding twist of arousal.

Harry came embarrassingly quick, his groan muffled around the fingers Louis had unceremoniously shoved in his mouth when he’d gotten too loud. He felt boneless and sated after, flicking off his computer with a defeated sigh to follow Louis to bed. There was always tomorrow.

“Gonna take a shower,” Louis said, making quick work of stripping out of his sweats. Harry had never gotten over the feeling that he was the luckiest man on earth because he got to see Louis naked on a daily basis. He watched with fond exasperation as Louis kicked his clothes to the bottom of the closet, without bothering to put them in the laundry basket. Louis was one of the most thoughtful people Harry knew, but when it came to stuff around the house, he was absolutely clueless.

Harry sometimes joked with Louis about a laundry fairy coming in the night to whisk away his dirty clothes and return them to his bureau, clean and folded. We can just get a maid, Louis always replied. To which Harry unfailingly said, But I like doing it. And he did; he liked that he was able to provide for him family in his own way. Despite the success of his first book, Louis still brought in the majority of the household money and it was nice that Harry could contribute in other ways. It made him feel useful. Even if he did sometimes wish Louis would take initiative and take out the rubbish without having to be asked.

“Coming?” Louis called cheekily over his shoulder. Harry was momentarily hypnotized by the sway of Louis’ hips and arse as he walked into the ensuite, dick giving a renewed twitch of interest, in spite of the fact that he’d just cum.

“Yeah. Just give me a minute,” Harry called in to him as the shower started up, flopping back onto the bed. In the process, he dislodged Louis’ jacket, spilling the contents of his pockets on the floor. If he’d just hung it up when he came in -

“Oh sod it,” Harry cussed softly, bending down to gather Louis’ things. If he didn’t do it, no one else would. Harry hung Louis’ coat and his keys up by the door and was just setting his wallet on the dresser when a receipt fluttered out. Harry frowned as he stared at it. It was a lunch tab for Spaniard’s Inn on the opposite side of town.

Harry and Louis had eaten there on one of their anniversaries. It had been one of the worst winters on record, but they’d bundled up and walked through the deserted streets after dinner, slightly drunk on wine, holding each other’s hands and squinting into the driving snow. Harry remembered looking into the lit windows of the beautiful houses and wondering aloud who lived in them. Louis had made up crazy stories about the residents that had Harry laughing until he was hiccuping, had him forgetting the cold altogether. That was back before he and Louis had two pennies to rub together between them and owning a house had seemed an impossible dream (especially to a boy who’d spent part of his childhood in and out of shelters).

It seemed like a lifetime ago now, Louis kissing away Harry’s hiccups in a hazy beam of streetlight as the snow fell around them. Fumbling, shivering, half out of their clothes in the backseat of the car in the parking lot of the restaurant, to fuck, hot and dirty, the imprint of the seat’s stitching welded onto Harry’s bare back after.

What was Louis doing there? In the middle of the afternoon? On a day he was meant to be at practice?

Harry tried to shake off the bad feeling as he stripped out of his clothes and joined Louis in the shower. Louis could have been there for any number of reasons. He didn’t owe Harry an explanation. Harry slide his arms around Louis from behind, fingertips skating through the soap bubbles tangled in Louis’ happy trail. Louis melted back into him as Harry pressed wet kisses into his neck. Harry tried to keep his voice even when he spoke, rubbing a hand gently over Louis’ belly. “What were you doing in Hampstead?”

Louis whole body stiffened noticeably in his arms, the muscles in his abdomen twitching under Harry’s fingers. “What do you mean?”

“I just - I saw a receipt -” Harry stammered, face heating up. He trusted Louis. He did. But it would be so much easier if Louis let him in sometimes. Harry remembered when Louis had fucked off to Zayn’s for an entire month after Fizzy’s funeral without an explanation, not even bothering to return any of Harry’s increasingly frantic calls or texts. It had been one of the worst times of his life. He hadn’t even been sure Louis would come back to him, but then he’d slunk in like a scolded dog one night, crawling into their bed as if nothing had happened. Louis always bottled up all his emotions, afraid to burden other people with them, unaware that he was pushing everyone he loved even further away.

“What were you doing going through my wallet?” Louis asked accusingly, pulling out of Harry’s grasp.

“I wasn’t - I just hung up your stuff and it fell out of your wallet.”

Louis reached for the shampoo and began vigorously lathering his hair. “Just had lunch with some mates,” he said flatly and it sounded so much like a lie, Harry’s skin burned.

“Which mates?” Harry prodded, knowing he should stop with the inquisition if he didn’t want it to devolve into a row, but unable to stop himself.

“Christ, are we really doing this now?” Louis snapped, whirling on him.

“I’m not doing anything,” Harry protested, voice trembling.

“You know, I trust you when you and Zayn have your little sleepovers. Is it too much to ask for the same consideration?” Louis asked, crossing his arms defensively.

“Lou, I-” Harry swallowed, tears gliding down his face, washed away by the shower.

Louis’ expression softened and he pulled Harry into his chest. “Sorry, love. I’m just - I’ve been really stressed and tired - I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“S’okay,” Harry said in a small, teary voice.

Louis pulled back, clasping Harry’s face in his hands so he could stare into his eyes. “No. It’s not. I love you so much. I can’t imagine my life without you or the twins. And I know I haven’t been here lately, but it’s not because I’m running around on you, yeah? Because you’re the only one for me.”

Harry nodded slowly, snuffling as he wiped away tears. “‘m sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

“Ssssh, it’s okay,” Louis whispered, pulling Harry in by his curls to capture his mouth in a soft, open-mouthed kiss. “It’s forgotten.”

But it wasn’t.

***

Zayn woke up to the sound of screaming. By the time he hoisted himself into his chair and rolled into the kitchen, Sully’s dish was on the floor and Harry was covered in porridge, tears welling up in his eyes. “I want daddy,” Sully yelled, throwing his spoon down on the floor to join the plate. “I don’t want you.”

“Sully, daddy’s at work. He’ll be home tonight,” Harry tried to placate him.

“I want him now,” Sully howled, pushing a ceramic bowl of apples off the edge of the table. It shattered when it fell, apples rolling everywhere. Ruby started crying, disturbed by her brother’s fit and Harry looked on the edge of breaking down.

“Go,” Zayn said. “Take a shower. Go for a drive or a walk. I’ve got them.”

Harry nodded, clearly too overwhelmed to say anything but a whispered thanks before he fled from the room. It took ages for Zayn to clean up, hindered as he was by his chair, and it was made all the more difficult by the steady stream of ear-shattering screams throughout. He finally managed to talk Ruby into helping him, which sped up the work a bit and got her to stop crying and Sully eventually wore himself out, tiny body shaking with little syrupy hiccups. By time Zayn got the twins stripped off and into the bath, Harry was long gone.

“You weren’t very nice to Papa today,” Zayn said, as he washed gunked-up porridge out of Sully’s hair. Sully’s eyelids were drooping heavily, exhausted from crying, his long-lashes clumped together with tears. “I think you hurt his feelings.”

“I’m sowwy,” Sully said in a small voice.

“I think we should do something nice for him, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Ruby nodded.

“What should we do?”

“Bake a cake!” Sully suggested as Ruby chimed in, “draw a picture.”

“Maybe we can do both?” Zayn asked, coaxing smiles out of them.

***

Liam came over with Ben around lunch time for their physical therapy appointment and seeing Zayn otherwise occupied, he helped him make sandwiches and cut up carrot sticks for the kids’ lunch and kept them entertained while Zayn showered and finally changed out of his pajamas. It was a rainy, gray afternoon and they spent it making an apology card for Harry and baking twenty cupcakes with pink icing and pastel sprinkles. Zayn was happy for the company, though he still stubbornly tried to do everything himself, ignoring Liam’s offers of help.

By dinner time, when Harry still hadn’t returned, they ordered a pizza and watched How to Train Your Dragon all snuggled together on the couch, Sully on Liam’s lap and Ruby and Ben fighting for space on Zayn’s. It was a small couch, more of a love-seat really, so Zayn tried not to read too much into it that Liam sat so close to him, their thighs sandwiched together. For the past week, Zayn had been having a heavy prickling all through his legs, but he hadn’t mentioned it to Liam, chalking it up to phantom pains. He swore he felt it though when Liam’s thigh was up against his, body radiating warmth. Married, he reminded himself, not for the first or last time that day.

When Harry finally stumbled in, sometime after dinner, he looked worse off than when he’d left. There were dark circles under his eyes and his hair was wet and lank around his face. “Papa!” Sully cried, running to wrap his arms around Harry’s legs. Harry lifted him up, kissing the side of his head absently. “I’m so sowwy I was bad.”

“It’s okay, my darling. I missed you,” Harry said, crouching down to pull Ruby into the hug. “You too, bug.”

“Don’t ever leave again,” Ruby cried, nuzzling her face in his neck.

“Did you have such a bad time with Zayn and Liam then?” Harry asked incredulously, raising an eyebrow.

“No. We made cakes!” Sully shouted excitedly. They each took one of his hands, dragging him off to the kitchen to show him.

Liam cleared his throat, standing from the couch and smoothing his palms over his jean clad thighs. “Guess I’ll be going then.” He put on his boots and jacket and bundled a sleeping Ben into his coat and hat, giving Zayn a goodnight hug and a quick peck on the cheek.

“Thanks for your help today,” Zayn said softly as he showed Liam out the door.

“What help? You hardly let me do anything,” Liam teased. “I was entirely redundant.”

“Still. It was nice spending time with you,” Zayn admitted, wanting to bite his own tongue off the second he said it.

Liam’s resulting smile might have been worth it though. “Yeah. It really was. Have a good night Zayn.”

***

Zayn straightened up the kitchen while Harry tucked the twins in. When Harry emerged from their bedroom, shutting the door behind him, he looked about ready to fall over.  “Want to stay up and watch a movie?” Zayn offered.

“Think I’m just going to go bed.”

“Okay. Goodnight Harry.” Zayn changed back into his pajamas and when it was clear Harry wasn’t going to be joining him, he knocked on Harry’s bedroom door. “Can I come in?”

Harry grunted his assent. When Zayn came in, he was curled up in the middle of the bed facing the wall. Zayn wheeled over to him, putting a gentle hand on his back. “Everything all right?”

“I went to see Louis. To surprise him at practice,” Harry said in a detached voice. “He wasn’t there.”

“What?”

“He was supposed to be training but he wasn’t there.”

“Are you sure? Maybe he was getting stretched out or something...”

“I asked his coach. He said Louis has been working with a personal trainer from home a few days a week instead. So he could spend more time with me and the kids,” Harry said, voice thick with tears.

“Do you think he’s cheating?” Zayn asked in a soft voice.

“I don’t know what to think. He told me he wasn’t, but he lies to me all the time. And he’s never where he says he is. And he doesn’t always answer my calls.” Harry ran a hand back through his hair, his eyes big and sad. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You know how he is, Harry. Keeps everything locked up tight in his chest. He’ll let it out eventually. Just needs a bit of time.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, but he didn’t sound convinced.

“You want to sleep in mine?” Zayn asked.

“I just want to be alone, I think,” Harry said quietly, squeezing Zayn’s hand.

“Yeah, okay,” Zayn brushed Harry’s hair back from his head, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Night Harry.  Love you.”
 

Harry’s eyes were full of tears, but he forced a weak smile. “Night Zayn.”

 

Chapter Text

~These streets are yours, you can keep them. I don't want them. They pull me back, and I surrender to the memories I run from~

 

These Streets

When Zayn woke up,  it was raining steadily and his entire body felt like a giant, throbbing bruise.  He glanced down the length of his bed, to where his feet had escaped the warmth of the comforter in the night, and gave his toes an experimental wriggle.  They responded in kind, curling and uncurling rapidly.  Zayn bit back a smile.  He hadn’t told anyone about his progress in his sessions with Liam, not even Harry; too scared to jinx it, to make it into a bigger deal than it actually was.  He knew he should make an appointment with a doctor to get an update on his diagnosis, but after months of being sliced up with surgeon’s scalpels and stuck with needles and strung back together with stitches, it wasn’t high on his list of priorities.

There was a time in his life that Zayn would have told the doctors who diagnosed him to go fuck themselves.  There was a time he wore a dress to his winter formal and spray-painted the teacher’s lounge and rode a motorbike and didn’t give a shit about what people said.  He’d been brave and free and too young and stupid to know it all had an expiration date.  After Xavier, he flinched away from loud noises, cowered around larger men.  The outside world felt too loud and unpredictable.  These days, Zayn preferred to live inside a book.  When he was reading, he didn’t feel confined to a chair.  He understood why Harry had done it for years; that it wasn’t a defense mechanism so much as a survival tactic.

Zayn stretched his arms over his head, popping the kinks from his back and lifted himself, grunting with effort, into his chair.  The one benefit of losing the use of his legs was that his upper body had never looked better, his normally scrawny arms bulging with new muscle, tattoos stretched out by his budding biceps.

At the height of his modeling career, boys and girls had thrown themselves at Zayn in equal measure.  At the time, it had been a heady feeling, a rush, knowing they all wanted him, but he understood now that they just wanted what he represented – youth and new money, a chance to be touch something beautiful.  He wondered where they all were now.

Zayn wheeled into the bathroom, instinctively avoiding his reflection in the mirror over the sink.  He knew what he would see there - skin too sallow from long days indoors, features sharp from a poor diet of coffee and cigarettes, dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep - and he didn’t have the fortitude to face himself.  With painstaking effort, Zayn positioned his chair in front of the toilet and slid himself out of his fly.  His dick, at least still worked, though right now it was so hard he had to bend his shaft down to avoid pissing into his mouth.

He gave himself a few strokes after he shook out the last drops, biting back a moan as Liam’s face drifted without warning into his mind.  He closed his eyes and thought of Liam’s strong, capable hands massaging his legs and feet with single-minded doggedness, refusing to accept Zayn’s diagnosis, refusing to let Zayn withdraw from life.  Zayn’s stomach clenched as a bead of precum rolled over his fist, moistening his grip.

It had been ages since he’d gotten off.  It was nearly impossible with Harry crawling into his bed all the time and one or the other of the twins cropping up unexpectedly.  Plus, he just hadn’t felt...sexy.  Most of the time, he was on so many pills he just felt numb, detached from his own body.  Plus, touching himself inevitably made him think of Xavier and it was a road he wasn’t keen to travel down.  With Xavier, he’d come to associate sex with control and manipulation and not pleasure.  Near the end he hadn’t even enjoyed it, just laid there and gritted his teeth, waiting for it to be over.  It wasn’t like how sex used to be with Liam - the way he felt like Liam was everywhere all at once - inside him and over him and filling him with his scent and his breath, covering Zayn’s body up with his big hands.

Fuck.  Zayn’s body jerked hard as he orgasmed prematurely, white streaking across the rim of the toilet-seat.  Sighing, he wiped the mess up with a bit of loo roll and washed his hands and face under the tub faucet, letting the cool water wash the sticky residue from his fingers and the sweat from his hair. His mind was blissfully blank and he hummed a Bruno Mars tune to himself as he rolled into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

The kids were snuggled up on the couch in the living room watching cartoons, still in their pajamas, and Zayn paused on his way to give them each a peck on the head.  In the master bedroom, Harry was indiscriminately tossing clothes into an open suitcase on the bed.  He had already showered, but was only half-dressed in a pair of gray Topman pants and white socks, unbuttoned flannel shirt hanging open over his bare chest.  Zayn’s eyes flicked quickly to the crumpled note on the bedside table, secured under a handful of loose change and Louis’ watch, before returning his gaze to Harry.

“Going somewhere?” Zayn inquired, struggling to wheel his chair over the thick-pile carpet in Harry and Louis’ bedroom.

“Just to visit my mum for a few days.  Haven’t seen her for a while. Thought it might be nice.”

“Nothing to do with Louis, then?” Zayn asked dubiously, raising an eyebrow.

“I just - ” Harry ran a hand back through his wet, disheveled curls, heaving a sigh.  “I need some time to think.”  He paused, midway through folding a pair of trousers, as if a thought had just occurred to him.  “You’ll be okay here, won’t you?”

“I won’t die of loneliness if that’s what you’re worried about,” Zayn teased.  He knew that wasn’t what Harry meant - he wasn’t an idiot - but he’d sooner die than have Harry call in a nurse or Liam to come babysit him.

 

“You’re welcome to come, of course,” Harry said, as he tugged on his trousers.  I’m sure Yaser and Trisha would love to see you.”

Zayn scratched sheepishly at the back of his neck, frowning.  It had been well over a year since he’d seen his parents and younger sisters.  His parents still lived in the same town as Harry’s mum, but Doniya was married and moved out and last he’d heard, Waliyah was doing graduate research in Prague.  Saafa should be in Uni by now, he thought with an unpleasant ache in his chest.   Zayn only knew as much because Harry still spoke to Zayn’s mum  on a regular basis, giving her periodic updates on Zayn and talking at length about his writing and Louis and the kids.  Harry had a better relationship with Zayn’s mum than Zayn had ever had, a fact that made him feel guilty and low.

Zayn still sent money home from his modeling jobs from time to time, enough for his parents to buy a new house in a posher neighborhood and pay for the girls’ schooling. But their calls had gotten less frequent over the years, as Zayn had a habit of not answering or returning them.  “Not sure I’m ready yet, to be honest.”

Harry nodded, bending down to give Zayn a tight hug.  “Whatever you want, love.”

***

Harry stood in the kitchen, watching the rain fall on the garden as he waited for the kettle to boil.  No matter how long he was away, no matter how hard he had worked to build the life he’d always wanted with Louis and their children, whenever he went home, Harry felt like Marcel again.  He felt like the boy who had spent his childhood buried in books, chased by ghosts.  He felt restless and unsettled like his skin was too big for his body.

The same floorboards creaked under his feet when he woke in the middle of the night to fetch a cup of water from the kitchen.  The same books crowded the shelves in his old bedroom, waiting in silence for him to bring them to life again.  The same water stain darkened the corner of the living room ceiling.  His mum had made small changes over the years, but it was largely like walking into a museum of his past, a past he had tried desperately to escape.  Harry had enough money from the sales of his first book to buy his mum a new house, but Anne had gently refused his offers over the years, too stubborn and full of pride to accept.

The high-pitched whistle of the kettle broke him from his train of thoughts and Harry poured tea for himself and Gemma and arranged a packet of biscuits on a plate, carrying it all into the living room.  “Thanks,” Gemma said, taking the tea and laughing when Harry balanced the plate of biscuits on her pregnant belly.

“It has its advantages, I suppose,” she shrugged, biting into a biscuit.

“Plus, you’re always guaranteed a seat on the tube,” Harry offered.

“Yeah, I mean what’re stretch marks and indigestion and morning sickness when you can get a seat on public transportation?” Gemma snorted.

“I wish I could get pregnant,” Harry said a bit sadly, resting his hand on her stomach for as long as she would tolerate.  He’d always been oddly fascinated by pregnant women - that they could carry a life in them.  When he and Louis wanted to get pregnant, Gemma had been kind enough to donate an egg and Louis had given his sperm so they could have a baby that was part each of them, but Harry still regretted not being able to carry the twins himself.  Their surrogate had been great, texting Harry and Louis pictures of her growing belly and letting them tag along on her doctor’s appointments, but it wasn’t the same - not even a little bit.

“Don’t be weird,” Gemma rolled her eyes, nudging his thigh playfully with her socked foot.

“I mean it,” Harry said, pouting.

“Are you and Louis thinking of having more?”  Harry swallowed hard.  He didn’t know anything right now.  He didn’t even know if Louis was still in love with him.  How could he bring kids into that?  How could he plan more than a few days ahead when his whole future seemed uncertain?

Harry forced a weak smile.  “Ask me again when the twins are three, yeah?”

“Oh come on, you’ve got it easy.  I’ve got four.  Well, four and a half,” she amended, resting her hand on her swollen stomach.

“And who’s fault is that, then?  You’ve also got a charming Swedish nanny if I’m recalling it correctly.”

She rolled her eyes.  “It’s not like you can’t afford one if you wanted.  Really, you and Louis are millionaires and you live like you’re just out of Uni.  I can’t understand why you’re still in that wretched flat.”

“It’s not wretched,” Harry whined, biting at his cuticle.  It was where Louis had carried him, drunk on champagne and stumbling in his dress-shoes, over the threshold on their wedding night.  It was where they’d been when they first learned their surrogate’s pregnancy had taken and where they’d brought the twins when they were released from the hospital.  It was where Harry had written his first best-seller.  It was where they’d gotten the phone call from Louis’ mum the night Fizzy passed.  It was where Ruby and Sully had taken their first steps - Ruby first, tottering from the safety of Harry’s arms into Louis’ outstretched ones, while they both held their breath and Harry fumbled to record it on his cell-phone.  And until recently - it had felt like home in a way that the place he’d grown up never had.

Harry had stayed up too late the night before, looking through the shoebox under his bed, remembering stolen kisses in the dark and Louis’ confession - first in the tea-shop and then in his bedroom, still warming Harry’s skin after all these years.  But was it enough?

Louis was keeping secrets again and Harry didn’t know what to think.  He wanted to trust him, but he didn’t know where Louis went off to or why he returned home with dark circles under his eyes, smelling faintly of sawdust.

“Is everything okay with you two?” Gemma asked softly, when she noticed Harry’s eyes starting to glaze over.

Harry pinched the skin between his eyes and shook his head.  “Everything’s fine.  This book’s just taking it out of me.”

“Well, you’re welcome to drop the twins off with Ed and me if you’re looking for a real getaway.  Ed doesn’t start tour rehearsals until April and we’d love to have them."

“Thanks.  I’ll think about it.  I’d feel bad leaving Zayn.”

“How is he?” Gemma asked.

“As well as can be suspected, I suppose,” Harry shrugged.  He and Gemma Skyped at least once a week, kids screeching for attention in the background, and Harry had filled her in on the latest saga.

“And Liam?” Gemma ventured.

“Still head over heels for him.  But Zayn’s too thick to notice, of course.”

“Of course,” Gemma echoed, laughing.  A true romantic through and through, Harry had always sworn up and down that Liam and Zayn would end up together in the end - even after Liam got married and had a son, even after Zayn had disappeared for God knows where.  Gemma had always teased him for it, but lately, she seemed to be warming to his way of thinking.

“Well, I better start on dinner,” Harry said, glancing at the time.  His mum and Ed had taken the brood to the aquarium so Gemma could get a nap in and Harry could get some writing done, but they were due to return any moment.  In his younger days, Harry used to love the silence of an empty house, but now it unnerved him.  These days, he much preferred the babbling of the twins or the sound of Louis and his team-mates shouting at a footie match on television in the living room or the sound of Zayn’s wheelchair thumping over the threshold to the kitchen to get something to eat.

As happy as Harry was to have Gemma to himself, he was looking forward to a big, noisy pasta dinner, with all his family crowded around the dining room table.  All save for Louis.

***

Later that afternoon, Zayn was bundled up in a mound of blankets reading a book on the couch when he heard the front door open and close.  At the sound of approaching footsteps, Zayn craned his head over the back of the sofa, expecting to see Louis, home early from practice.  His heart jogged when he saw it was Liam.  Liam’s hair was wet from the rain and he was wearing gray jogging bottoms and a black henley that hugged his chest and broad shoulders in all the right places.  But his upper body wasn’t what immediately drew Zayn’s attention.  Liam was leaning heavily on a cane, his limp more pronounced than usual, eyes slightly glassy.

“Rain makes me a bit stiff,” Liam offered without being asked.  Zayn choked on his spit.  All day, he’d been rather stiff indeed.  He’d already wanked twice and he still couldn’t get Liam out of his head.  In fact, as crazy as it was, he almost felt like he’d summoned him here somehow, with the power of his own desire.

“Harry gave me a key,” Liam explained, collapsing heavily in the armchair opposite Zayn.  “Asked if I’d check in on you.”

“You know, I’m not a houseplant,” Zayn laughed.  “Despite what everyone thinks, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

Liam winced as he straightened his leg out, resting the heel of his boot on the coffee table and massaging his kneecap through his sweats with a clenched jaw.  “I know. Wanted a bit of company myself.  We’re going swimming.  Go get your trunks.”

“You do know I don’t know how to swim, right?” Zayn asked, incredulously.  Even when he’d had full control of his faculties, he and water had never been on good terms.  “That’s why you have me,” Liam said, giving Zayn a smile that reignited the lust in his gut.

***

The thing was, Zayn didn’t have swim trunks.  He’d left most of his clothes at Xavier’s and he hadn’t had the bollocks to go back after the accident to collect his stuff.  Despite having seen Xavier dead with his own eyes, Zayn half expected to return to their house and see his boyfriend sitting in his usual armchair, drinking a scotch on the rocks.  After months of trying to escape Xavier’s clutches, it all seemed too easy.  He’d been a mean old son of a bitch, too spiteful to let Zayn off the hook, even in death.

Zayn managed to unearth a neon yellow pair of swim trunks from the bottom drawer of Harry’s bureau, much shorter than he was normally comfortable wearing.  It took him nearly twenty minutes to struggle into them, flopping on his back on the cold, hard tile of the bathroom floor like a speared fish.  Once he finally did get them on, he wanted to cry.  His legs were a crisscrossed mess of pink and white scars, a topographical map of the accident and the surgeries that followed.  After weeks of avoiding himself in mirrors, of averting his eyes when dressing himself, Zayn was overcome with sudden, crushing awareness of his own deformity. At the back of his mind, he knew it was silly and vain to worry about something so trivial as topical scarring, not when he was faced with the prospect of never being able to walk again, but it didn’t stop him from feeling disfigured.

The first sob was torn out of his chest like a stitch being pulled loose.

“Zayn?”  There was a gentle rapping on the bathroom door, which made Zayn cry all the more because he didn’t want Liam to see him like this, feeling sorry for himself.  But before Zayn could compose himself enough to respond, Liam was pushing open the door, grimacing in pain as he crouched down to Zayn’s level to pull him into a hug without question.

“Sssh,” he whispered soothingly, cupping the back of Zayn’s head in his palm.  “You’re all right.  What’s brought this on, now?”

“I’m - I’m ugly,” Zayn hiccuped, clinging to Liam’s shirt as he choked on his tears.

Liam leaned back, holding Zayn’s face in his hands, fingers stroking over his cheekbones.  “Zayn.  You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met.”

“I’m not.  I’m ruined.  He ruined me.”  It was sort of an unspoken rule that they didn’t speak about their significant others - Liam never brought up Natalie and Zayn never talked about Xavier or the accident - but he found it pouring out of him now, as swift and unstoppable as his tears.

“If you’re ruined, then I am too,” Liam said levelly, patting his own leg.  “And so’s Harry and so’s Louis.  Everyone has scars, love.”

Zayn had never thought of it that way – that their scars were like roads on a map, connecting them all to their pasts – but also to each other.  “I’m glad you have them,” Liam whispered, reaching out to stroke one of the worst furrows along Zayn’s thigh, causing the hairs on Zayn’s arms to prickle.  “Because it means you’re still here.  It means you’re alive.”

Zayn swallowed around the lump in his throat, wondering how Liam always seemed to know exactly what he needed to hear.  Liam patted Zayn’s leg again, all business this time. (Zayn almost swore he felt it.)  “Now, come on.  Today’s a happy day, yeah?  Because I get to spend it with you.”

***

The apartment was too quiet in Harry’s absence, leaving Zayn alone with own thoughts and too many pills and cigarettes.  Louis still came home every night, but he usually dropped into bed after a quick hello, sometimes too exhausted to even draw back the covers before he fell asleep.  Zayn feigned annoyance, but he was secretly grateful when Liam continued to show up at the flat, either for their sessions or just to watch a movie, Ben falling asleep in Zayn’s lap more times than not.  Some nights, the three of them felt remarkably like a little family and Zayn had to keep reminding himself that as much as he might wish it, this was not his life or his husband or his child.  It was Natalie’s.  Because he had given up that privilege, for reasons he could no longer remember or make sense of.

Still, Zayn was thankful for the time they did get to spend together, even if was sometimes tinged by painful longing and regret on his part.  Before the accident, Zayn had never appreciated the small things.  He’d never noticed the way Liam’s eyes looked like liquid amber when the light struck them or the cute little crinkle in his brow when he was concentrating or reading.  Now, he couldn’t stop noticing.

Aquatic therapy was going remarkably well.  Despite never having swam a day in his life and being proper terrified of large bodies of water, Zayn took well to their sessions.  It was the only time of day he felt fully relaxed, content to let his mind drift as Liam towed him across the surface of the water.   Liam knew everyone at the Rehab Center by name and introduced Zayn to them all in turn – from the girl at the front desk (Monica) to the handful of disabled children and adults Liam worked with when he wasn’t with Zayn.  They all loved him, lighting up in his presence, and it made Zayn feel unworthy of Liam’s attention, when they were so many other deserving people who needed him.

It was strange, getting glimpses of the life Liam had created for himself – through spending time with Ben and meeting his other patients and coworkers – and it didn’t escape Zayn that if things had gone differently, he might have had his own rightful place here, among the people Liam loved.  He might be one of the people Liam loved.

Normally, it was just the two of them of them in the pool, which was warm like a Jacuzzi to help keep Zayn’s body temperature up, but sometimes another therapist and patient joined them. Liam put music on, something quiet and unobtrusive that synchronized itself with the motion of the water licking over Zayn’s skin.  Zayn usually kept his eyes closed during their sessions, feeling at once weightless and safer than he’d ever felt, buoyed up by Liam’s steady hands.  Liam put weights on Zayn’s ankles and floatation devices under his arms and the back of his neck to help keep him from sinking.  Then, he would tow Zayn back and forth across the length of the pool to let his spine stretch gently out.

Zayn always felt better after their sessions, and not just because Liam massaged his legs with oil afterwards to keep his muscles loose and his skin from drying out.  And if he got a boner a time or two, Liam was kind enough not to mention it and well, anything working below his waist was a sort of progress too, wasn’t it?

Harry returned from his trip a week later, looking just as pale and drawn as when he’d left.  They had a tense dinner filled with unbreachable silences.  At the end of the meal, Louis began to stack the dishes and carry them over to the center island, without being asked, and Harry smiled for the first time since he’d been back.

Dishes soaking in sudsy water in the sink, Louis bent down over the back of Harry’s chair, arms encircling him from behind.  “Missed you,” he huffed into Harry’s neck.  “Why don’t you draw us a bath and I’ll meet you there in ten?”

Harry looked so happy at that Zayn had to glance away, as if he were witnessing something too private and intimate, not intended for his eyes.

“Zayn, do you mind tucking in Ruby and Sully?” Louis asked.

“Not at all,” Zayn grinned, wrestling Ruby and then Sully out of their high chairs.  He’d gotten better at handling them. He’d been timid and unsure at first, curbed by his handicap, but as time had passed he’d gotten more confident and more confident. Sometimes, for short periods of time he forgot he was different. He felt just like anyone else.

***

Harry sunk down into the bathwater so that only his nose and eyes were above the surface of the water, like an alligator, bubbles filling his sight line.  It had been good to see everyone, but he knew he’d been avoiding his problems, and as he’d suspected everything was waiting there for him when he got back.  Even as he buoyed to the surface, he felt a heavy weight on his chest, like the water was bearing down on him.  He let a frustrated tear escape his eye and mopped it away with a handful of bathwater.

He loved Louis more than anything else in the world, which was what made it so hard.  He’d always wondered why his mum hadn’t left his dad the first time he hit her, why Zayn didn’t leave at the first sign that things weren’t right with Xavier.  Was it because they thought on some level that they deserved it?  Or that they couldn’t do better?  Or was it something more insidious - they’d been in a bad situation so long -  it had become their new normal?  Harry wasn’t sure he’d have the strength to leave Louis, but if Louis was cheating, he wasn’t sure what other choice he had.  He couldn’t continue to kiss him, to make love with him, to be with him, if he knew someone else was doing the same.

Harry was dozing off when Louis finally crept in and shut the door behind him, tossing his shirt and trousers on the floor in quick order.  “Hiya,” he smiled, stepping into the bath.  Harry shifted to make room for him and Louis pinned Harry’s waist between his muscular thighs, leaning down to give him a chaste kiss.

“Hiya,” Harry echoed, chasing Louis’ mouth with his own.  Harry’s muscles relaxed as the kiss deepened, the pit in his stomach easing slightly as his skin heated up.

“I wish you could see yourself.  You look like a debauched mermaid,” Louis said breathlessly, chuckling against Harry’s lips.  “Have to pick you up some pretty seashells,” he teased, flicking one of Harry’s nipples.  

Harry whined, panting, “better make it four,” as Louis leaned down to trace his rosebud with the tip of his tongue.  Harry instinctively raised his hips, pleased to find Louis already half-hard against him.

“How’s your mum?” Louis asked, as he sucked a welt into Harry’s collarbone.

“Fine,” Harry moaned, letting his head fall back against the lip of the tub to expose more of his neck to Louis.  Louis obliged - kissing and licking his way up the column of Harry’s throat.

“And Gemma?” Louis asked, nipping at the sensitive skin behind Harry’s ear.

“Pregnant,” Harry said, his breath gone a bit thin as Louis reached down to give his cock a quick squeeze.

It wasn’t weird - talking like this as they got into foreplay - with two toddlers and two full-time careers, they rarely got time to catch up - meaning it sometimes happened mid-coitus.  It wasn’t uncommon for them to talk about their days during sex or to break off into laughter during a blow-job when Harry made a particularly bad pun.  They still retained some of the heat and passion of their youth, but there was an ease now too, a new surety gained from age and experience.  It was a far cry from the time when Harry had been embarrassed by his uncontrollable erections around Louis, though Louis still seemed to know what to say to make him blush.

Harry walked around the bedroom naked more frequently and it never bothered him the way it used to when Louis touched his scars during sex.  They knew each other’s bodies better than anyone else and it showed. But maybe that wasn’t what Louis wanted anymore?  Maybe he wanted excitement and newness?

“What did you get up to while I was away?” Harry panted between heated, sloppy kisses, trying to keep his voice as casual and non-accusatory as possible.  

Louis sandwiched their erections together in his small fist, using body wash to stroke them both to full hardness.  Harry bucked his hips up into the friction, but Louis kept control, his pupils dark and steady on Harry’s face as he brought them off at his own pace.  “Not much.”

Harry raised a dubious eyebrow and Louis drew back, anger knitting his eyebrows together.  “Don’t do that.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Harry protested.

“Don’t give me that look,” Louis growled, stroking their erections together so roughly Harry winced.  “Why do you have to turn everything into a fight?”

“I’m not.”  

Louis eyed him skeptically, but didn’t slow the relentless pace of his wrist.  “Can’t you just trust me?”

“Can’t you just let me in?” Harry gasped, as Louis sped up his pace.

“Ah, fuck this,” Louis reached behind him, pulling the stopper from the tub.  Harry was about to protest when Louis lifted him up, staggering under Harry’s weight as he rushed into their bedroom, tossing Harry onto the bed.  Harry bounced once or twice on the mattress and they both laughed.

“Need to be inside you,” Louis cried in desperation, sucking kisses into Harry’s chest as he reached one-handedly for the lube on the bedside table, twisting the cap off impatiently and tossing it aside somewhere on the floor.

“You shouldn’t leave it out like that,” Harry chastised, as Louis greased his finger with lube and shoved it into Harry without preamble.  “One of the kids could get a hold of it.”

“Or maybe Zayn’ll find it and he and Liam can get it over with,” Louis laughed, voice rough as he worked in another finger alongside the first.

“Are we fighting?” Harry asked, as Louis added a third finger to the clutch he already had buried inside Harry.  He curled his fingers unexpectedly, stroking over the nub of Harry’s prostate, causing a bead of precum to blurt from Harry’s cockhead and run down his shaft.

“I don’t know.  Don’t much care so long as I’m inside you while we do it.”

“Fuck, Lou,” Harry cried.  “Put it in already.”  Harry dug his fingernails into Louis’ strong thighs, urging him on.  “Need you.  Please.”

“So bossy,” Louis smirked, slicking up the length of his erection and sliding into Harry in one rough movement.  Harry cried out, clinging to Louis’ waist as Louis pistoned into him with rapid, circular movements of his hips.

“That got you to shut up, hmm?” Louis teased, but his voice was all fond as he leaned down to kiss the tears leaking from Harry’s eyes.  His hands tangled themselves in the curls the nape of Harry’s neck and he tugged hard, pulling a sob from Harry’s throat.

***

Harry was tired and boneless from the three orgasms Louis had wrung out of him and stayed awake only long enough for Louis to mop him clean with a wet flannel.  “There you are, love,” he said, patting Harry’s bottom as he tugged the blankets over them, tangling their legs together.

“Love you,” Harry murmured, turning his face to press a kiss into the stag tattoo on Louis’ shoulder.

“Love you too,” Louis said, stroking his fingertips gently up and down Harry’s arm.

Harry was half-asleep when he heard Louis shift beside him.  “Harry?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled into his pillow, face squashed sideways.

“Remember when we were first getting together and everything was going on with Eleanor...?”

Harry rolled over to face Louis, startled by the troubled expression on his husband’s face.  He looked on the verge of tears.  Harry used his thumb to smooth the creases from Louis’ brow and Louis gave him a tiny smile, though his expression was still tight and guarded.  

“I remember.”

“And do you remember when Fizzy died and I ran off to Zayn’s because I - I couldn’t deal?”

“How could I forget?” Harry sighed.  Louis looked sad at that.

“Both of those times, do you remember I asked you to give me some time?”

Harry nodded.  “Yeah, I remember.”

“Would it be horrible if I asked you again?”  Harry searched Louis’ face for an answer, but there was none.

“Do you promise me that we’re okay?”

“I promise.  I love you more than I ever thought was possible.  It’s - it’s me.  I need time and I need you to trust me.  Can you do that?  For just a little while longer?”

“Yeah, yeah okay,” Harry replied, his mouth gone dry.

“Thank you,” Louis kissed his forehead.  “You’re more than I ever deserved in my life.”

“Hey,” Harry shook him gently.  “Don’t say that.  You deserve everything and more.”

Louis grinned.  “Thanks for marrying me and for having my kids.”

“I didn’t have them - exactly - ” Harry insisted.

“Yeah.  But you would’ve? If you could’ve?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied shakily, letting out the breath he didn't realize he was holding.  “Yeah, for you I would.”

Chapter Text

~These streets are yours, you can keep them. I don't want them. They pull me back, and I surrender to the memories I run from~

These Streets

Liam was late dropping off Ben at his mum’s Thursday morning and Zayn was already up and eating cereal in the kitchen when he arrived. It was a far cry from their normal Thursday morning routine, where Liam spent half the session trying to shake Zayn awake, coaxing him out of bed with offers of tea and cigarettes. He knew from Harry that Zayn slept poorly at night and that the few hours of sleep he did manage were in the early morning hours, when the light was just beginning to break over the rooftops of the city.

Liam felt guilty for waking him, but he also knew that he was the only person who ever visited Zayn, the only person he saw in his day besides Harry and Louis and the kids. It had been the same for him after his injury. He remembered the long days shut inside with the curtains drawn, unshowered and bearded and dressed in week-old sweats. The only time he ever ate was when Louis or Harry stopped by with take-out and even then, he had no taste for food. He had no taste for anything. All his life leading up to the injury had been spent preparing to be a professional footballer and then, when he wasn’t anymore, he didn’t know who to be.

He cringed to think of how many friendships he’d let slip through his fingers over the years to make his football career work, how his relationship with his parents and sisters had suffered, and worst of all, how he’d let Zayn just walk out of his life without a fight. All the subsequent years had been spent forgetting him, losing himself in the rigors of training and in the bodies of other men and women. The relief was only temporary, like putting aloe on a bad sunburn; eventually the pain crept back in. Liam was only now realizing what feeble attempts those had been. Zayn was under his skin as surely as he’d been fifteen years ago and it only took being around him again to realize it. There had never been anyone else. In body perhaps, in name, but never in his heart.

Liam barely noticed when Natalie left. He signed the divorce papers without even reading them - not caring how much of his assets Natalie wanted - just wanting to be done with it - all of it. It wasn’t until he was faced with the prospect of losing Ben that he started to slowly piece his life back together. Part of that meant getting his body back - long, grueling hours at the gym and with physical therapists - and the other part had been getting his head on straight. He went back school to get his Physical therapy degree, started seeing a psychologist to work on his issues.

Liam knew Zayn might never walk again, but for now, it was about building his confidence back up, rekindling the fire in his belly that Liam had fallen in love with in the first place. Zayn hadn’t told Liam everything - only what Liam needed to know to perform his job - but Liam knew it was more than just a car accident. Because it wasn’t just Zayn’s body that had gotten mangled, but his spirit too.

Sipping his tea at the counter, Zayn looked delightfully sleep rumpled, his hair at odd angles, swimming in one of Harry’s oversized flannel shirts and Louis’ gray joggers. When Liam looked at Zayn, he barely even noticed the chair, just the beautiful man in it. Zayn was older now - there were more lines around his eyes and the dark hair at his temples was threaded through with silver - but he was as breathtaking as he’d always been, with his severe cheekbones and heavily lashed eyes. Liam’s heart swelled with affection for him, but he bit down on the inside of his cheek, quelling his smile.

He rubbed his hands together, ignoring the reason his palms were damp with sweat in the middle of winter. There was a time in his life he thought he hated Zayn, but even at his lowest point, Liam would never have wished this on him. It wasn’t even about what happened between them all those years ago; it was about getting Zayn well. And whatever Liam felt for him was secondary.

“Ready to start?” Liam asked, trying to keep his voice bright.

Zayn glared unconvincingly at him as he shoveled a last spoonful of cereal into his mouth and set the bowl into the sink with a clatter. “You’re late.”

“Sorry. Had to drop off Ben and the traffic-” Liam rushed to explain.

Zayn smirked, poking Liam in the side as he passed. “Not mad. It was nice to actually sleep in for once.”

Liam trailed after Zayn into the guest bedroom, smiling like an idiot at the back of his head. He fondly recalled mouthing at the fantail bird tattoo at the nape of Zayn’s neck, leaving purple bruises in the bird’s plumage, and then quickly shook himself out of it. Professional. He was a professional.

Zayn parked his chair alongside the bed and looked at Liam expectantly. Liam swallowed hard. Zayn was too proud to ask for help, but he was generally a good sport about Liam manhandling him during their sessions. It was Liam who got a bit weird about all the body-to-body interaction.

“Right, I’ll just-” Liam bent at the knees and slid his hands around Zayn’s back, preparing to lift him over to the bed. But his palm, slick with sweat, slipped over the lip of Zayn’s sweats, skin met with the unexpected slide of silk. Liam glanced down Zayn’s back, seeing his fingers spread out over bright red silk. He froze where he was, breath quickening.

“Liam?” Zayn questioned, when Liam still hadn’t made any motion toward the bed.

“Sorry, sorry,” Liam rushed Zayn over to the bed, practically throwing on it.

“All right?” Zayn asked, quirking an eyebrow as he adjusted his position so his back was against the headboard.

Liam walked quickly over to the window, turning his back to Zayn while he tried to get his wildly escalated pulse under control. He clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides, trying to think of anything but the shock of bright red, the sensation of the silk sliding under his hands. Trying not to think of pulling Zayn’s underwear down his thighs with his teeth. “You still...still wear -” he stammered.

“Panties?” Zayn asked easily. “Yeah.” Liam had to the grip the window-ledge to keep his hand from grasping his hard-on through his sweats. Of all the days to free-ball it, why had he chosen this one? If his face didn’t feel so hot, he would suspect all of the blood in his body had migrated to his dick.

In high school, he’d always thought Zayn was so tough and masculine, so mysterious and unknowable, but then he’d gotten him out of his leather jacket and his skinny jeans in the backseat of his hatchback one night, only to find he was wearing pastel pink panties underneath. Satin ones. With bows. Fuck. Even now, Liam wasn’t proud of how quickly he’d cum after that discovery.

It wasn’t just that enticing, unexpected mixture of masculine and feminine, it was how vulnerable Zayn had looked beneath him, chest rising and falling slowly with his breath, dark eyes shaded by his long lashes, his beautiful hazelnut skin everywhere Liam looked, more skin than it seemed like any one person should have. Liam wasn’t particularly prude about nakedness - he had to get naked around guys all the time in the locker room - but Zayn had looked SO naked in just his panties, more so than he would if he hadn’t been wearing them. And the look in his eyes - it wasn’t defiant or guarded or mysteries or brooding - it was so open, so trusting, so soft. So wanting.

“Li - are you - are you ashamed of me?” Zayn asked very quietly, bringing Liam back to himself.

“Ashamed? Fuck no.”

"Then what? Why won’t you look at me?”

“I’m embarrassed,” Liam huffed.

“Oh,” Zayn said quietly, the air punching out of his chest in a wounded exhale.

“Not of you,” Liam rushed to clarify, turning slowly toward Zayn. He forced himself to keep his hands at his sides and not cover himself. Not that there was any hiding it. His erection was sordidly outlined in his sweats; there was even a splotch of moisture near his waistband that could only be precum. Under Zayn’s heated gaze, Liam’s cock gave a humiliating twitch. His face burned. So much for professionalism.

Zayn’s eyes went wide and he clapped his hand over his mouth in surprise. A second later, his whole body was shaking with quiet laughter. “I’m sorry,” Zayn wheezed, but he only laughed harder, tears streaming down his reddened cheeks. “I’m sorry. It’s just. Jesus, Liam,” he snorted.

“It isn’t funny,” Liam said in a clipped voice. Some part of him was happy to see Zayn laughing again. He just wished it were with him and not at him.

“Doesn’t your wife wear panties?” Zayn asked, once his laughter had abated enough to form coherent sentences. “You act as if you’ve never seen a pair.”

Liam froze, brows coming together in confusion. “Didn’t Louis tell you?”

“Tell me what?” Zayn asked, his breath ragged from laughing so hard.

“Natalie and I - we’re over. Have been for a while now. I thought you knew...”

Zayn pushed himself up on his elbows, straightening his back. “What?”

Liam shrugged. “We’d only been seeing each other a couple of weeks when she got pregnant with Ben. It wasn’t even serious. We tried to make it work - did the big wedding and everything - but we quickly realized we were both in love with other people.”

"What?” Zayn repeated.

“Shit. I didn’t mean to say that,” Liam winced, scrubbing his hand over his face. “I should - I’m gonna go.”

“Li, wait-” Zayn called.

“I think I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one day,” Liam said shortly. “I’ll text you to reschedule the session, yeah?” And then he forced his legs to move and get the hell out of there, leaving Zayn with a stunned expression on his face.

***

When Harry got home from the park, Zayn was chain-smoking by the window. Harry waved a hand through the smoke, cracking the window. “Where’s Liam then?”

“Had to reschedule,” Zayn shrugged.

“You want something to eat? I’m gonna cut up some bananas with peanut butter for the twins.”

“Harry? Why didn’t you tell me Liam was divorced?”

Harry sighed, sitting down on the edge of Zayn’s bed, running a hand back through his curls. “Is that what this is about then?”

“I was completely blindsided. I felt like an idiot.”

"Babe, every time I’ve tried to bring him up with you over the years, you’d flip out. Besides, what does it even matter whether he’s divorced or not?”

“It matters because I think he’s still in love with me,” Zayn snapped.

Harry’s mouth formed a small O of surprise. He shifted on the bed, drawing a leg up under him, trying to feign casualness as he picked at a loose thread on Zayn’s blanket. “And you? Are you still in love with him?”

“Even if I was -” Zayn shook his head vehemently, as if he were trying to shake free a thought. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t deserve him. Harry. Look at me,” Zayn’s voice broke, eyes flooding with tears.

“I am looking at you,” Harry said evenly, his eyes steady on Zayn.

“And what do you see?” Zayn asked in a tiny voice.

“I see my best mate. Who’s still as beautiful as he was the day I met him, maybe even more so. My best mate who tears himself up inside because he thinks he’s not good enough. Who let himself stay with a violent man instead of the man he loved because he didn’t think he was worthy. But you’ve always been worthy, Zayn.”

Zayn shook his head, tears running openly down his cheeks, catching in his stubble. “I can’t ask him that. To spend his whole life taking care of me. Lord knows he’d do it, because he’s an idiot, but he deserves better.”

“With all due respect, Zayn, who says you get to make that decision for him? You tried to give him a normal life once and I’ve never seen him as unhappy as he was with Natalie. He’s been carrying a torch for you all these years. Who are you to snuff it out?”

Zayn lit another cigarette, hand trembling as he took a drag. “I’m a mess. I’d just end up resenting him for trying to help. The big football hero Liam swooping into to save messed-up Zayn once again.”

"You ever think Liam might need saving too?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

"From what? He’s got his son and his job - you should see him at the Rehab center - everyone loves him. He’s happy-”

“Is he?” Harry asked carefully. “Or is it just easier for you to think that?”

Zayn let out a shaky breath, wiping at his face with the backs of his hands. “You’re a real arsehole sometimes.”

A startled laugh exploded from Harry. “That’s why you love me. Now come on, clean yourself up and come have a snack with us.”

“You know, bananas and peanut butter don’t solve everything,” Zayn said.

Harry put a hand to his chest in mock horror. “They absolutely do and I won’t hear another word to the contrary.”

***

Things with Liam went back to ordinary. Or as close to ordinary as they’d ever been. Neither of them brought up the incident, but Zayn was quietly reexamining their time together in a new light. Liam hadn’t brought him dinner because he felt sorry for him. He didn’t let Zayn get close to Ben because they were friends or had a working relationship. He’d done those things because he loved him, because he was in love with him. And Zayn didn’t really know what to do with that. On the one hand, he was elated. He’d been developing feelings for Liam over the past few weeks and it was nice to know it wasn’t one-sided, that he wasn’t crazy for feeling that way. But it was also terrifying.

Even without taking his disability into account, Zayn was no prize. He still woke, shaking and drenched in sweat, from nightmares about the accident. He still flinched at loud noises or when a stranger tried to touch him. He smoked too much and took too many pills. He didn’t sleep enough. He didn’t eat enough. He barely left Harry and Louis’ flat. He didn’t have a job or a passion aside from reading (and even that was just another escape). He hadn’t painted or done anything creative in ages. He couldn’t even look at himself in a mirror because he hated what he saw. And none of those things were up to Liam to fix. It was too much - asking Liam to love what he couldn’t. If he wanted to things to ever work with Liam, he needed to work on himself first.

He just wasn’t sure where to start.

All the things he’d once loved about himself Xavier had made him hate. When Zayn dressed up in lingerie, Xavier had called him a slut and left him bruised and broken afterwards. He’d referred to Zayn’s paintings as a hobby and called his style amateur. When men or women admired him in public, Xavier chastised Zayn for being vain or for dressing too provocatively or for inviting attention, and then in private, hurt him until he wasn’t pretty or proud anymore. Nothing belonged to Zayn now. He couldn’t do anything he loved without hearing the echo of Xavier’s words in his mind, telling him he wasn’t good enough or smart enough or pretty enough.

Zayn’s birthday was fast approaching, but he didn’t think he had much to celebrate this year. Despite his protestations, Harry had insisted on throwing him a party. He’d at least promised that it would be a small get-together - as he’d explained it, just him and Louis and Liam and a few friends - coming together for a nice meal. Zayn balked when he found a box on his bed Sunday morning, the day of his birthday. Underneath all the tissue paper there was a beautiful, royal blue silk dress and Zayn’s hands trembled when he lifted it out. “Do you like it?” Harry asked softly, from the doorway.

“I’m not sure I - ” Zayn hadn’t worn a dress since everything with Xavier, even just looking at one made his palms sweat. It had taken him ages to work up to just wearing panties again and even then, he heard Xavier’s voice whispering, “slut” and “whore” in his mind, though the cruel words were slowly being edged out by the look on Liam’s face the day he accidentally found out Zayn’s secret. Again.

“You don’t have to. No pressure,” Harry quickly added, bending down to hug Zayn. “Blue does really suit you though.”

Zayn put the dress back in the box as Harry kissed the top of his head. “Happy Birthday, love.”

As promised, the day was relatively quiet and uneventful. Harry made a pancake breakfast and they all ate in the living room in their pajamas. Zayn opened his presents - homemade cards and a mug from the twins with their handprints in green and pink paint, a notebook and some good charcoal pencils from Harry and a bunch of comic books from Louis. Zayn showered and shaved and Harry’s hairdresser friend, Lou, came over to give him a haircut in the afternoon. Zayn and Lou got on like a house on fire and he even let her talk him into putting a bleach blonde streak into his quiff. It was the first time in a long time he looked at himself in the mirror and thought, this is okay, I can work with this.

Overall, it was a relaxing day and Zayn felt just the right amount of pampered. But by dinner, his stomach was in knots over whether or not to wear the dress. He didn’t want to insult Harry, but he also didn’t want to do something he wasn’t quite comfortable with yet. When he was young, he’d cared far less about what other people thought, but now every thoughtless, offhand comment stung to his core. Throwing caution to the wind, he put on the dress at the last minute, even letting Harry smudge a little kohl around his eyes.

It was worth it for the look on Liam’s face when Zayn entered the restaurant. Though the buzz was short-lived when Zayn realized his entire family was seated around the table - his mum and dad and sisters - all of whom he hadn’t seen in over a year. His mum was the first to get up, rushing over to throw his arms around him.

“Oh God, I missed you so much, Zaynie. You look great,” she grinned, ignoring the obvious. Zayn knew Harry must have prepped them on what to expect, because no one commented on the wheelchair. Trisha thumbed at his tears as she kissed his face, and instead of being angry at Harry or ashamed at leaving their reunion off for so long, Zayn just felt sick with relief. He wasn’t alone. He’d never been alone and if he’d ever felt otherwise, it was his own fault. Looking around the table and seeing so many smiling and teary faces had Zayn’s heart swelling in his chest. And he thought maybe it was his most perfect birthday in a long, long while.

Everyone took turns hugging him and when it was finally Liam’s turn, he brushed his lips over Zayn’s ear, his hot breath sending a chill skating down Zayn’s back. “Happy Birthday. You look beautiful, babe.”

Zayn tried to hide his blush by burying his face in his menu. Thankfully, there was lots of animated conversation at the table - Doniya was pregnant with her first child and Harry politely inquired about Waliyah’s graduate work and Yaser and Louis talked about football at length - all of which kept all the attention from being on Zayn. Ben and Ruby fought over who would sit on Zayn’s lap during dinner and he compromised by letting them take turns, not missing the soft look Liam gave him when he patiently cut up chicken and macaroni into small pieces to feed to Ben. They ordered a ridiculous amount of food to share and despite not having had an appetite in months, Zayn ate every bite on his plate and even helped himself to seconds.

Zayn was so happy, he felt like he would burst. That was, until he overheard some guys talking at the table next to them. “What is that thing? Is it a guy or a girl?” one whispered loudly, obviously intending for Zayn to hear. Zayn was pretty sure no one else had heard, until he looked over at Liam. Liam’s face was red and his knuckles were white from gripping the edge of the table so hard.

“Looks like a faggot to me,” the second one snorted. Something in Zayn’s chest constricted and he was just about to excuse himself to the bathroom when Liam turned his chair abruptly and punched the second guy in the face. Everyone at the table immediately stopped talking, Harry’s fork dropping onto his plate with a clatter.

“What the fuck?” the guy yelled, hands flying up to the stem the flow of blood coming from his nose.

“Shit. Isn’t that Liam Payne?” the first guy asked, obviously recognizing Liam from his football days.

“Always said he was a queer,” the second guy said through his hands, blood running down his chin. Zayn was shaking hard. He’d never liked confrontation and after Xavier, he liked it even less. Nothing was worth coming to physical blows over.

“I might be a fucking queer, but at least I have manners,” Liam spat, a vein in his neck throbbing. He took the guy’s hand and twisted it backwards and the guy howled in pain. “I think you owe someone an apology.”

Zayn put his hand on Liam’s wrist, tears clouding his vision. “Please don’t. It’s not worth it.”

Liam’s expression was incredulous. “They can’t talk to you that way.”

“Just leave it,” Zayn pleaded, just as the wait staff rounded the corner with his birthday cake, ablaze with candles and began to sing Happy Birthday. Harry jumped to his feet to intercept them and Louis hurried around the table and put himself between Zayn and the other table.

“Come on, let’s get you to the car. We can have cake at home,” he said gently, ushering Zayn away. Zayn was crying openly by the time they got to the car, but Louis was kind enough not to mention it as he helped him into the passenger seat. It wasn’t even what the guys had said that hurt - though it had - it was that Liam was still so worried about what other people thought. He had turned a potentially great night into a huge fight and ruined the whole evening. Louis didn’t say anything the whole ride to the house, but his jaw was set angrily, hands gripping the wheel a little too tightly.

Zayn cleaned himself up and changed into his pajamas and Louis wordlessly crawled into bed with him, putting an arm around his shoulders. They started a movie on Zayn’s laptop, Louis stroking Zayn’s hair as he cried himself into exhaustion.

Harry returned an hour later, peering into Zayn’s room to check on him and Louis after he’d put the kids to bed. He looked sad and exhausted, biting at a ragged cuticle on his thumb. “I dropped everyone back at their hotel. But your family wanted to come by for breakfast tomorrow morning if it’s okay?” he asked quietly. “I can call or cancel if-”

“You don’t have to do that. It’s fine,” Zayn said, voice ragged from crying. It had been nice to see his family before everything...happened. He couldn’t face them just now, but he’d be fine by tomorrow. He wasn’t even mad about what the guys had said anymore. There would always be people in the world who thought men shouldn’t wear women’s clothes. What he couldn’t forgive was how Liam had reacted. It brought up every bad thing from their relationship - like bile rushing up his throat - Liam flinching away when Zayn touched him in public, Liam not knowing how to introduce Zayn to friends and family, Liam being ashamed of the cruel taunts.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, twisting his toe into the carpet. “I didn’t know - I wouldn’t have pushed the dress if - ”

“It’s not your fault. People are going to be assholes no matter what, yeah?” Zayn shrugged.

Harry bit his lip, sharing an indecipherable look with Louis over Zayn’s head. Louis nodded and Harry sat down, taking Zayn’s hand in both of his. “I know it's been a long day for everyone, but will you do Louis and I the honor of sharing our bed tonight?”

Zayn’s eyes darted nervously over to Louis, but Louis seemed calm and relaxed, not at all upset about what Harry was suggesting. Almost like they’d discussed it ahead of time. “Let us make you feel good, babe,” Louis said, rubbing Zayn’s hip.

“Fuck. Are you - are you sure? It won’t be weird?” Zayn breathed, pulse pounding in his head.

“If you haven’t noticed, we’re both desperately fond of you,” Harry said, eyes crinkling softly when he smiled. “Can’t do anything to change our minds now.”

Zayn would be lying if he said he wasn’t aware of the tension between the three of them. He’d always assumed it was because he and Louis had dated all those years ago and because he and Harry were so close. Zayn had never thought to interfere, but if they were inviting him -

Harry and Louis looked at him expectantly. “What do you think?” Louis asked, a bit shyly.

Harry buried his face in Zayn’s neck, his heated cheek warm against Zayn’s collarbone. “Please say yes. Want to suck you so bad.”

Zayn’s cock twitched in his pajama pants. Fuck. He wasn’t immune. And it wasn’t as if he and Liam were dating. He hadn’t had sex with anyone since Xavier and he knew his friends would be gentle with him.

“Yeah. Yes. Please. Just - give me a minute to get ready?”

Louis slid Zayn’s hand between his legs, holding it against his hardness. “Don’t make us wait too long,” he whined desperately. “Want you now.”

Zayn took a minute to compose himself after they left - splashing some water on his face in the bathroom - before making his way over to his dresser. He’d bought the lingerie on a whim one afternoon when he was bored and hadn’t thought of it since. The tags were still on it. Zayn shimmied out of his sweats, struggling to draw the panties up over his erection. He slid into the bra and snapped it in place, dabbing some cologne behind his ears and in the crease of his elbows. He put his sweats back on over his underwear and took a deep breath. He could do this.

***

It was worth it alone for the lustful look on Louis’ face when he impatiently tugged off Zayn’s clothes. “Oh sweetheart, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” he sighed, stroking a finger over the lace edging of Zayn’s bra.

“You look like an angel,” Harry agreed, biting his lip. Zayn blushed, but whatever response he could come up with lost in a moan when Harry mouthed at his erection through the thin satin of his panties. Louis guided Zayn’s hand to the back of Harry’s head, showing him how he liked his curls tugged. The muffled whimper Harry made around his cock sent a shock of electricity through Zayn’s body.

It was turning out to be a pretty good birthday after all.

Chapter Text

~These streets are yours, you can keep them. I don't want them. They pull me back, and I surrender to the memories I run from~

These Streets

Zayn was woken unceremoniously the next morning by an elbow jabbing him swiftly in the ribs.  For a stunned moment, he thought Harry had crawled into his narrow twin bed in the guest bedroom in the middle of the night, but then he realized this bed was heaps more comfortable than his own and he was very, very naked under the sheets.  He at least had the decency to blush as he turned his face back into the pillow, a smile playing over his lips.

The morning-after bliss didn’t last long.  “Hey, get up,” Louis commanded, cruely poking Zayn in his full bladder.

“Mmmrph,” Zayn mumbled into his pillow.  “Piss off.”

“Your family is gonna be in here in like an hour.  You might want to wash all the semen off yourself before then,” Louis smirked.  Zayn rolled his head to the side to glare at Louis more effectively.

“Morning sunshine,” Louis grinned, pecking his chin.  “How’d you sleep?”

“It hurts everywhere,” Zayn pouted, poking at a bruise on his hip.

“Harry’s quite athletic, isn’t he?” Louis mused, grinning smugly.

Zayn groaned, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. He wasn’t sure how he’d ever thought Louis might be cheating on Harry.  Yes, Louis was tired and at times unobservant, but there was still that intangible something between them, their souls inexplicably bound together with a sailor’s knot.  It was one thing observing it in their everyday gestures - Louis bringing Harry his glasses in from the other room, Harry fixing Louis his tea after dinner, their socked feet tangled together under the breakfast table in the morning - and quite another to see it in bed.  They were so in tune with each other, so attentive to one another’s needs, like sunflowers following the light.  

Zayn would have felt extraneous were it not for the special effort they made to make him feel included.  And even then, they were so intimately familiar with one another and so careful and unsure with him, Harry pausing every few minutes to ask if a position was comfortable and if Zayn was okay until Louis finally huffed, exasperated, “are we here to talk or fuck?”

Harry and Louis’ King-sized bed was unnaturally soft and Zayn was trying to figure out if he could get another fifteen minutes in when Harry shouldered open the door, looking faintly sheepish and carrying two chipped mugs in his hands.  He was already showered and dressed, looking unfairly put together despite the early hour.   “Sorry, I wanted to be here when you got up, but the twins were up at six,” Harry apologized, pecking Zayn dryly on the mouth, before he passed him his coffee.

Zayn took a sip, eyes fluttering shut as he hummed his appreciation.

Louis made grabby hands at Harry.  “Gimme.  Gimme.”

Harry snorted, setting Louis’ mug on the bedside table.  “Honestly, you’re worse than the twins.”

“Zayn got a kiss,” Louis pouted, sticking out his bottom lip exaggeratedly.

“You’re incorrigible,” Harry sighed, but leaned down obligingly anyway.  Louis tugged Harry in by the scruff of his neck, fingers tightening possessively in his curls.  Harry made a muffled noise of protest into Louis’ mouth - probably about burning breakfast - before surrendering to the kiss.  Zayn leaned up on his elbows, watching them curiously.  

They were beautiful together; he’d always thought so, but after last night he had a new appreciation for their relationship – the push and pull of it, the teasing and reciprocation.  They were two entirely different personalities – Louis loud and outgoing and athletic and Harry quiet and bookish and introspective – but they complemented one another.  When Harry turned too inward, Louis pulled him out of himself again and when Louis got out of control, Harry reigned him back in.

They were so opposite and yet, as they’d gotten older, they’d started to resemble one another more and more – in their gestures and manner of speaking – like siblings that had grow up together in the same household.  There was a synchronicity to their movements – an element of having rehearsed everything beforehand – Louis’ hand instinctively reaching for Harry’s hip to steady him as he bent down, Harry’s large palm sliding into place over the divots at the base of Louis’ spine, slotting together like well-oiled machinery.  

Zayn had never seen two people more aware of each other or more in love and for a moment, his stomach churned with jealousy.  Being the jock and the nerd had always worked for Louis and Harry in a way it hadn’t for Liam and Zayn.  With Liam, their differences always made them more self-conscious and unsure, rather than bringing them closer together.  Zayn, being the instigator he was, always pushed Liam to the limits of his comfort, but in all their time together, Liam had never really learned to push back.

The kiss was short-lived as the twins came bounding into the room a minute later, crawling up the crumpled bed-sheets to snuggle down between Louis and Zayn.  Flustered, Harry ran a hand over his swollen mouth and back through his disheveled curls.  His cheeks were delightfully pinked and Zayn couldn’t help but think of how that blush spread to the rest of his body - of how beautiful and alive he’d looked twisting in Louis’ arms.

“You slept in daddy and papa’s room,” Ruby said observantly, leveling a look at Zayn with her big blue eyes.

Louis choked on his tea and Zayn nearly dumped coffee down his front, but Harry reached over to smooth Ruby’s dark curls back with the practiced ease of someone regularly bombarded with awkward questions.  “That’s right, Rubes.  Uncle Zayn had a nightmare.  And we let you come in our bed when you have a nightmare, right?”  

She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth contemplatively and then shrugged, curiosity evidently satisfied.  “You’re okay now,” Ruby said, patting Zayn’s arm, obviously mimicking something she’d seen Harry do.

Zayn wanted to laugh; she was so tiny and so prematurely serious, but instead he bit back a smile and kissed her nose.  “Yeah, I’m okay now.”

And the truth was, Zayn was.  The previous evening had gotten off to a rocky start, but he’d gotten to catch up with his family and he’d braved the world in a dress for the first time in a long time and he’d felt sexy and that was something, wasn’t it?  Plus, it was the first night Zayn hadn’t dreamt of Xavier or the accident.  He’d slept better than he had in ages, falling into dreams in a sweaty, exhausted heap of limbs, feeling safe and loved and cared for.

“Is the haiwy man coming for bweakfast?” Sully inquired, breaking Zayn from his thoughts.

“He means your dad,” Harry snorted.  Sully had taken quite a liking to Yaser at dinner.  Sully was a daddy’s boy through and through, but he had a fascination for all men’s facial hair and had been particularly impressed by Zayn’s dad’s full, dark beard.

“Yes, now you want to come help me cook so daddy and Zayn can get ready?” Harry asked.

“Okay,” Sully reluctantly agreed, giving Louis a last snuggle before Harry scooped him up.

“You too, Ruby,” Harry added sternly, when she seemed reluctant to untangle herself from Zayn.  Ruby had been oddly clingy with him since his return to London, as if she were afraid to turn around and find him gone.  It didn’t help that she had to share his affections with Ben and Sully - Sully’s rambunctiousness often taking center stage.

Ruby chanced a backwards glance at Zayn, chewing on her bottom lip.  “Go on then,” he smiled, patting her bottom.  “You can sit on my lap at breakfast if you listen to your Papa.”

***

“You’re staring,” Zayn said tetchily, not looking up from the pages of his graphic novel.  He couldn’t exactly blame Liam – his scoop-necked t-shirt did nothing to hide the tell tale ring of bruises around his throat – but he took grim satisfaction in the fact that it bothered Liam so much.  Let him wonder.  He deserved it after the way he’d behaved at dinner the other night.

Liam blushed and returned to rotating Zayn’s ankle with renewed focus.  Zayn winced, the stretch pulling uncomfortably at the muscles in his calf.  He’d been having more and more sensation in his legs, mostly painful, the grind of metal against bone, but he figured at this stage feeling something was preferable to feeling nothing.

Zayn hadn’t gotten through another two pages before he felt the curious heat of Liam’s gaze settling on his face once more.  “If you have something to say just say it,” he snapped, irritated.

“It’s none of mine,” Liam grumbled, shaking his head, lips set in a thin line as he moved on to Zayn’s other foot.  Therapy felt particularly punishing that day – whether because of the stilted silence between them or the pain in Zayn’s legs or because Liam was actually punishing him – Zayn wasn’t sure.

“What’s none of yours?” Zayn ventured.  Part of him felt a bit embarrassed about the whole threesome thing, but part of him wanted Liam to ask, wanted to goad him into asking because if he asked, it meant he cared.  It could have been you, you idiot, he thought.  I wanted it to be you.

“I’m happy for you if you’re happy with him,” Liam said, huffing a sigh, but he looked anything but happy.  He looked tense and intense, shoulders drawn tight as a bowstring as he aggressively worked over Zayn’s legs.

Zayn set his book down and raised a curious eyebrow.  “Him who?”

“Your boyfriend.  You’re back with him, I take it?”  Zayn would have laughed if he weren’t so appalled.  He knew he hadn’t exactly divulged the details of the accident to Liam, but he thought Liam might have guessed or at the very least, asked Harry or Louis.

“I should hope not.  Not really into the whole necrophilia thing,” Zayn said dryly, twitching as Liam’s hand slipped and he dug his thumb in too hard.

“Wait, what?” Liam asked, eyebrows knotting together in confusion.  He looked so cute when he was confused, like a big dumb puppy.  It made Zayn want to the smooth the little creases out of his forehead with his thumb.  It made him want to rip out his own hair from frustration.

“Xavier’s dead.  He died in the accident.”

“Oh - I didn’t - I’m so sorry, Zayn,” Liam said, looking genuinely pained.

Zayn shrugged.  “I’m not.  Not after he tried to take me with him.”

Liam frowned, mulling that over as he chewed his bottom lip.  Without further comment, his hands resumed their vigorous, painful massage of Zayn’s leg.  Zayn yelped aloud without meaning to, cowering like a struck dog and trying to jerk his leg back from Liam’s grasp.

Liam’s eyebrows raised in surprise, “you’re in pain.  Why didn’t you say something?”

“Figured you’d just tell me to work through it,” Zayn said through gritted teeth, Liam’s sharp features slightly blurry through his tears.  Liam was always saying stuff like that - about pushing through, about keeping at it - he was annoyingly positive about Zayn’s diagnosis.  But then, he was just an infuriatingly positive person overall.  Always had been.  It was one of things Zayn had once loved about him.  Did love about him.

“Zayn, the point is to get you better, not to hurt you.  How long have you had feeling in your legs?” Liam scolded him.

“Dunno...a few days.  Or weeks...” Zayn mumbled, feeling like a properly chastised child.  It had been happening for a while now, longer than he cared to admit, probably since he’d arrived back in London.  He hadn’t wanted to say something, hadn’t wanted to make a big deal of it in case it was nothing.

“Jesus.  Have you got something you can take?”  Liam walked around the bed, sorting through the pill bottles clustered on Zayn’s bedside table.  Zayn didn’t have to look to know they were all empty.  He’d taken the last one yesterday.  Liam squinted at the labels, shaking each bottle as he went, before setting them back down.  “Did you take all of these?  You’re not supposed to take more than one a day and only when-”

Zayn collapsed back into his pillows with a long-suffering sigh.  He didn’t want to start a row with Liam.  He knew it was stupid; he knew he was abusing his medication, but he didn’t feel like hearing it today of all days.  Tears of frustration burned at the corners of his eyes.  “It just helped me to not feel, I guess.”

“Right.  I’m running you a bath.”

Liam disappeared into the en suite and Zayn laid there and stared up at the ceiling, with his hands folded over his stomach, listening to the sound of running water and trying not to cry.  No matter how horrible he was to Liam, Liam always put his comfort and happiness first, and it only made Zayn feel all the more wretched.

Liam returned, his face a mask of determination.  He lifted Zayn up briskly and walked him into the bathroom, setting him down on the toilet.  “Arms up,” he ordered, whisking Zayn’s shirt over his head.  

“Is this a ploy to get me naked then?” Zayn smirked.

“Didn’t realize I needed a ploy,” Liam said teasingly as he maneuvered Zayn up to slide his joggers down.  This new confident Liam was unsettling - the old Liam would never have spoken to him that way - would have endured Zayn’s ribbing and blushed and stammered an apology.  Zayn didn’t exactly hate it; he was glad Liam had finally grown a backbone, he just wished he had one of his own.   Xavier had turned him into a sniveling, pathetic creature, cowering away from confrontation, from life.  He couldn’t have felt farther from the confident boy he’d been.

Liam shut off the tap and tested the water with his hand before shaking a bag of something into the water, swishing it around to dissolve it.

“What’s that?” Zayn asked curiously.

“Epsom salts.  It helps with muscle pain and...” he chanced a quick glance at the love-bites on Zayn’s chest.  “And bruising.”

Zayn blushed, but he tucked his burning cheek into Liam’s chest as he lifted him up and lowered him into the water.  “Thanks,” he whispered as he let Liam’s t-shirt slide from his grip.  There were tears on Zayn’s face - but whether they were from pain or relief - he wasn’t sure.  He felt oddly deflated - all the anger of earlier seeping out of him into the bathwater and dissipating like soap bubbles.

Liam nodded, closing the bathroom door behind him with a soft click. He returned two minutes later with a bottle of tequila and two shot-glasses and sat down on the closed toilet seat, hand shaking slightly as he poured them both a shot.

***

Harry lowered his glasses, rubbing at his eyes with his fists.  He’d been staring at his computer screen for hours now and was no closer to finishing the chapter he was working on it.  He used to love writing - once it had come as naturally as breathing to him - but lately it felt more like pulling teeth.  He knew he didn’t have to write.   They could easily live on Louis’ salary alone, and Harry could fade back into relative obscurity, but he still felt like he had something to prove.  He wanted to show everyone that all the awards he’d received for his first book hadn’t been a fluke or pure luck, that he actually had a shred of  talent, that his publisher’s faith wasn’t entirely misplaced.  

Plus, while Louis pulled in the majority of the household money and Harry did most of the cleaning and chores, he’d never been comfortable being a kept man.  It was what his mother had done with his dad and the power imbalance had made it hard for her to leave him.  Maybe if she’d had her own money, her own job, an education, it would have been easier to get away.  Maybe Harry wouldn’t have scars across the back of his legs to show for it.  Harry was happy with Louis, but his childhood had marked him, had left him always looking for the fire exits, even when there wasn’t any fire to be found.

He was just so tired - wrangling the twins all day and keeping an eye on Zayn and making sure all the washing and straightening was done and that he was an attentive husband and son and dad.  Writing hardly ever came first on the list.  Harry knew the best thing to do now would be to take a step back and return to it fresh, but he was on a deadline and if it didn’t get done now, he wasn’t sure when it would be done.

Sighing, he picked up his mobile and dialed Perrie.  “If you’re calling for an extension, I’m going to drop you and sign some young no-name in your place and make them oodles of money,” she answered in a chipper voice.  Harry laughed, because they both knew she wasn’t far off.

Perrie had been a natural choice for Harry’s agent when his first book got picked up at McGraw Hill six years ago and while he’d made her a lot of money and helped her build her list of clients, she worked her ass off for him and there was no one else he trusted to do the job as well.  She was like a shark - a tiny, perky pink-haired shark - never content to stop moving.

Harry played with the unraveling hem of his jumper.  He could afford to do some clothes shopping, but he prefered to wear his old, ratty t-shirts from Uni and jumpers riddled with holes, because they smelt of Louis and reminded him of happier times.  In high school, his clothes had acted as armor, as a way to protect him from the rest of the world, and now they acted as a sort of safety-blanket - providing warmth and comfort, reminding him he was loved.

“No, just - need some time away from my desk.  You fancy doing lunch?”

“I can probably move some things around,” Perrie said coyly.

“Ace.  Meet you at Lemonia at one?”

“Make it twelve thirty and you’re on,” she said, hanging up before he could agree or disagree.  Distressingly, most of their conversations went this way.

Harry ducked his head into Zayn’s room, where he and the twins were watching Frozen for the millionth time on his laptop.  “Hey.  You want to come to lunch with Perrie and I?  We can expense it,” he grinned.

Zayn frowned as he weighed his options.  He hadn’t been leaving the flat much except for his bi-weekly sessions with Liam at the pool or the occasional excursion to the park with Harry and the kids.  Harry didn’t exactly blame him after his disastrous birthday dinner.  He  knew Zayn was self-conscious of his wheelchair, of people’s reactions to it; it was why he hadn’t called his parents since he’d been back to London.

“Yeah, I guess that would be okay,” Zayn finally conceded, closing his laptop.  “Haven’t seen her in ages.”

***

Harry and Zayn were the first to arrive, despite having to lug the twins and all their corresponding gear and Zayn’s wheelchair through the sheeting rain.  They dried themselves off as best they could with cloth napkins at the table and ordered drinks.  Harry got a chicken finger platter for the twins to pick at while they waited, breaking everything into small, greasy pieces with his fingers.  It was raining and the glass-enclosed restaurant, with its overhead strings of exposed light-bulbs,  was an undulating sea of light and reflections.  Conversation was soft and subdued beneath the loud hush of rain on the glass roof, and when Perrie strode in, banging the door loudly behind her and shaking a shock of pink hair out from beneath her hood, the whole restaurant turned to look.

She beamed at Harry, taking several long strides over to their table, tugging along someone behind her.  Over the years, Harry had come to expect the unexpected.  Perrie was constantly bringing people along with her to their meetings without any warning - everyone from her dog groomer to an executive producer at Paramount who’d wanted to option Harry’s book into a movie script.  Harry never really knew who would be with her or what version of Perrie he would get.  Some days she strode in in a full business suit and heels, barking orders to some lowly intern over her mobile, and others she slouched in in a pair of joggers and a crop top with a curry stain down the front, wearing dark sunglasses and the previous night’s makeup.  She never let her exciting social calendar interfere when it came to work, but the years hadn’t slowed her down one bit and she still partied as hard as she had in uni.  Harry found it admirable and a bit enviable - he was exhausted all. the. time.

Harry stood up to greet her, grasping her by the elbow to kiss her cheek.  “Looking lovely as ever, Pezza.”  

“It’s good to see you,” Perrie said, giving him a quick hug and kiss before she yelped and rounded on Zayn.  “Zayn!”  Zayn gave her an easy smile as she bent down to hug him.  “You old so and so,” she smiled, batting playfully at his chest.  Her expression tempered slightly when she saw his chair, but she plowed ahead without mentioning it, leaning over to give each of the twins a kiss.

The girl who’d come with Perrie had finished hanging their coats and when she turned to join them, Harry felt all the blood rush out of his face.  She lingered awkwardly behind Perrie, tucking a stray strand of brunette hair behind one ear.  “Harry, you remember Eleanor,” Perrie said off-handedly.

Harry cleared his throat.  “Uh yeah, uh, hi. Hello,” Harry said awkwardly, standing up and extending his hand.  Eleanor shook it politely.  She was just as beautiful as she’d been in high school, maybe even more so.  She’d put on a few pounds - face a bit rounder, features a bit softer, and her hair was cut to ear-length now - but she looked happy and healthy.

“You’re looking well, Harry.  You too, Zayn.”  Eleanor and Harry had left school on civil enough terms, but they’d never exactly become friendly.  It was a bit hard after all the anguish she’d put Louis through.  Harry knew it wasn’t entirely her fault - they were just kids then and they were all the messed up products of their parents’ mistakes - Harry knew that as well as anyone.  But it didn’t mean he was ready to forgive her.

“And who are these two?” Eleanor asked, grinning at the twins, once they were seated.

“This is Sullivan and Ruby,” Harry introduced them.

“Oh, they’re gorgeous.  Did you two adopt?” Eleanor asked, looking back and forth between Harry and Zayn.

They glanced at each other and burst out laughing.  “No, we’re not - I’m not - they’re Harry’s,” Zayn choked, taking a sip of his ice-water.

“Then...” Eleanor trailed off.

“They’re mine and Louis’,” Harry finished, taking momentary delight in the way Eleanor’s face fell before she was able to compose it again.

“Oh,” Eleanor said in a small voice, staring down at the tablecloth with sudden interest.  “You’re still together then?  That’s great....really.”

Perrie snorted.  “Well, this is sufficiently awkward then.  Eleanor’s been teaching in Japan for the past couple of years,” Perrie explained.  “Which is why she has no clue that you and Louis are England’s most disgustingly adorable power-couple,” she said, crinkling her nose and sticking out her tongue at Eleanor.  

“Well, a close second after the royal couple anyway,” Zayn conceded, playfully jostling Harry with his elbow.  Harry blushed and took a big swallow of his drink.  He didn’t like to talk about his public persona.  

Frankly, he didn’t understand all the fuss.  He was just some nerd reading books up in his bedroom, as he’d always been, except now he had a few books published and was married to a famous footballer.  He tried not to pay any attention to his and Louis’ face splashed all over the gossip rags in line at the grocery store.  The only benefits of being famous, so far as Harry saw it, were that they were able to set an example for young boys and girls struggling with their sexuality and that they had enough money to give back.  (Louis was active in several local children’s charities and Harry had spoken at a couple of LGBTQ fundraising dinners.)

“So what are you doing back in London?” Harry asked, as he speared a big forkful of his salad, attempting to take the attention off himself.

“Missed the dreary weather,” Eleanor dead-panned.  They all had a good laugh at that, but there was a tension in the line of Eleanor’s body that Harry hadn’t noticed before.  She picked at the edge of her napkin, slumping forward in her seat.  “Actually, my dad’s been ill.  Pancreatic cancer.  Doctors don’t suppose he has more than six months left.”

“Shit, sorry love,” Harry said sympathetically.

“Thanks.  I got back about three months ago.  Ran into Perrie in the frozen foods aisle at Sainsburys.”

“She’s leaving out the part where she nearly ran me over with her trolley,” Perrie said teasingly, smiling fondly at Eleanor as she rested her hand over her’s on the table.

It was funny, how back in high school, Harry had thought Zayn and Perrie were dating.  They were ridiculously fond of one another to this day, but there was never any sexual chemistry to speak of, for reasons that were obvious now.  But Harry had never really picked up that Eleanor might be struggling with her sexuality too.

“Well that explains why you haven’t been so insufferable about deadlines lately,” Harry smirked.  “Finally got laid, Edwards?”

“Oi, sod off,” Perrie said, tossing a chunk of dinner roll at Harry.  “When we renegotiate our contract, remind me to ask for twenty percent.”

They all laughed and the conversation was much more relaxed after that.  Zayn and Eleanor fell into a conversation about Eleanor’s job at a Pitbull rescue center and Harry and Perrie talked about one of Perrie’s clients who was a mutual acquaintance of their’s and had recently written a book of humorous travel memoirs.  By the time the table had been cleared for dessert - Zayn sipping a cappuccino and Perrie and Eleanor spooning each other bites of creme brulee - the rain outside had stopped and sun had begun to bleed around the edges of the clouds.  Ruby and Sully were both asleep in their seats, long past their afternoon nap-time.  After they paid, Zayn helped Harry get the twins bundled up in their coats and into their double-stroller without waking them.

They put on their coats and said their goodbyes in the enclosed vestibule and when they headed off in opposite directions, Harry felt much lighter than he had in weeks.  It was amazing how restorative a few hours of grown-up time could be.

When they got back to the apartment, Liam was sitting on the cement steps out front, wearing Ben in his carrier, and he gave them a sheepish wave as Harry pulled into the garage.

***

“Is everything okay?” Zayn asked, when they were alone together in his room.  Harry had put the twins and Ben down for a nap and disappeared to his study to do a few hours of writing before dinner, leaving Zayn and Liam to their own devices.

“I was thinking.  About the other night - your birthday-” Liam began, twisting his hands in his lap.  “I wanted to apologize.  If I was out of line.”

Zayn had never seen Liam look so unsure. Not in a long, long time.  “Li, are you ashamed of me?”

“What?” Liam sputtered, eyes darkening.

“Just - just answer the question.”

“Of course not.”

 “Then why did you punch that guy?”

“Because of what he said. Because I thought you’d want -”

“Liam, I didn’t want that! You get that, right? I didn’t want you to punch someone in the face!”

“But they -”

Zayn held his hand up, effectively silencing Liam. “When we were...when we were dating, I always felt like you were embarrassed of me. You never knew how to introduce me to any of your friends or family.  You didn’t seem like you wanted to be seen with me in public. That’s why I left. Not because I didn’t love you.” Liam looked up, his eyes filled with tears, but expression slightly more hopeful than before. “Because I didn’t want to stand between you and a normal life, whatever that was.”

“Zayn, that’s not - I was trying to defend you - If you had seen your face - you were so happy and then-” Liam’s face crumpled and he dropped it into his hands.

“Defend me? Against what, Liam? The accusation that I’m gay? That I like to wear dresses? They’re both true and I don’t need to be defended against them. But I do need to feel like whoever I’m dating isn’t going to fly off the handle because of what other people say. I don’t care what they say. I care what you think.”

“That’s not fair, Zayn. I mean, I’m not a hundred percent okay with it, but I’m trying.  Not everyone is as secure with themselves as you are.  Back when I was still playing football, every time I walked into the showers, every guy walked out.  Every single one.  They’d make jokes about dropping the soap in front of me and I’d have to pretend to laugh. On the road they’d all talk about how much pussy they got but I could never talk about you. I felt like two people, like the person I was expected to be and the one I actually was. Do you know how hard that was? I wanted to be like you and to not care what everyone thought, but I couldn’t-”

Zayn stared at Liam, at his watery brown eyes and glistening cheeks, at his trembling lower lip. For the first time ever, Liam seemed like a complete stranger to him. “Why didn’t you talk to me about it?”

“Because I was scared you’d leave me if you knew the truth. That I’m a complete and utter coward. But then,” Liam swallowed hard, tears spilling down his face unchecked. “You left anyway.”

Zayn took Liam’s hand in his, giving it a firm squeeze.  He took a deep, shaky breath.  “And I’ve never regretted anything so much in my life.”

Liam glanced up, eyes searching Zayn’s face. “Please don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

“I mean it," Zayn whispered.

Liam scooted closer to Zayn on the bed. He was trembling all over. Zayn had never seen him look so scared.

“Would it be alright if I kissed you?” he asked thickly.  “Because ever since I saw you in that dress on your birthday, I haven’t been able to think about anything else.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Zayn exhaled heavily, leaning his forehead against Liam’s.  

The kiss was soft but firm, all lips and no tongue.  It wasn’t nearly as passionate as the kisses Zayn had shared with Harry and Louis the other night, but it felt oddly like coming home.  When Zayn pulled back, he stroked over Liam’s damp cheekbone with his thumb. “I’m sorry.”

Liam grinned through his tears. “I’m not.”

And then he kissed him again, parting Zayn’s lips with his tongue, like he was trying to draw the hurt out of him.

Chapter Text

~These streets are yours, you can keep them. I don't want them. They pull me back, and I surrender to the memories I run from~

These Streets

Liam had Zayn’s ankle stretched back behind his ear (in an entirely too familiar pose) when Zayn’s mobile started buzzing unexpectedly on the bedside table. Liam raised an eyebrow, grunting as he released the stretch, setting Zayn’s leg down again as gently as possible. Zayn’s muscles burned from overuse. Lately, Liam had been like man possessed - pushing Zayn harder and harder each session - until Zayn suspected he was trying to tenderize him like a slab of particularly tough beef. There wasn’t a part of his body that didn’t hurt.

But then, when it was all over, when Zayn was soft and loose and pliant, there was cuddling. There was tea served on trays, Zayn’s tongue chasing the taste of sugar out of Liam’s mouth. There were movies they feinted at watching, too absorbed in each other to properly follow any of the plots. It was mostly an excuse to turn down the lights, a pretense for Liam’s big, calloused hand to snake down the front of Zayn’s joggers, skimming - barely-there - over the silk front of his panties, slowly unstitching him.

Zayn couldn’t remember ever being in such a state of near-constant arousal - even as a hormonal teenager. Even after Liam had made him cum shamelessly in his panties, he was still hard, still frustrated, still filled with indescribable thirst. He felt like he was diving down and down and never reaching the bottom of his lust. It was disorienting and frightening - thinking this thing, this feeling, this whatever that was building with Liam had no end. It didn’t stop growing and expanding, like a breath he kept on taking into his lungs and never exhaled. Once, Liam made him cum just by thumbing over his nipples through his shirt, with Ben lying asleep in his bouncer just a few feet away. Sometimes, Zayn’s mind completely blanked out during orgasm and he’d come to with Liam kissing the tears from his face - and why was he crying? He didn’t even know - it was like he’d sprung a leak - he had so little control over it.

Zayn had never been particularly into pain - especially after Xavier - and maybe the whole experience had left him more messed up than he was willing to admit - because he couldn’t deny that while Liam’s sessions left him feeling sore, they were also oddly arousing. Pleasure and pain were now inseparably twined - the ache of arousal and the ache of his exhausted, overworked limbs indistinguishable sensations in his mind - just sparking neurons screaming yes, yes, yes. He didn’t even need the pills anymore - he felt high all the time.

“Are you going to answer that?” Liam nudged Zayn and he realized he’d zoned out. Also, that he was very, very hard. Liam smirked looking down at him.

Not many people had Zayn’s new mobile number - his family, Liam, HarryandLouis and since lunch the other day, Perrie. Zayn stared down at the unfamiliar number, his stomach churning. He’s dead, he reminded himself. He can’t call you, because he’s dead. Zayn had never really gotten over the feeling that Xavier would come after him - storming out of Hell on a dark horse like Hades come for Persephone. Xavier was too hateful to die, too full of rage to let Zayn get away so easily. Zayn stared down at his ruined legs, a memento of their last moments together. Well, not so easily.

“Hello?” he answered. All thoughts of Xavier fled his mind when he felt Liam sneakily pop the button on his jeans.

“Hi, is this Zayn?” a woman’s voice asked nervously.

“Yeah, who’s this?” Zayn asked, fighting to keep the tremor from his voice as he watched Liam slide his zipper down - tooth by tooth - excruciatingly slow. The door to the guest bedroom was wide open and Zayn could hear Harry tapping away in his office next door. The kids were with Louis today and Ben was at Liam’s parents, so there was no immediate danger of permanently scarring anyone. Just Harry, who let's face it, had seen it.

But the prospect of getting caught - that Harry could walk in at any second and find Liam’s lips wrapped around Zayn’s dick - was so delicious it unfurled a pulsing spiral of arousal in his stomach. Just like in the library back in high school, his mind supplied, recalling that day so many years ago when Harry had first found out about them. They fucked around in the library so much that autumn and winter, they both had near-permanent indents in their skin from book spines digging into their backs as they pressed each other into the bookcases. Even now, the smell of a library - dusty carpets and water damage and old paper - made Zayn’s pants tighten uncomfortably. Though of course, he would deny that to his grave.

“This is Eleanor. I hope it’s all right that Perrie gave me your number.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s okay,” Zayn answered breathily, watching through half-lidded eyes as Liam mouthed at the dark shadow of his erection through his panties, leaving wet splotches over the lilac-coloured silk. The soft pastel color made for a striking contrast against his caramel-colored thighs and Liam’s pale, splayed fingers gripping them.

“Are you sure? If you’re busy-,” she stammered.

“It’s fine,” he assured her, biting back a groan. Liam was going to make him cum just like that - nosing against his erection through his panties. “What’s up?”

“I’ve been volunteering at this animal shelter since I got back to London and I thought maybe you’d want to come with me - tomorrow?” There was a wary, hopeful emphasis on the last word, almost as if she were asking him on a date, which was faintly ridiculous because El was with Perrie and Zayn was currently dick-deep in Liam’s throat.

“Uh-” Zayn’s fingers tightened reflexively in Liam’s hair, his abdomen going taught. He was so close he could feel it at the back of his tongue - like the metallic, ozone taste in the air right before a thunderstorm.

“It’s okay if you don’t -” she rushed when he didn’t answer right away. “I just thought you might want to get out a bit and I don’t have many friends in England. Perrie mentioned you had a dog in high school and I thought maybe - never mind - it was a stupid idea - of course you don’t want to -” Eleanor sounded suddenly near-tears, her voice thick with embarrassment and disappointment. Zayn had never heard her like that - she’d been so confident and arrogant back in high school. The old Eleanor never would have trembled before someone like Zayn.

“I’d love to-” Zayn blurted out, just as he unexpectedly unleashed his load onto Liam’s face. Liam blinked in surprise, cum sticking his eyelashes together and Zayn struggled between riding out the orgasm and the impulse to break into laughter. He settled for biting his knuckles, abdomen heaving as he came down.

“Oh, that’s great! Is eleven good? I can pick you up,” Eleanor said cheerfully.

“Yeah, sure. See you then,” Zayn agreed, stabbing the end button before he could accidentally agree to anything else. Liam’s arms were crossed and he was pouting adorably.

“You could’ve warned me,” he grumbled, with a put-upon expression.

“Sorry. It snuck up on me.” Lots of things had been sneaking up on Zayn lately - his orgasms, his feelings for Liam, and apparently now a date with Eleanor.

“Forgive me?” Zayn asked, handing Liam a wad of tissue from the bedside table as he set his mobile down.

Liam smirked devilishly. “Lick it off and I’ll think about it.”

Just then, Harry appeared in the doorway, in a pair of loose joggers and a hole-ridden vintage band tshirt of Louis’. He was wearing his glasses and his hair was greasy and rumpled, the way it often was when he was working on a tight deadline, obsessively pulling his curls and tugging at his bottom lip between bouts of fickle inspiration.

“Hey, guys I was just going to make - oh,” his eyes widened in surprise as he looked back and forth between Liam, whose face was still covered in jizz and Zayn, whose sweats were pooled around his knees, softening cock nestled against his hip. “I’ll come back.”

“It’s okay,” Zayn said softly, tugging up his ruined panties and sweats as Liam ducked into the en suite to clean up. It wasn’t as if Harry hadn’t seen him naked before; in fact he’d seen him a lot worse than that and recently too. The previous night, in fact, when Harry, stressed from writing all day, had all but dragged Zayn into their bedroom after he’d put the kids to sleep. Once the door was shut, he’d started tearing Zayn’s clothes off so fast that Louis, clad in just a towel, hair still dripping from the shower, was hiccuping with laughter.

“Easy there, tiger,” he said, caging Harry in his arms. “He’s not going anywhere.” Harry struggled against Louis’ tight embrace a moment before going limp against his chest, letting out a thwarted puff of air that stirred his fringe.

“Need you,” Harry panted softly, expression determined as his eyes flicked pleadingly between the pair of them. “Need both of you. Want you to both-” he gasped, like he couldn’t get enough air in his lungs. Louis reached instinctively for his inhaler on the bedside table, but Harry shook his head, clinging to Louis more tightly, like he was drowning and his husband was the only thing keeping him afloat. Harry was so submissive, so trusting, it nearly hurt Zayn to look at. If Louis ever did cheat on him, Zayn knew it would destroy him. Even the thought that he held someone else like this, looked into their eyes like this, must have been like a knife twisting between Harry’s ribs.

It was different between the three of them - it didn’t feel like cheating - it just worked. They all loved each other and they all wanted it and Zayn’s whole body was practically vibrating with need anyway. And so long as he kept up this thing with them, he wouldn’t have to admit how to himself how serious it was getting with Liam. After being in a relationship with a controlling, violent man who had stalked Zayn’s every move, it was scary to feel like he was losing control, his desire for Liam once again eclipsing his sense of self.

He didn’t want to lose himself with Liam. Sex was easy - it made him feel good and took off some of the edge, but the other stuff, it was too big right now, too much to wrap his head around. With Harry and Louis, Zayn wasn’t in any real danger of either of them falling in love with him. I mean, he knew they loved and cherished him, but it was different than the way they felt for each other. They looked at each other with love, but also something akin to relief. Thank God I found you. Thank God the nightmare is over. You’re here. You’re here. The constant loaded glances, as if they were reminding themselves of their luck. You’re mine. You’re here. You’re mine.

Sometimes Zayn was jealous, but mostly he wanted to do anything in his power to protect it. To keep their love safe. It was such a rare and precious thing and he felt like a better person for having got to witness it.

“What do you want, darling?” Louis had asked, voice unbearably fond as he stroked Harry’s cheek. Harry’s green eyes were fixed on Zayn, eyelashes trembling, eyes half-lidded as if it were work to keep them open. “Tell Zayn and I what you want.” Zayn and I. Partners in crime. Together til the end. In some ways, Zayn was glad it had never worked out for them. For one, because Louis obviously belonged with Harry. But also because if they had dated, Zayn would’ve missed out on having a best mate like Louis.

Harry’s sentences were short and clipped, each word forcibly pulled from his throat, like it hurt him to talk. Zayn knew the more and more turned on he got, the less capable he was of making coherent speech. “Both of you. In me. Please.”

“Who do you want first, baby?” Louis asked patiently, peppering Harry’s face and hair with kisses. With his free hand, Louis reached over to give Zayn’s thigh a hearty squeeze. I haven’t forgotten you, the gesture implied. We want you too. Louis was an amazing dom - commanding when he needed to be and soft when the situation required. Louis had always been a natural leader, but in bed it was truly something to admire.

Harry’s face burned red and his voice was a whisper when it finally escaped him. “I want you both in me at the same time.”

Back in the present, the air smelled overwhelmingly of sex and Harry’s face was again, bright red. Zayn could hear the water running in the loo and hoped it masked the sound of their voices. He didn’t want Liam to know - about that. Not because he was ashamed or embarrassed. Because that was theirs alone.

“Oh, uh, I was just going to make lunch,” Harry said, uncharacteristically timid, head bowed and hands clasped behind his back. There was the ever-so-small, tiny, chance that Zayn had neglected to mention his tryst with Liam to Harry. He just - he knew Harry would make a whole thing of it and want to talk about Zayn’s feelings - and Zayn just couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“Okay,” Zayn said, measuring his words carefully. He couldn’t tell if Harry was mad or upset or felt betrayed and for once, he couldn’t read his face at all. His expression was entirely guarded. “Listen, I’m sorry if-”

Harry shook his head. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t apologize. You haven’t done anything wrong. I was surprised, is all. I like what we have together, but it’s not a marriage like I have with Louis. It’s not a contract. You’re not bound by it. If you want to - whatever - with Liam - it’s your prerogative. You don’t owe me anything.”

“I owe you my life,” Zayn said brokenly, suddenly, inexplicably close to crying. Harry had done so much for him - opened his arms and his house and his wallet and his bedroom door to ensure Zayn felt safe and cared for. Zayn couldn’t stand the idea of Harry being mad at him. Zayn’s crestfallen expression must have jolted Harry out of his reserved demeanor because the next thing he knew, Harry was sitting on the bed beside him and he was hugging him.

“You don’t owe me anything. That’s not how this works. I just want you to be happy, Zayn. But that’s yours alone, yeah? Not up to me or Lou or Liam.”

“I wish it were as easy as choosing happiness,” Zayn snuffled, rubbing his nose over Harry’s collarbone. He smelled of the expensive Chanel cologne Louis bought him every Christmas and beneath it, the familiar, unchanging scent of Harry - like apples and salt and the first frost of winter.

“Maybe it’s not about choosing happiness so much as it is about choosing life. Choosing to participate. To try. To make mistakes. To fumble through stuff.”

“When’d you get so smart?” Zayn chuckled, lifting his head to get a good look at Harry.

“When God was handing out looks, I got the smart and you got the pretty,” Harry teased.

“Nah,” Zayn smiled, moving a curl out of Harry’s eyes. Sometimes when Zayn looked at him, it was like looking at all the Harry’s at once - the bumbling, long-limbed sixteen year old he knew first and twenty year old uni Harry sleep-walking around campus in an inside-out t-shirt of Louis’, with permanent bags under his eyes and a paper cup of tea affixed to one hand, the glowing twenty-five year old Harry dressed in an impeccable gray suit on his wedding day and the thirty year old Harry who’d held his children for the first time, looking at them like he’d never looked at anyone, except maybe Louis. They were all there - stacked inside him like Matryoshka dolls - all the Harry’s Zayn had ever known and loved. And sometimes, it was so much he couldn’t breath.

“You’re pretty and smart,” Zayn assured him. “You’re the whole package. Come to think of it, your package isn’t bad either,” Zayn teased, coaxing a blush out of Harry.

Before it turned into a total sop-fest, Liam poked his head out of the loo, looking sheepish but clean-faced. “What’d I miss?”

Zayn grinned, swiping at his wet eyes with his sleeves. “Harry was just making lunch.”

***

It was December first and Harry had finally, finally finished the first draft of his book, leaving him an entire month to Christmas shop and plan for Louis’ birthday and maybe even take a week’s vacation. He was practically floating on air when he got out of bed that morning. The demanding, persistent specter that had haunted him these past few months, hovering over his shoulder, waking him from restful sleep to shuffle into the office to tap out a few sentences, was finally gone. Sure, there would be revisions. And more revisions. But that was the easy part. The hard part was done. He could enjoy a day with his kids and his beautiful husband without feeling guilty about the unfinished manuscript in his desk drawer.

Harry got up early, kissing Louis on the nose as he slid out of bed. Louis had an infuriatingly cute nose. It would be criminal not to take advantage. Of course, he had a cute everything else too, but Harry only had so many hours in the day. While Louis slept, Harry did his yoga tape in the living room and made himself a green smoothie, before taking a long, luxuriating shower.

Louis left for practice while Harry was still in there, exfoliating his elbows with the fancy sugar scrub he’d treated himself to last month. Louis braved the shower spray to duck in for a kiss. His mouth was minty and still faintly gritty with toothpaste. “See you tonight, love. Wear that,” he gestured expansively to Harry’s wet, naked body. “Exactly what you’re wearing. Not a soap bubble more,” Louis teased, prompting Harry to giggle. Really, what self-respecting thirty-two year old man giggled? he wondered to himself.

By the time Harry emerged, steam billowing out from the bathroom, his two little monkeys were up and wreaking havoc. He managed to get them showered and dressed in record time and they went to meet Perrie for an obnoxiously pricey brunch at Chiltern to celebrate the book’s completion.

It was a cold day and the paps were taking a smoke break outside the restaurant when Harry arrived, struggling to collapse the stroller and hand his keys off to the valet. One of the paps took pity on him trying to balance the twins and their diaper bag and held open the door, recognition lighting up his features when he saw Harry’s face hidden away under his beanie, oversized navy pea-coat and scarf. Harry agreed to a few pictures, hoping against hope that there weren’t any stray cereal bits stuck to his coat from the twins’ breakfast.

He slid into his seat across from Perrie without causing too much of a stir, at a table beside Nick Grimshaw, Alexa Chung and Daisy Lowe. London was small enough that they all traveled in the same social circuit (Harry less now that he had kids) but he wouldn’t exactly call himself friendly with them. Alexa and Daisy were nice enough, but he was a bit wary of Nick, who’d once made a move on him in the loo at a fashion show (despite Harry’s repeated protests that he was happily married). Louis had come in just as Nick was attempting to crowd Harry into a stall and the night had nearly come to blows. Something Nick bruised ego had never forgotten. He regularly shaded Louis in the press and was fond of calling Harry during his morning Breakfast Show and talking him into corners with his quick wit and banter.

“Ugh. This place is really going down-hill,” Nick stage-whispered to Daisy when Sully flung a forkful of syrupy pancake into Perrie’s hair and pitched a screaming fit when Harry wouldn’t let him eat it - out of her hair. So much for a quiet, low-key breakfast.

“Your thirst is showing,” Daisy smirked, her blue eyes dancing with mischievous light. Harry could only see the back of Nick’s head, but he could practically feel Nick rolling his eyes.

“What, for that hab?” Nick snorted, with as much vitriol as he could muster. “He wishes. He’s always been gagging for it. I mean, he’sfit, I’ll give you that. Shame about the kids, though.” Harry kept his head down, trying to not let Nick’s comments rankle him. It was a good day. He was determined for it to be a good day. Sully was finally appeased when Harry offered him a few sips of his tea (which was eighty-percent milk anyway) and loaded the Moshi Monsters app on the Ipad. And most importantly, Harry was done with his book.

Perrie raised her mimosa, light winking along the rim of her glass. Her hair was pale purple this month, wound in a complicated plait atop her head, with fake daisies peaking out of it. “Cheers, love. To the book.”

“To the book,” Harry grinned, clinking their champagne flutes together.

Harry took a sip, relishing the bubbly slide of Dom Perignon down his throat. “And to ravaging my husband tonight,” he added smugly, feeling guilty satisfaction when he saw Nick flinch across the way. Served him right for the kid comment.

***

After brunch, Harry didn’t want to go back home - to the cramped apartment and his dark writing lair and the dry, recycled heat pumping through the vents. He felt like he was emerging into the light after months spent in a cave. He felt human again. And he wanted to celebrate. He window-browsed in Covent gardens, buying a few things for Louis because he couldn’t help himself - and because Harry had taken up where Louis’ mum had left off; at thirty-two Louis still didn’t do his own clothes shopping. And yeah, okay, it also made Harry happy to see Louis in the things he’d picked out.

When the kids were starting to tire of shopping, they stopped into a corner cafe to escape the cold - where Harry got himself a pot of tea and a hot chocolate for each of the twins. He let them watch an episode of Tom and Jerry on his Ipad while he skimmed through a book of Bukowski poems Louis had bought him for his birthday. The cafe was cozy and quiet - an oasis in an otherwise bustling part of the city. It reminded Harry a bit of Cobbles Tea Room back in Holmes Chapel. He couldn’t believe it had been sixteen years since he and Louis had first gone there - since the night Louis opened up to him and they’d kissed under a shower of stars. It seemed like another lifetime now. His life was cleaved perfectly in half now, like an orange or a grapefruit - sixteen years without Louis and sixteen years with him. Soon, there would be more years with him then Harry had ever known without him.

He understood his husband better than anyone, which was still not very much at all. Harry knew that when Louis kept secrets, it was usually - in his mind anyway, for a good reason - because he was trying to protect Harry or carry the majority of a burden or self-preserve. But that didn’t make it any better in Harry’s mind - they were in a partnership and they were supposed to share things, to meet halfway. Sometimes, Harry felt like he was holding everything together - the apartment and their marriage and the kids. If it were up to Louis, they’d be living in a cardboard box and sleeping on a pile of week old laundry and food encrusted dishes.

Of course, the very things that frustrated Harry about Louis were the things that made their relationship work. What had originally drawn him to Louis was how exciting he was, how everyone circled around him like minor planets, like he had his own gravitational pull. He was funny and brash and outgoing and he was brilliant at sports. When he spoke and gestured, it was like there was a light vibrating just beneath the surface of his skin. He was more animated, more alive than anyone Harry had ever known. They had ups and downs in their relationship like any couple, but Harry had never once been bored.

Louis was like a piece of origami Harry had dedicated his life to unfolding - he was always discovering new facets - there were always new things to surprise him when he peeled back another fold. Louis wasn’t static like Harry - steady and unchanging, he was dynamic - always growing, always trying new things. Harry just wished he could do something to surprise Louis for once.

Harry set down his book. Maybe he could. Louis usually got a lunch break after morning practice. Maybe he could take him out. Buy a bottle of that Portuguese white wine they were both crazy about, share an order of oysters from that Tapas restaurant they’d celebrated their fifth wedding anniversary at. It had been a while since they’d had a day like that outside the bedroom - focused only on each other - not the kids or his writing or Louis’ career.

Harry put in a quick call to Zayn, who was happy to watch the twins for a few hours and made his way home again. He took a quick shower and dressed in the light denim shirt Louis’ said made his eyes pop and a pair of black skinny jeans. He was out the door again when he spotted Louis’ day planner on the coffee table among a pile of Legos. Louis wasn’t organized enough to fill out the book himself, so most of the entries were in his assistant, Jenny’s, careful penmanship - reminders to show up on time to some event or another. Entries that said in all caps DON’T WEAR A SNAPBACK TO THE MEETING or PLEASE BE NICE TO HARRY MCGEE. Harry hesitated. He didn’t want to snoop, but all he needed was to show up to the field and realize Louis had another appointment. Better to check. To be sure.

He grabbed the leather-bound book, flipping open to December before he had time to second guess himself. Louis had a hair appointment tomorrow - good, he was getting a bit shaggy - and practice that morning and right there in red in the middle of the day: 1:30 PM - SS, Spaniard’s Inn. Something clicked into place in Harry’s mind. Spaniard’s Inn. The receipt from the other day. It was the only entry in red and the only one in Louis’ own writing, which made it even more curious. Harry tried, but he couldn’t think for the life of him of any mutual friends of theirs that had the initials SS. He flipped back a few entries and saw SS popped up once or twice every week, going back months. It was warm in the apartment, but suddenly Harry felt like a cup of ice-water had been poured down the back of his shirt.

He trusted Louis. He did. And besides, if Louis really were having an affair (the thought made Harry a little woozy), he would never be stupid enough to mark their secret rendezvous down in his datebook, right? Harry should just leave it be, but he’d never been very good at that. He kept pressing into the bruise, testing it. Yep, still hurts.

Zayn’s wheelchair rolled in from the adjoining room, where he’d just put the twins down for a nap. “Headed out?” Harry threw the book down on the table as if he’d just discovered it was Tom Riddle’s diary.

“Yeah. Thanks again for watching them.”

Zayn titled his head, regarding Harry curiously. He obviously knew Harry was withholding something, but like a good mate, he didn’t ask. “Anytime.”

***

Harry nearly turned around and drove back home four separate times. But every time, he’d think of those initials in red, now branded against the back of his eyelids when he blinked - and he’d put his foot back on the pedal. This was no time to deliberate. He needed to be smart. He needed to protect himself. If Louis were having an affair, he couldn’t just keep hanging around, waiting for Louis to reveal it to him. Not when so much was at stake. Not when his heart was hanging in the balance. And the kids - well, he didn’t want to think about that right now.

It wasn’t fair , he kept thinking as he drifted through streetlights, scarily unaware of the traffic around him. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair.

He parked the car and got out, jumping a few times to get the blood flowing back to his extremities. It was bitter cold and his exhale came out in a white cloud.

This is it. The apocalypse.

Harry strode forward, opening the door with more confidence than he actually felt. He felt like he was dissolving, like his insides were slowly turning to liquid.

The pub was nearly empty at lunch-time, before the evening work-set came in to drink away their days. It wasn’t hard to spot Louis, tucked away in the corner with another man. Another. man. They were sitting close, on the same side of the table, the man’s arm slung casually around the back of Louis’ chair. They were only a few feet away from where Harry was standing, but they were immersed in some papers spread out over the table and didn’t look up when he came in. He watched as Louis took a sip of his pint before setting it back down again - a gesture so familiar to Harry - but suddenly he no longer recognized the man doing it. For the first time in a long time, Louis looked like a stranger to him.

Louis’ companion raised his head suddenly to flag the bartender for another round and Harry saw a shock of quiffed blond hair, a familiar cut of cheekbone. Harry’s heart was pounding and sweat had broken out over his hairline. It was the same guy. The same guy he’d seen that day in the city when Louis had rejected his call. When he’d seen his dad. Harry thought he was going to throw up.

“Hello, would you like to look at our lunch menu?” Harry jumped a foot when he heard a girl’s voice somewhere to his right. It took his eyes a few seconds to focus on her. He suddenly felt in danger of passing out. It was too warm in there. Too warm. And too close.

“No, no, I was just - ” What was Harry just? Just stalking his husband and his husband’s lover all over the city like a crazed housewife? He should leave. He should definitely leave before he fainted or threw up or Louis -

Louis looked up. “Harry?” Harry felt like all the blood had left his body, like a husk of himself, something a stiff breeze might blow away. Like a discarded sweets wrapper swept into the gutter. He’d never felt so low, so insignificant. And that was saying something, because he’d spent the first sixteen years of his life as Marcel.

Harry managed to nod perfunctorily at the hostess and give her an approximation of a smile and then got his feet to move one after another over to Louis’ table. It felt like that first night, when they were sixteen and he’d somehow got invited to dinner with the cool kids after the football match. Eleanor’s cool voice saying, “Groupies sit over there.” Was that what Harry was to Louis? A groupie? His sad little hanger-on of a husband, leeching off his fame and good looks?

In the time it took Harry to walk there, Louis had swept all the papers on the table into his messenger bag. There was still evidence on the table of a lunch - congealing gravy on a white plate, a pile of soggy chips soaking through the wax paper beneath them - the sight of which made Harry’s stomach do flips.

Up close, he would see Louis was angry. No, not angry - furious. It was nothing anyone else would have picked up on - Louis kept his expressions so carefully controlled, but Harry knew - he knew that flat press of his husband’s lips, the subtle, deepening crease in his brow. He’d seen it before, but never directed at him. Never him. Disgust. Anger. Disbelief.

“What are you doing here?” Louis asked, the fury barely contained in his voice.

“I uh - I had a craving for their fish and chips,” Harry blurted out the first lie he could think of. He’d never lied to Louis. Never. Concealed things maybe, or fudged the truth, but never this. And never about something important.

“You had a craving,” Louis repeated flatly.

The other man stood up, smiling and offering his hand in an attempt to break the stilted tension. Fuck. He was handsome. He was like, really handsome. And Louis obviously had a type. Tall and pretty. Harry was going to be sick. “Hi, I’m Sam. You must be Harry. Louis has told me a lot about you.”

Louis shot Sam a withering look and the man sank back down to his seat like a kicked dog. Harry nodded at him, trying to swallow around the lump in his throat.

“Where are the kids?” Louis asked.

“With Zayn.”

Louis opened his wallet and threw down some money. “We’ll finish this later, Sam.”

Harry nodded again. “Nice meeting you.”

Louis took Harry by the arm - not squeezing, just holding him there - and steered him toward the door. He didn’t say a word until they got to the parking lot and Harry didn’t take a breath that whole time.

Louis released Harry by his Range Rover and immediately began pacing back and forth. “Tell me the truth. How did you find out I was here?”

“I wanted to surprise you,” Harry said in a small, trembling voice. “Your day-planner,” he amended, when Louis’ laser stare sliced through him.

“I told you to trust me,” Louis said, the anger thrumming just below the surface, threatening to overflow. Harry couldn’t remember ever seeing him so angry. At least not with him. Because of something he had done. Louis had punched a pap once who wouldn’t back off when he was struggling to get through a crowd with a terrified, hysterically-sobbing Ruby. And when Fizzy died, he’d bloodied his knuckles raw on their bedroom wall. But that was different - anger at the situation and not the person. Anger at not being able to protect his family. Not anger at Harry.

Harry hunched his shoulders forward, trying to make himself smaller. If you don’t make yourself a target- a voice said in his head, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Marcel. The Marcel whose dad used to come home drunk and slam his head into the side of the refrigerator when he was too slow getting him a beer. The Marcel whose swim trunks were pulled down by Stan Lucas in front of his entire class in lower Fifth - he was a late bloomer and at fourteen still showed no signs of going through puberty - and they’d all taunted him for years about it. Shrimp dick. Baby cock. Dickless . The Marcel who’d once spent an entire day shoved in a locker, alone with the smell of pencil shavings and hot ham sandwich and the snuffling sound of his own tears. Harry hadn’t felt like Marcel in a long time.

“I do trust you,” Harry’s chin wobbled, voice thick with impending tears. “I do.”

“You obviously don’t! If you trusted me, you’d be at home, with our kids, where you belong. You wouldn’t be following me around town like some private dick out of a spy novel. I don’t even know you are anymore, Harry. I told you I wasn’t cheating on you,” Louis shouted. “Why wasn’t that enough? I told you to give me time! Why couldn’t you-?”

Louis raised his hands to rip at his own hair and the sudden movement made Harry fling himself back, slamming his back and shoulders hard into the car’s hood in his effort to put himself out of Louis’ reach. There was so much fire in Louis’ eyes. So much anger. And just as suddenly it was gone. Louis looked horrified; he looked the way Liam had when he’d accidentally run over Harry’s cat all those years ago. “Harry-” he clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide.

Harry shrunk in on himself even more, an ugly sob ripping from his throat without his permission. He’d thought - just for a second - he’d thought -

Louis shook his head. “I would never, darling. I would never,” he said as Harry continued to cry, his body shaking so hard he thought it would shake apart - that all his atoms would separate and become a part of something else - the sky, the trees, the beads of water clinging to the ends of Louis’ lashes. Louis put his arms around Harry, holding him together.

He surrounded him carefully, as if cradling the thinnest glass, as if terrified any small, unexpected movement would shatter him. Harry stood stiffly in his husband’s embrace, not moving his arms to hold Louis back, not moving at all except for the quaking sobs wracking his body. Louis’ hand came up to gently stroke through his curls. Lips brushed against his ear unexpectedly and he shivered. It was a lot and not enough at once. He’d thought - he’d really thought -

“My sweet boy. I would never,” Louis kept saying over and over, as Harry relaxed bit by bit into his arms. “Never. Never. Never.”

Louis didn’t have to say what he would never do - Harry knew - he would never hurt Harry. He never had hurt Harry. At least, not physically. Not on purpose. Harry knew that in theory, but in the moment, Louis’ anger had been so big and Harry had felt so small, so much like his old self. His instincts had kicked in - instincts he’d honed as the son of a drunk, abusive dad, instincts he’d learned in the shelters when grown men had laid big hands on his curly head - “Such a pretty boy. Are you sure you’re not a girl? Maybe I should check.”

Close your eyes and it’ll go away. Make yourself smaller. Don’t look them in the eye. Don’t mess up. Don’t mess up. Don’t mess up.

Slowly Louis’ words broke through the fog in Harry’s head. “I love you, Harry. I love you so much and I’m never gonna let anyone hurt you. Never again. Never. Never. Never.”

Louis’ hands felt solid on Harry’s body, like they were weighing him down, like they were keeping him from drifting up and away from here, into the white winter sky like a balloon. When Harry finally lifted his face to look at Louis, there were snowflakes in Louis’ hair and eyelashes. It had started snowing while they were standing there in the parking lot. The first time all winter.

“Let’s go home,” Louis said softly, rubbing Harry’s back, and no word in the English lexicon had ever sounded as good in Harry’s life as that word did right then. Home. As in their home. The one they had cobbled together out of mis-matched furniture from swap meets and hand-me-downs from their mums. The one with pencil markings on the door frame in the kitchen, marking the progress of Sully and Ruby’s growth. The lines hadn’t even reached Harry’s hip yet - and just thinking about them growing up and away from him made his heart hurt and his throat feel sore with missing them - even though he had just seen them that morning. Who knew what new thing they would have learned by the time he got home? Sully had just mastered whistling last week and yesterday, Ruby had tried to flush Zayn’s “smoke-sticks” down the toilet. Harry had been on the phone all afternoon with the landlord and the plumber to get it unclogged.

Everything had happened so fast - uni, their wedding day, their flat, the kids - it seemed like just yesterday they’d brought them home from the hospital in their matching blue and white striped onesies, with little anchors on the pockets. Harry had been so scared to hold them. They’d been so small - smaller than seemed possible - their fingernails the size of seed-pearls. When had that all happened? Harry still felt like that sixteen year old boy in Louis’ arms, telling him secrets in the dark of his bedroom. Louis, who would fight dragons for him, even if it turned out the dragons were inside him. How could he think - how could he have thought - Louis would hurt him? Louis, who blew raspberries into Ruby’s tummy and paraded Sully around on his shoulders after he won a match. Louis, who had loved Harry hard enough to make a dent in his armor, to crumple the defenses he’d made against a world that had hurt him. Why go to all that trouble only to have an affair? And it’s not as if they suffered from an unsatisfying sex life.

Louis had asked Harry to trust him, but to someone who spent a good deal of their life feeling like he was continually free-falling off a cliff - not sure when he would strike bottom - it was asking the impossible. Louis was asking Harry to relearn all the things that had kept him alive for the first sixteen years of his life.

Harry laid curled up in Louis’ lap on the way back to their flat - Louis petting him everywhere he could reach with the hand not gripping the steering wheel - and Harry soaked up the attention like a cat in a patch of sunlight. Trust. He could do that. Trust. Just like jumping out of a plane with no parachute. No, that’s not true. He had a parachute. He just had to trust it would open, that he would land on his feet and come through unscathed. He had to trust that Louis wasn’t having a secret affair with a man whose face he now couldn’t forget. And whose face now had a name: Sam.

When they got home, Louis watched the kids for the rest of the afternoon so Harry could get some rest. He was suddenly exhausted, the buzz from earlier that morning completely worn off. He felt drained; like he hadn’t slept in years. He didn’t even wake up for dinner - take out from the Halal joint on the corner - grunting and rolling away from Louis when he rubbed his shoulder and whispered something that sounded like tikka masala in his ear.

He couldn’t be sure if he dreamt it but he swore he heard Louis say sometime in the night: “Just another month sweet-heart. Just give me one more month.”

***

When Harry woke up the next morning, the whole world out his window was covered with snow and there was a note on his pillow that said, you and our children are the best things in my life. x Louis

Chapter Text

~These streets are yours, you can keep them. I don't want them. They pull me back, and I surrender to the memories I run from~

These Streets

“Just a business associate?” Harry asked skeptically the next morning as he heaped scrambled eggs onto Louis’ plate.

“I swear on my life,” Louis replied, pouring orange juice into Sully’s sip-cup and screwing on the top. “We can even have dinner with Sam and his husband, Adrian, sometime if you like. I’m sure they’d love to meet you properly. I bore Sam with pictures of you and the twins all the time.”

“You do?” Harry asked, turning back to the stove to fetch the bacon.

“Of course I do. I’m proud of you,” Louis loped an arm around Harry’s waist, pulling him in. “You and Ruby and Sully are the biggest accomplishments of my life. Not the money or my career. I love it, but I could leave it, yeah? I could find something else. But I couldn’t find another you.”

“Or me,” Ruby added, banging her empty bowl against the side of her high-chair. Louis booped her nose, “or you.”

Harry took Ruby’s bowl from her, spooning in some eggs and tater tots. His daughter had seriously informed him the week prior that she wouldn’t eat pigs anymore, just like her Uncle Zayn. She’d scowled when Louis had snorted like a pig and rubbed his belly and said, “more for me, then.”

Harry had just squeezed her shoulder. “Daddy and I respect your decision, Rubes. You don’t have to eat pigs if you don’t want to.”

“So...why didn’t you tell me this before?” Harry asked, putting two strips of bacon onto Sully’s tray. Ruby eyed it disdainfully. “Why keep it all so hush-hush?”

“Sam and I are working on a project together, but I didn’t want to tell you until I could be sure it went through. I didn’t want to jinx it.” Like all footballers, Louis harbored an unhealthy level of superstition. They’d gotten into fights before about washing his lucky pants or socks before a match.

“You can tell me anything,” Harry insisted, finally sitting down at the table. He was always the last to sit at any family function - lucky if his food was luke-warm once he’d cut everyone else’s up. He remembered trying to sneak bites off his plate when the twins were both bottle feeding and he was so sleep-deprived he couldn’t see straight. Neither he nor Louis seemed to have enough hands between them to get anything done in those days. It had gotten easier with time, or else, Harry had just gotten more used to it. Every month supplied new challenges.

“Not this,” Louis shook his head, hooking his foot around the rung of Harry’s chair to drag him closer. He nudged his nose into Harry’s hair, breathing him in. “Not yet anyway.”

“Okay,” Harry sighed, digging into his eggs. “I want to have dinner with them.”

“Great! How’s tomorrow? I’ll ring him up after breakfast. You can make that stirfry I like and I’ll pick up wine on the way home from practice.”

“Sounds good.”

Louis nabbed another piece of bacon off the plate at the center of the table. Harry gave him a judgemental look. “What? I’m just eating Zayn’s share. Serves him right for sleeping in.”

“Zayn does not eat pigs,” Ruby supplied helpfully.

“That’s right sweetie,” Harry said, giving her little food a tug. “And neither does Ruby now.” Incited by the bacon talk, Sully started oinking and didn’t stop all through breakfast.

Harry got the feeling it was going to be a long day.

***

“Not the face, not the face,” Zayn laughed breathlessly, pushing down a particularly enterprising pitbull puppy that had crawled over its brothers and sisters to lick his cheek. They’d been sitting on the floor of the cement pen for fifteen minutes now, playing with a new litter that had just come in and Zayn couldn’t remember feeling as light in ages.

Eleanor tugged gently on the dog’s collar and it fell back into the tumble of other squirming bodies. Zayn gave her a lopsided grin as he wiped at his face with his sleeve. He hated to admit it, but he actually sort of liked Eleanor. I mean, what she had done to Louis back in high school - the fake pregnancy and all - had been unforgivable, but she seemed so different now. She was no longer a perilously thin waif dressed in the latest designer fashions, who put everyone else down to build herself up. This Eleanor laughed a lot. Her hair was short enough that she had to keep tucking it behind her ears and today she was wearing baggy jeans with holes in them and a cropped gray t-shirt with an open flannel over it. There was even a spot of puppy pee on her right leg that she seemed entirely non-plussed about. She seemed...happy.

Zayn wasn’t surprised to hear she’d cut ties with her family a few years ago. Zayn had met Eleanor’s parents on a few occasions when he was younger - they were monstrous people - rich and entitled and emotionally aloof - it was no wonder she had acted like she did. At Eleanor’s sixth birthday, when all the parents were hanging out in the kitchen drinking wine and eating cheese while the kids played in the garden, Zayn’s mum had overheard Eleanor’s calling Zayn a filthy little half-breed. Zayn had been so angry at his mum for pulling him out of the party early - before they could even have cake - and he hadn’t understood then why she’d cried the whole way home, why she wouldn’t let him play with Eleanor anymore after that. But he knew now.

Eleanor had made an attempt at reconciliation now that her father was dying, but Zayn could tell she was still trying to maintain an emotional distance from them. They’d cut her out of the inheritance years ago, but Eleanor could care less about the money. “It was actually sort of a relief. It was something they used to hold over me,” she’d explained to him. “And when I stopped caring and just made my own way, they stopped having that power. I finally felt free for the first time in my life.”

Since that first day Eleanor had invited him, Zayn had been stopping by the shelter at least once a week to help out. Mostly, it was small stuff - filling the dogs’ water dishes and food bowls, taking them out into the fenced-in enclosure out back to run about - but it made him feel useful. Productive. Sure, Zayn helped out with Sully and Ruby, but that was different. It didn’t require much initiative on his part. They were there and he did what he could. This felt different - like for the first time in a long time, he was doing something worthwhile.

While Eleanor carefully averted her eyes, Zayn hefted himself back into his chair so they could continue on their rounds. She’d tried to help him the first time, but he’d brushed her off. “I’ve got it,” he insisted, not angry, but firm. It wasn’t a pride thing - okay, maybe a little bit a pride thing; he just needed to know he could. With all his work with Liam, it was getting a lot easier. His arms were stronger and his legs were regaining range of motion bit by bit. He was eating a lot more to compensate for their workouts, so he’d even managed to put on a bit of weight. He’d been lamenting it to Harry the other night, but Harry have just squeezed his love handles and winked, “more to hold on to, love.”

When Eleanor and Zayn rounded the last corridor, Zayn saw a new dog in the last pen. It was curled up as far from the door as possible, facing away from them. Zayn threaded his fingers through the chain link fencing. “What’s the deal with this one?”

“Oh,” Eleanor bit her lip as she opened the gate to fill it’s food dish. “Don’t get too attached.”

“Why not?”

The dog lifted its head to look at them - it had big, beautiful blue eyes, but they looked sad - and when it uncurled itself, Zayn could see it was missing a front leg, a long row of ugly black stitches over its chest where the leg had once been. Looked a bit like him after his accident. Mangled. “She’s scheduled to be euthanized next week.”

“What?” Zayn’s head snapped back to Eleanor so quick it made his neck ache. “I thought this was a rescue?” The dog’s eyes followed them dolefully as they worked, but its head was drooping like it was an effort even to hold it up. When she had finally judged them to not be a threat, she gave in to gravity, letting her chin drop to her curled front paw, eyes lowered.

“It is a rescue. But we’re underfunded and overcrowded. And no one wants to adopt a three-legged dog,” she shrugged. Catching Zayn’s wounded look, Eleanor clapped a hand over her mouth. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean - It’s not just that - she won’t take any food. She doesn’t want to go on walks. It’s like she’s given up. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but it’s the right thing to do, Zayn.”

Zayn rolled his chair to where the dog was lying and lowered himself painstakingly to the cement floor beside the dog. He held out his hand for her to sniff and she raised her hand and let it drop again without taking the bait. Tentatively, he ran a hand over her head, scratching behind her ears. She was gray, with a little diamond of white between her eyes and along her nose. “What’s her name?”

“Harley. She was tossed from a car. We found her on the side of the road. She’d been run over, possibly more than once. That’s how - the leg,” Eleanor explained.

“Hi Harley, girl,” Zayn said, in the soft voice he reserved for animals and children. “Seems like you had a tough go of it, huh?”

The dog didn’t stir, but he felt her lungs rising and falling as he ran a hand along her flank, feeling her too prominent ribs.

“Hey, bring me that food,” Zayn gestured at the bag Eleanor was holding. She walked it over to him and he poured out a handful in his hand, the other hand still stroking Harley’s back. “Won’t you eat a little something for me, love?” he asked, holding his hand near her nose to let her sniff it.

“Zayn, we’ve all tried-”

“Just. Let’s just try again,” Zayn dismissed her. “Come on, girl. I know sometimes it’s hard. Some days you don’t want to get up. That’s okay. You don’t have to. You just do what you can. Can you just eat a little bit now, for me? That’s all,” Zayn wheedled her, in a soft voice. She sniffed curiously at his palm, but turned her head back away.

“I told you,” Eleanor sighed. “Zayn, I don’t mean to be insensitive, but she’s not like a metaphor for your life. She’s just a hurt dog. And she’s tired. And she doesn’t want to do it anymore. It’s got nothing to do with you.”

“Would it be okay if I sat with her for a little?” Zayn asked.

Eleanor sighed. “Sure. We’re mostly done with rounds anyway. Just remember we’re meeting Perrie for lunch in an hour.”

Zayn nodded, but he was only half listening. As Eleanor closed the gate behind her, he slid his mobile out of his pocket. “Hi, mum. I’ve got a favor to ask. Have you still got that recipe for kadai chicken? Do you think you could whip me up a batch?”

***

Zayn had a tiny freckle along the curve of the iris of his right eye, like a planet orbiting the sun. It was barely noticeable unless you spent a lot of time looking into his eyes in the right sort of lighting, which Liam supposed he did. He stored this bit of information away, along with others, like a squirrel stashing acorns for the long winter ahead. He felt like he was living on borrowed time and part of him was still waiting for the inevitable. People like him just didn’t get to kiss people like Zayn. At least, not forever. (They’d already proved that once.)

Liam had never had good luck - he’d been born with one kidney and for a time, the doctors were convinced he wouldn’t live to see adulthood. He was teased when he was younger, until he starting spending long hours in the gym and showed some promise at football and then suddenly everyone wanted to be his friend. He’d run over Harry’s cat in High School. He was thirty-two and already had a failed marriage behind him. He’d gotten injured at the height of his career. And perhaps most unlucky of all, the love of his life had left him in an airport.

He had crap luck, but he still felt lucky for what little time he was allowed. Allowed to look at Zayn, allowed to kiss him and touch him and listen to his breathing even out as he fell asleep. There was another freckle just along the right bridge of Zayn’s nose and one on his chin before the start of his stubble. Liam found himself staring at them sometimes. When Zayn’s eyes were closed as Liam floated him along the surface of the water in aqua therapy, he was free to look at him as much as he wanted. Also, his eyelids. Zayn’s eyelids slayed Liam. Before Zayn, Liam didn’t even think it was possible to be in love with someone’s eyelids, but Zayn’s were so beautifully shaped, complimented by dark, curling fans of ridiculously long lashes.

Zayn had been making good progress in their sessions. So good that Liam had set up parallel bars in his room two weekends ago and had been forcing Zayn through the rigors of gait training. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to prove it to Zayn or himself, but nonetheless he kept pushing.

“I can’t do it. I can’t,” Zayn protested, glaring daggers at him. Liam nearly let him stop early just so Zayn wouldn’t look at him like that. But no - he needed this - he needed to know he could do this. That he was capable. That the only real limitations were in his own mind. Liam had been watching him for weeks and Zayn was getting better.

“You can’t or you won’t?” Liam pressed, arms crossed.

Zayn growled, huffing as he used his arms to push himself along. “It hurts,” he protested.

“Would you let Harley give up so easily?” Liam asked, going straight for the throat. Zayn had adopted a dog from the shelter Eleanor worked at and for the past two weeks, he’d been slowly coaxing it back to life. Even Liam had been surprised by how much progress the dog had made in so little time, from a starved, cowering slip of a pup to a happy, well-fed one. She was always one hopping step behind Zayn and she slept curled at the foot of his bed every night. Sometimes, Liam was jealous she got to spend the night and he didn’t.

“Don’t bring her into this,” Zayn snarled, curling his upper lip. Harley whined where she was sitting beside the parallel bars, sensing Zayn’s distress.

“What happened to the boy I used to know? The one who wore a dress to the winter formal and outed me in front of the whole school?” Liam pressed. Zayn looked like he wanted to throttle Liam, but he was at least moving forward, if only to get close enough to choke him.

Zayn narrowed his eyes, but took another juddering step forward under Harley’s careful watch. “Don’t,” he said in a low voice, nostrils flaring.

“Where’s your fire?” Liam taunted him. “What happened to the boy who used to ride a motorcycle to school and spray-painted the teacher’s lounge? The one who traveled the world for modeling? Who built sustainable housing in Ghana?”

Zayn took another two lurching steps forward to the end of the bar and two steps beyond that, pounding his fists into Liam’s chest. “He’s dead,” Zayn yelled, right up in Liam’s face. “That boy is dead. Xavier killed him. I’m not that boy anymore and the sooner you realize that-”

“Zayn,” Liam laughed, trying to catch the boy’s fists as they crashed into him.

“What?” Zayn seethed, angry tears running down his face. “Why are you laughing? It’s not funny! Why are you laughing?”

“Zayn,” Liam repeated, cupping Zayn’s face in his hands. Zayn wouldn’t stop hitting him. “You did it. You walked to me. You walked.”

Zayn looked down and the illusion was broken; his legs immediately crumpled beneath him. Like those cartoons where they walk off the edge of a cliff but don’t fall until they look down to realize there’s nothing there. Liam threw an arm around his waist and caught him in time, lowering them both to the floor. Harley came over to them, climbing up into Zayn’s lap to lick the tears from his face. “I’m okay, girl,” he said softly, rubbing her back. “I walked,” he said disbelievingly to Liam. “I walked,” he repeated, trying the words out.

“Yeah, you did,” Liam grinned so wide his cheeks hurt. “I’m so proud of you. You did it. Not me. It was all you.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Zayn back-tracked, though his face said he knew otherwise.

“No,” Liam clutched Zayn’s hands in his. “Don’t do that. Don’t downplay it. This is a big deal. You deserve to feel accomplished.”

“You were so mean,” Zayn sniffled.

“Back in high school, the quickest way to get you to do something was to tell you couldn’t.”

Zayn’s eyes widened and he socked Liam hard in the arm. “Ow,” Liam yelped, rubbing it. Harley barked.

“You tricked me!” Zayn accused him, aghast.

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” Liam smirked.

“You’re a terrible person,” Zayn said, but there was no venom behind it and he was smiling. He was honest to god smiling - a real smile - for the first time in months. He looked so beautiful and alive, so much like the Zayn Liam had known. The one with the fire in his belly.

“I’m not,” Liam laughed. “I’m a wonderful person and you love me.” Too far. Too far.

Zayn froze. Liam watched the color slide out of his cheeks, but he kept on going. “And I love you. But you knew that, didn’t you? In fact, I love all the Zayn’s. The ones you were then and the one you are now,” his breath caught, snagged on the lump in his throat.

Zayn was just staring at him, not saying anything. “I don’t care if you can walk or not. Or if you vandalize buildings or wear dresses or rehabilitate three legged dogs. I want you Zayn. In whatever form I can have you.”

“No,” Zayn shook his head, bringing his hands up to cover his face. “No. Liam. No.”

“Yes,” Liam nodded. Stop talking, his mind urged. Just stop talking. You’re going to make him run away again. “Don’t you think there’s a reason we found each other again? A reason things never worked with other people? It’s because this was meant to be. I let you walk away once, but don’t ask me to do it again.”

Zayn just stared, uncomprehending. Liam took his hand, unable to stop himself. He had to ask or he’d spend the rest of his life wondering. “Marry me,” he blurted out. Which, okay, wasn’t as romantic as he’d planned it out in his head. And had significantly less rose petals.

“What?” Zayn asked, jaw dropping.

“Marry me. Marry us. Me and Ben. We’re just better with you. I’ve been so happy these past few weeks. Getting to spend time with you. And you’re so good with my son. I know you’ll love him just like he was your own. And we can get a house somewhere. Somewhere with a backyard for Harley to run around in. And I can build a wheelchair ramp, until you get on your feet again. Which you will- you will-” Liam choked, his eyes blurring with tears. Why wasn’t Zayn saying anything?

“Stop,” Zayn said, his eyes fluttering shut. “Please just stop.”

“Zayn?” Liam whispered.

Zayn’s eyes flew open. “I can’t marry you, Liam,” he cried, tears streaming down his face.

“Oh, okay-” Liam stammered. He felt like he had just unhinged his ribcage and torn out his own heart and offered it, still-beating, to Zayn and he had just - rejected it. Hadn’t even considered it. Because he didn’t love him?

“Just - just stop,” Zayn said. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not that.”

“Is there someone else? The person who left those love-bites...?”

“Was Harry and Louis. And it’s not - it’s not like that - it’s not the same with them as it is with you. It’s just - it’s fun - and it’s a distraction - it’s not like it is with you.”

“And how is it with me?” Liam asked coldly. He felt like there was a gaping hole in his chest and the winter wind was whistling through it.

“Liam, I do love you. I love you so much. I’m not sure I ever stopped.”

“Then what’s the problem? I don’t understand,” Liam croaked miserably.

“You can’t ask me this. Not now. And I don’t think you should be my physical therapist anymore either.”

“You’re firing me?” Liam released a hysterical bubble of laughter. Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t this.

“It’s not,” Zayn scrubbed his hands over his face. “Give me six months, okay? If you can wait for me six months, I will marry you and honeymoon with you in Tahiti or wherever you want to go. But I need - I need some time, okay? I need to do this the right way.”

“So...you’re saying yes? But you’re firing me?”

“I just - I need to know I can do this on my own. For this to ever work between us. I need to find a way to love myself again. I don’t want to jump into a relationship. I’m a mess. My last boyfriend tried to kill me. And when that failed, I tried to do the job for him.” Zayn shivered. He had never told Liam about the suicide attempt, or whatever it was. “A few months ago, I thought I would never walk again-”

“But now-”

“I know. But that doesn’t change anything,” Zayn said, tears spilling from his glassy eyes. Liam wanted to kiss all his freckles, to kiss his face and his mouth and his ears and save up every bit he could. “I love you and Ben both. So much. More than I thought possible, after everything. That’s why I want to give this thing a fighting chance.”

“So you’ll marry me in six months? But you’re firing me?” Liam repeated.

Zayn nodded, biting his lip. “I’m firing you. And if you still want me in six months, ask me again and I promise I’ll say yes.”

Liam threw his arms around him. “This is great. This is - you’ve made the happiest -”

Zayn pushed him away. “No. Liam. Please. I just - you’re not getting it. We can’t see each other. For six months, I’m going to work on myself and you’re going to do whatever it is you normally do and then, if you still want me, we’ll meet again, but as equals. Not as therapist and patient.”

Liam stared at him. Six months was a long time. A lot could change in six months. And he felt like he’d just gotten Zayn back - and now he was supposed to give him up, just like that?

“All those things you said before - a kid and a dog - the house - the yard - I want them too. And I want them with you. You said there was a reason we found each other, yeah? Well, if there really was, it’ll still be there six months from now, right? If it’s meant to be, it will be.”

There were tears rushing down both their faces when Liam finally spoke his greatest fear aloud. After being left in an airport, after years of separation, after a miserable marriage to the wrong person. “What if you don’t show up? What if you change your mind? What if you stop loving me?” He felt the hole in his chest expand, the imaginary wound alive and pulsing. He couldn’t go through with it again. He couldn’t be discarded twice by the boy he loved. He wouldn’t survive it.

Zayn’s face softened. “I haven’t stopped for sixteen years,” he said, squeezing Liam’s hand. “What makes you think six months will make any difference?”

Liam nodded slowly. “If you think this is the only way.”

“I do.”

“Save your I dos for six months from now,” Liam forced a joke, laughing through his tears.

Zayn snorted, cupping Liam’s cheek. “You’re an idiot. But you’re my idiot,” he smiled, pressing his lips to Liam’s. It felt like it was for the last time - and maybe it was - only time would really tell. But Liam had something he hadn’t before - he had hope.

Chapter Text

~These streets are yours, you can keep them. I don't want them. They pull me back, and I surrender to the memories I run from~

These Streets

“All right?” Harry inquired, when Zayn huffed a discontented sigh from behind him, exhale tickling Harry's shoulder-blade.

Louis’ arms tightened imperceptibly around Zayn’s waist, lips brushing lightly over the tattoo at the nape of his neck. The sex between the three of them was amazing and for a few minutes, in the hazy aftermath, sandwiched between the warmth of their bodies, Zayn had been happy and sated, mind a yawning blank. The snow piling up outside the window only added to the impression that their bedroom was a calm in the middle of a storm. But then thoughts of Liam had come rushing back in, like a blizzard, stirring everything up again.

Zayn had agreed to marry him. Zayn, who’d never thought he’d walk again after the accident. Who’d resigned himself to that. Like Louis’ chest-piece tattoo - it is what it is - had become a sort of motto for him over the past couple of months. He’d resigned himself to being wheelchair-bound for the rest of his life the same as he’d resigned himself to the fact that he’d messed it up with Liam all those years ago, pushed away the only man he’d ever loved.

Zayn had given up. He hadn’t dared let himself hope that Liam would come back into his life again, that things would work out for them. Was it strange that he’d never found anything more frightening in his life? He was scared of getting exactly what he’d wanted, what he’d never had the audacity to ask for (for fear of being disappointed). Why was it so hard to say the words, “I want this. I want you”? Why was it so hard to admit he deserved to be happy? And also, that he hadn’t deserved what Xavier had done to him?

Zayn thought back to the day he’d reunited with Liam at the Physical Therapy Center. Seeing him so unexpectedly had stolen all the air from the room, from Zayn’s lungs. He’d been so caught off guard, so scared to make himself vulnerable to Liam, to admit his fear of getting his hopes up.

He remembered Liam’s soft reply as if he’d uttered it just yesterday. “Then let me, yeah? I’ll hope for you. All you have to do is show up.” And he’d been showing up ever since. Zayn had let Liam shoulder the burden of hope, of his fear. He’d let Liam carry him - physically and emotionally. But now it was just Zayn. And he only had six months left to somehow make himself believe he was worthy of Liam’s love. Six months to build himself back up into an approximation of the man he’d been before Xavier had taken him apart.

“Is this about Liam, then?” Louis guessed.

Zayn craned his head over his shoulder to better look at Louis. Even in the dead of winter, he had a golden complexion, his sandy fringe, loose and unstyled, falling into his big blue eyes. “How’d you know?”

“He hasn’t been around a lot lately. And sorry to say, but you’ve been a bit mopey, mate.”

Zayn groaned. He’d thought he’d been hiding it well enough. He’d been trying to keep himself busy. Having to walk Harley everyday had at least forced him to go outside and out of his comfort zone. And helping to look after the twins had been good for him too. Zayn had even done a little sketching with the pencils Harry got him for his birthday.

The thing was - other than those things - Zayn wasn’t entirely sure how to fill his days now. Without Zayn even being aware of it - Liam had wedged himself in and become the cornerstone of Zayn’s days - stopping by with Ben and a bag of takeaway or a handful of DVDs or even just an ear to listen. Zayn missed going to the pool too - the smiling receptionist, the other patients, the sensation of being weightless - but he couldn’t chance going there without the risk of running into Liam.

Most of all, Zayn missed Liam - not just the Liam who’d reentered his life as of late - but the Liam he’d loved all these years (even when it was too painful to admit to himself). The missing was cumulative - missing on top of missing - amassing like the falling snow outside the window, growing larger and larger in his heart and mind until his skin barely seemed to contain it.

Zayn was still dutifully seeing a therapist several times a week and he’d even had Harry drive him to see a doctor on Wednesday to get an update on his diagnosis, which had been resoundingly positive. The therapist Liam had referred him to, Gerard, was great - so funny he had Zayn constantly cracking up and forgetting they were working - but he was no Liam.

“Noticed that, huh?” Zayn asked, chewing his bottom lip.

Louis pinched Zayn’s hip. “Yeah, we noticed. Not that we don’t appreciate all the fantastic sex you’ve been sending our way. What’d you do, break his heart again?” There was an edge to Louis’ voice when he spoke about Liam, like he blamed Zayn for what had happened. That was okay. Zayn blamed himself too.

“Actually...” Zayn shifted uncomfortably between them. Harry had turned to face him and he could feel both pairs of eyes burning into his skin. He wished he were wearing clothes; he felt exposed as it was. “Actually, he asked me to marry him.”

“What?” Harry and Louis yelped in unison. Once the initial shock wore off, Harry’s eyes looked sad.

“Oh. Oh. Poor Liam,” he frowned, chewing at his cuticle in sympathy.

“Yeah, poor Liam, that’s he’s gonna be saddled with me,” Zayn snorted.

“Wait, you said yes?!” Louis slapped Zayn’s arm exaggeratedly, gob hanging open.

“What, like that’s so hard to believe?” Zayn grumbled.

“Oh my God, that’s so great! Congratulations!” Harry fawned, giving Zayn’s middle a squeeze. Louis joined him, so Zayn was once again pressed in a sweaty heap of naked boy.

“So what, he’s off picking china patterns?” Louis joked.

“Actually, we’re taking a break for a bit. So I can like...properly work on myself.”

“Let us know if we can help,” Harry said supportively, still grinning a billion watt grin.

“Guess this means Gemma owes you a hundred quid,” Louis smirked at Harry and Harry reached around Zayn to swat at his husband.

“You bet on me?” Zayn asked incredulously.

“Hey, I was in favor. It’s Gemma you should have beef with,” Harry laughed, at least having the decency to look embarrassed.

***

It was two weeks until Christmas and Harry still hadn’t finished shopping. To be fair, he’d been busy with the book and there were only so many hours he could push the kids around the shopping centre in their pram before one of them got bored or cranky or needed to eat or have their diaper changed. He’d done most of his shopping online this year, but there were still a few things he wanted to get before the stores grew overcrowded with holiday shoppers.

It was an overcast day, with a sharp hint of coming snow in the air. Soupy grey slush piled up in the gutters, sidewalks glistening with black ice. It was times like these that Harry missed living in a house in the country, waking up to the back garden blanketed in pristine whiteness. Everything beautiful eventually got tarnished in the city.

At least the apartment looked nice. Harry and Louis and the kids had picked up their tree a week ago and it now stood in the front window, sparkling with fairy lights, burning bright against the amorphous fog gathering outside.

Harry ducked into the guest bedroom after he’d finished lunch. Zayn was lying on his stomach on the bed, sketching something in his notebook. There was a smudge of charcoal on his left cheek, his dark, unstyled hair falling into his eyes. He looked exactly like he had in high school. For a moment, until Harry’s hip hit Zayn’s wheelchair - jarring him back into the present - it was like nothing had changed. “Hey, I’m going to the shops. Did you want to come along?”

Zayn shook his head. “Feeling some pain today. The cold always aggravates it.”

“Can I pick you something up from the pharmacy?”

“It’s okay. I’ve still got some of my last prescription left. Be careful on the roads. It’s really supposed to come down out there.”

“I will. I should be back by dinner time. Was gonna do a lasagna.”

“Sounds good,” Zayn grinned, before returning to his sketch.

It took Harry twenty minutes to get the kids outfitted in all their winter gear, which he knew they would only strip off in the car five minutes later, complaining of the heat. He shut and locked the door behind him, waving to his landlord, Mr. Higgins, who was just returning from his night shift, and grunted a hello at Harry as he passed.

Like a lot of stuff in their antiquated block of flats, the elevator was a rickety, decrepit thing from a bygone era. Harry generally tried to avoid it unless he had the pram (which was near impossible to cart down six levels of stairs) or he was with Zayn, in his wheelchair. Harry was already mentally ticking through the list of items he needed to buy - hoping to get in and out of the shops within two hours tops - before the big storm the weatherman had predicted would arrive that evening.

Harry let Sully race ahead of him to press the button for the elevator and stood, tapping his foot, while it began its slow ascent from the basement with a troubling grinding of gears.

The elevator dinged at last and Harry impatiently ushered in the twins, eager to get on the road before the snow started falling in earnest. Inside the elevator, he hefted Sully up to press the button for the garage and the button for G lit up, but there was no immediate movement. Harry pressed the button again, shifting Sully’s weight from one hip to the other, but the elevator remained where it was. Aggravated that he was now going to have to cart the pram down the stairs, he stabbed the door open button several times, but the door remained solidly closed. Right. No need to panic. Harry just had to think this through.

“Papa?” What’s wrong?” Ruby asked, craning her body forward in the pram. Her sweet face was nearly lost in her oversized winter hat. “Why aren’t we going down?”

“I don’t know. Stupid thing is stuck,” Harry huffed, pressing the buttons for the fifth floor and all the other floors going down. The elevator lurched suddenly, dropping frighteningly quick and grinding to an abrupt halt just a few feet later, on the fifth floor. Harry’s stomach felt like it was on his feet and his heart was pounding in his head.

Don’t panic , he silently coached himself. Don’t let them know you’re scared. The air was suddenly very hot and very close. Harry wondered how long he could keep breathing it before it ran out. He wasn’t a claustrophobic person by any means, but the idea of being stuck in an enclosed space alone with two toddlers, made his skin feel uncomfortably tight.

“What’s happening?” Ruby whined.

Harry tried the buttons one more time before pressing the alarm, which released a shrill briiiinnnngg before cutting off abruptly. Ruby covered her ears and Sully tugged his hat down. So much for not scaring them. The lights flickered and Harry glanced up distrustfully at them, before trying the alarm again. It didn’t make a sound.

The emergency phone in the elevator had been vandalized by some punk teenagers three years ago and their landlord had never gotten around to fixing it, but Harry picked it up anyway, hoping for a dial tone. It was silent. Which was - okay. Okay. They were going to fine. He still had his cell - Harry was reaching for his back pocket when the lights flickered again and then went out completely.

“Papa!” Sully screeched, arms tightening around Harry’s neck. “I’m scawed.”

“You’re okay,” Harry rubbed his son’s tiny back through his many layers of winter clothing. “It’s just the lights. We’re fine. I’ll just call-” The elevator lurched again, this time plummeting down in a sickening freefall that sent Harry flying off balance. He wildly threw out a hand to grab the bar along the wall, but it slipped, nearly wrenching his arm out of the socket, and Harry had just enough time to angle his body so he landed on his back, keeping Sully safe against his front. Even in the short seconds he was falling, he was only thinking of how to keep his son from harm.

Harry hit the floor hard and at an angle, immediately knocking the wind from his chest. Sully and Ruby screamed as the elevator flew down, striking the bottom with a jarring impact that rattled Harry’s teeth. Only in the aftermath, with his head spinning and the kids sobbing, did Harry feel the nauseating web of pain shooting across his chest and back.

He winced as he tried and failed to sit up, pain jack-knifing through his side at the aborted attempt. “Is everyone okay?” he asked the darkness. He recognized the distinct sounds of the twins’ cries, so he knew they were both alive, but he had no idea if they were injured or just shocked. “Ruby? Answer me. Are you hurt?” Harry was trying to be firm with her, but his voice was shaking badly.

“I’m okay,” she sniffled at last.

“Papa, you’re hurting me,” Sully whined and Harry realized belatedly that he was squeezing the life out of his son with his free arm. The one that didn’t feel like it was currently being torn off his body.

“Sorry, sorry. You’re okay?” Harry buried his face in his son’s downy curls, inhaling the familiar strawberry scent of his shampoo. In spite of the lancing pain in his shoulder and back, the gesture calmed him down considerably. He felt almost clear-headed.

“I’m scawed,” Sully said again.

Ruby had unbuckled herself from the pram and was climbing up Harry’s leg. “Me too,” she whimpered.

“It’s okay,” Harry said, trying to project confidence into his voice. “I’m going to get us out of this. We’re going to call for help, okay?” He tried to move, but it sent another stabbing spike of pain through his body, blinding enough that he nearly blacked out. Shit. Fuck. He needed to stay conscious. For his kids’ sake. Breathing heavily, Harry shifted his son on chest.

“I’m going to need your help, Sully. Can you help Papa reach his phone? It’s in my back pocket.”

Belatedly realizing that he was still clutching his house keys, Harry flicked on the emergency flashlight. Louis had gotten it for him two Christmases prior after their car had broken down on a dark side road driving home to Holmes Chapel for the holidays. The flashlight’s weak beam barely penetrated the dim, but it was enough for Sully to see what he was doing. Harry instructed Ruby where to shine the light while Sully crawled behind Harry, pushing him onto his injured side to get at his phone.

Screaming pain tore through Harry when his son shifted him and he nearly bit off his lip trying to hold in his shout. He couldn’t let them know he was hurt. He didn’t want to scare them even more than they were. The important thing was that the elevator had stopped and they were all still alive. Everything else was secondary.

“Hewe you go,” Sully said triumphantly, handing Harry his phone. Harry’s heart sank. The screen had shattered on impact - broken shards of glass glittering in the flashlight’s beam - but when Harry pressed the home button, miraculously the phone lit up. There was only a sliver of green in the battery indicator in the upper right corner. Ten percent battery charge. Of course.

“Sully, can you ring Daddy?” Harry asked. “Be very careful.”

His son’s tiny fingers pulled up Harry’s favorite contacts - Louis’ name at the top of the list, followed closely by his mum and Gemma - and dialed. “Put it on speaker,” Harry instructed.

The phone rang three times before Louis picked up. “Harry?”
“Daddy!” Sully blurted excitedly. “Daddy, it’s dark in here!”

“Where are you?” Louis asked, concern creeping into his voice. “Where’s Papa?”
Harry took over, trying to keep the pain out of his voice. “I’m here. Lou, there’s been accident. We’re all okay, but I need you to -”

But Harry never got to say because the call cut out abruptly, the screen flickering to black. Ruby let out a wail. With a frustrated heave, Harry managed to force himself up into a sitting position, bolstering his back against the corner of the elevator, and gathered Ruby and Sully close with his good arm. “It’s okay, my darlings. We’re going to be fine.”

“I want to go home,” Ruby sobbed. “I don’t like it in here.”

“Me either,” Harry whispered soothingly, brushing his fingers through a snarl in her dark hair. "But Papa's got you."

***

“Zayn?” Louis blurted breathlessly when Zayn picked up his mobile. Zayn had been in the loo and had returned to six missed calls from Louis. It was rare for Louis to call him out of the blue, rarer still while he was on the road for a match.

“What’s up?”

“Oh, thank God you’re there. Is Harry with you?” Louis raced.

“No, he’s - he went to take the kids Christmas shopping. They only left a couple of minutes ago. Did you try his mobile?”

“He just called me - he said he’d been in an accident, but the phone cut out and I haven’t been able to get him back. Can you do me a huge favor and see if his car is still in the garage? Maybe check around the area? I’m gonna start calling hospitals. Call me as soon as you find anything.”

“Yeah, yeah. Shit. Okay.”

Zayn grabbed his coat and keys and clipped Harley on her lead. She gave an excited yip when she realized they were going outside, butting her head against his leg. Mind half elsewhere, Zayn pushed the button for the elevator, absently scratching Harley’s neck as he waited. Harry had only left about - what - ten, fifteen, twenty minutes ago? Tops? Zayn had been so lost in his sketching he'd barely glanced up. He remembered warning Harry about the roads getting slick, but a quick glance outside confirmed that it hadn’t even started to snow yet.

When five minutes had passed and the elevator still hadn’t come, Zayn cursed under his breath. Of all the days for the stupid thing to break, it had to choose the one Zayn was home alone and had no other way of getting downstairs. He’d been making tentative progress in his sessions with Gerard - he was able to walk across the room with the help of a cane - but it was slow going and he tired quickly. There was no way he could do six flights of stairs himself. But he couldn’t just sit there either. Louis was counting on him. Harry was counting on him.

Zayn knocked on the landlord’s door, pounds growing increasingly frantic with each passing second. Finally, Mr. Higgins appeared at the door in a stained vest and a pair of striped pants looking like Zayn had just woken him from the dead. “Whaddya want?” he asked gruffly.

“Have you seen Harry this morning? Tomlinson? He’s in 6107. I think he’s been in an accident but the elevator’s out and -”

The man’s bleary eyes empathetically took note of Zayn’s chair. “Yeah. I saw him when I was coming off my shift. He was headed down. He’s got those twins, yeah? Boy and a girl? Cute things,” he mused, scratching his belly through his shirt. “I’ll put in a call for a repair for the elevator. Did you need something else?”

“No, no. It’s fine. Thanks. Sorry I woke you.” Zayn was too embarrassed to ask a perfect stranger for help getting down the stairs and the poor man had just come off a night shift besides.

Abandoning his chair on the landing, Zayn gripped the railing with one hand, Harley’s leash looped around his other wrist and began the excruciatingly slow process of walking downstairs. When he finally collapsed on the fourth floor landing, he was in a complete sweat, legs singing with pain, tears of frustration stinging his eyes.

Harley lapped the tears from his cheeks and Zayn buried his face in the scruff of her neck, catching his breath. He allowed himself one minute to feel sorry for himself before pulling out his mobile. He dialed Perrie first, on the off-chance that she’d be around, but it went straight to voice-mail. He contemplated calling Eleanor, but no - they weren't that close and she'd be useless in an emergency - there was only one person for this. Only one person he trusted.

“Zayn?” Liam asked, surprise colouring his voice. “Is everything okay? I thought - Have you changed your mind?”

“No, I’m so sorry. I just - I need you. Well, Harry needs you. I can’t- I can’t do this myself. Please.”

“Where are you?” Liam demanded, not even bothering to ask for an explanation.

“Can you tell my four o’clock I need to cancel?” Zayn heard him side-whisper to someone on the other end. “And can you tell my mum I’ll be late getting Ben?”

“I - I’m on the fourth floor landing of Harry and Louis’ building. Please just. Can you hurry?”

“I’ll be right there babe. Sit tight.”

***

If it had just been Harry by himself, he was sure he’d have passed out from the pain by now. But the kids were scared and keyed up and keeping them entertained was the perfect distraction from the insistent throbbing in his shoulder. He broke out some juice boxes and a baggie of goldfish crackers from the diaper bag, and made pretend that they were on a picnic and not stuck at the bottom of an elevator shaft.

He didn’t want to shout for help and scare the kids even more than they already were - especially when he wasn’t sure anyone would even hear him - so instead he read them a few of the books he’d packed and tried to keep their spirits up. But his own enthusiasm was waning. He was hurt - that much was clear - and he had no idea when or if help would arrive. He just kept reading and making them sing silly songs, tried to keep his mind from coming to its forgone conclusion. That they were trapped there and there was nothing he could do about it.

Louis , he thought when the pain had gotten particularly bad. Where are you?

***

Zayn tried to ignore the rush of relief that flooded his veins - sweeter than any drug - at the sight of Liam rounding the bend in the stairs. He’d missed him. It was absolutely pathetic. It hadn’t even been a month and he'd missed him so much. How was he going to last five more months?

"You okay?" was the first thing out of Liam’s mouth when he saw Zayn crumpled over Harley on the landing. Zayn hoped his eyes weren't too red from crying.

He nodded. "Did you check on the car?” Zayn had texted Liam instructions while he waited, unsure what else to do with his hands. For the the first time since the accident, he felt absolutely helpless. It was one thing when he couldn’t do things for himself and quite another when he couldn’t do them for someone he loved.

“Still in the garage,” Liam frowned, jogging up the last few steps to Zayn. “No sign it’s even left. The tires are dry.” Zayn dug his fingers into the soft, wrinkled skin under Harley’s collar. Up close, Liam looked amazing. Better than amazing. He was wearing a black beanie and a winter puff coat, over fitted jeans and Timberlands with the laces undone. Zayn wanted to take him apart with his teeth and his tongue, until moans tumbled out from Liam’s mouth like water spilling from a font. He wanted to taste sweat on his Liam’s skin, wanted to smell the musky, salt scent of their entwined bodies wrapped up in his down comforter. He wanted.

Zayn closed his eyes. “Maybe we should retrace his steps?” he suggested.

“Are you fit to walk?” Liam asked skeptically.

Zayn bit his lip - he could give the prideful answer and try to struggle back up the two flights he’d just come down, but his legs were throbbing something awful and time was of the essence here. Finally, he shook his head. He didn’t have to hide with Liam. That was the point. That he could be himself. Even if himself was really very vulnerable just then.

“Can I...?” Liam gestured. When Zayn nodded, Liam scooped him up bridal-style, as if he weighed nothing at all and walked him back up the stairs. Harley trailed along after them, nipping at Liam’s ankles. When they got to the sixth floor landing, Liam set Zayn gently back down in his chair.

“Around what time did Harry leave?” Liam asked, pacing the landing.

“Er, maybe an hour ago? The landlord saw him on his way out.”

“Right. And he never made it to his car and you couldn’t go check on his car because the elevator -”

“Fuck!” Zayn exclaimed, eyes widening as the realization dawned on him. “The elevator - the elevator wasn’t out yesterday. Harry had the pram. He always takes the elevator when he has the pram.” Zayn had originally assumed when Louis said Harry had been in an accident, that it had been a car accident. The whole time - Harry had been there the whole time - Zayn was an idiot!

“Oh my God,” Liam’s hand flew to his mouth, the realization occurring to him at the same time.

“Call the fire department. I’m gonna call Louis back.”

“Yeah, okay. Okay,” Liam nodded numbly, pulling out his phone.

Zayn reluctantly dialed Louis. This was all his fault. If Harry or one of the twins died down there while he was just sitting on the landing like a useless cripple, he would never, ever forgive himself. All this time, he could have - All this time -

“Did you find him?” was the first thing out of Louis’ mouth when he picked up.

“I think - he was in the elevator - We’re calling the fire department now.”

“We?”

“Liam and I.” There was a shuffling noise on Louis’ end and Zayn heard him murmur an apology to someone.

“Shit. You don’t know if he’s okay? If the twins are...?”

“I’m sure they’re fine. I mean, you talked to them, right?” Zayn scrubbed a hand over the stubble on his jaw. He needed a shave. He needed a drink. He needed to know that Harry and the twins were okay. Please let them be okay.

“Yeah, but that was over an hour ago. And Harry sounded - he sounded weird -” Louis winced.

“I’m sure he was just shaken up. I’ll call you as soon as we know anything more.”

“I got an earlier flight. I’m boarding right now. Tell him to hold on, okay? Tell him I’m coming home.”

“Yeah,” Zayn swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Yeah, okay.”

***

“Liam, me aul son,” came a booming, distinctly Irish voice from the stairwell. Liam turned his away from his tense conversation with Zayn, shocked to see a familiar blonde-haired head rounding the bend.

“Niall?” The boy - well man now - looked the same as he had in high school, give or take thirty pounds and full fireman’s gear. Okay, maybe not the same at all. Liam could hardly reconcile the tiny good-natured equipment manager who’d hollered encouragement at him from the sidelines during matches with the grown man now standing in front of him. When had that happened?

“You’re looking well,” Niall grinned when he reached the landing, coming at Liam with his arms wide open. Liam went to hug him, but instead, Niall took Liam’s face in both hands and planted a smacking kiss on his lips, laughing jovially as he did it. Well, some things never changed.

“You know, Zayn getting stuck in a sex swing doesn’t constitute a bloody emergency, Payno,” Niall teased.

Zayn craned his head out from behind Liam. “Oh shit, Zayn. Hi. Didn’t see you there.” Niall at least had the decency to blush. His grin quickly faded from his face as he took in Zayn’s chair. “What’s with the uh -” he made an all-encompassing gesture with his hand.

“The chair? Long story. Maybe I can tell you another time, after -” Zayn flapped his hand at the elevator.

“Oh right,” Niall laughed, shaking his head at himself as he unhooked a crow-bar from his belt. “Small world,” he muttered under his breath as he went to work. “Small world.”

***

After hours in complete darkness, Harry’s eyes were dazzled by the brightness pouring in through the elevator shaft once the door was wrenched open. The fireman appeared to him as an angel, descending from the heavens, blotting out the light of a celestial sun. If it weren’t for the jagged pain zinging through his arm and shoulder and the squirming kids on his chest, Harry might have thought he were dead.

“Take the kids up first,” Harry insisted, when a fireman slithered down the rope, boots hitting the floor with a heavy thunk.

“Come on now, loves,” the man said in a kindly Irish accent as he gathered them up in his arms. His voice sounded oddly familiar, but Harry’s eyes were still adjusting to the brightness and he suspected he may be delirious. With the kids off his chest, Harry finally felt like he could draw air into his lungs again. He took a deep shuddering breath, which sent a ripple of pain through his side, tears running down his face unbidden. The kids were safe. That was all that mattered. No matter what happened now, the kids were safe.

The relief was immediate and overwhelming. He felt like sobbing. Someone had found them. They weren’t going to die here. They were okay. He was okay.

The fireman knelt down beside Harry when he returned. “Are you hurt?”

Harry lifted his head, squinting at him. “Niall?”

“Well, who the hell else would it be?” Niall chuckled, like they’d somehow agreed to this ahead of time.

Niall’s golden laugh twisting in a spiral down his ear was the last thing Harry was cognizant of for the next little while. When he lost consciousness, a smile was tugging at his lips.

Chapter Text

~These streets are yours, you can keep them. I don't want them. They pull me back, and I surrender to the memories I run from~

These Streets

“Is he okay?” Zayn blurted out before Louis had a chance to speak.

Louis had said he’d call as soon as he heard anything and it had been an interminable period of waiting and pretending to watch Tarzan on Netflix before Zayn’s mobile finally rang sometime around eight. The forecasted snow had been falling steadily all evening and Zayn had kept anxiously darting his glance to the windows during the movie, hoping to see Louis’ car idling at the curb. But the streets were uncommonly deserted for the hour, snow swirling like golden glitter in the yellow cones of the streetlights. The parked cars were covered in drifts of snow, like furniture in a holiday home draped with sheets during the off-season.

Harry had looked bad. When they’d finally pulled him from the elevator shaft and strapped him to a gurney, he’d been as white as the snow piling up along the window-sills. Zayn had had to turn his face away, burying it into Liam’s chest at the sight of a white glint of exposed bone, broken through the skin of Harry’s chest, like the first shoot of a crocus breaking through spring-thawed ground. His white shirt was soaked through with blood. He was lucky he hadn’t bled out. He was lucky. It was just hard to remember that when the image of his mutilated body kept flashing across Zayn’s mind, spinning like a broken horror movie reel.

All in all, they’d spent an hour and a half at the hospital. Zayn had called Louis from the ambulance en-route and somehow Louis had ended up beating them there from the airport. The kids had checked out fine - not a scratch to speak of - but they were scared and subdued and only barely perked up when the nurse gave them each a lolly after their exams.

Zayn was badly shaken himself, flashbacks of his own accident interspersed with Harry’s in his mind - blood, broken glass, an acrid whiff of gasoline, Harry’s pale face caged in by a cervical immobilization device. Zayn had insisted he stay and keep Louis company, but Louis had shooed him out of Harry’s hospital room once the twins checked out all right and Zayn had felt guilty relief at being turned away.

“I don’t want the kids seeing him like this,” Louis had whispered, in the hallway outside Harry’s room. They were standing close, barely an inch between them and even that seemed unbearable. Louis and Zayn hadn’t been able to stop clinging to each other all evening, like two kids who’d gotten separated from their mum in the supermarket. They were lost without Harry and took comfort in each other without realizing. Zayn didn’t even notice they’d been holding hands in the waiting room until Liam raised a curious eyebrow at him and he dropped Louis’ hand out of embarrassment. The bones in his hands ached for hours after from squeezing Louis’ so tightly.

“Just get them home,” Louis pleaded, face as pale as a moon under the florescent hospital lights. He looked older and more tired than Zayn had ever remembered seeing him. “Try and make their night as normal as possible.”

Zayn had done just that. Liam had picked up Greek takeaway and called his mum to watch Ben overnight while Zayn gave the twins their baths and changed them into their pajamas. After dinner, they baked a loaf of chocolate chip banana bread that was nowhere near as good as Harry’s and threw together a quick cheese and broccoli quiche and a tuna noodle casserole for the next day so Harry wouldn’t have to cook. Zayn tried to stick to their normal evening routine, as much for the twins as for himself, all the while trying not to show just how rattled he was.

“He’s fine,” Louis exhaled at last, the relief evident in his voice. “They’re prepping him in the OR for surgery.”

“Has he woken up?” Zayn asked, trying to keep himself calm by tugging his fingers through the sleep-tangled nest of Sully’s curls. The boy had fallen asleep on his chest partway through the movie, small fists clinging at handfuls of Zayn’s shirt and a puddle of drool forming on Zayn’s shoulder where his cheek was smushed sideways. He smelled of baby powder and banana pudding and everything right in the world.

“Yeah. He was pretty delirious from whatever drugs they had him on. He was adamant that I let him check himself out of the hospital so he could finish his Christmas shopping,” Louis chuckled fondly.

Zayn let out a sigh of relief - it sounded like Harry - to be more concerned about his thwarted shopping trip than the fact that he literally had a bone sticking out of his body. He was always putting other’s well-being before his own. Which was lucky - because it was clear to everyone that his quick thinking during the accident had kept the kids from being hurt. If he hadn’t angled his body the way he did, Sully might not be here, sleeping soundly on Zayn’s chest.

Unconsciously, Zayn clutched his godson closer. “When will you be home?”

“Sometime tomorrow. They want to keep him overnight for observation after the surgery. How’re the kids?”

“Zonked out after dinner. Just about to put them to bed.”

Louis sighed. “Thank you. For watching them. For everything, really. If you hadn’t been there to check on Harry-” Louis’ voice cracked painfully.

“It’s fine,” Zayn cut him off. He didn’t even want to consider the possibility of another outcome. Zayn paused, picking at the couch cushion and listening to Louis’ soft exhalations on the other end of the line. Liam had busied himself with some task in the kitchen to give Zayn his privacy, but he still lowered his voice. “I love him too, you know.”

Louis was silent a moment and Zayn could almost picture him - slumped over in a plastic chair in Harry’s hospital room, pinching the skin between his brows the way he did when he was tired - a half-empty paper cup of tea loosely held in one hand.

“Yeah. I know. He loves you too,” Louis said softly. It was the closest they’d ever come to acknowledging what they did together behind closed doors, what they meant to each other. Neither Zayn nor Louis were particularly expressive when it came to emotions - as older brothers of younger sisters - they’d learned to be self-sacrificing and over-protective, but not particularly open about their own feelings.

Even though Zayn couldn’t see him, he’d never felt closer to Louis than he did in that moment, holding the ghost of having almost lost Harry between them.

“You know - you guys were never just a way for me to fill the time or let out frustration. You were both always more than that. What we had - what we did - was always more than that...for me.”

“I know,” Louis admitted quietly. “For us too. Funny how it all turned out, innit? If everything with Stan and Eleanor hadn’t happened, maybe you and I -”

“No,” Zayn shook his head, tightening his free hand around his mobile. Sully shifted on his chest, sighing a heavy exhale into Zayn’s neck. “You still would’ve loved Harry. It was always Harry. Even before me.”

Louis inhaled sharply. “How’d you know?”

“The Valentine and I - I saw the way you looked at him. I saw you when you didn’t think I saw you. The way you watched him. The way you saved little things of his that he lost. I think you thought he would never love you or you would never be able to love him like you wanted to. It was like you were trying to get your fill of him, but it was never enough, was it? I was jealous at first, I’ll admit. Didn’t understand the fascination. But then I met him and - I couldn’t help myself, you know. His heart was so big it just surrounded me.”

“That’s our Harry,” Louis conceded softly. “Zayn, you know, I never meant-”

Zayn chuckled, dismissing Louis’ concern. “I get it. I think everyone that sees the two of you together gets it. It was meant to be. I’m not dumb enough to stand in the way of fate. And once I met Liam, I got it even more. That feeling like - you love someone so much - it’s like you can’t breathe sometimes-”

Zayn glanced up to find Liam watching him quietly from the doorway. He was backlit by the light from the kitchen, so Zayn could only see his silhouette, his features lost in shadow. But the line of his body was open and relaxed, one shoulder leaning casually against the door jamb, as he dried his hands on a damp dish towel slung loosely through the belt-loop of his jeans.

Zayn hurried through his goodbyes with Louis, conscious of the heat of Liam’s gaze on the back of his neck. When he finally turned around, Liam was back in the kitchen, his humming barely audible over the low rumble of the dishwasher starting up.

Husband , Zayn thought, trying the word out. That man in the kitchen is going to be my husband. Somehow, it didn’t seem as scary as it once had. A husband was someone who was there when you really needed them, like Liam had been there for Zayn today. A husband was someone like Louis, who sat by your hospital bed when things went wrong, not just because they’d promised to, but they couldn’t think of anywhere else they’d rather be.

***

“Hey sleepy-head,” Louis said softly, squeezing Harry’s hand where it rested atop the blankets.

Harry gave Louis a groggy smile, eyelids drooping as he struggled to keep them open. His arm was secured in a sling over his chest and he was still unnervingly pale, but he looked a thousand times better than he had earlier. Louis wanted to touch him all over - to unearth every bruise on his white, winter-skin - and anoint it with a kiss. Instead, he stroked his thumb over Harry’s knuckles, trying to relay everything he felt in that small gesture. I missed you. I love you. I’d be lost if I lost you.

“Your surgery’s over, babe. You did so well.” Louis kissed Harry’s palm and held his husband’s hand to his cheek, nuzzling at his fingers like a cat. Harry gave him a bright, dazzling smile and Louis felt overwhelmed with dual parts fondness and relief. He was okay. Harry was okay and he was beautiful and he was more than Louis deserved.

“Where’re the kids?” Harry mumbled, struggling to sit up. Louis put a steadying hand on his chest, guiding him back into the mound of pillows behind his head.

“Relax, love. They’re with Zayn. They’re fine. You did good.”

“I was so scared,” Harry admitted, voice watery and chin trembling. It was the first shadowy crack of vulnerability he had shown since the accident and it made Louis’ chest ache. It made him think of scrawny, sixteen year old Marcel, holding himself together with glasses tape and book glue, trying his best not to let anyone see his scars.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Louis frowned, wiping the tears from Harry’s cheeks, even as his own streaked down his face unchecked. “I’m going to start being there a lot more. I promise. I couldn’t stand to lose you-”

“I’d just become a ghost and haunt you,” Harry sniffled.

“You already haunt me, my darling. In the best possible way,” Louis said, pressing a kiss into Harry’s palm and closing his fingers around it, one at a time.

There was a faint smile on his lips when Harry’s eyes fluttered shut again. Louis slid back in his chair, arse numb from the hard plastic seat. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but he wouldn’t leave Harry’s side for the world, let alone a subpar cafeteria sandwich. Not now. Not ever again.

***

Liam leaned against the doorframe of the guest bedroom, watching Zayn settle himself under the covers with tired, hooded eyes. He had volunteered to put the twins to sleep so Zayn could shower and get ready for bed, and for once, Zayn hadn’t argued. He was exhausted to the bone and wanted nothing more than to scrub the hospital stench from his skin and collapse into bed.

“You know -” Liam began slowly. “I respect your decision to be apart and all, but - there’s no way I’m leaving you alone here tonight. Not after the day you’ve had. And I don’t want to hear any arguments,” Liam said, voice aiming for and falling just a bit short of firm. It was obviously a prepared speech - unlike his spontaneous marriage proposal - it had all the markings of being rehearsed beforehand.

“Okay,” Zayn agreed easily, flooded with relief at Liam’s words. He hadn’t wanted to have to ask. Not after what he was putting Liam through. It didn’t seem fair. But the thought of lying alone in his bed all night, replaying images of the accident weighed more heavily on him than he cared to admit.

Liam’s eyebrows lifted quickly in surprise. He’d clearly expected a fight. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah. Get in,” Zayn grinned, scooting closer to the wall and pulling back the blankets for Liam.

“Please,” he tacked on, when Liam still hadn’t mobilized himself. Liam stripped down to his black briefs and flicked off the light, crawling in next to Zayn. At first, he just laid there on his back, with his arms folded behind his head, staring up at the ceiling and not touching Zayn. He was trying to respect Zayn’s wishes, but it was hard with Zayn’s warm body right there and his smell everywhere on the sheets, on the pillow.

Just when Liam was wondering whether he should go sleep on the couch, Zayn bridged the distance between them, laying his head down on the soft thatch of hair on Liam’s broad chest. He draped an arm over Liam’s waist and a wriggled a knee between Liam’s furred, muscular thighs. Zayn felt safe. Beneath him, he felt Liam’s entire body relax, the tension leaving him in one long, shuddering exhale.

“This okay?” Zayn asked uncertainly, nuzzling his nose into Liam’s neck. He smelled like Hugo Boss and a faint tinge of sweat. Zayn wanted to lick him all over. He knew he’d asked for distance, but right now, engulfed in Liam’s familiar musk and and with the warm length of his body pressed to Zayn’s, he just wanted closecloseclose.

“Yeah. More than okay,” Liam said, finally putting an arm around Zayn to drag him closer.

Zayn kissed his chest. “Thank you for being there today.”

“Of course. I’ll be there whenever you want me.”

“You know - this break was never about me not wanting you, right?” Zayn asked, pressing the thickening line of his erection against Liam’s hip. See. This is what you do to me. Liam sucked in a sharp, startled breath.

“It wasn’t?” Liam asked shakily.

Zayn traced the delicate seashell shape of Liam’s ear with the point of his tongue. “I want you all the time,” he whispered huskily, delighted when he felt Liam’s responding shiver beneath him. Liam’s hands slid down Zayn’s back to cup the curve of his arse, giving it a firm squeeze that sent a jolt of electricity zinging through Zayn’s spine.

Liam cupped Zayn’s face, pulling him into a heated kiss.

“Unka Zayn?” a tiny voice called suddenly from the doorway.

Zayn scrambled to the other side of the bed and Liam let out a groan of frustration as he clicked on the bedside lamp. “Can we sleep in here?” Ruby asked, blinking blearily as her eyes adjusted to the light, Sully’s head cropping up over her shoulder. Zayn sat up, discreetly adjusting himself under the blankets.

“Come on then, my babies,” he gestured them in. Sully and Ruby crawled up the bed, snuggling down into the vacated space between Liam and Zayn. The twins curled up facing each other, like two commas enclosed inside quotation marks. Lying there with them felt like a window into the future - a brief glimpse onto nights falling asleep to the sound of the evening news on the telly - Ben’s warm limbs tangled in theirs. This could be yours. This will be yours.

Zayn held Liam’s gaze as the twins’ breathing evened out and they eventually drifted into the stone heavy sleep only children seemed capable of.

“There’s something I want to say,” Zayn said softly, when he was sure the twins were out.

Liam nodded.

“Do you remember that day...when we drank tequila in the bath?”

Liam’s gaze darkened and he rolled onto his back to adjust himself. “You’re not really helping the situation, Zayn,” he snorted.

Zayn bit his lip. “What I meant to say is - do you remember I had those uh, bruises?”

Liam’s body went rigid. “I wanted to explain-”

“You don’t have to,” Liam cut him off. “We weren’t dating then. It’s none of mine.”

“I want to. Please,” Zayn reached over the twins to squeeze Liam’s bicep. “I don’t want any secrets between us.”

Zayn took a big, steadying breath. “They were - well - there’s no easy way to say this - so I’ll just - I’ve been sleeping with Harry and Louis.”

Liam sat up abruptly, his expression alarmed. “You’re the one Lou was cheating with?”

“No, no!” Zayn shook his head vehemently, waving his hands to dispel the notion. “Harry knows. He’s uh, he’s there. Like, the three of us...together.” Liam’s expression hardened as the information sank in and Zayn squeezed his eyes shut, unable to bear the scrutiny. “I know what it sounds like and - I - can you just hear me out?”

When Zayn opened his eyes again, Liam nodded tightly. “It started before you and I were you and I. At first, it was just a way to like, get my confidence back, you know? And like, figure out how to like sex again. With Xavier...” Zayn frowned, eyes welling up with tears. “He made it hurt. And I -” Zayn’s voice broke on the words, unable to go on. It was the most he’d ever said to Liam about Xavier, about what their relationship was actually like. He was sure Liam was able to infer enough on his own or glean information from Harry, but it wasn’t the same as coming from Zayn. Saying it aloud still felt like digging his fingers into an open wound. But he wanted to say it. It was important to say it. It was important that he didn’t shut Liam out.

“Shhh, shhh,” Liam’s big hands cupped Zayn’s cheeks, stroking away an errant tear. “Don’t. Don’t twist yourself up in knots. I’m not mad, okay? I get it. You all love each other and you went through something traumatic. And if whatever - whatever it was that happened between the three of you - helped you heal in some way, then I owe them my thanks.”

“You’re - you’re not mad?” Anger. Jealousy. Sadness. All emotions Zayn had been prepared to deal with. Anything but this eerie calm, this blanket understanding. He was stunned into silence.

“I’m not Xavier, okay? I’m not going to keep you in a cage. You’re not my pet. You’re your own person, with your own wants and desires. I’ve always loved that you were so independent, that you did your own thing, that you never cared what people thought of you. Xavier tried to smother every part of you that made you you. That’s not me, okay? Zayn, the only thing I ever wanted was for you to be happy.”

“I’m happy with you,” Zayn sniffled, through his tears.

“Then I’m happy too,” Liam said, brushing his lips feather-light over the inside of Zayn’s wrist. “Do you remember the first day we met?”

Zayn snorted. “How could I forget? I was such a little shit.”

Liam laughed. “And now you’re my little shit. And what you did with Harry or Louis or Xavier or anyone else while we were apart doesn’t change that. You’re still my boy. In my heart, you always were.”

Zayn let out a little wet, shuddering exhale. “Thank you. You’re mine too.”

Liam smiled, leaning in to press a kiss to Zayn’s forehead. It felt like a promise of things to come.

Sixteen years ago

Liam was wandering the stacks looking for a Winston Churchill biography for his World History class when he spotted him. Zayn was perched in a window-ledge at the back of the library, blowing smoke out the open window, a lit cigarette glowing between his clenched lips. He was wearing black skinny jeans with holes in the knees and combat boots with a complicated array of buckles and straps. The shape of his upper body was lost in an oversized gray hoodie, frayed sleeves coming down over his hands and making him look like a little boy dressed up in his father’s clothes. There were paint spatters on his jeans and kohl smeared over his eyelids, and his skin was gilded gold in the fading afternoon sunlight.

And he was the most beautiful person Liam had ever seen.

And he was a boy.

And Liam was dating Danielle.

Yet, from the first moment he set eyes on Zayn, none of that mattered. Nothing mattered but the slow sweep of his eyelashes when he blinked, like a sparrow’s wings sparkling in a dusty shaft of light let in from a weathered barn roof. It overwhelmed Liam with nostalgia for a time he had never actually lived, for a golden-age of childhood that he’d never experienced himself.

Liam had transferred schools two years prior because of the ruthless bullying he’d endured at his old school in Bradford, and though things had changed since then, the shame of his persecution still clung to him, like a thin, imperceptible layer of soap scum. No one knew it was there, but he felt it. He carried it with him, wherever he went, a greasy, lingering film of shame and guilt. His dad having to take a different job in a different city that paid less and had a longer commute. His mum giving up teaching. His older sisters, torn away from their mates in their final years of school. Liam would come downstairs for a glass of water after his parents thought he was asleep and find them, huddled together with their heads bent low over a stack of bills on the kitchen table, like military commanders trying to come up with a strategy for a known suicide mission.

So many nights, Liam had lain awake wishing he’d never been born. Wishing he could close his eyes and wink himself out of existence. His parents would have been so much better off, without a kid with one kidney and a stack of hospital bills four inches thick. His dad would be better off without having to leave important business meetings to come to the school every other week because some bloke had beat Liam up for his lunch money or used his head as a loo plunger.

Liam was oddly popular at his new school, thanks to the fifteen pounds of muscle he’d gained in the gym over the summer and Louis Tomlinson taking him under his wing. But he still felt like the Liam Payne everyone wanted to be mates with - the footie captain, the guy with a girlfriend and a ton of mates - was a fraud, a persona he wore. Inside, he was still that cringingly shy, chubby kid with a bad hair-cut and lumpy clothes. He was still the kid that tried to wish himself out of existence on every shooting star and birthday cake candle so he would never have to be a burden on the people he loved.

Liam had seen the words other boys had written about Zayn in permanent black scrawl on the loo stall doors, but he had no idea how any of that ugliness could ever be associated with the beautiful boy now in front him. He felt a sudden, unwarranted surge of protectiveness over the other boy. He prayed that the bad words hadn’t wriggled down into his core like worms, eating away at him from the inside out. He hoped they hadn’t left him hollow.

Even then, Liam knew that day was important. That no matter what happened from there on out, he would always look back on that moment he first saw Zayn, the golden autumn sunlight poured over his shining head and shoulders as if from a baptismal font, and recognize it as the moment everything changed. It was the moment all that accumulated dread over his sexuality came to a head and Liam realized all at once - I like boys.

I like the rough sound of their voices and the way they smell. I like the way their shoulders fill out their shirts. I like their thick-knuckled hands, the dirt that accumulates under their blunt fingernails. I like their body hair. I like the suggestive swing of a boy’s package when he free-balls in sweat-pants.

Liam had stamped that voice down in the past, not wanting to be the thing the bullies had accused him of - the worst thing a boy could possibly be - not wanting to be gay. Even in his own head - he could barely say the word.

“You know - you’re not supposed to smoke in here,” Liam found himself blurting out, for the sake of saying something, to distract himself from the taste of fear curdling on his tongue.

Zayn glanced up, smirking. “Oh?” he raised an eyebrow, taking another deliberate drag on his cigarette. His honey-colored eyes were dancing with amusement and Liam had never seen anyone who looked so alive. It was like Zayn housed a thousand suns inside him and it was all he could do to keep the light from seeping out from every one of his pores.

“You’re not supposed to vandalize school property either,” Liam added, before he could stop himself. He had stepped closer without realizing and caught a glimpse of Zayn’s sketch of a lion, the feathery tracks of its mane fanning out towards the windowsill. It was good. It was really good.

Zayn laughed, brightly - like a sparrow bursting forth from the brush - and so suddenly, it seemed to surprise even him. His laughter transformed his whole face, his whole body. Even the air around him seemed to shimmer. Liam felt completely flattened, like a wave had knocked him off his feet unexpectedly. He struggled to draw in a breath, to do anything but stand there woodenly, staring at the laughing boy in front of him.

Zayn stubbed out his cigarette and slung his backpack over one shoulder, dropping to the floor as lightly as a cat, despite his heavy boots. “Don’t you ever do anything you’re not supposed to do?” he teased, stepping closer to Liam. Close enough that Liam could smell the clove cigarettes on his breath, see the tiny slashes of pigment in his irises, stretching out from his pupils like the rays of a sun.

“I-” Liam stammered. “Of course I-” he blundered, flustered by Zayn’s proximity.

Zayn pressed his lips to Liam’s, quick and light, like a butterfly landing on a flower petal before taking off again. And then with a smirk, he was gone and Liam was left staring at the vacated window-sill, the smell of smoke still heavy on the air.

At first he was shocked. But the longer he stood there, the angrier he got. How dare he? He dare Zayn take a kiss that didn’t belong to him? Who did he think he was? And where did he get off saying Liam didn’t do anything he wasn’t supposed to? Liam did LOADS of things he wasn’t supposed to. He just couldn’t think of any of them right now...

The next day, Liam cornered Zayn in the art room after classes. He’d just come from practice and his hair was still dripping wet from the shower and he was beginning to wonder why he was here and not at home, eating dinner and starting on his homework.

Zayn was hanging off a ladder, barefoot, dressed in paint-splattered dungarees and a body hugging grey henley, working on a giant, floor-to-ceiling sized canvas. The movements of his paintbrush were economical and elegant, like a private waltz between him and the canvas. Liam almost felt as if he were interrupting something intimate.

He crossed his arms and glared up at Zayn, tapping his foot impatiently to draw attention to himself.

“You know - you can’t just - you can’t just go around kissing people,” he lowered his voice, words coming out in a hiss. “I have a girlfriend.” Even to his own ears, the words sounded hollow and overly defensive. He’d been dating Danielle for ages and in that moment, he couldn’t even say what color her eyes were. All he could see were Zayn’s thin ankles poking out the bottoms of his rolled-up dungarees, flecks of paint in his dark hair like stars strewn out over the evening sky, the muscles in his back straining as he stretched to paint something in the upper left hand corner.

“That’s nice,” Zayn said evenly, not even sparing a glance for Liam. “Did you come all the way to the art room just to tell me that?” he asked, blending a daub of red paint with practiced steadiness.

“Yes, I - no - I - I was just walking by,” Liam huffed indignantly.

“Seems a bit out of the way of the pitch,” Zayn observed knowingly.

“I just - I came by to tell you that you can’t just kiss people without their permission. Will you please stop painting for one second?” he demanded, exasperated.

Zayn took his time descending the ladder, all but ignoring Liam as he cleaned his hands in the slop sink with a turpentine soaked rag and set his brushes to soaking. When he finally stood to face Liam, Liam’s mouth went completely dry. There was sweat glistening on Zayn’s forehead and clinging to the light dusting of hair on his upper lip. Liam wanted to lick his top lip - to taste the saltiness on his tongue. He shook the thought from his head. No. He was here to tell Zayn off.

Zayn let out a heavy sigh, closing his eyes for a brief second as if he were steeling himself against something. When he spoke, his tone was no longer teasing, but deflated and resigned. “If you’re going to beat me up, can you cut the banter and just get it over with? I need to finish this painting by the the end of the week.”

Zayn’s chin was stuck forward defiantly, but there was a slight tremble to his body that belied his bravado. He was scared.

“I - what?”

“If you’re going to hit me, can you just do it now? I have work to do,” Zayn said, in a dead, dispassionate voice. His eyes no longer held their usual luster, were as flat and dull as old pennies. Liam felt as if he was the one who’d been hit.

“I’m not going to hit you,” Liam stammered, amazed that Zayn could even think that. But then he saw himself from the outside - from Zayn’s perspective - a giant footballer lumbering into the art room after hours, wet and half-crazed and itching for a row. His heart sunk.

“Then why are you here?” Zayn asked softly, quizzically.

“Because - because you kissed me,” Liam reiterated, in a small voice. Why was he here? Why couldn’t he just let it go? Why did he lay in the dark in his room the previous night, running his fingers over his lips, like they’d been changed somehow and he’d be able to feel the difference?

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I read the situation all wrong. It was just-” Zayn shrugged expansively, with his whole body. “For a second you looked like- like-” he trailed off as he struggled to find the right word.

“Like what?” Liam demanded. Gay? Is that what he looked like? Like he wanted it up the arse?

Zayn bit his lip and then let the words out on a rush of hurried breath. “Like you wanted to be kissed.”

Liam felt all the air deflate out of him. “I’m not - I’m not gay,” he said as firmly as he could manage. Like you wanted to be kissed - the words echoed in his mind.

“Okay,” Zayn nodded.

“I’m not,” Liam repeated, sounding less convincing this time. Like you wanted to be kissed -

“I didn’t say you were,” Zayn said, watching Liam carefully like he was a cornered animal about to lash out.

“Well. You’re wrong. I didn’t want to be kissed.” Zayn nodded along with Liam, agreeing, a defense mechanism Liam recognized. Give the bullies what they want and maybe they’ll leave you alone. That’s what Zayn thought Liam was - one of those homophobic assholes who wrote “Zayn Malik is a cock-sucker” on the stall door in the loo. And Liam didn’t blame him for thinking so.

Liam paused, lifting his eyes to meet Zayn’s. There was a nascent flicker of fear in them. “I didn’t want to be kissed...by anyone. I wanted to be kissed by you,” Liam admitted, in a tiny voice. The air felt too close, the heavy paint fumes coating Liam’s lungs like oil, asphyxiating him. “And I want to - again.” Liam swallowed thickly.

He threw his hands up to cover his face, feeling too embarrassed, too exposed by the admission. He’d just told a complete stranger - a boy - that he wanted to kiss him. And it was the first honest thing he’d said in years.

“Hey, hey,” Zayn said, putting his hands gently atop Liam’s. They were slightly rough and calloused and smelled of turpentine and oranges. Liam had to resist nuzzling his face into Zayn’s palm. “Don’t. It’s okay. You’re all right. Whoever told you that it wasn’t okay or all right to want that, they were wrong, okay? Not you. It’s okay to want to kiss me. It’s okay to want to kiss a boy.”

“But it was a joke,” Liam croaked miserably, voice muffled in his cupped hands. Zayn gently pulled Liam’s hands away from his face, finger by finger.

“Do I look like I’m joking?” he asked, face soft and open. He steadied Liam’s face between his hands and this time Liam leaned into his touch, his cool palms like relief from a sunburn. “Would you let me kiss you properly?”

Liam couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breath. He couldn’t get his legs to move. But ever so slowly, he managed to nod his head. Zayn didn’t kiss him right away. First, he touched Liam’s face like he was trying to read it in braille, hands raking over his stubble, tracing the shapes of his ears, running over the curve of his bottom lip.

He let one hand drop to Liam’s chest, resting lightly on his sternum, seeking permission with his eyes. Liam nodded his head the barest fraction. It’s okay.

Zayn angled his face, standing up on his toes with his hands resting on Liam’s broad shoulders. He let out a slow, shaky puff of breath against Liam’s lips. For a second, it was like Zayn was holding himself back. For Liam, it was an agony - the intimation of closeness, but not quite close enough - but then Zayn surged forward at last, capturing Liam’s mouth with his own. It was like a bomb going off in Liam’s brain.

He could tell right away that it was different. The kiss was firm where it should have been soft. Zayn’s stubble rasped against Liam’s cheek when he stumbled into him, laughing breathlessly, nervously, into each other’s mouths. Their flat chests bumped as they grappled for purchase and Liam had no idea where he should put his hands. Where it was safe to. His arse? His hips? His shoulders? Zayn smelled different than a girl too - like leather and oranges and oil paint and the faintest whiff of cinnamon. Kissing him felt like drowning.

After a few minutes of fumbling foreplay, the wet sounds of their mouths and labored breathing overload in the deserted art room, Liam felt it against his leg, shocking him out of his thoughts like a cattle prod. Zayn was hard. And fuck - he was hard too. Once he realized it, Liam couldn’t stop realizing it. It was hard to concentrate on the kissing when his mind kept returning to each excruciating brush of their erections. It was somehow not enough and too much at the same time. It was making Liam’s brain melt. He could feel wetness in his pants and for a few horrifying seconds he thought he might actually have cum without noticing it, but then he realized he was just leaking. A lot. That Zayn had turned him on that much, with just a kiss.

It was obvious Zayn was putting every ounce of himself into it to make it good for Liam. When they broke apart even for a second, he kept on sucking Liam’s bottom lip into his own mouth, digging his teeth into it in a way that send shock-waves straight to Liam’s cock. Liam gasped and shuddered, hips moving in a messy rhythm against Zayn’s involuntarily.

It was Liam who pulled back first, eyes wide and breathing ragged. “Wow,” he panted.

Zayn chuckled, but it was obvious he was affected too. He rested his forehead against Liam’s and for a few moments, they just stood there, listening to the rhythm of each other’s hearts as Zayn rubbed slow, soothing circles into Liam’s back through his shirt. There was nothing overtly sexual about it - besides the erections sandwiched between their pressed bellies - but it was strangely more intimate than kissing. Feeling Zayn’s exhalations, smelling his hair and his skin, the lingering taste of his mouth in Liam’s mouth.

Liam was aware of every part of his body in a way he hadn’t been before. He felt like Zayn had left an invisible mark on him - fingerprints or skin cells or blooms of heat that would only show up on an infrared scanner.

“You’re so hard,” Zayn breathed, nuzzling his nose into Liam’s neck. “It feels big.”

Liam’s dick throbbed in response, knees nearly buckling. “Shit. You can’t say stuff like that.”

“Why not?” Zayn laughed as he slowly sucked a love-bite in the juncture between Liam’s collarbone and throat.

Liam made a garbled noise of frustration meant to convey - because I might cream my jeans if you keep talking like that, because I’m embarrassed, because it’s wrong, because it’s gay, because you’re a boy, because I shouldn’t be so turned on by kissing, by kissing you -

But what he said was: “Because I won’t be able to stop.”

“Who says we have to stop?” Zayn smirked, drawing Liam back into a kiss that was all softness. It was less fevered this time, less like Zayn was trying to make a point and more like a Sunday drive through the countryside, slow and lazy and ambling. Like they had all the time in the world. Somehow that made it even worse.

“Danny - ” Liam murmured into Zayn’s mouth, when he could catch a breath.

Zayn frowned, pulling away. “I prefer Zayn.”

“Danny - Danielle - she’s my girlfriend. I shouldn’t - I have a girlfriend. I’m sorry - I should never have - ”

Zayn frowned, crossing his arms. You came to me, his betrayed look said. You sought me out. I didn’t ask for this. You did.

Without the warmth of Zayn’s body against him, Liam felt the fear creeping back in. It was like Zayn had him under some sort of spell, like he didn’t know what he was doing, like he had no control over his body or his own thoughts.

He shook his head, “this isn’t me. I don’t do things like this.”

“Okay,” Zayn said tonelessly, shoulders slumped in resignation and...disappointment?

“I should go.”

Zayn nodded sadly and Liam ran out of the art room like he was fleeing the scene of a crime.

***

Perrie sprung up from her seat when she saw Harry coming into the cafe, with shopping in one arm and the other in a sling across his chest. A man in a tan trench coat beat her to it, holding the door open for Harry as he stumbled in out of the cold. “Thanks,” he nodded to the man as he shook snow from his hair. “Happy Christmas.”

The man returned the greeting and the bell chimed over the door as he departed. Perrie unceremoniously wrenched the shopping from his arms, as if it had offended her. “Couldn’t you just hire a personal shopper like every other millionaire? Honestly.”

“I’m not an invalid,” Harry pouted, while looking very much like an invalid.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Perrie snorted, twisting a stray lock of lilac-colored hair behind her ear. “Although, for the record, I draw the line at wiping your arse.”

Harry laughed as they collapsed into the window seat Perrie had chosen. She went up to the counter to order a pot of tea as Harry settled in, stripping off his scarf and gloves. For a moment, he watched the light dancing over his reflection in the window glass, the swirling snow beyond it turning the streets into a veritable winter wonderland.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he sighed, when Perrie returned, balancing a teapot and two chipped mugs in her hands. The Roastery was one of their favorite meeting spots - they always served you a bit of brownie with your coffee or tea, it wasn’t too pretentious and all the baristas knew them by name. Plus, Harry never got papped there which was nice. The most that ever happened was someone asked him for an autograph, which he was always happy to give. He’d written most of his third book there.

“Are you sure you didn’t hit your head when you fell?” Perrie teased, lowering herself into her seat.

Harry stuck his tongue out at her. Despite her wicked streak, she looked lovely - dressed in a sparkly silver frock and the tear-drop diamond earrings Harry and Louis had given her two Christmases past - her hair done in a messy plait across the front of her head. The look was only slightly undermined by her chunky Sorel boots, but snow shoes were a necessity in London lately. “Well, aren’t you a picture? Are you going somewhere after?”

“Eleanor got us tickets to the Christmas Spectacular at Albert Hall,” she said, rolling her eyes.

Harry slapped a hand to his chest, miming shock. “You hate the Christmas Spectacular. You called the audience a bunch of blinkered cows and grubby-handed kids.”

“Well Eleanor doesn’t know that. Might be nice,” she grimaced, as she took a sip of her tea.

Harry laughed, delighted. “And the grinch’s small heart grew three sizes that day.”

“Oi shut up, will you?” Perrie chided, slapping him with an abandoned newspaper she swiped from a nearby table. “I’ve had to put up with you and Louis for sixteen years. Do you have any idea how disgusting you two are?”

Harry tried to look offended, but ending up smiling. “So...the book? You’ve read it? What did you think?” he asked, feigning casualness as he stirred some milk into his tea. His stomach was tied in a knot, as it always was by now. The writing was his thing - difficult at times - but within his grasp. He always felt a bit out of his depths with the other stuff.

“Do you want my honest opinion?”

Harry winced. For all that she looked like a chirpy, blue-eyed pixie, Perrie could be ruthless when she needed to be. Which was why he’d hired her in the first place. Because he could trust her to tell him the truth. Even when it hurt. “Hit me with your best shot.”

“It’s the best you’ve done in years. Maybe ever.”

“Really?” Harry brightened.

“Yes, really,” Perrie said, sneaking a bit of brownie from his tea saucer while he was distracted.

“Heyyyyyy-”

Perrie smirked. “It’s brilliant. But-”

Harry hung his head in his hands. “There’s always a but.”

“I think you should market it as a memoir. I mean, Henry is you, right? The book’s about you.”

“But I’m a fiction writer,” Harry protested. “I’ve always been a fiction writer.”

“Yeah. And memoir’s are what’s selling right now. All of England wants the dish on London’s It couple. We could do a PR tie in with Louis. The public will eat it up.”

Harry shrunk down into his seat, curling his arm around himself protectively. He felt exposed. It was too private. Too shameful. There was stuff about his dad in there that he’d never told anyone but Louis. There was stuff about Louis too. There was no way-

“Before you say no, I think you should have Louis read it. Get his opinion.”

“But there’s stuff in there - about him,” Harry frowned, picking at a ragged cuticle.

“Harry. Just consider it. I’ve already pitched it to Little Brown. They want it, but only as a memoir. You’d have to do some minor reworking, changing of names, but I swear to you Harry, if you do, this will be your opus. This will be the work you’re remembered for.”

“But it’s not a work. It’s my life.”

“That’s what makes it so good,” she grinned at him, squeezing his hand where it rested on the table.

Harry bit his lip, unconvinced. He’d worked months on that book; he’d poured everything he had into it. He didn’t want to throw it all away just because the format didn’t work. But did he really want to air his dirty laundry like that? Did he really want to put his name on something so...damning? So intensely private? Did he really want all the world knowing his past? When he couldn’t hide behind his words, behind Henry?

“I’ll let Louis read it,” Harry conceded. “But I’m not agreeing to anything yet.”

Perrie smiled at him like she’d already won.

***

“Sorry to make you all come out in the cold,” Louis apologized to the other occupants at the table. Spaniard’s Inn was deserted at that hour, except for a lone bartender cleaning spots from the glasses with a dish rag behind the bar. She’d been kind enough to fix them tea, but they didn’t start serving breakfast for another hour. Louis would have killed for an egg on toast, but there were more important things than food on his mind.

“It’s not the cold that’s the problem,” Zayn groaned into his tea. “It’s the hour.”

Louis shot him a withering look. “I wouldn’t have asked you all here if it weren’t important.”

“What’s more important than sleep?” Niall groaned, head barely off the table.

“Harry. Our mate Harry is why we’re all gathered here,” Louis said firmly, setting down his mug down loudly. That silenced everyone.

“Now, there’s only one week until Christmas and Harry’s gift isn’t finished yet. But I’m going to have to be at our flat a lot helping him now that he’s hurt, so -”

“You need our help,” Liam chimed in.

“Yeah. Gosh, steal my thunder, will you?” Louis rolled his eyes in fond exasperation. Liam folded his hands, looking properly chagrined. Beneath the table, Zayn squeezed his kneecap.

“Anyyyyyyway,” Louis said, drawing out the word obnoxiously. “I suspect you all know how to use a paint-brush and a hammer. If not, my friend, Sam, here will be happy to show you. He’s the contractor who’s building our house.”

Perrie choked and sputtered through a mouthful of tea, “your house?”

“Do keep up,” Louis said, eyes twinkling. “Zayn, you’ll be in charge of painting. Liam, you’re a strong lad, you can deal with the furniture deliveries. Perrie and Eleanor, you’re in charge of the kitchen. I’ll give you my Amex. Go crazy at Williams Sonoma. Even if you think it’s something ridiculous that no one will ever use - like a melon baller or a garlic press - Harry will use it. Niall you can - well - just make sure everyone’s fed. And that your kids don’t break anything.”

Niall had met Louis and Harry for brunch with his wife, Barbara, and their five rambunctious boys a few days after the accident. Niall’s sons had exasperated the wait staff at the River Cafe and Niall had regarded them with a mixture of delight and bewilderment as they climbed over other people’s chairs and ran screeching through the aisles between tables. “Actually, you can get a Christmas tree. And lots of toys. Buy out FAO Schwartz if you have to. Get your sons some stuff too. I don’t really care. Just make sure the nursery’s sorted.”

“Harry has no idea, does he?” Zayn asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“No. And if any of you let it slip to him before Christmas, they won’t be able to find the body.”

“Bit morbid for Seven AM,” Niall remarked, smirking.

Louis ignored him, clapping his hands together with finality. “Right, you’re all wonderful and you’re all invited to our New Year’s party once this is over. I will even buy all the booze.”

“Will there be a champagne fountain?” Niall asked dreamily.

Louis patted him on the back. “Whatever you want, mate. I’ll get you a champagne slip and slide if you it’ll make you happy."

Niall sprung from his seat, suddenly more energized than they’d seen him all morning. “Well, what are we all waiting for?”

Chapter Text

~These streets are yours, you can keep them. I don't want them. They pull me back, and I surrender to the memories I run from~

These Streets

16 years ago

I’m sorry , Liam wrote in the margin of Zayn’s English notes, right beside a stick figure drawing of a skateboarder about to veer off the page. It was just a sketch, but it was good, like everything Zayn did. It made Liam’s throat feel a little tight for no reason at all.

They were on the Romeo and Juliet portion of the syllabus so of course their teacher had paired Liam with Zayn. And of course Zayn had been resolutely ignoring Liam all period. Not that Liam blamed him. It had been a week since they’d kissed in the art room and it had been the longest, worst week of Liam’s life. (Which was saying something because he’d had a lot of long, bad weeks at his old school.)

He’d barely slept more than a handful of hours a night – waking glazed in a fevered sweat, with a massive hard-on in his joggers and the lingering ghost of Zayn’s mouth on his. Or else, jolted from sleep by bursts of crackling white panic, a storm twisting in his gut.

He wasn’t gay. He couldn’t be. He liked football and watching sports on telly and having a pint with his dad at the pub on Sundays. That was who he was. He was Liam Payne and he dated girls. Only girls. But the memory of Zayn’s erection pressing into Liam’s hip made him so hard, so dizzy and breathless, so inexplicably aroused. And worse, it made him feel out of control; like he was letting go of the reins to something he’d been gripping on to so tightly his whole life. Letting go of the idea of himself as a heterosexual. Letting go of the idea that he could ever live a normal life, grow up and marry and have kids with a woman. Do the things he was supposed to do with a woman.

It was like he’d taken a bite of the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden and now that he knew, now that he had tasted the intoxicating sweetness of Zayn’s kiss, how could he go back? How could he unremember? How could he keep up the flimsy coat of lies he’d stitched around himself so he’d never have to face the reason it felt wrong with girls? How could he pretend nothing had changed?

Liam could barely keep his head up during class he was so exhausted. He was falling behind in practice too, something Stan was only too keen to point out and that had Louis shooting him crinkled looks of concern from across the pitch. If Louis, who’d once taped up two broken toes and continued playing a match as if nothing was wrong, was concerned, Liam knew it was bad. He felt like the words were written on him in neon paint: I kissed a boy. And I liked it.

Zayn glanced down and scanned what Liam had written, flipping to a fresh sheet of paper with a frown that dimpled his chin cutely. He returned his gaze to front of the classroom and finished copying down the rest of the bullet points Ms. Burnes had outlined on the chalkboard. Liam wanted to knock the pen out of his hand. Look at me. Look at me like you did before. Pleasepleaseplease. He felt like he was burning up from the inside out, like he’d ignite if Zayn didn’t look at him, like he’d melt if he did.

Liam bit his lip, digging his fingernails into his arm to keep himself awake. “Understand, that this partners project will count toward 50% of your final grade,” Ms. Burnes continued. Zayn audibly sighed, pillowing his cheek on his hand. Liam got lost in his individual eyelashes.

“So you’ll want to schedule a day or two in the library each week leading up to the end of the semester. Don’t leave this until the last minute. I will notice. But most of all, have fun with it and be creative. Next class section I’ll be coming around to each of you to discuss what you have planned so we make sure you’re on the right track.”

Can we talk ? Liam scrawled in his messy penmanship.

Zayn hesitated, chewing on the cap of his biro a minute before writing: Think you’ve said it all mate.

Liam took a deep breath, inching his chair closer to Zayn’s. The rubber heels let out a squeal against the linoleum and half the class turned to glare at him, a hot blush flooding his face. When he was sure no one was looking, he leaned his mouth close to Zayn’s ear. Zayn shivered when he exhaled against it. “I can’t stop thinking about kissing you,” he admitted, the boldness of saying it aloud in a classroom full of people making his stomach flutter wildly.

Zayn’s fingers tightened on his pencil, knuckles turning white. “If you’re taking the piss out of me—” Zayn hiss-whispered through gritted teeth.

“I’m not,” Liam insisted earnestly, giving Zayn’s knee a quick squeeze under the table. Zayn jerked at the unexpected touch, reflexively knocking his pencil-case off the edge of the desk, all the pencils clattering out loudly onto the floor.

“Zayn? Liam? Something you wanted to share with the class?” Ms. Burnes asked, lifting an eyebrow at them. Zayn shook his head furiously, keeping his head down as he dropped to his knees to collect his things. Liam scurried to help, nearly knocking heads with Zayn in the process.

“I’ve got it,” Zayn bit off. “Just. Leave me alone.”

Liam blinked at him sadly, trying not to sound as crushed as he felt. “Is that…is that what you want?”

Zayn let out an exasperated sigh that stirred the artfully arranged strand of hair falling into his eyes. “You have a girlfriend, remember? Or so you kept reminding me the other day.”

“I broke up with her,” Liam blurted out. Not exactly how he’d planned to reveal it, but…well, it was out in the open now.

It had taken Liam all of two days after he’d kissed Zayn to call it off with Danni. It had been awful. Liam had prepared himself for awful, but somehow, it was even more awful than that. Because he’d never set out to break anyone’s heart. He’d just been too blind to what his own was telling him.

He’d meant to do it in person, but he ended up doing it over the phone, sitting in his car in the deserted car park in the rain after practice let out because he couldn’t stand to lie to her any longer. Or, more importantly, lie to himself. Because, whether he was ready to admit it or not, something had changed.

Danni had never made his hands shake the way Zayn did. And sex with her had always been something he felt a boy his age should do – like playing sports or revising or going to the pub on the weekend with the lads. There’d always been something oddly clinical about their coupling – put this hand here, touch there – it was more like practicing to be a surgeon than something raw and passionate and spontaneous. It had never made Liam’s hands sweat or his stomach clench. Sometimes, getting and staying hard was a chore. Sometimes, the whole thing was a chore. Until Zayn, he’d just thought that’s how sex was.

What Liam hadn’t expected was for Danni to cry so much. To beg and plead and ask what she’d done wrong and what she could change to make him stay. The truth was – short of turning herself into Zayn – there was nothing. But he couldn’t exactly tell her that, so he’d given her the old, “it’s not you, it’s me” line and didn’t feel like it was an entirely a lie. At least until he was ready to say, “I think I might be gay”.

When they’d finally gotten off the phone, Liam had felt oddly…relieved. Like a weight had been lifted off of him. And that was an odd reaction, right? After months of dating? After losing his virginity to her? After all the “I love yous”? He missed how safe he’d felt with her – Zayn was anything but safe – but other than that, his thoughts were mostly consumed with a certain golden-eyed boy and he didn’t have much time to linger on the breakup. He hadn’t even told the lads about Danni yet.

“You what?” Zayn nearly shouted.

“Zayn. Liam. I’m surprised at you two. Please go to the headmaster’s office and explain to him why you felt the need to disturb my class,” Ms. Burnes said in a tone that was more disappointed than angry. Neither of them had ever gotten in trouble in her class before – Zayn because he loved English and Liam because he was a straight A student who never got in trouble in any class.

“Just great,” Zayn huffed under breath, gathering up his books. He let the door slam behind him as he left, nearly hitting Liam in the face with it.

“Wait,” Liam jogged to catch up. “Just wait.”

Zayn whirled around to face him, fury etched into his features. Liam nearly crashed into him and skidded to a halt just in time. “I didn’t ask you to break up with her.”

“I – I know you didn’t. But I didn’t ask you to kiss me either,” Liam said quietly. “And I didn’t ask to feel like this and yet – here I am – ” he croaked miserably, twisting his hands together like he was trying to wring water from a dishrag.

“I don’t know what you want me to do about it. I’m not like – your gay experiment, Liam. I’ve done that once, thanks, and I’m not keen to do it again.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t break up with her for you. I just – I broke up with her because it didn’t feel right anymore after – well, after the other day. Because I felt more with you in a few minutes than I felt with Danni in months and that’s…that’s weird isn’t it?”

Zayn sighed, raking his hand back through his hair. He looked beautiful and dangerous and slightly off-balance. “Liam, you’re really sweet, but I’d – I’d destroy you.”

“Maybe,” Liam bit his lip, gazing up at Zayn shyly from under his lashes. “But maybe I want you to.”

“Fuck,” Zayn groaned. “I want to kiss you but –,” Zayn glanced up and down the deserted hallway. “Oh, fuck it. I’ve never been one for tact.” Zayn grabbed Liam roughly by the back of his collar and dragged him in, cementing their mouths together in a bruising kiss.

Normally, Liam would be terrified of someone seeing, but it was like his head had gone completely blank. He could only focus on Zayn’s hands on his hips and the wet, hungry glide of their mouths and the feeling like he was falling – no diving – off the edge of a cliff. There just wasn’t room for anything else. Not Danni, not his gay existential crisis, not footie or his grades or his mates or his family, just ZaynZaynZayn. An all-encompassing, burning fire tearing through a parched summer pasture. It made all the things that had come before pale in significance. The past was dust in his mouth. There was only Zayn – the smell of him, the weight of him – the way he made Liam feel more real, more alive than anything else ever had.

When they finally pulled apart, Liam rested his forehead against Zayn’s chest, catching his breath. He skin felt prickly and he felt vulnerable and so, so scared. Scared that the fire would consume him, scared that maybe that was exactly what he wanted it to do.

“I don’t know what this is between us. Mostly, it frightens me, but – I – God help me I want it. I want you. Can we just…can we see where it goes? That’s all I’m asking.”

For a moment Zayn didn’t say anything and Liam didn’t look up for fear that Zayn didn’t feel the same, that he’d made a complete knob of himself. As usual.

Zayn’s voice was gruff when he finally spoke, like he was trying to hold back some emotion. “If you fucking break my heart, I swear—” but just exactly what he would swear was lost in the heat of Liam’s mouth – breathing in the heat of his words like an echo.

Their kiss felt oddly like a promise.

***

Henry’s ten years old when he falls in love with a boy. A boy with tanned legs and scabbed knees and a blustery laugh that stirs up everything inside him, like a cold winter wind whipping up dry leaves and rubbish in an alleyway.

Henry’s ten years old and he’s in love with a boy who has a speck of purple glitter on his cheekbone that Henry knows is there because the boy has younger sisters. Four of them – that orbit around him like planets - glossy headed and beautiful, blonde hair soaking up the sun like solar panels so they shine shine shine. They’re like kids out of a catalogue, swinging their new backpacks and tossing their bouncing hair and laughing together like there’s no one else around. They’re like a dream Henry once had of what a family is supposed to be like – a dream he’d long ago squashed – or had squashed out of him.

Henry’s ten years old and he’s in love with a boy and he can’t imagine anything worse.

The boy is loud loud loud in class and on the playground with his mates, but he’s also brave and kind. One day, on the way home from school, Henry watches the boy pry a sparrow from the mouth of an alley-cat and when the bird flies away, Henry’s heart flies away with it.

Henry’s ten years old, but he’s old enough to know the boy’s not for him. The boy’s something else entirely, something sparkling and expensive kept in a glass case in an upscale shop – too bright and wonderful for a greedy, hungry urchin like Henry. Henry, with his shoes that have more holes in them than not. Henry, with his too-big charity-shop jumper than smells of mothballs and chicken soup and someone else’s sweat. Henry, with his over-sized glasses that fog up when he cries. But Henry doesn’t cry anymore because he’s ten years old and he knows nothing the other kids do or say can hurt him. Not like the boy’s smile hurts him when he shares his packet of crayons, not like the unexpected sight of him rounding a corner with his mates can punch a hole straight through Henry’s chest.

Henry almost wishes he never knew the boy was kind or that he was patient and gentle with his sisters, because he knows he can never have him. He’s ten years old and he’s in love with a boy and he knows, in his world, that means he’s as good as dead.

But all that’s before the boy kisses him; Henry’s heart laid wide open and their joined mouths tasting of his tears. All that is before they line up their scars like piano keys and every song their bodies write together is a love song. All that is before the boy stands waiting at the altar with tears in his eyes like he’s been waiting for Henry to walk down it all his life. All that’s before they bring their children home and lay them in their beds and stand together looking over them, like they can’t believe their luck.

Henry’s thirty-two years old and he’s in love with a boy and he can’t imagine anything better.

***

When Louis finished reading the last page of the manuscript Perrie sent over, he sat for a time in silence, listening to his husband sing to the twins in the other room as he fixed their afternoon snack. It took him a second to realize there were tears running down his face, getting caught up in two days worth of scruff. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried this way – when Fizzy died maybe, or when Ruby had that unshakable fever and he and Harry had spent a wretched, sleepless night with her in the ER, alternating between feeling frenzied and helpless.

Louis felt a brief moment of paralyzing terror at the thought that all the good things in his life could have just as easily not have happened had he not taken a chance to tell Harry how he felt all those years ago. He tried to imagine going to winter formal with Eleanor instead, breaking it off with her just before Uni and spending the next four years alternating between trying to pull at frat parties or sitting on a dilapidated couch in the corner by himself, stoned and drunk and lonely. All the best years of his life, all his good memories of the last sixteen years, were only good because he had Harry in them.

Louis had fought the idea that he was gay for years, had buried his feelings for the green-eyed boy with oversized glasses, swimming in the straps of his too big backpack. And even though he had lived it, been there for the all the times Harry had written about in his book, reading them in Harry’s words made him fall in love with him all over again. And for a minute, it was like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

“Hey love, would you mind opening this jam? I’m completely useless with this thing,” Harry chortled to himself, striding in from the kitchen. He was still in his sling, the right arm of his lavender jumper hanging loosely at his side. He paused on the threshold of the living room, his smile quickly fading from his face when he saw Louis’ stricken expression. “All right?”

Harry took a few tentative steps and when he was close enough, Louis grabbed him by the waist and pulled him down into his lap. “I just really love you a lot,” he said, voice raw with emotion as he nuzzled his wet face into Harry’s neck.

Harry let out a blurt of nervous laughter. “What’s brought this on? Is someone finally in the Christmas spirit? Or are you just getting all nostalgic now that you’re gonna be another year older?”

“I read the book.” Harry froze in Louis’ arms.

“What – what book?”

“Your book. Is that okay? Perrie sent it. I’ve been reading it non-stop to be honest.”

“You read my book?” Harry turned to face Louis, sitting sideways in his lap. It probably looked a bit ridiculous – Harry was ten-times bigger than Louis for one and they were grown men for another – but well, fear of looking ridiculous had never stopped them before.

Louis nodded. “It was brilliant, babe. I’ve never been so proud, honestly.”

Harry’s mouth fell open in a small O of surprise. “But you don’t read? You didn’t read my last two books?”

“I listened to the books on tape,” Louis protested. Reading wasn’t his thing, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t supportive.

“You haven’t read a book since Wuthering Heights in college and to be fair, you mostly read my notes and skimmed a whole bunch.”

Louis shrugged. “I guess…I’ve never really wanted to read something until now.”

“You really liked it? You don’t mind that you’re like – you’re in it and you’re kind of a douche in certain parts?”

Louis laughed. “Well, I was kind of a douche so…it’s probably an accurate representation, all things considered.” If anything, Harry had painted him in golden light he wasn’t sure he entirely deserved. Taking in Harry’s doubtful look, Louis added with a sigh: “It’s fine, really.”

“Fine that I wrote it fine or fine with the whole world seeing it fine?” Harry pressed.

Louis craned his head up to kiss Harry’s chin. “Babe, I’m part of your life and I’m part of your story, but this is your story. It’s up to you whether you want to tell it or not. I’ll support you in whatever decision you make because I love you and that’s what I’m here for.”

Harry grinned, dimples popping. “Sure you’re not just here to open up jam for your invalid husband?”

Louis snorted, swiping the jar from Harry’s hands. “Give me that, you twat.” He easily twisted off the cap and handed it back to Harry. His hands lingered for a second over Harry’s, the air sweet and heavy with the scent of strawberry jam.

“Seriously though – I know – there’s a lot of stuff about your dad in there that had to be painful to write and that will be even more painful to show to the whole world, but I think…I think what you wrote is really brave. And really beautiful. And I think it deserves to be read.”

Harry nodded, biting his lip as happy tears welled up in his eyes. “When did you get so smart? I thought footballers were just supposed to look fit in shorts,” he teased.

“Oi. Have fun trying to wank with your arm in a sling then,” Louis huffed.

“I love you,” Harry blurted out, his grin turning his entire face into a human dimple.

“Yeah, yeah, love you too, you big sop. Now go make me a sammich,” he joked, slapping Harry’s bum as he made his way back to the kitchen.

“One sandwich, extra spit, coming up,” Harry called over his shoulder as he rejoined the kids in the kitchen.

“Is that supposed to be a punishment? I like the taste of your spit,” Louis yelled back. “It’s why I married you.”

Harry’s over-the-top cackle made Louis’ whole body warm.

***

“Shit!” Harry sat up in bed abruptly on Christmas morning, feeling like he’d forgotten something important. It didn’t help that his head was still fuzzy from all the alcohol he’d drank the night before. “Lou, did you set the alarm?”

“Go back to bed,” Louis groaned, making a vague swatting motion in his direction. They’d stayed up late for Louis’ birthday, drinking wine and sucking and rimming each other for hours. Harry’s whole body, including his head, felt like one massive, oversensitive bruise.

He was under strict orders from his doctor to not engage in any sex that might jostle his arm, but the doctors hadn’t said anything about lying perfectly still while Louis brought him to orgasm over and over with his mouth. Louis was feeling pretty smug about the five orgasms he’d brought Harry to – especially considering he was now an old man, at thirty-three.

Harry squinted at their alarm clock, the red digits confirming his worst suspicions.

“Shit. Fuck. It’s eleven o’clock!” Harry cursed, launching himself out of bed like a giraffe trying to do a triple lutz, taking half the bed-sheets with him onto the floor. Louis observed him lazily from one cracked eye like a dozing cat.

“And…?”

“And I was meant to have the roast in hours ago! And the kids’ll be at their presents and shit – your whole family’s coming in like two hours – and I smell like sex and Merlot!” Harry whined.

Louis sniffed the air. “I thought that was just your natural musk.”

Harry frowned, hopping on one foot as he tried to shove his long legs into a pair of joggers and overbalanced and crashed into the closet door. He slid down to the carpet, in a pile of dirty laundry and defeat.

Louis couldn’t help himself. He laughed. He laughed until his stomach ached. And then a bit more.

“I’m glad you find this so amusing,” Harry glared at him. “Seeing as how you’re not the one who has to do all the cooking.”

“Harry, Harry, its fine love—”

“How can it be fine?” Harry shouted, ripping at his own hair. He stormed out of the bedroom in only his pants, a wild-eyed, curly-haired tornado on a warpath. Louis was just a fraction too slow in following because a second later, he heard Harry’s ear-splitting scream from the kitchen.

“Louis; we’ve been robbed!”

Louis found Harry sitting on the kitchen floor in front of the empty refrigerator, looking two seconds away from crying. “My pies! My beautiful pies! Oh my God, who would do this?”

“The Grinch?” Louis teased. Harry looked so shattered, Louis finally took pity on him. “Hey. Harry, it’s okay.”

Harry covered his face with his hands, his voice breaking miserably. “How can it be okay? Christmas is ruined.”

There was a glint in Louis’ eye that he got when he was up to no good. “I may have moved it.”

Harry’s hands fell from his face. “Moved—?”

“I may have…relocated Christmas. To…to a top secret location.”

“What?” Harry’s mouth fell open.

“Come on. Get up. The kids are with Zayn for the morning and you smell like the aftermath of a bukakke porn. How about we take a nice long shower together and get dressed and then we’ll pop over to Starbucks for a coffee? How does that sound?”

“What about Christmas?” Harry asked incredulously, still trying to process the dramatic turn of events.

“It’s taken care of, love. This year, I’m doing Christmas. And you’re going to relax, okay?”

“But you – you can’t even cook!” Harry sputtered.

“Santa’s got elves,” Louis winked. “Now come on. Dust yourself off. Everyone’s expecting us.”

***

“Can you tell me where we’re going?” Harry prodded, leg jiggling nervously in the passenger seat. Maybe the coffee had been a bad idea. Harry kept clacking the gold heart-shaped Tiffany key ring Louis had given him in the coffee shop against the window-glass and Louis was about a second from throwing it and Harry out the window.

Okay, maybe he was a little nervous too.

“Nope.”

“Can I at least take the blindfold off?”

“Nope.”

Harry crossed his arms petulantly, like a little kid, moving his face away to the window even though he couldn’t see out of it. His breath made little blooms of heat appear on the icy glass. He’d been too keyed up to relax the entire morning and to be honest, Louis’ own stomach was doing a bit of twisting too. Maybe the house was something he should have discussed with Harry first. What if he didn’t like it? A house was the sort of big financial investment you should at least talk about with your spouse, right?

But he and Harry had talked about getting a bigger place for ages – abstractly anyway – first when the kids were born, and again when Zayn moved back, and again after the accident. Louis didn’t feel that they’d outgrown the place so much as it had outgrown them. It had been fine when it was just he and Harry – more than enough space for just two people, and filled with good memories. But he just didn’t feel like it was a safe environment to bring up two kids – with its sharp edges and rusty railings and temperamental plumbing and broken-down elevator. And he knew Harry was too sentimental to take the first step toward finding a new place.

Plus, Harry had never really owned a house, never really felt that sense of pride and security that came along with it. He’d had a much different childhood than Louis – a much more temporary one – always having to wonder where he would sleep or if he’d have enough to eat or when the next landlord or shelter would kick them out. Even when they moved into his grandmother’s house, he’d never really seemed completely settled. He’d lived his childhood years more in books than he ever did in that house. Harry had once admitted to Louis that for the first year they’d lived there, he’d lived out of boxes, afraid they’d have to get up and move again. It had broken Louis’ heart.

So really, Louis was doing this for Harry, right? Taking the step he knew his husband would never take on his own. Harry was always taking care of Louis and the twins and Zayn and every other stray animal or person that showed up on their doorstep. It was time Louis took care of him for a change.

Harry had been confused when Louis had given him “the first part” of his present in Starbucks, but his eyes widened when he’d opened the tiny turquoise box and caught the glint of gold inside.

“You didn’t do something stupid like buy me a car, did you? Because I’ve told you a million times, the Audi is fine. It’s not even five years old. It’d be extravagant to get a new one.”

Louis shrugged coyly. “Just thought you needed a new key ring. It’s inscribed too.”

“You’re my home,” Harry read, squinting at the tiny writing without his glasses. Louis thought it was a good bit of world play. Harry would assume “home” meant him; which it did, but also – literally, the key to his home would be on it.

“Thanks Louis,” Harry grinned, leaning across the table to give his husband a quick kiss. “I love it. And you promise me…no car is forthcoming?”

“Promise,” Louis smiled, squeezing Harry’s hand.

It had been ages since they’d spent a lazy morning together like this – sipping coffee and watching the snow fall – without the kids, without footie practice, without Harry’s writing taking up all their attention. If Louis hadn’t been so damn nervous, he might have actually appreciated it.

Louis switched gears into park, heart thrumming in his throat. “We’re here.”

“Can I?” Harry reached for the blindfold with his good hand, struggling to pull it down over his nose.

“I’ve got it,” Louis insisted, tugging the knot loose with shaking fingers.

Harry looked around, taking stock of the neighborhood. “This is Hampstead.”

“Regular Sherlock here,” Louis needled him.

Harry snorted. “If I’m Sherlock, that makes you Watson.”

“No way am I Watson,” Louis protested, nearly losing sight of what he was here to do.

His mum had always said, “Marry someone you can laugh with,” and Harry had fulfilled that criteria on every front. Even when they were in the midst of a massive row or in the middle of intense sex, even when one of them was sad, they found a way to make the other laugh. Even when one was about to spring a secret house on the other he found himself distracted by Harry’s guffawing in the passenger seat.

Harry craned his head back. “Some top secret location. At the very least, I thought it might be the bat cave. What is this, Sam and Adrian’s house?”

“Something like that,” Louis said, afraid his voice would give him away. He got out of the car and opened Harry’s door for him, taking his husband’s mittened hand in his.

They walked up the stairs together, swinging their arms like little kids, and Louis was surprised he made it to the door without tripping or throwing up or blurting out something massively stupid. “Should we have brought something?” Harry worried, forever the perfect houseguest.

“I’ve got the second part of your gift. Will that do?” Louis asked, digging in his pocket for the lumpily wrapped parcel. Harry tore into it, stuffing the wrapping into his pocket. He stared at the key for a second in disbelief.

“Is this – is this what I think it is?” he swallowed.

“It’s for your key ring,” Louis said weakly. “Also, it might work for that door.”

Harry’s hand trembled as he slid the key into the lock and turned it. He fell back into Louis at the overwhelming roar of “Merry Christmas!” that burst from inside when he opened the door. Their whole family was there – the Tomlinsons and the Styles and the Sheeran-Styles brood and Zayn and his family, Sully tugging at Yaser’s beard as Trisha straightened Ruby’s red velvet Christmas dress. Even Zayn’s three-legged dog was in residence, wearing a festive pair of reindeer antlers.

Tears immediately sprung to Harry’s eyes as Louis ushered him into the foyer, squeezing the door shut behind them.

“Welcome home,” Louis said in a tiny, timid voice, reaching around from behind to give Harry’s waist a squeeze.

Harry turned away from the crowd gathered in front of the staircase to face Louis, wide-eyed in disbelief, tears clinging to his spiky lashes. “Did you – did you buy me a house?” he stammered.

Louis shook his head, tears falling from his own eyes. “No, I built you one.”

Harry punched him. “This was your big secret? And Sam –”

“Is a contractor. He was helping me with the blueprints.”

“All the running around…all the lying…? This is why? This is…”

Louis shrugged, looking sheepish. “Yeah.”

Harry choked out the words between wibbling sobs. “This is the nicest thing anyone’s done for me.”

“I had help,” Louis gestured to everyone awkwardly standing in the hall, witnessing the emotional scene. Harry hugged Louis tightly and then went over to greet their guests.

When he said all his hellos, Louis cleared his throat. “You fancy a look around?”

Ruby reached for Harry’s hand. “Let’s go to mine room first, Papa.”

“Your room, huh?” he grinned at her.

“Okay, mine and Sully’s,” she amended.

“Go on. You have an hour until the roast is ready,” Anne smiled, patting Harry on the back.

“Are you sure I can’t help?” Harry offered for what seemed the millionth time.

“’S taken care of love,” Jay insisted, sounding every bit like her bossy son. “Now c’mon everyone else. We’ve got work to do.” Everyone dispersed to the kitchen to finish up dinner and give the couple their space.

Louis took Harry’s hand, squeezing his fingers. Harry felt like he was in a dream, like he would wake up at any second and be back in their flat, still nursing a hangover from the night before. He’d dreamed of having a house his whole life – a place where he could feel safe and secure and loved – but part of him had put that dream aside, as one thing after another interfered – a book tour or Louis’ footie schedule or the kids. “Shall we?” Louis asked with a twinkle in his eye.

“I can’t believe—” Harry gazed up in awe at the arched, vaulted ceiling, crisscrossed with wooden-beams. It felt oddly church-like with everyone’s voices from the kitchen echoing up into the rafters. Harry hadn’t even realized how dark and cramped their flat actually was until he was standing there in all that open space. The ceilings and floors were a polished, golden-hued wood that trapped the reflections of the exposed, Edison bulb lighting, like bees drowning in honey. The tall slanted windows and skylights let in a scads of light. It was bright and airy and open and it was so – so them – in a way Harry couldn’t quite put his finger on.

And even though it was obviously expensive, there was nothing flashy or overstated about it. It was cozy and warm and inviting. It was a place to raise a family. A place to have dinner guests. A place to grow old together. And Harry couldn’t even begin to express what that meant to him. He and Louis had always felt permanent. But their lives had always been in flux – with Louis on the road and half of Harry’s books still at his mum’s or in storage and the kids forced to play at a derelict playground near their flat instead of in a yard. As many great memories as they’d made there, their flat had always felt like a wayside, a stopover on the road to somewhere else. But this felt like somewhere to lay down roots.

There was an enormous tree decorated with fairy lights and silver ornaments in the front window, a glistening spread of presents resting beneath it on a white fur Christmas tree skirt. In the center of the house, there was a massive brick hearth, which housed a roaring fire and several bulging stockings dangling from a layer of fake snow. The living room blended seamlessly into the dining room, with a rustic wooden, communal-style table with long benches that would easily fit twenty. Harry could already picture the parties they would host there – the other footballer’s wives coming over on game days with casseroles and dips, his and Louis’ families coming for holiday dinners, maybe even a book club meeting once a month.

Harry smiled to himself as his eyes scanned the rest of the room. There was a baby grand piano beside the tree, covered in festive greens and fairy lights and several framed photographs of them. Several blown up black and white family photographs and a few paintings Harry recognized as Zayn’s hung on the walls.

“This is amazing,” Harry said reverently, finally letting himself look at Louis, whose eyes were glassy with tears.

“I’m glad you like it.”

Ruby tugged impatiently at his Harry’s pant leg. “Papa, let’s go up to mine room.”

“Okay, okay,” Harry conceded, reluctant to leave the downstairs. He felt for some odd reason like he had to soak up as much as he could, like he wouldn’t be living here for the next however many years. It still hadn’t sunk in that this was his – his and Louis’.

They stopped at the Master bedroom first, at the top of the stairs. It was understated and elegant – with dark blue walls and a King-sized bed heaped with pillows and a white down comforter. The bed was bookended by matching side tables, Harry’s side holding the book he was currently reading. There were two antique-looking, brass lamps on each side of the bed for reading and a flat screen television so they could watch movies as they fell asleep. The hearth from downstairs carried up to their room and there was a low fire crackling in the grate. Harry could already picture himself sprawled on the sheepskin rug in front of the fire on some rainy day, reading a book. Or else, Louis taking him apart on it, their skin glazed with sweat. Harry cleared his throat and glanced away, only to find Louis beaming at him.

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re insane,” Harry grinned, pecking him on the lips. Then, leaning closer to Louis’ ear, he whispered, “And I can’t wait for you to fuck me on that rug.” Louis’ face burned.

“Lots of rooms to christen. We’ll have to pace ourselves,” Louis winked, dragging Harry toward the closet, the twins toddling along after them.

Harry gasped aloud when he stepped into the walk-in closet. It was like being in a Brooks Brothers store. It was so masculine and upscale. Everything was hung or stowed neatly in wooden cubbies, including all their shoes and hats. Each cubby was illuminated with overhead track lighting so they could easily find what they were looking for. All of Harry’s stuff was to the right and all of Louis’ to the left, although Harry figured it wouldn’t be long before their clothes mingled together, as most of the things in their lives tended to do.

There were two full-length mirrors at the end of each aisle – the kind that made you look ridiculously good no matter what you were wearing. A pair of rolling laundry carts were tucked away neatly underneath some drawers and Harry laughed when he saw Louis had already thrown a pair of dirty socks and some paint-splattered jeans in his.

“Thought it would feel more lived in that way,” Louis said cheekily. Harry pinched his bottom and Louis gave an outraged squawk.

The adjoining master bathroom was truly a sight to behold – with a massive enclosed glass shower with several waterfall showerheads and natural stone flooring. The recessed Jacuzzi was deep and Zen looking – sunk down into a wooden plank floor – and surrounded by candles and clear apothecary jars of bath bombs and different oils. Harry couldn’t wait to get in it for a soak. It sure beat the cramped bath in their flat, where some part of him was always cold and sticking out.

There was a towel rack with neatly folded towels and every imaginable toiletry and a double-seated vanity with twin sinks for them to style their hair at and shave in the morning. Harry couldn’t believe the meticulous level of detail. Louis had thought of everything; it was almost like he had a dream list of Harry’s that he was checking everything off of.

“This is amazing, Lou. I can’t believe—”

“Come on then. There’s more.”

There was a cozy wood-paneled studio for Harry to do his writing in, the desk facing the back garden, arguably the best view in the house. Attached to the studio was a library – with built-in shelving and a rolling ladder to get books down and cozy, overstuffed armchairs. Harry couldn’t wait to read there on rainy afternoons, to do jigsaw puzzles with the kids on the carpet, to invite Alma there for tea.

The twins’ room was adorable – nautically themed with a roiling ocean painted on the walls and beds that looked like tiny boats and matching dressers with anchors for handles. The house felt like a dream – one he’d never allowed himself to have as a child – when dreaming only got his head knocked into doors or his fingers shut in drawers.

The door to the last room was shut and Louis’ hand stayed his wrist when he reached for the knob. “Wait. I—”

For a moment, they just observed each other, each waiting for the other to speak and then Louis nodded his head and Harry opened the door. The room was light and airy – with sunny yellow paint and sheer white netted curtains. There was only one thing in the room and that thing was a crib. Harry sat down on the floor hard beside it, the unexpected sight of it taking his breath away. It wasn’t the twins’ old crib. It was a new one.

“Is there something else you want to tell me?” Harry asked. A house was one thing – but Louis springing a kid on him was another – they hadn’t talked about it except in the abstract. When we have a bigger house or when the twins are out of diapers…

“Shit. I’m sorry.” Louis knelt down beside Harry, taking his hands in his. “It’s just a – a someday, you know? If maybe…we want to expand? It’s just like…room to grow. Not now necessarily, but someday…if you want? But that’s obviously a decision we would both make. Together.”

“Louis, do you want another baby?” Harry asked, chewing his lip. Admittedly, Harry was a bit baby obsessed. Once he’d gotten over the fear that he would turn into his father, he was unstoppable. He’d always loved kids – babysitting Louis’ little sisters through his teen years, and then eventually, his niece, Ginny.

He remembered the day several years ago, when Louis had found a baby onesie tucked into the top drawer of their dresser, before they’d seriously begun the baby discussion. Harry had wanted a baby so bad, he’d bought clothes for one he didn’t have. At first, he’d thought Louis would be angry or try to talk him out of it. He was at the peak of his career. They both wanted kids, but Louis kept saying it wasn’t the right time – that he wanted more money in the bank or to wait until the footie thing quieted down or until they had a bigger place.

But instead, he’d been quiet as he sat down on the bed, clutching the tiny shirt in his hands. “You didn’t say anything,” Louis said softly.

“I’m sorry. It’s silly,” Harry shook his head. “I was just at the shops and it was so cute. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“We’re never going to be ready, are we?” Louis asked. “There’s never going to be a good time.”

Harry’s heart had sunk. “You don’t want kids? I thought—”

“No, no, of course I do. I just – I guess I thought I would just know when it was time. Like…there would be a sign or something. I don’t know what I’ve been waiting for. If this is what you want, maybe it’s time we started…looking into it?”

Harry had started to cry. Besides Louis, he’d never wanted anything so much in his life. It felt like he’d been preparing his whole life to be a dad, to be the dad he’d never had, to love his own kids the way his own dad wouldn’t or couldn’t love him.

He’d forgotten the twins were there until Sully crawled into his lap, resting his warm, downy head on Harry’s chest. He smelled like sugar cookies and snow and Harry had never loved anyone as fiercely. Except maybe Louis.

“I want everything with you,” Louis said softly, seriously.

Ruby tugged at the sleeve of Louis’ jumper. “Daddy, I’m hungry.”

“All right sweetheart. We’ll go eat,” he grinned, booping her nose. “We can talk about it later,” Louis promised, squeezing Harry’s hand. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

They each took a twin, hips bumping as they made their way down the staircase – toward the champagne bright chatter of their combined family in the kitchen, toward the smell of roasted turkey and baking pies, toward a future in their new home. Harry’s heart felt so full of happiness, it felt a bit like sadness. Like it was too much for his body to contain. But then Sully burrowed his head into the Harry’s neck and his heart settled in his chest, content once more.

Chapter Text

~These streets are yours, you can keep them. I don't want them. They pull me back, and I surrender to the memories I run from~

These Streets

16 years ago

Liam found Zayn in the art room, hunched over a scarred, wooden table with a black laminate worktop, papers crowding nearly the whole surface. There was ink on his fingers and smudged fingerprints along his jawline and he was so beautiful that looking at him felt like a sickness, like the tender beginnings of a sore throat or that burning feeling at the backs of your eyes just before you cry.

Zayn was so engrossed in his work that a few minutes passed before he looked up and saw Liam standing there. He smiled, his whole face cleaved apart like the segments of clementine they’d shared at lunchtime. The memory of Zayn’s mouth, tart and sweet with citrus, opening up to Liam like a flower, had kept him arrested in a dream fog all afternoon. When Zayn smiled, Liam felt giddy and free, like wild horses were galloping through his chest, like his body was too small to contain everything inside of it.

Zayn spent a lot of time in the art room, so much so that it was sometimes impossible to think of him apart from that space. Whenever Liam held him in his mind’s eye, it was bent over that table furiously sketching or arranging rolls of unbound canvas on the drying rack or dutifully cleaning his brushes at the slop sink. Zayn inhabited the room in such a way that his environment seemed an extension of him, a bigger canvas to work things out onto. As a consequence, the time Liam got with him outside of the art room, outside of school, sometimes felt like stolen time, like was holding onto something not entirely of this world, like he was hiding a mermaid in his bathtub.

It was strange to think that in another year, they would both have moved on from this place and the art room would be just an art room again, no longer imbued with the magic of Zayn’s presence. No longer the place they had stolen kisses between classes, or listened to music together on the same pair of earbuds as an excuse to sit with their heads bent close, no longer the place where Zayn covertly sketched Liam while Liam did his homework. The thought made Liam’s heart ache a little. He wondered how much time he had left with Zayn. Every moment felt precious and borrowed, in danger of being their last.

“What’s this?” Liam asked, picking up the nearest crumpled ball of paper. He smoothed it down reverently on the countertop, studying the elegant lines with his fingertip. It was a drawing of two dancers and it was beautiful like everything Zayn put to paper. Liam couldn’t imagine why it was crumpled. Part of him wanted to gather up every crumpled piece of paper Zayn had deemed not good enough and keep them for himself. But he knew that wouldn’t help him hold on to Zayn any longer. Wouldn’t prolong their time together. If anything, it would remind him of how much was at stake.

“Oh,” Zayn said offhandedly, as if it weren’t important. As if only a moment ago, he hadn’t been wholly absorbed in the task. “The Winter Formal Committee asked me to mock up some sketches for a flyer.”

Liam frowned. Just yesterday, between the library stacks, during a rare break from kissing, Zayn had admitted how exhausted he was between his schoolwork and extra curricular art projects. “Haven’t you got enough on your plate, babe?”

Zayn shrugged, shoving papers at random into his portfolio. “They have a pretty decent budget this year, so I’ll actually be compensated for my time. Plus, it’ll look good on my transcripts for uni.”

Right. Uni . The thing that would be taking them away from each other in a few short months. Just as Liam had become comfortable with the idea of being gay. Or well, at least with the idea of being gay for Zayn.

“Well, as long as you’re not stressing yourself out unnecessarily,” Liam said finally, diplomatically. He felt like he was making a bigger, unspoken concession – for Zayn to pursue his dreams – even if they would eventually take him away from Liam.

Zayn’s back was to Liam as he packed up his knapsack, shoulders tense under his white Henley shirt. “D’you think…will you…are you going?” he asked in a tiny, timid voice.

“To uni?” Liam asked incredulously, surprised Zayn would ask him such an obvious question. It was all their whole group of mates had been talking about for months.

“No, to the dance,” Zayn said, exasperated, as he punched his arms into the sleeves of his leather jacket with a little too much force.

“Well, I mean, I’ve been the King two years running and the footie team usually all goes as a group, so it’s kind of expected at this point,” Liam shrugged. It wasn’t like he took any particular enjoyment out of going to dances, especially because Danielle had been such a good dancer and he’d always been so awkward at it. And now, this year, he wouldn’t even have a girlfriend to hide behind. All eyes would be on him.

Zayn spent an unusually long time washing up. In the tiny, dented mirror above the sink, Liam saw his rippled reflection open its mouth several times before closing it again. For once in his life, Zayn seemed uncharacteristically hesitant to speak. He always spoke his mind – about giant corporations and animal testing, about anything he perceived as an injustice or a sleight – even something so seemingly inconsequential as their school replacing all the soda in the vending machines with juice and water.

Liam had gotten in a full-blown row with him over it. “I don’t see what all the fuss is about. They’re just trying to give us healthier options.”

“The word option suggests you have a choice, Liam. This is fascism, plain and simple. And the whole anti-obesity crusade – other people making decisions for your health for “your own good” – reeks of fat-shaming and body-shaming. Plus, healthier food costs more than fast food and junk food so there’s the whole socio-economic angle too…”

“I think you’re making this a bigger deal than it is. Just bring soda from home if you want soda…” Zayn had given him a look that could curdle milk. In the end, Zayn had chained himself to a bank of vending machines outside the canteen and gotten several other students to protest alongside him. It had gotten him expelled, but the headmaster had agreed to a private meeting to air his grievances and a month later, the soda was mysteriously back in the vending machines (alongside the new healthy options).

“Yeah, I know it’s lame,” Liam rolled his eyes, trying to intercept the argument before it began. “And I know this sort of thing isn’t your thing, because you’re too cool and artistically tortured to enjoy any kind of voluntary school function outside class hours…but it’s really not all terrible. Niall’s DJing this year, so the music’s gonna be decent at least.”

“Right.” Zayn’s jawline was stiff as he finished packing up and Liam’s stomach sank. “So…just you and the guys then?” Zayn asked robotically, no inflection in his voice.

“Yeah. And like…whatever girls tag along. I think Andy’s Internet girlfriend might come so we’ll get to see if she’s an old dude catfishing him or not—” Liam joked, trying to lighten the mood.

Zayn nodded, suddenly distant.

Liam prattled on to fill the tense silence. “Did you still want to come over after school? The new season of Skins is on Netflix and my parents are out of town. I thought maybe—”

“You thought you could keep me hidden away in your bedroom?” Zayn asked icily.

“Are you angry?” Liam ventured, trying to wrap an arm around Zayn’s waist. Zayn shook it off. “I was just teasing about the artistically tortured thing…and it doesn’t have to be Netflix, we could do something else.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno…get take-away…other things,” Liam hinted with an eyebrow waggle, voice thick with innuendo.

“I just remembered I have a test to study for,” Zayn replied flatly.

“You can study at mine if you like? It’ll be quiet without anyone there.”

“I’ll just get distracted. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Are you sure you’re not mad?”

“Yeah,” Zayn gave Liam a tense smile that did nothing to assuage his fears. “Sorry. Just overworked, I guess.” He pecked Liam dryly on the cheek and when he pulled back, Liam swore for a second that he saw tears in Zayn’s eyes, but then Zayn turned away and was out the door before he could get a closer look.

***

“Hey, uh, Liam?” Liam glanced up from where he was putting his books back into his locker to see Harry standing there, nervously toying with his backpack strap. Liam felt his face suffuse with heat. Harry had stumbled upon him and Zayn in a rather compromising position a few days ago in the library and they’d both been avoiding each other ever since.

Zayn had smoothed everything over the same afternoon, but Liam and Harry still hadn’t been able to look each other in the eye. They weren’t close mates like Harry and Zayn were or even like Louis and Liam were, so it was understandable that Harry wouldn’t want to hash it out with him. And it wasn’t like Liam was going to bring it up – voluntarily. So the moment just sat there between them – the unacknowledged elephant in the room.

“Are you sure he’s not upset with me?” Liam had asked Zayn over and over, when they were lying in Zayn’s bed that evening. He couldn’t stand the thought of anyone being cross with him. Even someone he barely knew. And he and Harry had gotten off to a rough start to say the least.

“He’s just embarrassed.”

“I was the one with my dick out—”

Zayn snorted, turning the page of his comic book. He was wearing his glasses, as he normally did before bed and the light danced along his lenses as he turned his face to give Liam’s ear a reassuring kiss. “It’s fine, babe. He’ll get over it.”

“And you’re sure he didn’t tell anyone?”

Zayn’s expression had darkened over then. “He’s not like that. And would it really matter if he did?”

“Do you have…are you busy?” Harry asked, digging the toe of his shoe into the linoleum floor. He was a lot less awkward then he used to be, but it still came out in moments of insecurity. Liam nearly cringed.

When Liam had first moved to Holmes Chapel, he had steered well clear of Harry and anyone like him, the bullying of his old school too fresh to be accidently lumped in with the wrong crowd. He’d aligned himself with the jocks right away, bending over backwards to fit in and be liked, all the while scoffing at kids like Harry. Kids who wouldn’t make more of an effort to buy the right clothes or befriend the right people. The truth was Harry made him uncomfortable because he was everything Liam hated about himself, everything he had tried to snuff out so he could fit in.

“Oh, uh, I have practice in a little,” Liam fumbled for an excuse.

“It’ll only take a minute.”

“Well, could we walk toward the locker room and talk on the way?” Liam asked, shouldering his duffle bag.

“Yeah. I guess that’d be okay,” Harry conceded, though he didn’t look entirely thrilled about it.

“Listen, if this is about the other day in the library, I’m just gonna stop you right there—”

Harry blushed, rushing to respond. “No, no. That’s – I mean – that’s your business. And whatever you want to do is A-Ok, so long as you’re both consenting and safe— And like, I’m not judging you or anything. It’s totally cool if you’re gay—”

“Well, I’m not,” Liam snapped abruptly, suprising even himself with how much venom there was in his words.

“Oh, well, bi or whatever then? Shit. Listen, I want to talk to you about Zayn and I think this has gotten a bit off track.”

“Frankly, as you said before, I don’t think it’s any of your business,” Liam said coolly. Was Harry trying to out him? What was his angle here?

Harry nodded, steeling himself before continuing. “You’re absolutely right. It’s just – Zayn’s my mate, my best mate and I don’t want to see him hurt again.”

“So what, you’re like threatening me?” Liam asked defensively.

Harry shrank back a little and Liam winced. He forgot how intimidating he looked now. He still felt the need to throw up his defenses, like he was the bullied victim, even though it had some time since he actually was.

“No, sorry. I’m not saying you would hurt him, it’s just…the other day—” Harry paused, seeming to wrestle with something internally. “You can’t tell him I said this to you — promise me, okay? Because I’m not really sure that I should be saying this to you.”

Liam nodded. “Go on.”

“The other day, he was crying.” Liam’s stomach dropped to the floor. Zayn put up a big front of being tough, but Liam knew he had insecurities like anyone else. That he wore panties under his ripped skinny jeans and leather jacket. The thought of him being hurt or made vulnerable made Liam feel sick.

“Did he tell you why?”

“I think…he was hurt you didn’t ask him to the winter formal. That it wasn’t even a thought in your mind? I think he thinks that like – you’re embarrassed of him? Because you only ever do stuff in private? And I think he just doesn’t want to be someone’s dirty secret. Again. And if that’s what he is, then you just need to be honest with him. He’ll never admit that he’s hurt because he’s too proud. He’ll just keep withdrawing and withdrawing and you’ll never know why — but he’s trying to protect himself.”

“He wants me to take him to the winter formal?” Liam asked, completely floored by what Harry was telling him. “He doesn’t even like dances.”

“Oh. Has he said that?” Harry blinked, owl-eyed.

“No, but I just —” Liam’s mouth fell open when he realized. He’d just made the assumption without asking. “Fuck. I’m an idiot, aren’t I?”

Harry just shrugged, clearly embarrassed.

***

“Hey,” Liam panted, sweaty and disheveled from running all over campus to find Zayn. He’d been in none of his usual haunts – the art room, the library, the backstage area of the auditorium where he sometimes worked on perfecting his makeup techniques. Liam finally found him on the roof of the school – but only after he’d nearly been brained by a plate Zayn had dropped off the roof.

Zayn was wearing a beanie and an oversized gray hoodie that Liam was pretty sure was Louis’, over a pair of black ripped skinnies. There was a cardboard box containing a motely assortment of china at his feet that looked like it had been raided from various rummage sales. And Zayn was slowly decimating it, piece by piece.

“What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” Zayn asked, tossing a mug unceremoniously over the edge. It landed with a loud crash on the concrete below. Liam winced, scrubbing a hand over the close-cropped hair at the back of his neck.

“It looks like you’re making a mess,” Liam frowned, chin puckering.

Zayn rolled his eyes. “I’m making a mosaic. I could’ve used a hammer, but Mr. Frank said I couldn’t take any more safety goggles out of the science lab since I didn’t return the last pair. So it was either this or risking shards of pottery getting imbedded in my eye.”

“Oh, well…that sort of makes sense. Mind if I join you?” Liam asked.

Zayn raised a hand over his eyes and squinted at Liam through the late afternoon sun, evaluating him for a moment before finally handing him a dish. “At least make yourself useful.”

Liam peered over the edge before letting the dish drop. The satisfying pop it made when it shattered on the pavement loosened some of the tension from his neck and shoulders. Breaking things was oddly gratifying.

“Why aren’t you at practice?” Zayn asked conversationally as he rummaged through the box for another plate. Their hands brushed momentarily, but Zayn snatched his back as if he’d been burned.

Liam shrugged. “I skipped.”

Zayn made an exaggerated gesture of mock horror. “You skipped practice?”

“I wanted to talk to you – about – about the other day—”

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” Zayn said, winging a dish off the roof like a Frisbee. It crashed below and a girl’s voice yelped in surprise.

Zayn leaved over the edge, giving her a sheepish wave. “Oi. Sorry.” The girl shot him a dirty look and stomped off across the quad, clutching her backpack straps tighter.

When Zayn settled back down, he looked over to find Liam staring at him. “What?” he demanded. “She should have looked where she was going.”

“Were you upset because I didn’t ask you to the dance?” Liam blurted out.

“What? Did Harry—?” Zayn’s expression darkened.

Liam visibly wilted. “Please don’t be mad at him. It’s my fault. I made an assumption without asking. It’s just – you never showed any kind of interest in that sort of thing before…”

“You weren’t my boyfriend before,” Zayn replied softly.

“Oh,” Liam responded, the breath punching out of his lungs in a tiny deflated sigh. “So you do want to go the dance with me?”

“I just wanted to be asked,” Zayn said in a small voice as he reached for another plate. Liam stayed his wrist.

“I’m sorry, okay? This –” he waved a hand helplessly between them. “This is all new to me. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I can be completely clueless sometimes. So you have to help me out. I don’t exactly pick up on subtlety. I knew you were upset, but if Harry hadn’t told me why, I’d never have figured it out on my own.”

Zayn mulled over Liam’s words a moment before speaking. “If you and Danielle were still dating, would you have asked her?” he asked finally.

“Honestly? I mean…I probably wouldn’t have even had to…I guess it would kind of be assumed. That if we were dating, I’d take her.”

“Right. And I’m your boyfriend, yeah? So why should it be any different with me?”

“I told you – I didn’t think it would be the sort of thing you’d like – getting dressed up, dancing to cheesy Top 40 songs. I mean…I don’t even like it all that much – it was always more Dani’s thing…”

“And what’s my thing exactly?” Zayn asked acidly.

“I don’t know. Throwing dishes off the school roof? Chaining yourself to vending machines? Wearing…” Liam flushed, the rest of his sentence inferred by his silence.

“Panties?” Zayn finished for him. “Is that it? You’re embarrassed?”

“Fuck. No.” Liam smacked his forehead with his palm. “That’s not what I’m saying. You’re twisting my words. I just meant – you’re complicated. You’re not like anyone I’ve ever known. I like that you make me work for it, that you make me think…I like that you see the world differently than anyone around you. I like that you make me see things differently too. I guess I thought that someone as cool and complicated as you wouldn’t want to go to something so mundane as a school dance.”

Zayn glanced up, his eyes burning with something fierce and nameless. “I want what anyone wants Liam.” Liam looked at Zayn like he was a piece of modern art he wasn’t quite sure how to interpret.

“I want to be loved. I want to be treated special. I want flowers and romance and school dances. I want you to show me off. I don’t want to be just Mr. Half-time Hand job in the backseat of your hatchback.”

“Zayn, you’re not – how could you think that’s what you are to me?” Liam asked, horrified.

Zayn bit his lip, glancing away. “Because you’ve never told me otherwise. How was I supposed to know?”

“I thought it was just…inferred.”

Zayn snorted incredulously. “Shit, you weren’t kidding about the clueless bit, were you?”

“I’m sorry. I’m not really an expert communicator. And I’m not entirely comfortable with the gay thing yet, if I’m being honest. But I couldn’t be further from embarrassed of you. Quite the opposite actually?”

Zayn chewed his lip, but there was something slightly softened about his posture that suggested he didn’t want to throw Liam off the roof just yet. “And what’s the opposite of embarrassed?”

“I’m proud of you. And I’m like…I’m falling in love with you, okay? And the thought of losing you over some stupid dance makes me feel sick. Of course I want you as my date. And if you want to be like…properly public boyfriends, I’ll do it for you, even though nothing scares the shit out of me more.” Sensing Zayn’s thawing resolve, Liam scooted closer to him on the ledge, cupping both of Zayn’s hands in his, like they were tiny wild sparrows about to take flight.

“Will you do me the honor of being my date to the Winter formal? And being my boyfriend?”

Zayn grinned crookedly. “Ask me again tomorrow? Properly? With flowers? And I might consider saying yes,” he replied cheekily.

Before Liam had a chance to reply, Zayn kissed the shocked expression right off his lips. “I’m falling for you too, you big idiot,” he whispered hotly against Liam’s ear. “So don’t fuck it up.”

***

Zayn paused in his sewing and chanced a glance at his mum. They’d been slowly rekindling their relationship over the past few months and he couldn’t have been happier to have her back in his life. It felt good to have family around, the nock of her sewing needle against a thimble and the whistling snores of Harley sleeping on the floor providing the perfect soundtrack of domesticity.

He was settling into his room at Harry and Louis’ new house, but despite their best efforts to make it special for him – and it was special – it felt temporary. It was a mere stopover on the way to his real life – his life with Liam. The day in June when they would meet again was circled in red on the calendar above his bed and some days it felt like it would never come.

Every night, Zayn fell asleep in one of Liam’s baggy t-shirts, curled around a pillow that no longer smelled of him and dreamt of his face and his hands and his kind eyes. And every time he made the slightest bit of progress in therapy or had some silly anecdote from his day to share, he’d reach for his mobile to call him. Sometimes, Zayn even got so far as typing out texts that he then deleted, the blinking cursor leaving everything between them unspoken.

He’d been making so much progress – not just outwardly – gaining muscle and weight and cutting back on smoking – but inwardly too. He’d actually been unearthing his issues with a psychologist instead of just self-medicating and he was starting to feel a bit like his old self again. Or, well, as much like his old self as he could.

His mother’s head was bent studiously over her work, her wavy dark hair obscuring her expression. When he’d told her about Liam’s proposal, she’d let out a whoop of excitement and that very same week dragged him to London’s garment district to pick out fabric for a wedding dress. He tried to tell her she was jumping the gun, but she kept referring to Liam as her “handsome son-in-law” to anyone who asked. His mother could be pretty stubborn when she wanted to. They shared that, really.

“Do you ever wish…I’d turned out differently? That you didn’t have a son who dressed in dresses? Or that you’d had another daughter instead?” Zayn asked curiously, taking a sip of his tea from the mug on the bedside table. It had long since gone cold, but the gesture itself, the ritual of it, soothed his nerves.

Zayn’s mum frowned, the best she could, with a stitch ripper clenched between her back teeth and her eyes focused on rethreading a needle. There was about ten yards of fabric spread out over the bed and their laps – a white ocean, with a froth of glittering beads. Zayn felt vaguely like he was drowning. There was a heaviness in his chest today that would not depart, a sense of impending dread that he could not shake.

Trisha paused in her work, refocusing her attention solely on him. She had a way of doing that – of making you feel like the most important person in the room – that reminded Zayn of Harry. Zayn was a quiet person by nature – preferring to speak only when it improved upon the silence. Besides, that’s what he had art for – to say the things he could only clumsily express in words.

His mum took his hand and squeezed it, so he could feel the shape of his knuckles in her palm. “Are you having second thoughts about the dress? I didn’t mean to push it. If you’re unsure —”

“No. No. The dress is great. Just like – you couldn’t have anticipated I would be like this. Were you ever like…disappointed?” Zayn chewed his lip, not daring to meet his mother’s eyes. It was a question he’d wanted to ask ever since he was young. But he’d never until that moment wanted the answer, not really. Now, he needed it. Because if his own mother struggled with accepting him, what hope did he have with Liam? What hope did he have of raising Ben?

Trisha sighed, setting her sewing aside. “When you’re pregnant, your child is just a dream. There’s no way to know what you’ll get; what to expect. So you imagine. You wonder what their eyes will look like, if they’ll have their dad’s nose, if they’ll be serious or light-hearted. But then they’re born and it’s like – the dream dissolves and there’s a real person in its place. And that’s okay…it’s more than okay. It’s as it should be. Because you, the reality of you, was always so much better than my dreams could ever be.”

Zayn blushed, lowering his face. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve such loving, accepting parents.

“When you first started trying on Doniya’s dresses, you were only two or three years old. You were both babies and so close in age we thought you might just be trying to imitate big sister. We never told you stop because we never wanted you to feel like what you did was wrong, like who you were was wrong.”

Trisha picked up her sewing again, but continued to talk, weaving the words into the fabric. “For a time, I thought, maybe I was wrong. Maybe I didn’t have a daughter and a son. Maybe I had two beautiful daughters. But you never showed any sign of hating your body. You liked being naked, you liked standing up to wee. You just also liked to wear dresses.”

Zayn nodded. He’d never really thought of himself as trans because there was no cognitive dissonance between the way he presented outwardly and the way he perceived himself. Possibly, he was gender fluid or gender queer – he’d never been entirely interested in labels – he just knew that he liked being a boy, but that he also liked being pretty.

“You remember the first time you took me to Victoria’s Secret?” Zayn snorted, recalling how overwhelmed he’d been by the colors and selection. They’d ordered from the magazine from then on – Trisha leaving it on his bed when it arrived in the post – and he’d turn down the pages of the things he wanted and return it to her. She’d never made a big deal of it, never made him feel weird for wanting it.

“I remember you crying in the car on the way home,” she teased him gently.

“I was just so happy,” Zayn shrugged, a bit embarrassed.

“That’s what you said then too. I remember saying, ‘it’s just a bra Zaynie.’ And you said, ‘no, no it’s not.’”

Zayn nodded. He remembered the day well. “You were the first person to see me, mum. Not just the parts I showed to everyone else, but the parts I tried to hide. It was like...putting on glasses for the first time and realizing you’d never had good vision, realizing you were finally seeing what everyone else was seeing. It was all so clear.  I just remember thinking…I can breathe.”

Trisha sniffed. “You’re gonna make me cry, you sop.”

Zayn swiped his own tears with the backs of his hands, passing his mum a tissue. “Do you think…do you think Liam sees me?”

“I think I’ve never seen anyone look at you the way that boy does. I know he’s struggled with it – with himself – more than you did. But I see how hard he tries, how much he goes out of his own comfort zone to make sure you feel comfortable. And that’s the important thing, isn’t it?”

Zayn frowned. “It’s going to sound so stupid – because I loved him all these years – but I never thought we would end up together. I never even let myself think it.”

“Why not?”

“Because that would mean that all the bad things I thought about myself – about bringing Liam down, about keeping him from a normal life – were never true. That my worst enemy wasn’t a society that wouldn’t accept me, but that I stood in the way of my own happiness. That I wouldn’t let myself have the one thing I wanted more than anything else…”

Trisha sighed empathetically. “Sweetheart, that’s normal. The hardest thing in the world is accepting the love you deserve. And you do – you deserve Liam – and you have to believe that he deserves you too.”

Zayn gave her a lopsided grin. “I’m starting to come round to that way of thinking.”

***

Sometimes, the time apart from Liam felt like the Grand Canyon of distances – vast and insurmountable. But other times, it felt like it wasn’t enough, like there would never be enough time and distance to make Zayn into the person he was meant to be. When Zayn was pushing himself through another juddering step, when his leg muscles were burning and his bones ground together like damp chalk, he didn’t think of how far he’d come. He only thought of how far he had to go.

“You’re pushing yourself too hard,” Harry frowned, when he came upon Zayn red-faced and sweating on the treadmill one afternoon.

“I have to show him – I have to –” Zayn gulped, trying to force more air into his lungs.

“You don’t have to anything, you stubborn arse,” Harry rolled his eyes. He set down the basket of laundry he was balancing on one hip and pressed the off-switch on the treadmill. “Louis’ mum has the twins today. Let’s take a bubble-bath, yeah?”

By the time Louis came home, they were sitting with their backs to opposite ends of the tub, their sudsy knees pillared against one another’s, cheeks pleasantly rosy from the steam. Harry had insisted on a bath bomb and the water was now a sparkling, offensive shade of bright pink.

“Room for three?” Louis asked, not waiting for an answer before stripping out of his sweaty kit and smelly trainers. He wedged himself between Harry’s thighs, displacing a bucketful of water onto the floor in the process.

“Nice that you lot get to laze around all day,” he griped, giving Harry’s knee an affectionate squeeze.

“Hey,” Harry protested, pinching Louis’ hip. “I’ve been getting the house ready all day.”

Harry’s book had been published as a memoir a few months ago and it had slowly climbed its way to the top of the New York Times Best Seller list. They were having a couple of friends over to celebrate – Perrie and Eleanor, Niall and Barbara and their lot, Lottie (who was going to school in London now) and Zayn’s sister, Doniya and her new baby. Harry had invited a couple of the football wives too and he’d been stressing over the menu all week.

“I know,” Louis grinned. “Have I mentioned how proud of you I am?”

“Not in the last two minutes, no,” Harry smiled, letting Louis capture his lips in a lazy kiss.

“If you guys start having sex right now I swear to Allah—” Zayn groaned.

“What, you don’t want to join?” Louis teased, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“I’m waiting til marriage,” Zayn sniffed.

“How’s that going?” Louis smirked, eyes sparkling mischievously.

Zayn flexed the muscle in his right arm. “That answer your question?”

Harry snorted. “Well, we won’t compromise your maidenhood, but you’re always welcome for a cuddle, love.”

“Thanks,” Zayn grinned, splashing Harry.

***

Zayn was sweating. I mean, granted, it was June so it was warm out, but the aircon was on full blast and still somehow his shirt clung to his back with sweat. The alcohol probably wasn’t helping things. But it was only to calm the shaking in his hands as he waited on a stool in an airport bar and watched for Liam to arrive.

After pacing his room all morning, his legs were already verging on unbearably sore. He was worried he’d try to take a step toward Liam and collapse like a baby deer stepping out onto an icy pond. And the ring in his pocket felt like it was burning a hole into his thigh. He was due to meet Liam at one thirty, but he’d given up on waiting around at home at nine thirty and had come to the airport ridiculously early, sitting himself down at the bar with a drink and a stack of trashy tabloids to pass the time.

So now there was the agony of waiting, of searching for Liam’s face in a sea of strangers and wondering what he’d do if Liam didn’t show.

“You need to have an exit plan,” his psychologist had said, when he’d met with her two days ago at her office downtown. “The point of taking these six months apart was to work on yourself. And yes, that potentially means having stronger future with Liam, but it also means being a stronger, better Zayn. A Zayn, who’s mentally prepared for either outcome.”

“I just – I don’t know what I’ll do if he doesn’t show up. I feel like I’ve been preparing everything I want to say to him for months and if he doesn’t show –”

“Zayn, you’re healthier than you were six months ago, yes?” Zayn nodded, almost reluctantly. “And you’ve got a support system in place – your family and Harry and Louis and Harley and your friends. And the money’s there once you’re ready to move out of Harry and Louis’ place, whether it’s into a house with Liam or a place of your own. I know you started this journey out trying to be a better, worthy man for Liam. But somewhere along the way, it became about you too, yeah? You have to protect yourself and sometimes that means preparing for the worst.”

Zayn nodded, swallowing the hurt in his throat. “Tell me what you’re feeling right now.”

“Like I’ll die if he doesn’t show.”

“And after?”

“I guess I’d just pick myself up and get on with things.”

“That’s the Zayn I know,” she grinned. “Now go get him.”

Zayn picked at the edge of his sandwich, tearing a shred of lettuce off and ripping it into smaller pieces. He’d gotten some food and an iced tea so he wasn’t completely wasted when Liam did finally show, but he’d hardly eaten any of it because his stomach was fluttering so madly. He was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t realize Liam had arrived, until he glanced up at the clock and saw Liam walking towards him, a giant grin on his face.

Zayn fumbled for his phone, managing to pull up Liam’s number after a few tries. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Liam breathed and his voice was so familiar it pulled at something in Zayn’s chest. He’s here, he’s here, he’s here! His heart sang.

“Can you go back over to where you were standing? By the departure sign?” Zayn blurted out. Liam halted, a frown puckering his brow.

“Depends. Are you planning on making an escape?”

“No. Promise. Just do it please?” Zayn asked, wiping his hands on a napkin and taking a last sip of his tea.

True to his word, Liam walked back to where he’d started, leaning up against a pillar by a newsstand. “Better?”

“Just stay on the line. I’m gonna put my blue tooth in,” Zayn said, slipping in his earpiece so he had a free hand to use his cane.

“I’m here,” Liam replied softly.

“Yeah, you are,” Zayn grinned, the relief in his chest expanding like a balloon. He stood, taking his time rounding the counter. The last thing he wanted was to trip right out of the gate and make a complete fool of himself.

He heard Liam’s slight intake of breath on the other end as he watched him and felt a surge of pride in his chest. He knew he’d come a long way since he’d last seen Liam. They’d spent the holidays together – Louis’ birthday and Christmas and New Years – before parting ways. He’d barely been able to manage three steps then, even standing for too long made him tired and sore. Now, he was able to take Harley on long walks around the neighborhood. Well, long, slow walks.

“Wow. You’re doing so well. I guess it’s a good thing you fired your old therapist. He was really holding you back,” Liam joked, but his eyes were big and sparkling and his mouth wouldn’t stop smiling, even when he spoke.

“Guess so. Do you come to this airport often then?” Zayn asked, concentrating on the sound of Liam’s voice and the rhythmic click of his cane on the floor and not the dull throbbing in his legs.

Liam’s eyebrow quirked. “I’m supposed to meet someone here.”

“Really? Me too. What a strange coincidence."

“Oh? Someone special?” Liam asked casually, playing along.

“Yeah,” Zayn smiled bashfully. “Yeah, he’s really special.”

“What makes him so special then?” Liam teased.

“Well, he’s a very patient man. He’s been waiting for me a long time. And he’s a very kind man. He’s great with kids and well, with people in general. He’s not too bad on the eyes either.” Zayn lowered his voice, “And he does this amazing thing with his tongue...”

“Oh?” Liam stuttered, the red on his face evident even at a distance.

“Yeah. And I’ve been spending the last six months trying to learn to walk again so I could walk into his arms the way I should have done ten years ago,” Zayn said softly.

“Oh, Zayn,” the breath punched out of Liam’s chest in a soft, shuddering exhale and tears flooded his brown eyes. Another two steps and Zayn was standing in front of him. Liam didn’t wait for him to come any closer. He grabbed Zayn by the hips and hoisted him up off the floor, spinning him in a circle. Zayn's cane clattered to the ground and he tightened his legs around Liam’s waist, laughing breathlessly as he spun them.

“I’ve missed you so damn much,” Liam panted, burying his face in Zayn’s neck. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I can’t believe you’re here either. You going to put me down now?”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Liam laughed, sucking in the scent of Zayn’s neck. “Fuck. I missed how you smelled. It’s taking every ounce of self control not to disrobe you in front of the entire airport.”

Zayn snorted a laugh. “I wouldn’t stop you.” He kissed Liam – soft pecks at first, marveling in the way their lips fit together – their mouths slowly melding into a long, drawn-out kiss.

Liam finally set Zayn down, their breathing ragged. He reached for his pocket, bending down on one knee as he fumbled the box out. “Zayn, I should have fought for you. Not when strangers called us names or embarrassed me. But when it counted. I should never have let you walk away. I’m going to spend the rest of my life giving you reasons to stay. I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to be a man worthy of your love.”

Liam popped open the black velvet box he was holding. The ring was a simple, elegant silver band, threaded through with diamonds. Liam’s hands shook as he slid it onto Zayn’s finger. “Will you marry me, Zayn?”

Zayn laughed, covering his mouth with both hands. “On one condition?”

Liam raised his eyebrow. “Don’t make me wait another six months babe.”

Zayn dug in his own pocket, pulling out the ring he’d gotten for Liam. Liam’s was black and silver, a masculine complement to Zayn’s own ring. “That you’ll marry me too?”

Liam’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. “You got me a ring?”

“I’d get on my knees to give it to you properly, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to get up again.”

Liam rose to his feet, letting Zayn slide the ring onto his finger. He held Zayn’s face in his hands, searching his eyes for a moment before surging forward to capture his mouth in a kiss. “Yes,” he breathed, their foreheads resting against each other.

“Yes. Me too,” Zayn laughed, kissing Liam again.

Liam threaded his fingers through Zayn’s, looking at their rings together. “Can I take a picture to send to my mum?” Zayn asked, lifting his phone.

Liam nodded. “Why don’t we Instagram it?” he asked cheekily.

“No. Mums first. And Harry. Then Instagram.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Liam agreed, taking his own picture.

They each sent a quick text off to their families. “Now what?” Zayn asked.

“Now, the rest of our lives,” Liam grinned, swinging their linked hands together. “But first…you fancy going somewhere?”

“What? Like now?” Zayn asked incredulously. Liam had always been the practical one in their relationship. Zayn was the spontaneous, risk-taker of the pair and sometimes he forgot that they were grown now. That Liam wasn’t the shy jock who blushed when he discovered Zayn in panties.

“Yeah. I mean…we’re at an airport. Seems a waste to go home now.”

“What about Ben?”

“My mum’s got him for the weekend. What do you say? Anywhere you want.”

“But we haven’t – we haven’t even got luggage,” Zayn laughed.

“So we’ll buy some clothes there,” Liam grinned, with a crazy glint in his eyes. “Besides…” he lowered his voice, “wherever we go, I plan on keeping you out of clothes as much as possible.”

“How do you feel about Greece? I could go for some yogurt. Wouldn’t mind a swim in the ocean either.”

“Sounds good to me, fiancé,” Liam agreed, tugging Zayn closer by the waist.

“The last time I was at the airport, I was coming home after – after everything,” Zayn said softly, the realization striking him once they’d bought their tickets at the counter.

Liam froze. “Babe, we don’t have to go anywhere. I’d be just as happy sitting at home on the couch with you.”

“No,” Zayn shook his head, a smile stealing over his face. “I want to go. I was just thinking…I barely recognize that person now. Who I used to be. I felt like I had nothing left to live for and now – and now it feels like I have everything,” Zayn choked, eyes getting misty with tears.

“You always had everything,” Liam said softly, kissing Zayn’s lips. “Now you just have me too. But you were always enough. I’m sorry Xavier ever made you doubt it. You were always, always more than enough.”

Zayn nodded, tears glittering in his eyes. “I’m just…I’m so happy.”

Liam smiled, stroking the shaved underside of Zayn’s hair. “Me too.”

“I’m wearing a dress to the wedding,” Zayn blurted out.

Liam laughed, caught off guard by Zayn's candor. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”