Chapter Text
The end of the year is special. It’s a time to reminisce about the past year, moments and memories. To reflect on the events that dragged you down, only for you to come out stronger. Wiser. Older. It’s the time where people gather together to look forward to the new year, a clean beginning, a fresh slate. It’s all that, but to these five boys, it’s even more.
It’s a blissful week where they’re just them. No work obligations, no pap pictures to be taken, no wardrobe already picked out, no product to sell.
The absolute leisure is embodied in the lethargic way they’re sprawled about, a muted rerun of a footie match in the background. Debris of beer bottles and wine glasses litter the coffee table and carpet, an empty pizza box with faded grease marks perched on the edge of the sofa. It embodies the sleep sinking into their bones, the box swaying every so often, but never falling off. Niall’s electric fire is burning merrily, the flames flickering in a warm glow over Harry who’s lying before it, feet wrapped in a fuzzy pink socks. He’s got his head pillowed on Liam’s lap, nudging him whenever Liam slows in petting Harry’s hair. Liam’s leaning on the sofa, his other arm splayed over Louis who’s colouring in Liam’s tattoos. It’s impossible to tell where Louis ends and Zayn begins, their intertwined legs hidden under a soft, cashmere blanket. From this angle, his head sharing the same pillow as Zayn’s, body stretched in the opposite direction, Niall can't tell if Zayn’s awake or not.
Seven years ago, when they first started this tradition, it looked different. It felt different. The night was filled with a thrum of excitement, fresh faces eager to take on anything the future threw at them. Harry and Louis weren’t able to stop touching, seeking reassurance that their brilliant luck of finding each other wasn’t going to dissolve when the clock struck twelve, their hands begging for contact. The other three had sought solace in each other, still discovering how they fit into the group. It was new, exciting but nerve-wracking; a fresh coat of paint that hadn’t yet set, final shade of colour still to be determined.
It had changed over the years. Excitement gave way to nostalgia of earlier, easier days. Bright eyes traded for dark circles. Young love replaced with a tense desperation. Coaxing Zayn that he still belonged two years ago, unable to stop their tears last year, unable to let go of each other. They’d been through a lot these boys, more than many ever experience in a life time. And through it all, it was always came back to them.
The five of them together.
“Are we starting?” Louis looks away from Liam’s arm. “If we wait any longer, Zayn’s going to fall asleep.” Zayn kicks him in retaliation, his hair tickling Niall’s cheek when he turns his head. He smiles at Niall, a pout almost, sleep pulling at his lips. His eyes are cloudy when he blinks, their heads so close that Niall can see the sleep leave his features. Zayn catches him looking and places a kiss to Niall’s forehead.
“I’ll go,” Harry offers around a yawn, turning his head in Liam’s lap so he’s facing the others. It sets off Zayn, who lets out an even bigger yawn, struggling as he crawls into a seated position. He looks uncomfortable, his legs still under the blanket with Louis’, but the newly made lap provides a spot for Niall’s head. He shuffles up the sofa, depositing his head into Zayn’s lap, pleased when Zayn automatically runs his hand through Niall’s hair. They’re lucky the five of them, if only for the fact that they’re all equally tactile.
“What are you thankful for, H?” Liam prods.
Even though Harry volunteered to go first, he still takes his time, twisting the rose ring on his finger. It’s the only one he’s got on, having left his others at home. Zayn had returned the rose to him when they’d gotten to Niall’s, some Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants agreement between the two of them. Niall’s not sure exactly what went down, but one day, Niall stopped seeing the ring on Zayn’s finger and instead on Harry’s. It’s much too complicated, the lot of them sentimental fools, tattooing their love for each other on their bodies, exchanging jewellery like is going out of style.
Niall closes his eyes, sighing happily when Zayn scratches behind his ear. Harry’s obviously going to say his solo album. He’d kept it so close to his heart, lost himself in his music, away from the rest of the world. He’d resurface every few days to gush about the process, only to disappear again.
“Dunkirk,” Harry finally says.
“What?” the others turn toward him in unison. Louis swears under his breath when the pen draws outside of the border of Liam’s feather.
“Thought you’d say your album,” Zayn voices what Niall was thinking.
Harry scrunches his nose in thought. “The music was great, but…” He trails off, biting his lip. His eyes dart toward Louis who smiles softly at him. “It got overshadowed by the rest – the interviews, the gossip, the image. Everything came down to the image. Fuck, I started to hate the suits eventually. Missed jeans and loose shirts.”
“Everyone missed your nipples,” Liam says solemnly, tweaking one them.
Harry bats his hand away. “’M not ungrateful for the music. There were so many good things. Breaking records, touring smaller venues. I loved the band. But like, they kept pushing, trying to get a Grammy, making sure I was the next best thing. Besides,” he rubs his nose into Liam’s sweats, “touring solo gets a little lonely.”
Niall blinks at that, the words settling deep into his chest. He remembers the sheer delight at seeing Harry at the shared concerts, of desperately wishing he could run out on stage with him. The frustration at not being able to interact with Harry publically. He remembers the quiet comfort of sharing rooms with Liam on the Jingle Ball tours, of how a private dinner with Zayn and Louis would keep him going for the next few weeks. He understands exactly what Harry means.
“Dunkirk was different. Different promotional strategy, different team. I wasn’t meant to stand out, wasn’t meant to be famous. I was part of a team again.” He shuffles onto his back again. “I liked the acting too. It was cool.”
It was. Dunkirk was fucking fantastic. Niall had seen it five times, pointing out Harry every time he was on the screen. He even managed to annoy Louis, the second time they saw it together, who got Niall to shut up by saying, “I think I know the face of the man I’ve been fucking for the past seven years, Neil. Even did it while he was wearing the Dunkirk costume.” That was also the last time Niall had watched the film.
“Lime?” Louis prompts, sensing that Harry’s done.
Liam smirks. “That the chain didn’t become a part of my image. Despite you two trying your hardest.” It sets them laughing, easing some of the seriousness.
“The Payne Chain,” Harry snorts, and they’re rolling around, Niall stubbing his toe as he falls off the sofa.
“Seriously though,” Liam says after the noise has died down to a few chuckles. “I’m just glad that my promo became more about me and the music.”
Louis squeezes his hand sympathetically, the two in a similar boat. Niall feels the need to comfort them, despite them having long learned how to deal with the crappy situations. He crawls from where he’s fallen over to Liam, snuggling into his side, breathing in his scent. It's warmer here on the floor, closer to the fire. Zayn tosses an empty chocolate wrapper at Niall for abandoning him, smiling smugly when it bounces off Niall and hits Harry in between the eyes.
“Zaynner?” Louis asks before Niall and Harry can retaliate. Which is probably a good thing. They might be in their mid-twenties, calmer and more subdued in their skin, but it doesn’t take much to bring out the restless, frenetic energy of their teens.
Zayn smiles softly, before it grows into a full blown smirk. “Liam’s abs.”
“No,” Louis stops him.
“You can’t just reject what he’s thankful for!” Liam protests.
“He was going to go into detail!”
“Harry went into detail,” Zayn pouts.
“About his emotions. Not about how Liam’s abs make him horny.”
“But Lou,” Zayn grins, climbing over Louis. “Are you sure you don’t want to know how I licked –“ His words are cut off by Louis covering his mouth and shoving his face away.
“I want to hear!” Harry says. “What were you licking?” Liam leans down to whisper into Harry’s ear, and Niall chokes on his beer when Harry’s face morphs into pure delight.
“I have another one,” Zayn speaks from where he’s now wormed his way between Louis and the sofa, the blanket rearranged to cover them both.
“Is it clean?” Louis asks.
“Don’t be a prude.” Niall gets a flick on his ear for his efforts.
“I got on the Dean’s List.”
It’s quiet for a moment before Niall, Harry, and Louis erupt, shouting adulations at Zayn, who burrows himself deeper into Louis. Last September, when Zayn had told them he was going to study English and Political Sciences from NYU, it hadn’t come as a surprise to any of them. Other than Harry asking why not one of the British schools, they didn’t have any other questions. It had been a long time coming, Zayn’s disenchantment with the industry after being forced to leave, how he had wanted to lose himself and stay away from the slander of celebrity. He’d been working on his music quietly while studying about the world and deepening his love for the written word. He’d been doubtful of his success academically, had confided in Niall when they’d met up for lunch one day, that he wasn’t as smart as the other’s in his class.
Clearly, he was wrong.
“I’m so fucking proud of you,” Harry finally leaves the comfort of the fire and Liam to smack a kiss to Zayn’s cheek. When he pulls away, Zayn’s beaming. He’s the happiest he’s been in two years, and fuck, if he doesn’t look smarter.
“Lou?” Zayn says soon enough, never comfortable with too much attention, even if it’s only them.
Louis’ long abandoned the pen, fingers playing restlessly with the sleeve of Zayn’s shirt. He’s had an interesting year, releasing solo music that he never thought he would, exceeding expectations despite his shitty promo, rivalled only by Zayn’s. “I’m focusing on just the music,” he’d told Niall early in the year, when they’d discussed their careers after the first time they watched Dunkirk together. “The rest of it, it’s not worth my effort.” Niall had frowned, had argued that Louis should fight for his image, for the recognition he deserves, like he’d fought for the boys when they were still together. Louis had shaken his head. “You eventually have to choose which battles to fight. Look at Zayn, he’s content going to school, and making music he’s proud of. If I just go with whatever they’re still throwing my way instead of trying to fight this, it’s less consuming. It gives me more time with the girls and Ernie. I’d do a hundred pap walks, hold whoever’s hand they ask me to, as long as I can get one more day with my family. Hug them in the mornings, kiss them at night.” And then, as if to prove his point, Harry had come trotting in, with a twin perched on each arm to give Louis a good night kiss.
“That I got to spend most of the year with my family.”
Niall wipes his eyes on Liam’s shoulder, the waver in Louis’ voice setting off the tears. He reaches up to the sofa behind him for Louis’ hand, only to find that Zayn’s already got it.
“And you?” Liam nudges his shoulder, lifting Niall’s head.
Niall thinks of the year, of the records he’d broken, the awards he’d won. Touring at venues he could have only dreamed about, with a band he now considers family. How he’d started the year with a broken heart and a fresh perspective, and all the opportunities at love since. But most of all, he thinks of how through it all, there was these boys. Midnight drunken calls with Harry from opposite ends of the world, cooking fiascos with Louis, arguing over the appropriate use of a comma with Zayn, trying out nicotine patches with Liam. The five way Skype sessions that would inevitably fail because someone had crappy internet, how their group chat wouldn’t last a week without Harry contributing a stupid joke and the others ignoring him for it. He thinks of no matter how far apart they are, how different their lives look, what they have together can never be replaced, never be broken.
He looks at his boys, who’re looking back at him expectantly, their faces knowing. And he says what he has said every year, for seven years in a row. “Us.”