Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sometime in spring, twenty-sixteen, Zayn's pov, NYC: 

Flashes came from platforming, and cameramen shot rapid questions when I entered the entrance hall. I was under the impression that the event tonight would be a brief outing for the business people to see my face, the branding team assured me it was a responsibility to the label I'd signed myself (actively) with. And Taryn was just nearby; she would be in immediate assistance with de-escalation if there was anything amiss. I kept to the drafted answers in the brief I had with the PR personnel before the event. It was the pre-Grammy gala event, where the chairman and CEO of Azoff MSG Entertainment, Irving would be honoured for his long-time achievements. 

Framed with golden rings and designer clothing; the environment was buzzes of suave-mousse-doused men and smooth-talking roisterers under the chandelier. The Kardashians and Jenners, the industrial babes naturally were the centre of attention amongst the background noises. All of these people had a status to be protected and ensured, pulling faces and fantasizing about being the ruler of this world. Most days I wouldn't be here; it wasn't my scene. But…being in the industry meant more of these scenarios. So, here I was trying to mingle with a prayer in my chest. 

One of the more pragmatic reasons to show up at one of the most anxiety-induced events is that Clive could be there. Clive Davis, the Jew man who in all seriousness owned up to the amount of recognition he'd gained. He made his name as the most critical figure in the industry and also was known as the late Whitney's producer. His legacy extended to his sons who were music executives themselves;  Clive was a true powerhouse and history-maker. Usher had once praised the man saying he wanted to follow in Clive’s footsteps. And that he learned from him to become a talent scouter and advisor. 

But the man was surrounded by too many other bigwigs and, to a lesser extent, newcomers like last year's top-charters, all of whom I rather would avoid associating with, and so I made a beeline for a familiar face. It’s generally a star-studded evening of performances by established celebrities in addition to the launchpad for aspiring musicians to take the spotlight before a body of nearly 1,000 producers, managers, and executives from all corners of the entertainment industry.

I was just chatting with Donatella whom I knew at the last Versace project I was in.

‘Miles is so keen on having you in our 2016 summer line.’ Her opal blue stone nails grazed on my left shoulder, ‘We’ve got some positive feedback from our clients on the last photo shoot with you, honey.’

She was in a very delightful mood and had me intrigued with how her CEO saw the potential for having me again for a near project in South Mumbai if my team was interested.

‘That’s great. I will have a marketing & branding personnel get to your marcom division soon.’

Versace would be a good fit for my commercial brand in terms of personality and characteristics: glamorous, fashionable, iconic, chic, and flashy, certainly not my first choice, but I could do worse.

‘I heard from Gigi that you are expecting to have bigger projects, Versace is looking for a male endorsement. Along with Dua.’ She paused, letting me know her deeper meaning without having to say a thing plainly. 

I nodded, just as meaningfully, and bid her goodbye. It was a good opportunity to dig my foot in the fashion circles, I thought while I was slithering through the crowd to say hi to Taylor who was thought to arrive much later. Taylor was already moving through the party body and headed towards Ed, with Nathan, her long-time producer, by her side.  

Katy, who was wearing a white sheer laced top stood beside the once alleged Queen of Pop, Madonna in a black and gold suit, whispering furiously about heaven only knows what; her eyes sweet and hooded in simultaneous ways. It was odd to see her again for a long while, but I'd rather not join them.

I'd been guided by the team to make connections with Taylor right after the Hadids came into play, being a newcomer (from another continent) last year. This step laid the groundwork for future collaborations and was one of the first moves I made getting out as a boy-band byproduct. 

‘Would you like a drink, sir?’

The waiter was passing around glasses of wine, which when asked would say it's a good old show-stopping Haut Brion Blanc 2009 vintage; the fresh note of mineral and light citrus sour-zest flavour of the brightly green-hued liquid. It sizzled in the back of my throat and strangely, sharpened my eyesight. And I was heading to Taylor—I did, until I saw Harry and, I...wanted to flee. Right then, I couldn't be there with all this much stimulation coming at me.  

You were coming from the other side of the room with Jeff by your side, and right behind was Glenne, the latter's wife. Of course, they would be here, late in their fashionable way on the day Irving Azoff was getting recognized for his endeavours and successes in the past years. But I knew I wouldn't wait and see the family private talks, or how you would be fawned over by the likes of James Corden and who-knows-whose entertainment products. You were looking ahead, tousled long hair and all that lithe body in a two-piece suit. Straight-laced. 

I didn't know how I managed to move past all the bodies between me and Taryn to signal her closer, a news reporter shouted, ‘Ah, Zayn, Zayn, have you been in contact with your old bandmates? Did they congratulate you on Pillowtalk and its high charting position in most streaming sites?’ I mumbled something I didn't really think much about to the prodding man. 

As I tried to duck down, briskly and furtively with my brightly pink-dyed head, I met your eyes. They were bulging and to my horror, unblinking for the longest time we'd ever stared at each other. I saw Glenne pulling at your black vest jacket, and even then, you didn't budge. I saw the brief exchange between the two of you, in which you never left my eyes. The green glint your eyes turn sharp. 

And that's when your companions all looked my way and saw what you did; your mouth opened, physically suspended. 

Quickly, I lowered my head in acknowledgement, so as not to be seen as an ungrateful snot before many watchful eyes. 

I rounded the refresher with Taryn and was out the grand door before I could learn what you said with them, probably not something I wanted to know.

‘Zayn, wait up.’ Taryn's voice echoed on the ground, standing outside. 

It felt like I could breathe again, suddenly released from an impending rope around my neck, a punishment for something I knew wasn't me fault. I wouldn't believe that, me leaving wasn't wrong. But still, to be there under the limelight in front of you was closer to being sent to the scaffold.

Taryn was touching me on me shoulder, something that was welcomed because touches always grounded me. Always. I squeezed her hand back, and with a small smile, tried a little tenderness. 

I turned to apologize for my strange behaviour because she did not know about us. Nobody would in the continent unless maybe Jeff if you ever told him. It was a deal for us—the thing that happened between us—stayed behind closed doors.

Even if everyone heaped speculations with it, with us, we wouldn't admit to doing the things we'd done. It was not possible to have any relationship with you, because that's a risk I shall not live to see meself take. 

So I asked Taryn to fetch me an Uber home and trusted meself to not lose me shit letting the wind rushing through the night drive to calm me nerves.

And hardly had I arrived at the Soho place on the 25th floor that I just bought months ago when I knocked meself over the standing lamp. The shade went down to the floor emitting an eerie yellow ambience. I kneeled over and tried to lift the thing from its shamble. My hands were shaking in response to the rapid pace of my breathing. It was borderline hyper-ventilation, not so unlike how I was before a whole crowd of people looking at me, waiting for words I could barely utter. 

My legs too were asleep when I tried but almost failed to get me posture right. I thought maybe a joint or ten would be good. So I dialled Danny and asked him to fucking come and bring me some because of the mental meltdown. And I knew it was still shite when I had to hit the phone's keyboard thrice to get the right number. I hung up and brought my hands to my face, weary. And over-triggered. 

You were there. A scalar field that existed through time and space.

***

Danny came with both weed and booze. Honestly, I had me bestest buds out here in the state. No point in holding meself back, missing the past and all that rot.

That's also why there was Gi, the good lass—never passed a sleepover if I ever asked. But tonight I didn't, she was out partying with her girls, fellow Vicky angels, high on different shites than what I was about to. Probably Mandy, and Candy. I wouldn't know. Or I would, but that's not the point. Model parties were never the sort of thing that accepted all comers—you have to have excellent goods and a lack of judgement, enough for golden showers and the likes. 

Danny was up for a football night. We don't have UFC tonight though, was something to do with the Grammy event schedule or summat? It's the Premier League day then, MU vs Liverpool. We made bets, just a small one on which team was going to have their arses kicked, and the usual on what score. The basis, 'cause both of us seemed unbothered by betting on penalties. I let Danny go for his choice first, secretly hoping he would bat for MU, because Milner, of course, is why I support the other team. 

We were sitting around the living room table, a pitcher of Heineken and every time we slipped out a curse, we drank. The game kicked off with both teams pulling deep with 4-3-3 formations, the most popular formation in the entire football history since the time of Pele. This only told me the game would be quite unexpected, both teams would have to try loads of tackling while being tight at pressing if needed. Seeing the MU line-ups with Rooney got me quite unnerved. Were Man. City playing, I would have waived for the Sky Citizens. But then, where was Coutinho? 

This game was different from the EFL League Two games I’d gone to back in the days to support the Bradford City A.F.C. It hurt thinking about this though, last I heard Northampton was having a good season. Not thinking about you was not a possibility when we spent years betting our livers on football scores just like this. And so I started to swear in other languages I knew out loud when passes got blocked until Danny took notice of me trying to outwit him.

My mind was going adrift as the game was just dragging now, no team had got the ball near enough for the shoot. Danny was moaning, argh and ugh were spewed aloud from his side of the couch. His hands were flailing in uproar as my eyes started to wonder again. I looked past my shoulder to see the Nirvana poster on the left wall and thought about you when we used to share playlists.

U & I

credit to Layouttesst

So I twisted my bending neck back on the game. 

‘Ya has been quiet, mate. ‘right?’ Danny had always known me to be quiet and have a need to dodge conversations sometimes. 

‘No, but, not want to talk ‘bout it, bro.’

It was the end of the first half, and no goal was made by far. A game of luck, limited to the observer of the near cosmic time.

From what was said in the news, this's their second leg with ManU. If they were to lose again, there was no chance for UCL. Danny was sipping Mountain Dew beside me, his body heat was radiating. The mind beyond me was in the process of recalling tonight's events. I couldn't believe that I met your eyes, after almost a year. And while it was deceleratingly easier now to think about you again, it also gave me a dark mood. I didn’t want to study it and wanted some warmth instead. And so, hesitantly, I caught meself asking for it from a homie. ‘ey, Danny. Listen’

‘sup, Zee…’ Danny was cool, one of the coolest lads I had ever met, ‘Y'know, a man needs a manly hug from his mate, aye?’ and I scooted meself next to him. My arms opened wide, in an instant, and hoped for a body warm, a given quantity against mine. Danny let out a wild laugh before he leaned into my manly embrace. It was sideways with his back and side facing my front. I quietly tried to calm meself, soaked in the heat, feeling his hair as I sneaked fingers into it. Locks by locks. It was straight, with not enough curls; thin and dry with no silky substance. 

So I dropped me hands, looking for something else to grasp. I took his left hand and hooked two fingers in between his pinky, playing with it. It was too snubby and wrong… I resisted a sigh not wanting to be like a bummer and ruined an otherwise football night. I wished I could have avoided you. Because now that I saw you there, alive and fresh out of the Dark Lord's clutch, I wished we could have hung out after all, friendly and without the complexity our relationship had become. I wished you were just like me and my other bros. Just two lads bonded over oldies radios.  

When Danny wrangled out of my arms as the result of the first goal of the bloody match at 78', one to MU, what the bloody fuck, I realized belatedly….Milner apparently scored a goal. Holy hell. 

The fire of retaliation hit me guts. I stood up and yelled for a goal when Firmino tried a through ball, but Lallana was caught offside. Several penalties were missed, and when the game clocked in well past the 90-minute mark, Liverpool couldn't convert the score. There was not enough stoppage for another attack, and I lost 100 bucks.

At the end of this, I vaguely remembered knocking down more than 10 glasses. But there was still soreness and bitterness in the back of me throat, or somewhere in the back of my skull. Persistent and pathologically dormant. Bombed I, were more empty drinks. 

*Flashbacks to sometime in spring 2013.

We were dog-tired from the back-to-back interviews of the new album, and the stop-and-go traffic was repeatedly appalling. We kept yawning, and despite the stop for late-day ice creams and Yorkshire puddings, the younger you couldn't keep your eyes open. We were in the back seat of the car, and your head was on my shoulder, slightly rocking in motion. Liam and Louis were twittering about the size of the universe in several thousands of years, saying they would have continued expanding on their own structure. 

I listened to them listlessly, half looking out the window for the February moon, it was quartered and bright. The sky was clear outside, and trains of thoughts were that the universe was made from plenipollent of atoms and scintillas haunted me. Do I want to know, in certainty, what would all this hale and ferie lead me to? Or rather, was living at the extreme height of youth enough? In the background, snickers might be heard about the gross domesticity, ours, they were witnesses to. I hadn't care, not really, we had always been like that, cheek-kissing and snuggling in the back seats. 

We arrived at the hotel’s foyer past three-quarters of the day breaking through the crowd of girls howling names hundreds of times in a millisecond. You slipped through the duvet right after you got into my room while I was primed for nighttime activity, so I resigned to Liam and Niall’s shared room, pulling a needy puppy face. A few steps out in the hallway, I heard whispers in Ben’s room, he was on the phone, aghast at the top of his voice. ‘Zayn’s again?’

I stopped in my tracks hearing my name, it can’t be, I thought, glancing back to make sure no one was there beside me; I moved briskly forward and hid behind the door. ‘His inputs were accepted by the producer team already, Si.’ Bloody fuck, that man. I gritted me teeth, fevering with steam. 

End of flashbacks.*

Hands were strumming on my sore skin, and wary sounds charged me back from periodic past pain, amethyst, the colour of sober restraint was what I vowed to clothe meself in. Every blues and greens were spinning long-gone stories, all of which I cut off each time I penned a new piece of a song. Danny was looking at me in silence—on the qui vive— as though I was a funny little trinket of explosives. ‘Hey, you good, Zain?’ His eyes kept peeled. 

‘Oh, just faz’ out a min’, mate, it’s fine, honest.’ was my automated reply. Danny left after I yanked meself up for a glass of water and sobered up, mumbling goodbye. My mouth was dry, it was a frequent feeling after weeding and drinking. My heart was beating aloud in the dusk of the quiet night, palpable, and couldn't help my hyper-conscious ears and mind of mine. 

My hands shook making me alert to the tobacco craving—a pinch of smokey apocalypse in my mouth—the source of my suffering, the ailment for it. The grey clouds came into my nose in racks, drowning the chaos in my head. As my eyes became squinted and glazed, I too was emotionally watered down with nicotine. I retreated to me bedroom, light sprang up from the bed lamp as I was barefooted to the headboard.

The cigarette came in oral fixation, one hit, long, and shortness of breath. I zoned in on the white noises. The backlight blue scheming from the still-on TV frame lit up the darkened room—the night's fallen and the street light provided warm phosphorescence, and I tried but emotions were killing me. 

I picked my pens and paper, drafting the sketches of a man smoking in the dark—me, I'm the man—the head of the cancer stick was the only light source, and swirls of smoke muddied the view. People thought I would break after the band. They thought my work wouldn't cut it; they thought they could keep me hidden. They thought the gritty pictures that I proposed were seeds of insanity. A deficient.

Father told me I had wasted my youth enough, and that my bad rep of partying and cheating was egging on him. That it was best to reflect on my behaviours according to the Quran, and that I should have made my family, the Maliks, proud. I started one of my first solo recordings with Ryan in 2012 and released my first songs four years later. Father wasn't that pleased with me leaving the band the way I did. 

I drew my scars and my tats—on the paper under the desk light, the hand-made canvas, tenuous and cant—which were forbidden in my religion. I rolled the rings on my fingers feeling the cold hardness, religiously. I closed my eyes and saw the misbehaviours hidden from their eyes. Underneath the covers and on the skin of a lover, there were sins that fucked me up in flashbacks. Dreams that were drawn. And I fell deep into sleep, seeing your face in fractured visions like a view from a kaleidoscope. 

***

I woke up at dawn break, having slept for about 4 hours. My debut album was just at the beginning of the promotion stage, frankly, it was in the pre-release coverage for the official release at the end of March. Today I needed to be on time for the early mic check for Jimmy Fallon's show. It would be the next single, iT's YoU performance, live before it was out. I mentally checked meself before the mirror in my bedroom. 

Standing under the showerhead, water draining down my body like pouring rain, I tightened my arms around my torso, rearing meself. The cold dampness rid me of the excess haze of yesterday's weed and alcohol. Blow me off like a dull sabre. It helped. 

I put on a black fitted tee, one pair of skinny jeans, a black trench coat and lastly, a good ol' pair of black boots. I brushed my hair and popped one Xanax before I began my usual ritual for every show I had had. I had my teeth cleaned and minted with Fresh Burst spray to top up. The mist zizz in my mouth left particles of sweetness to it. 

I went with Taryn to the stage set-up and blew off steam just by drone singing to meself. Occasionally I caught a few staff checking in to see the progress, and talking with one another and I felt a sliver of dread crawling upon me. I tried to look intently at one of the spots far away from everyone else, knowing how self-deceiving it was later when the seats would be packed with audiences. It's ridiculous, really, to have to rely on my mental state instead of my vocal to stand on stage. 

I had a vocal coach— provided by RCA, as any decent enough record label would do for its new act. She told me to take a stronghold of my mentality enough to finish the work, or if not, to create an allusion to something pleasing enough to counter the mess in me head. The atmosphere heightened the closer it was to airing the show. I hadn't worked it out. The illusion. 

The staged audience members were on the side, clapping after Jimmy's introduction for my new single, ‘hitting number one in 68 countries with his debut single, here with us his world premiere of a new song, it's You,’

When the filming started, Jimmy came up to ask about my song and how I was doing so far. ‘Yea, it was cool 't be able to make my own music and let my fans listen.’ as the crowd whistled and shouted my name. It's ironic to feel that big of deal standing here in front of the camera, after my whole career with 1D. 

‘And I am good, thanks, Jimmy.’ I cleared my throat as the guy retreated to his position and waited for the signal that informed me that the music began. Anxiously. 

The blue light on the Tonight Show bathed me at the moment, and the beat that started in my earpieces wasn't able to distract the fight-or-flight immediate condition I had. I stumbled at the first sentences, couldn't even get the air out of my mouth, and the vocal was elusive.

‘NYC is treating you well? We have heard you moved into an apartment, right?’

‘Yea, more or less,’ I said with a smile, it wasn't what I felt, smiling, but it's work. ‘Having your own space is cool, to just chill.’

‘Haven't heard much more, heh, we want to know more of this new image. Everyone's been excited for months for this authentic step-out.’ I rubbed my right eyebrow with my dominant hand, cracking a smile which roused the crowd agog from an air of sombreness.

‘Zayn, everyone wants to know if you and your old bandmates have talked about the album and the move.’ My shoulders went a bit tense. How do you talk about someone dear that you don't talk to anymore? 

I gave some generic we-are-goods and they-are-happy-for-mes, trying not to let it slip, how hard it was to talk to you and Lou. The first impression I made on the public was forgettable and regrettable. I couldn't wear it, the smile I had prepared before the filming. They said to fake it until you make it, but the corner of my lips was jerking irrevocably as I stepped down the raised platform and before the mass audience. 

Backstage, my mind constructed Louis, Liam, Niall's and your reactions to this live performance, and I felt worse. It didn't matter. But in my guts, I knew it might be easier being on stage with them. With you. We wouldn't be able to perform me songs, we would likely not have them released altogether, in the grain of the band's discography. But your mere presence gave the room an ambient flow of niceties and spontaneities. 

I thought I should have grabbed a cab in the parkcade, instead, I punched my phone unlocked. The sun was set above the horizon, I re-opened the read email written from you a few months ago. Beehives in my guts buzzing. 

I had sent you a near-parallel mail. Cordial and straightforward. Retelling how I had gone to the Geejam Hotel for new inspiration. That it was nice, immersed in Jamaican culture. Embracing the things I should have had in my youth (as a British Asian who adored reggae). And that the peace came from working with a small group of friends in a small studio. And that I missed you too. 

Aside from you sharing with me the photos you had of the old lady you met and those colourful breeds of birds that always came and went away, we didn't correspond with each other again up to your birthday (I didn't let meself, wanting to get over you). On a-spur-of-the-moment impulse, a short Happy Birthday and a two-minute stripped version of Golden. We had some indirect conversations through the lyrics we posted online but never anything more than that (because it didn't matter when we weren't available). Until yesterday, unwittingly. 

Somehow though I wished I could see you, even when I knew it was something I had to let go of.