Work Text:
He’s dreaming about a huge stage brighter than anything he’s ever seen. Thousands of voices sing at the same time, making the air vibrate with from the sheer volume. He’s there in the crowd, head tilted back, his own voice adding to the music. At the same time, he’s on stage, holding a microphone to the audience and gesturing for them to sing louder, so loud the sky will shake. A sweaty hand slides up his arm and slings around his neck, drawing him close to an even sweater chest. He does not mind and leans back, stealing a moment to be alone, knowing it will go overlooked but at the same time intensely scrutinised —
‘They love us!’ the voice whispers gleefully in his ear. ‘I’m so glad. I’m so glad you’re here with me.’
He turns and the spotlight is blinding his eyes so he only catches a glimpse of the face beside him when he whispers, ‘I love you — ’
Zayn woke up when the change in pressure made his ears pop. He grunted and pressed the heel of his palm to his right eye, then the left, and reached sideways to wriggle his ear. Nearly a quarter of his life spent on aeroplanes and the ear popping still bothered him. He slouched back down in his fantastic first-class seat, bringing the blanket back up to his shoulders. Outside, from this angle, the world was black, only the lights of the wings visible as far as the eye could see. Zayn tipped sideways to peer out of the window down at the sleeping city, its lights always on despite the late hour. Early hour? Yawning, Zayn glanced at his watch. 3AM. Brutal. He tugged his skull cap lower down his forehead and snuggled back into the seat, trying to capture the dream he’d had.
He never really went back to sleep, though, as the aeroplane promptly landed and the cabin crew gently but firmly herded the passengers outside. They’d been gracious about leaving Zayn alone except to offer refreshments, and now that the flight was over, one of them asked for an autograph.
‘I won’t tell anyone,’ she said with a nervous smile, professionalism cracking under awe. ‘I mean, there must be a reason why you’d fly back at this awful hour.’
‘Hmm? Cheers,’ said Zayn, handing back the piece of paper, offering a half-hearted smile. He’d been told that by countless fans before only to find his pictures slathered all over Twitter or Instagram. Better to keep his head down, literally.
He didn’t have much, just a plain rucksack, good for three-nights worth of clothes. Zayn could always buy more anytime. Perks of being a multi-millionaire.
Zayn tugged his cap even lower, trying not to attract attention. The goddamn papz were everywhere, anytime (here was a big fucking check mark on the con side of being famous) and the last thing Zayn needed was to be photographed skulking through Heathrow in the middle of the night. On fucking Valentine’s Day.
Fortunately, Zayn got a sleepy, middle aged, possibly unmarried (no ring, which possibly meant no kids who had possibly made him suffer through One Direction) man who took his passport, barely looked at it, and waved him through.
Zayn tucked it back into his rucksack and went through customs.
Just like that, Zayn was home.
There was nothing really different between LAX and Heathrow. They were still crowded with tourists rushing in and out of Britain, lugging heavy bags behind them. Still the same brightly lit spaces lined with luxury brand shops and food stalls. Still the same announcements about delays in arrival and departure, albeit in a slightly more apologetic tone.
Home was a complicated concept for Zayn. Even back in Bradford as a quiet, confused kid, the word home had not felt quite right. His father breezing in and out of the house, his mother crying in their bedroom, his old sister turning the volume all the way up on Wallace an Gromit to mask the sound of arguments.
Then, as a teenager, he was thrust into a completely different and utterly mental world of taxis, screaming girls, and travelling. So much travelling that it had stripped the meaning of home away altogether. What was home to someone who spent endless days on the road and in the air? Never settling, always leaving.
It took him way too long to realise home could be people too. A person.
Zayn took out his phone and read the message on the screen, replying with a succinct I’m outside even before he was actually outside.
Miraculously, no one bothered Zayn as he left the airport. No sudden squealing, no flash of lights. No article in The Sun speculating about Zayn’s sudden presence in London whilst his girlfriend was in Ibiza on this special of days. Just thinking about the possibility made Zayn crave a fag.
Fuck, it was cold. Zayn brought his bare hands up and blew on them, rubbing them together. He stomped his feet and gritted his teeth. It felt invigorating, though. Familiar. Not like the heat in Los Angeles, oppressive and exhausting. This was the sort of cold he’d grown up with, though at this time of night, it was far colder than usual and with him only in a thin jacket because he’d forgot.
Finally, Danny and his stupid car sidled up to the kerb and Zayn gratefully got into the passenger’s seat, brushing the snow from his shoulders.
‘Alright?’ Danny greeted, reaching out for a fist-bump. ‘No problem?’
‘All clear,’ said Zayn, soaking in the heat blowing at him. ‘Good to see you, mate.’
‘You look like shit,’ said Danny, pulling into gear and driving off.
Zayn made a face and checked his reflection on his phone. ‘You try flying at this hour and see if you still look good.’
Danny yawned. ‘Whatever, as long as you weren’t seen.’
Zayn checked his phone.
‘Zayn.’
Shrugging, Zayn opened Twitter. ‘Someone asked for an autograph. No big deal.’
‘No big — s’ Danny let out a sharp exhale. ‘They’re already going to skin you alive when they find out you’ve escaped, more so when there’s actual evidence of you out here when you’re supposed to be in Ibiza.’
‘The perfect place to spend Valentine’s Day,’ sneered Zayn. He shook his head and nudged Danny with an elbow. ‘Look, nothing about me yet on Twitter or Instagram. Maybe she meant it when she said she’ll keep it a secret. Relax, Danny, it’s not like I’m a fucking fugitive.’
‘Might as well be.’
Zayn rolled his eyes. ‘I’m too tired to argue. When I’ve slept enough, ring me again and yell at me for being an idiot.’
‘An idiot in love,’ Danny corrected, grimacing. ‘The worst kind. And no, thanks, I know exactly what you’ll be doing when you’ve slept enough.’
Smiling, Zayn let out a pleased noise. ‘You sure you don’t want any more details?’
‘Mate, please, after all the stuff I’ve seen and heard, I could probably open one of those porn blogs dedicated to you two.’
‘It’s not as bad as you think. Some of the things, ugh, no, but the other stuff — ’
‘Seriously, don’t.’
They fell into a comfortable silence, him and Danny, one of his oldest and dearest friends. There were parts of Danny that spoke of home to Zayn, and he loved him like he was his own brother. The truth, though, was that there were just some things that Danny would never understand even if he’d been there to witness a lot of it.
The lights, the music, the adoration, the late night jam sessions, the black hole of Management, the frenzy —
Falling in love with one perfect boy —
‘Got your stuff in the back, by the way,’ said Danny, turning left on the corner and coming out into the more beautiful streets of London, made pristine by the money inside those houses.
Zayn looked over his shoulder even though the backseat was shrouded in darkness. If he squinted hard enough, he could make out something red. ‘Thanks, Danny, you’re the best.’
Danny pulled up in front of a dark house. ‘Don’t you forget it. In return, stop giving me ulcers, please. You know how dangerous this was, yeah?’
Not just the paps, the invasive questions, Management being angry. There was a reason why Zayn had bodyguards, why they all did. Zayn loved his fans, he really did, but some of them were proper batshit.
‘Yeah, I do.’ A small smile softened Zayn’s face as he looked at the through the windshield. ‘Worth it, though.’
‘Totally whipped. Go on, get out of here. I have to be at work in, fuck, three hours.’
Zayn got out and shouldered his rucksack. He opened the backseat door and the lights in the car switched on, hazy and pale, and Zayn scooped up the items on the seat. He shut the door with his elbow and said goodbye to Danny with a promise to catch up before he left. Zayn didn’t watch as the car rolled down the street, too busy hurrying out of the cold. The climbed up the front steps and had to put down one of the items to the floor so he could reach for his key in the side pocket of his backpack. Cursing, Zayn finally fished out the ring and slotted the key in. The door swung open without a sound and Zayn stride inside. A second later, he ran back out to grab the box he’d put down, cursing himself.
The house was dark and cold. Zayn toed off his shoes and made his way to the kitchen, dropping his backpack by the doorway. The street lamp outside lit it up but only barely; it was enough for Zayn to put the box of chocolates and the wine inside the fridge. Zayn felt for the cupboard under the sink and using his phone torch, took out the vase. He rinsed it out, wincing at the cold water from the tap, and filled it midway. Zayn took the bouquet of red roses and peeled the plastic from around it, then placed all two dozen stems inside the vase. It was heavy, and Zayn carefully took it in his arms and went to the lounge, the torchlight and memory guiding his way. He set it down on the coffee table and tied the string around the mouth of the vase. The heart-shaped balloon on the end bobbed in the air.
Satisfied, Zayn snagged his rucksack on the way up to the second floor. The bedroom was at the very end. Zayn soundlessly opened the door and slipped inside. Three dogs greeted him, sat in a circle of moonlight, their tails wagging.
Zayn reached down to scratch behind their eyes, muttering, ‘Brilliant watchdogs you lot are: not a single peep. I could be a serial killer!’ His gaze was drawn to the bed which was hidden in shadows. He kissed the top of Watson’s head. ‘But luckily for you three, I’m not going to hurt your owner.’
Zayn left his bag on the floor as he made his way to the bed. There was someone curled under the thick duvet, not a single part of him visible. Zayn bit his lip and took off his chilly jacket, his damp jeans. He switched his phone to silent mode. Rummaging inside his bag as quietly as possible, Zayn retrieved a small box and pried it open, plucking out the object inside. He tossed the box inside his bag and didn’t bother zipping it close.
Zayn slipped a ring onto his fourth finger.
The bedroom was somehow still cold despite the heating on, the weather outside too strong. The only thing to do was cuddle up under the duvet. Lips quirking, Zayn lifted the corner up and wriggled inside. Like he guessed, it was warmer, cosier. Zayn heard someone breathing softly close by. Zayn reached out and felt a naked shoulder, his hand moving up until he curled his fingers around the curve of a neck. His thumb brushed against a bristly jaw. Zayn moved closer, practically shouldering his way into lax arms.
Soon, however, the arms tightened and went around Zayn, drawing him closer. Warm breath brushed Zayn’s forehead. ‘What — ’ a rough, sleepy voice mumbled. Knees shifted and bumped against Zayn’s legs.
‘Shhh, Liam, it’s just me,’ whispered Zayn, scratching his fingernails down the back of Liam’s neck. ‘It’s me.’
‘...Zayn?’
‘Hmm. Go back to sleep. I’m so tired.’ Zayn yawned into Liam’s chest and snuggled closer.
‘Zayn,’ Liam whispered again, lips brushing against Zayn’s forehead. ‘Hello.’
Zayn smiled and closed his eyes. He was home.
‘Fuck! Fucking hell, Zayn?’
Someone jostled Zayn awake and he groaned, his body telling him that it was definitely not allowed to wake up. He curled into a ball but a heavy weight dropped on top of him, dry lips pressing kisses on the side of his face and neck. Zayn instinctively squirmed when he felt Liam’s beard tickling him, his leg kicking out in protest.
‘Zayn, oh my, God, you’re here!’ Hands framed Zayn’s face and shook him gently. ‘Wake up, babe, let me really confirm it’s you.’
Grumpily, Zayn opened his eyes, squinting through the faint morning light to look at Liam above him. ‘Who else would it be?’
‘A cuddle burglar,’ said Liam, his eyes round and his lips wide in a disbelieving smile. ‘You! What time did you arrive? How? Why the fuck?’
Zayn yawned and smiled tenderly at him. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day, Li.’
There was a short pause, then a sniffle. ‘Shit, you’re going to make me cry.’
At that, Zayn shook himself fully awake and sat up using his elbows. ‘Please don’t.’
Liam looked at Zayn like he still couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘This is the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me.’
‘Lied through my teeth to my family, management, and fiancé just to surprise said fiancé?’ Zayn gave a lopsided grin, puffing his chest out proudly. ‘You betcha, Li.’
‘I love you so much,’ said Liam in a slightly awed tone, cupping Zayn’s face in his hands. ‘And I am going to fuck you so hard. Seriously, don’t laugh, you are going to be broken when I’m done with you.’
Zayn kissed the heel of Liam’s palm. ‘Looking forward to it.’
Liam kissed Zayn on the nose. ‘Missed you, you know. Missed this.’
‘Me, too.’ Zayn soaked up being in Liam’s presence again, the brightness that kept him going through dark times, making him smile and believe in love despite it all. He looked at Liam, creased from sleep and pinching himself to make sure Zayn was really there, and felt love spill over from inside him, pushing away the doubts and exhaustion and the pain of separation, of lies. Those things had no place between them now.
Curling an arm around Liam’s broad shoulders, Zayn pulled himself up and dragged Liam down at the same time until their lips met. Morning breath be damned, it was a great kiss, like all their kisses were.
Liam slowly pushed him back down on the bed, their legs entwining, caging him in. ‘I’ve got you now,’ said Liam, eyes bright. The chain around his neck swung forward, a gold ring dangling from it.
Zayn traced the sleep lines on Liam’s cheek, his own ring gleaming in the light. ‘Nowhere else I’d rather be, babe.’