Chapter Text
May
This is Niall’s fault. Completely and utterly Niall’s fault, Zayn thinks, running his finger along the edge of the photograph in his hand. It’s all Niall’s fault and Zayn isn’t mad, per se, but he feels like he at least needs to correctly assign the blame.
“It’s killin’ me,” the root of the problem begins then, when Niall comes back to their room scratching his head, eyes glued to the water-stained photo in his hand. He shoves it under Zayn’s nose, revealing it to be of a shirtless man passed out on a couch, a large phallic shape drawn on his stomach, “It’s killing me!”
Zayn appraises the picture, “That is pretty lifelike. Look, they even drew the veins, like.”
Niall slaps Zayn’s shoulder, “Not that! I think I know this guy but I can’t remember from where!” He holds the picture upside down, “Lecture, maybe?”
“If you don’t know this guy,” Zayn returns to his notebook while Niall ambles over to the couch, “then why do you have his photo?”
“Got it outside the library! There’s a little, um,” Niall makes a round movement with his arms, “a little basket. Full of photos. You take one and then you’re supposed to leave one.”
At this, Zayn perks up, “What’s it for?”
A shrug, “Art project, s’pose. It’s that time of year, innit?”
It’s the end of the school year, nearly, and Zayn’s attended plenty of end-of-term art showcases already, but he hasn’t heard anything about this photo project. He makes a mental note to go check it out. (That’s his first mistake.)
Niall tosses the photo on to the coffee table and curls up on the couch, “I’ll figure it out some day. Like in ten years, I’ll wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat or something. My kids will be all freaked out when I just start babbling about veiny penises and my university days.”
Niall passes out on the couch shortly after, and Zayn finishes up the first draft of his term paper before nodding off as well. The next day he finds himself in need of another source for his paper, or maybe he just wants an excuse to visit the library, but he ends up there, in front of the basket full of photos. Just as Niall described, it’s a relatively small basket sat, a bit precariously, on a three-legged stool, a sign tied to the front: “TAKE A PHOTO (if you’d like) & LEAVE A PHOTO (if you’d like.)”
(“Doesn’t necessarily have to be a picture of yourself, I guess,” Niall had said when Zayn asked him about the photo basket again over lunch, “But I left one of me from Greg’s wedding, back when me hair was all the way up to here.”)
Zayn takes quick stock of the photos in the basket while he pulls out his wallet. Some pictures look like they were just printed out at the library’s printers, black and white and on the thinnest of copy paper; others look crisply printed on color photo paper; there are a few polaroid photos, some photo booth strips, a few wallet-sized photos that Zayn imagines must have lived in the owners’ pockets for months before finally finding their way here. Most of the photos are of people, but some are just landscapes, bits of scenery, one is just a picture of a mug of tea.
He feels a bit giddy, seeing the lives of other people served up in front of him in such an open, vulnerable fashion. He wonders if some people had trouble letting go of the photos, if they agonized over it, if they let them go on purpose, maybe intending to forget something. He reaches into his own wallet to slip out a photo of himself and the daughter of a family friend, from two or so years back, right before he left for university.
The young girl is fuzzy and out-of-focus in the foreground of the photo; Zayn, crouched down to her level, is in crisp focus, half his face obscured by her outstretched hand, but the rest revealing an open-mouthed smile, his eyes squinted to half-moons. He had printed it out before he left for uni, because it reminded him of home and of his friends and the warmth he had left behind. He hated how homesick he got that first year.
Now he’s got Niall, he’s got friends in his program, he’s got his writing. He swipes his thumb across the surface of the photo and smiles before gingerly placing it on the top of the pile, face-up.
“You gonna take one too?”
Zayn startles and pans up to take in a long, lanky lad leaning against the dirty brick wall of the library, “Uh. Yeah, just about to, I guess.”
The other boy has some startlingly green eyes, and long, brown hair that curls gently against the nape of his neck. He smooths his fringe back with one hand, extending the other towards Zayn, “Sorry mate, I’m Harry. This,” a shrug towards the basket, “It’s my end-of-the-year project.”
“Are you an art student?” Zayn shakes his hand; Harry has a surprisingly firm handshake.
“Photography, actually! But I guess this is more… performance art-y, photo-inspired, or. Whatever.” He pulls his hand up to bite at his fingernails.
Zayn smiles; he recognizes the feeling of not wanting to oversell your art, or your talent, of not wanting people to know how much effort you actually put into what you do, “Nah, this is really ace, man. Heard about it from my roommate and basically made up an excuse to come over here.” He likes watching Harry’s nervousness drain out of his face, and spares a glance back to his own photo on the top of the pile. Harry’s probably going to have to find a bigger basket soon.
“Thanks,” Harry mumbles, grinning, “At first I was avoiding coming back to check on it, ‘fraid that I’d come back and it’d be empty or something. Now I just kinda get curious.” Harry has the smile of someone who trusts easily, lets himself be folded into the lives of others. It kind of reminds Zayn of Niall, in a way.
“Zayn. By the way.”
“Nice to meet you!” Harry gives Zayn a quick salute before folding his arms over his chest, “Sorry, I didn’t really let us have a proper introduction, just went on rambling. ‘M probably not protecting the artistic integrity of my project by looming over you like this.”
“Nah, artistic integrity is overrated,” Zayn chuckles, finally reaching into the basket to pick out a photo. He doesn’t want to make this more of a thing than it is but… Zayn has always been of the habit to make everything more than it is. (“You don’t have to always do all that… extra stuff,” Niall had once said, back when they first became friends, “Too much extra thinking!”)
He admits there is a bit of extra thinking happening as he feels through the photographs, sharp corners biting at his fingertips. But he gets the sense that it’s important, like maybe he can use the photo for a story or something. Maybe it will inspire him, or maybe he’ll meet the person in the photograph one day. Years from now, he hopes – that would be pretty poetic. And doesn’t it matter from what point in the pile he picks the image? A picture at from the bottom would mean someone who put their photo in the basket even when it was empty or near-empty. Probably someone more outgoing, willing to put themselves out there like that. Zayn likes the idea of someone like that, someone so different from him.
“Mate, I don’t wanna… disturb you or anything. But you’ve been standing still for like five minutes now.” Harry doesn’t sound patronizing, just amused. Zayn flushes and flashes Harry a sheepish look before plucking a picture from the middle of the pile.
When he turns it over (slowly, because he’s still trying make this, like, a moment, okay?) he finds himself looking at a highly-saturated picture of two young girls holding hands. They’re on a beach, one smiling broad-faced at the camera, the other mid-laugh. From the crumpled edges of the photo, Zayn guesses it’s a bit old: they’re probably a bit grown now, maybe in their early twenties like him.
Harry peeks down at the picture, “Pretty good pic. Still crazy to me that people I don’t know are leaving their pictures.”
“It’s a good project, bro,” Zayn gives Harry a smile, flicking his finger against the photo a couple times before sliding it in his back pocket.
Harry wishes Zayn good luck with his exams, Zayn wishes Harry good luck with his project, and they part ways with a small smile and another salute from Harry. Zayn pats his back pocket absentmindedly as he searches the library for the book he needs – his curiosity isn’t exactly burning a hole in his pocket, but it’s enough. At least to give him a boost going into his term paper, and his creative writing portfolio. Besides, there’s still the mystery of Niall’s photo to solve, right?
When he leaves, he spends another minute or so eyeing the basket of photos before finally heading back to his room.
“Zayn… Zayn. Oi! Zayn!”
To be honest, it’s just too damn early in the morning for Zayn to be around Perrie. Her outfit is stupendously sparkly and the platinum blond of her hair looks almost white under the florescent lights. Just looking at her his giving him a headache.
“Not my fault you’re hungover,” Perrie purses her lips and raises an eyebrow at him, and Zayn realizes he’s said that last bit out loud.
A girl across the table from Zayn laughs, “He’s got a point, Pez. It’s 9AM on a Saturday morning, what’re you all dressed up for?”
“Never took my outfit off from last night,” She admits, and Zayn guffaws a bit, before the resurgence of his headache makes him regret it.
The girl gives Perrie a sympathetic, tight-lipped smile, “Well, I ‘preciate you coming out to help me. Maths is not my strength, at least not this class.”
Zayn nods dully. He thinks the girl’s name is Jade; all he knows is that it was her idea to get a little study group together for their upcoming exam. He’s not sure why he put off his math course so long. Maybe because he thought studying English meant he wouldn’t have to set eyes on another equation again in his life, but he is apparently not so lucky.
“Alright, so we can start here – where you see f(x) it just means ‘function’ like ‘function of x.’” Perrie is patiently pouring over Jade’s notes while another girl – Leigh Anne? – looks on attentively. Zayn peers over at Perrie’s notebook and the numbers swim across the page. He very well might still be drunk.
Perrie is taking them through the last lecture, but Zayn’s quickly discovering that she’s too good at maths to know how to dumb it down to their level. Jade looks like her wrist is going to break from how fast she’s writing everything down. There’s only one thing Zayn has written in the top corner of his notebook: I’m too hungover to f(x). He chuckles to himself and shows it to Perrie, nudging her in the arm. She just rolls her eyes.
“I’m just gonna grab a fag outside real quick,” he mumbles, fumbling in his pockets for his lighter. He eventually pulls it out, but sends the rest of the contents of his pocket tumbling out on to the floor, including his entire pack of cigarettes, his ID, two dollars in change, and the picture from earlier, with the two girls on the beach. It floats to the ground slowly, landing innocently against the heel of Perrie’s boot.
He tries to snatch it but she’s quicker, grabbing the photo and examining it up against the light like a fake bank note, “Why do you have this?”
Zayn tries again to take it but this time it’s Jade who beats him to it, swiping it away with a gasp of recognition, “That’s me! And my ex-girlfriend Danielle…” Zayn winces at the word ‘ex-girlfriend,’ and Leigh Anne actually groans out loud.
“Did you get that from the photo thing outside the library?” She asks; Zayn nods.
“I told her to get rid of it,” Leigh Anne adds, sighing, “Letting go and whatnot.”
Jade looks like ‘letting go’ isn’t in her vocabulary, “Can I… maybe keep it? Or, well, have it back, I guess?” Zayn feels a bit deflated – the big mystery is already solved, less than two days after he got the photo, and it’s so anticlimactic that he might as well just let it go.
“Sure, it is yours, after all.” Jade beams at him, clutching the picture to her chest, and Perrie and Leigh Anne exchange an exasperated look. Zayn guesses he could always ask about the break-up, maybe glean some literary angst from that or—
“Here!” Jade interrupts his thoughts, “I’ll give you the photo that I picked up. Y’know, a fair trade, since you gave me mine back.” She slides a new picture face-down across the table, like it’s some kind of secret settlement check instead of what’s probably a picture of another drunk co-ed.
If he’s being honest, the tearful sparkle in Jade’s eye is already worth the spoiled mystery, even if he’s sure he just enabled some more post-relationship longing for her friends to deal with. Zayn nods anyway and picks the photo up. He figures he’s just going to glance at, slide it back into his pocket, finally go out and get that cigarette, come back and pretend to listen to Perrie go on about derivatives.
Except – and this is where he starts to blame Niall for telling him about this god forsaken photo project in the first place – when he looks down at the picture he feels like he’s been punched in the gut. This is what he was waiting for, that kind of breathless, giddy, fatalistic feeling in the pit of his stomach, the insistent burn in his throat.
Maybe he’s being melodramatic. In reality, the picture is fairly normal. Also on a beach, just like the one of Jade and her old girlfriend, except this one is centered on a man in the ocean, surrounded by the marbled white and teal of the waves, just a muscled chest rising out of the water. He looks about Zayn’s age, or maybe Zayn is just hoping he is, but he’s got a respectable beard and short brown hair mussed up from swimming. He’s in profile, but he’s laughing, Zayn can tell from the squint of his eyes and the open-mouthed smile, a visible row of straight, white teeth. Completely normal. Totally. Egregiously handsome, but normal.
But Zayn can stop his eyes from scanning the photo sporadically, trying to take in every detail: the dark patch of hair on the center of his chest, the sun sparkling off the water, the small birthmark on the man’s neck – is it a birthmark or just a mark on the photo? The last thing he notices are four dark, blocky tattoos on the man’s right forearm; he can barely make them out, but he locks that bit away in his mind for later.
“You okay?” Perrie’s voice finally forces Zayn to pry his eyes away from the photo, blinking at her rapidly.
“Uh, I don’t know who that is. If you’re wondering.” Jade says, before Zayn can even ask. (And he was definitely planning on asking.)
He nods, looking right past them as he hastily shoves his notebook into his backpack. Fuck Niall, honestly. Fuck him for telling Zayn about this – he of all people should know that despite his leather-jacket-and-cigarette façade, underneath it all Zayn is just a hopeless romantic. And when dealing with hopeless romantics you can’t go serving mysterious, hunky, salt-water-washed strangers up on a silver platter. You just can’t.
“Uh so. I’m just gonna. Go. Forgot I had a thing.” He quickly slips the photo in his back pocket, next to his wallet. Whether it’s from the hangover or the newfound sense of purpose, Zayn gets a massive head rush when he stands up, stumbling over his own chunky military boots on the way to the door, blinking against the sun.
“Don’t mind him,” he hears Perrie say, “Probably just off on another romantic quest or something.”
Well, she’s not wrong.
To be fair, it’s all Louis’ fault.
“It’s can’t always be my fault,” Louis is scarfing down a hot dog at what Liam must admit is an impressive speed, and he’s still able to spare a free hand to point accusingly at Harry, “In fact it is, quite literally, Harry’s fault!”
“Heeyyyy…” Harry pouts, “I don’t see why it’s my fault either.”
Louis stuffs the last bite of his hot dog in his mouth at the exact second a librarian goes to chastise him for bringing food into the library, “Because,” he mumbles, mouth full, “The photo thing is your project. Hence, your fault.”
Fair enough, Liam thinks, but that might be a bit simplistic. A week and a half ago, when Harry had finally set up the photo swap project he’d been talking about for months, Liam had been all too happy to participate. He was the first to provide a photo, placing it ceremoniously at the bottom of the empty basket, Harry beaming at him like a proud mother.
They return to the basket less than a week later to find it already half-way full, much to Harry’s contentment. They take stock of the basket contents – a few coffee-stained photos of various landscapes, wallet-sized school headshots, some hastily-printed Instagram photos – and Liam notices that his picture is conspicuously missing.
“What the fuck!” Before he can point it out, Louis is scooping out the top layer of photos to grab at the green corner of his own photo, still conspicuously present, “How has no one picked out my picture yet?”
“You just put it in a couple days ago,” Harry points out, taking a bite of his apple. Liam wonders when he got an apple.
Louis shakes his head, “Absolutely unacceptable. Must not be the right kind of photo.” He pulls a folder out of his backpack and opens it precisely: it’s filled with various pictures, of himself, of him and friends, of physical mementos, of football matches. He tucks the original photo of himself – one of him from last summer, during a football match – back into a pocket of the folder and shuffles through his new choices. He points two of them out, “Which one? Liam?”
Liam pouts thoughtfully, “Why do you even have all these at the ready? And what was wrong with the other one?
“It’s not tantalizing enough, of course!” Louis ignores Liam’s first question and just wiggles his eyebrows. Liam is just as confused as before, “You were definitely on point with your shirtless picture selection,” Louis sighs dramatically (though, to be fair, Liam’s never heard him sigh undramatically), “I didn’t want to have to whore myself out like this.”
Careful fingers pluck out Louis’ new picture selection and places it on the top of the pile, “Let’s see someone ignore that.” Liam looks down to see Louis’ new photo: he is indeed shirtless in this one, half-way through pulling on his football kit. The script of his chest piece is on full display, his hair is a bit messed and he’s looking up at the camera, slight smirk on his face.
Liam pauses for a beat and then: “You think my picture got picked up because I was shirtless in it?” He asks, suddenly embarrassed.
“Exactly,” Louis slings an arm around Liam’s shoulder, “People like these pictures because they want a fun, hot mystery –“
“Please never use the phrase ‘fun, hot mystery’ again.”
“ – just waiting to be unraveled! That’s why I needed to pick a more enticing photo of myself.”
Liam pouts, “That’s not true though, Harry’s picture got picked up and it was just a photo of his feet!”
Harry nods sagely; Louis looks scandalized, “Are you serious?”
“Actually I put two photos in, and they both got picked up already,” Harry says, continuing to nod mindlessly as he shuffles through the remaining pictures in the basket.
He finds himself stabbed with an accusing finger, “That’s cheating! What was your second picture, anyway?”
Harry rubs his arm where Louis poked him, “Not telling.” He hums.
A scoff, “Probably just another shot of your feet.”
Even Liam nods at this, “You do have a lot of pictures of your feet.”
Harry chews at the inside of his pointer finger thoughtfully, “… I have a lot of interesting socks.”
That had been all well and good, except afterwards Liam couldn’t stop thinking about the picture he had placed in the basket, and who might have it. He felt embarrassed for picking such a personal photo, though a stranger looking at it might not realize why.
(“It’ll be good to let it go,” Harry had said, rubbing gently between Liam’s shoulder blades, “Besides, you look a bit mental carrying around a shirtless picture of yourself.”)
That was true – a bit odd to be so attached to a picture of yourself on the beach, but Liam’s ex-girlfriend Sophia had taken it, at the beach trip they took for their first anniversary. The summer sun was hot and so were they, at least until they burnt out that December. It felt like so long ago, but it still burned Liam’s fingers to drop the photo in the basket, leaving it for someone else to write their own story for.
“Don’t you think it’s weird?” Liam looks pleadingly at Louis.
Louis wipes a spare bit of mustard left on his fingers onto the library chair’s cushion, “What’s weird?”
A wistful sigh, “The fact that some stranger has, like… that picture of me. You can’t tell me it’s not weird. What if they know me or something?”
Louis echoes Liam’s sigh – it’s been around thirty minutes since Liam started worry-ranting about his stress regarding who might have picked up his picture, “And what if they don’t? It’s exciting, Liam! Don’t insult the integrity of Harry’s project with your worrywart-ing.”
“It’s still your fault that this is bothering me. You put it in my head!”
They’re interrupted by the sound of Harry attempting to carry a wobbly stack of books back to their study booth and dropping them all after tripping on his own shoelaces, “Maybe I can help you figure out who has your picture?” Harry says, looking unperturbed by his own clumsiness.
“No way, first you have to help me find who has my picture!” Louis shouts, earning him a pointed look from the librarian. Louis’ new picture had finally gotten picked up, the same day he dropped it off. (Louis had methodically checked the basket that day, finally coming out triumphant.)
“Oh,” Harry re-stacks his books, wiping the dust off the covers, “Nick has your photo.”
Louis pales, “Nick Grimshaw?! That’s so useless, I already know him! And I already hate him!”
Liam can’t help but chuckle, “And after all the trouble you went through to pick out the perfect picture.”
“God,” Louis buries his face in his hands, “This is a nightmare. He’s probably wanking over that picture of me at this. Very. Moment.”
Harry insists that there is probably no foul play going on regarding Nick Grimshaw’s penis, but Louis remains unconvinced. Liam is still single-mindedly worried about who might possibly have a very sentimental and very shirtless picture of him posted on a bulletin board in their dorm room. “Harry,” he points a very determined finger in his direction, “I’m counting on you to help me find whoever has my picture. It’s our new mission, okay?”
Harry gives him a quick salute, dropping another book in the process, “I accept this mission.”
“Lou?” Liam spares a doe-eyed look over to Louis, who’s sulking heavily, “Will you help?”
There’s a pregnant pause, one accentuated by Harry very conspicuously blowing dust off the cover of a particularly ancient book of poetry. Liam wonders what a photography student needs with all these books, but if he took the time to wonder about every curious thing Harry did, he’d have no time left at all, so he stops wondering.
Finally, “Alright, alright. But, after my experience…” Louis exhales heavily reaches over to pat Liam’s hand and fixes him with a pointed look, lips tilting, “I’m just saying you’ve gotta be careful what you wish for. You know what I mean?”
Liam’s not sure he does know what Louis means, but he finds himself nodding anyway.
+
June
Zayn tries everything. Well. Almost everything.
He scours the school cafeteria, he spends inordinate amounts of time in the library, peering out, hawk-eyed, at the photo basket. He scrolls endlessly through the university’s online roster, barely making it to his own name and picture before giving up. He looks up the closest beaches before deciding that’s a stupid tactic, and it’s not like he can just stand on the beach and expect the guy from the photo to show up. He sketches out an approximation of the boy’s tattoos and hits up all the local places and his own tattoo artists, but none of them recognize it. He scans the picture, reverse Google Image searches it, nothing. He prints out very suspicious-looking posters with a black-and-white scan of the photo that say “HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?” with the number of Zayn’s burner phone on the bottom. (Honestly, fuck anyone who ever said his old Nokia wouldn’t come in handy someday.) (Zayn tears the posters down the next day.)
Essentially, Zayn’s done everything except straight-out ask his friends and acquaintances if they know the boy in the photo. For some reason that feels wrong, like cheating. It would, of course, be the simplest solution – someone is bound to know who the boy is, or recognize him from somewhere. He could set up a Facebook group, post the photo, and be done with it in the matter of a few days. But Zayn has never been one for the path of least resistance.
Well, at least not when he’s sober. “Fuck… you know that photo swap thing outside the library?” Zayn takes a long drag of the spliff before passing it back to Louis, who nods, “Well, like, I ended up with this photo of some guy at the beach, and I’m trying to figure out who it is, but I can’t, and it’s driving me nuts, you know? He’s fit as fuck too, like… I can’t figure it out.”
Louis lets out a breathy chuckle, “I didn’t know you liked boys?”
Zayn flinches involuntarily. He gets too comfortable when he’s high, too talkative, too forgetful. But he forgets all the time the split-second alienation of coming out, not just once but every time he encounters someone new. With Louis, though, the feeling passes quickly. He’s pretty sure that Louis’ hooked up with his fair share of guys, and they’re both completely baked, besides.
“Yeah, like. It’s been a while since I’ve liked a guy though.” Zayn makes grabby hands at the joint, “I don’t know… I don’t know why I’m bringing it up.” He really doesn’t.
A snort, “Because you can’t shut up when you’re high.”
“That’s the pot calling the kettle… something-or-other.” Zayn pouts. He knows very well now that Louis is a menace when he’s high (as he is when he’s not).
“Yeah, well you’ve been hogging the joint, mate!” Louis snags it back, bringing it to his lips and spreading his legs out. He’s only known him for a few months, but Zayn likes Louis a lot. They met by accident, both having chosen the same smoking spot on the roof of the building behind the library. (“Used to smoke in my room, but my new roommate doesn’t like it so much,” Louis had said. Zayn had just nodded, shared his blunt without even thinking about it.) It was a friendship built on sharing – and oversharing, probably.
They’re on a part of the roof that can’t be seen from the sidewalk, or at least that’s what Zayn lets himself believe, since they’ve never gotten caught. The building isn’t that large, but they’re high enough up that the people they see passing all look the same, faces blurred by distance. Regardless, Zayn keeps a sharp eye out for his mystery photo man. He’s been doing that this whole time, looking for him in everyone he meets, everywhere he goes. It’s getting a bit ridiculous, Zayn thinks. He’s convinced he sees the photo boy at the coffee shop across the street, and then at the Tesco, and then at the bar he goes to with Niall after class. It feels like he’s everywhere, but Zayn is no closer to finding him.
“Okay, so,” Louis blows a smoke screen between them, “Lemme see the picture, maybe I know him.”
Zayn stiffens, “Uh. Don’t have it on me.” He says quickly, though he can feel it burning a hole in the front pocket of his jeans.
He’s a shit liar, but Louis is halfway to gone so he doesn’t notice, “Really? Woulda thought you’d have it on you at all times, just whip it out every time you’re with someone. ‘Excuse me, do you know this man? I really wanna shag him.’”
“I do not sound like that.” Zayn mumbles, but the fact that his accent is even thicker when he’s high is not helping his case, “I’d feel weird showing people it anyway… I don’t wanna seem like I’m stalking the guy.”
Louis looks like he’s about to make a comment, but just grins instead, “Well my mate Harry set the thing up, I can ask him about it if you really want.”
“Wait, you know Harry?” Zayn’s eyebrows tilt up; Louis ticks his head to the right and mumbles an ‘unfortunately.’ “I met him, when I was at the thing, the photo thing. He saw me pick out the picture – well, like, originally it was another picture. But then I switched with this girl, so. Yeah, I haven’t seen him since, though.”
Louis takes another pull, wincing a bit, “Not quite sure of all that you just said there, mate. But yeah, I can give you his number or something if you want. Or, actually, we’re having an end of term party at my place on Friday, Harry’s going to be there if you want to come!” He jabs Zayn in the ribs with his elbow, “I probably should invite you anyway, so we could be proper mates and all, not just two blokes on a roof. I’ll introduce you all my friends and whatnot.”
Zayn grins, “Yeah? That would be ace, actually, I’ll bring my roommate, he’s also trying to figure out who’s in the photo he picked up.” He sees Louis shake his head, but he’s smiling, “Just text me the details.”
“Yeah, I’ll actually text you now that you’ve got your iPhone back.” Louis sniggers, “Was fresh hell trying to reach you when you lost it and had to use that old Nokia.”
“My old phone is perfectly fine. Got snake and everything.”
Louis’ getting properly baked now, Zayn can tell, because he lets out a loud, breathy cackle, the kind that’s annoying and endearing in a way only Louis can pull off. “Nah, but you should definitely come. Harry’ll be there, and all of his mental artsy classmates. We’re doing, like, a small early birthday celebration for my roommate too. You guys will probably get along, he’s into all that nerdy stuff you like—“
Zayn’s already tuned Louis out, though, thoughtlessly patting his pocket and searching the courtyard below for familiar faces.
Queen’s Corner Coffee Shop. 4pm. She’ll be wearing yellow shorts.
Liam orders another heavily-sugared tea and re-reads the scrap of paper that Harry had slipped to him ever-so-surreptitiously over lunch. He feels like he’s about to go on a very strange blind date. Or, actually, he feels more like a secret agent. Maybe a hit man. A hit man with a vendetta against young girls in yellow shorts. His leg can’t stop jittering, and when his tea arrives, he just lets it sit. Why does Harry always have to make everything so weird?
“Um, are you Liam?”
Looking up, Liam takes in slim tan legs and – bingo – bright yellow shorts. The girl in front of him looks very cute, and, more importantly, very normal. He feels a flood of relief wash over him. “Yeah – yeah! Let me get your chair!”
The girl waves him away with a polite smiling, sitting down across from him and crossing her legs, “This is… a bit weird.”
Liam feels double relieved because, well, at least they’re on the same page. Harry had been very proud of himself, coming through so quickly on his promise to help Liam find the person who picked up his photo. And Liam was begrudgingly impressed when Harry had come to him, saying he had found a friend of a friend of a friend who remembered their friend Jade picking up a picture that sounded exactly like Liam’s. (“They picked it up almost right after I set it up, so it has to be yours!”)
He let Harry set up a quick meeting with the girl, but he wasn’t sure why Harry had to make it such a thing. He had sent them to a café more than a mile off-campus, rather than the one right by the library, and had given them obscure details about each other to look for, rather than just giving them each other’s numbers. Now that Liam really thought about it, this was all extremely idiotic.
“Sorry about this,” Liam scratches the back of his neck, extending a hand, “Thanks for meeting me, though. Jade, right?”
They make some polite small talk, and Liam feels more and more grateful that Jade seems to be an actually nice person. Maybe he lucked out. Maybe Harry’s photo project will be more fruitful for him than he imagined.
Jade’s accent is thick when she speaks, “Actually, I apologize, but I don’t even have your photo anymore.”
“You—” Okay, Liam thinks, maybe he spoke too soon, “you don’t?”
She shakes her head, “No, I, like, traded it? With another guy, he had my picture and I guess I wasn’t quite ready to let it go, so I thought that’d be fair. I don’t even remember his name, I just know him from class.” Liam goes to open his mouth but Jade beats him to the punch, “And we already took our last exam, so…” Jade smiles apologetically; at least she has a pretty smile, “Sorry. Again. I mean, I could ask my friend Perrie? I think she has his number.”
Liam sighs shaking his head, “No, it’s not a problem, I don’t want you to go to the trouble. I’m not sure why this picture thing is bothering me so much.” He takes an instinctive sip of his tea before remembering how caffeinated he already is, “Curious, I guess,” he just keeps talking, unable to stop the words bubbling out of his mouth, “It was a picture my ex-girlfriend took of me, yeah? So it felt weird knowing someone had it, you know what I mean?”
“No, I get it!” Jade nods vehemently, “I was curious too, about my photo – it was me with an ex. I guess you don’t know how much you miss someone until you try to, you know… let go.” She nods again, just once, very firmly, and that’s… not quite what Liam meant. He echoes her nod anyway.
They talk for a bit longer, Jade ordering her own cup of tea, sipping politely. Liam’s never been good at reading the mood, but he goes for it. “I feel bad about making you come all the way out here,” Liam says, “But, did you want to grab a bite to eat?”
“Oh,” Jade smiles tightly, “I’m actually meeting someone here, in a bit… my ex-girlfriend, the one from the photo?”
A few hours later, when Liam recounts the tale of his fruitless café meeting with Jade, Louis can’t stop cackling, “How does this always happen to you?”
Liam groans. Louis’s not wrong: this is not the first time a cute girl Liam was interested in turned out to be gay, or just more interested in girls. Even Sophia had gone on to date a girl after she and Liam broke up. “Is this my curse? Do I turn girls into lesbians?”
Across the room, Harry shakes his head, “Bisexuality is a thing, Liam.”
“I know that!” Liam whines, “But how am I supposed to compete with girls? Girls are amazing, and they all seem to have their lives together, and I can’t even get people to come to my birthday party.”
“Love isn’t a competition, Liam,” Louis deadpans in his best impression of Harry, “Besides, we’ve got a ton of people coming to your party!”
This doesn’t seem to cheer Liam up. He buries his face in his hands, groaning, “Great, maybe one of them will date me.”
Harry pats Liam on the head as he passes by, probably heading to raid their fridge, “Whenever you’re ready to expand your horizons, I’m here for you.”
Louis shrugs, “His dick is nice. Very smooth.”
Liam muffles his scream in the nearest pillow.
If he’s being honest, Niall’s pretty sure he would do just about anything to get Zayn to stop acting weird. Bribery, blackmailing, dubious sexual favors: he’s ready to put it all out on the table.
“And how did you meet this Loo-ee guy?” Niall feels like an overprotective father when Zayn tells him about the party, but it’s all kind of suspect, he can tell by the way Zayn keeps rubbing the back of his neck and grazing his fingertips over the scruff on the side of his face. A year of living together has given him some knowledge of Zayn’s body language, and everything is looking and feeling extremely shady.
“Smoking buddy,” Zayn’s shoulders tense and he tries to pass it off as a loose shrug, but Niall just narrows his eyes.
There’s a spread of pancakes and bacon in front of them – it was Niall’s turn to make Sunday breakfast – but it’s remained untouched, and that, more than anything else, screams to Niall that something abnormal is going on.
“… Why aren’t you eating?”
Brief panic flashes over Zayn’s face, “Don’t feel well. I ate a big dinner last night.”
If this were an interrogation, Niall would be shining the light right in Zayn’s eyes, “Which is it? Are you sick or just full?”
“Uh,” Zayn’s eyes flick down to the pancakes on the table, “Both.”
It’s physically impossible for Niall to narrow his eyes any further, but if he could, he would. It’s been almost two weeks since Zayn started acting like this, all jittery and jumpy, like he’s constantly walking on eggshells. Niall can tell he’s been losing sleep, not eating properly, skipping out on going to the pub or to parties. Zayn likes his alone time, Niall knows that, but Niall also knows that Zayn likes to let loose every now and again. Lately, though, he’s been strung so tight that Niall feels like he’s always watching where he’s walking, checking in case he might step on the one loose thread and watch his best friend unravel in front of him.
Basically, there’s a line. And Zayn is so far over the line, he needs a jetliner to get back. There’s only one other time Niall has seen Zayn act even remotely like this… and that was back when—
Niall bangs a fist against the table so hard that the syrup bottle falls over into the pile of bacon, sending a few pieces flying over into Zayn’s lap, “You’re lovesick!!”
“… No.” Zayn picks the bacon up between his pointer and middle fingers, placing it back on the plate, “Just normal sick.”
“You can’t lie for shit, Malik, I can see you doing the shifty-eye thing.”
A pause and then “‘M not lovesick.”
Niall sighs and starts spearing pancakes on to his plate. Might as well eat. “C’mon Zayn, who is it? You know you can tell me anything, right?”
Zayn is pouting, but looks resigned to his fate, “You know I don’t eat bacon, right?”
He nods towards the massive pile of bacon on the table, and Niall shakes his head with a smile, “Please. That’s all for me.”
After breakfast Zayn finally tells Niall about the photo, about the party, and, honestly, Niall’s not seeing what the big deal is. Just another romantic mission of Zayn’s. He’s losing track of them, actually. First it was the mysterious girl upstairs, then the boy at the café across from the library, then his philosophy professor—
“—and the girl from the Tesco bakery! Fuck, she was my favorite. I was kind of sad when that fell through, their éclairs are amazing.”
Zayn has already buried his face in the arm of the couch, “You can stop talking now, Niall.”
It’s just that, and Niall’s not sure how to properly put it, Zayn’s just like that. He’s romantic and a huge softie, despite the fact that sometimes he looks like he’d come at you for looking at him funny. Niall likes it because Zayn’s the nicest, person he’s ever met, hands down. He deserves someone good, and Niall doesn’t mind helping. Even if it does seem like Zayn’s crush turnover rate is much higher than the average person’s.
“Okay, well let me see this guy.” Niall reaches his hand out expectantly, but is met only with a stiff-shouldered, wide-eyed Zayn, “… What?”
Zayn suddenly looks very interested in the loose threads on one of the couch’s accent pillows, “Uh. Haven’t actually, like. I haven’t actually shown anyone else the picture.”
Niall almost laughs, but covers it up with a cough, looking at the furrow of Zayn’s eyebrows, “Not even your friend throwing the party? How are you supposed to find the guy if you won’t show anyone the photo?” He doesn’t doubt that Zayn has a plan, not for one second, but he knows him well enough to know that it’s probably an idiotic, convoluted, overly-complicated plan. Niall’s pretty sure he’s told Zayn before that he doesn’t need all that extra stuff, all that extra thinking.
“Well I’m obviously going to show Harry the photo, like,” Zayn pouts, “I just feel weird showing other people. Like I’m… cheating or something.”
“’There’s no speed limit on the highway of love, man.’” Niall says in his best Bradford accent, an imitation of something Zayn once said when he came home high as shit and drunk in love with someone new.
Zayn ducks his head to hide his laugh, swatting Niall on the leg, “Alright, I get it. I’ll show you. Some other time, though, I think I’ve sustained enough humiliation for one morning.”
Niall reaches over to grab some leftover bacon from the kitchen table, “Going back to bed?”
“Yeah, I’m scheduled for a nap.”
Niall just laughs and lets him amble off, “Oh, wait, when again is that party you mentioned?”
“Tomorrow night, 10PM!”
“Good, I was scheduled to get drunk that night anyway!” Niall shuffles to the kitchen to start cleaning up after breakfast, and there’s the sound of Zayn chuckling under his breath before he hears the soft click of his door closing.
(Zayn might have thought he was joking, but Niall pens the party into his planner before starting on the dishes.)
It’s 9:59PM and Liam is late to his own birthday party.
“I can’t believe you’re making me pay for my own birthday cake.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t even ask what he looked like!”
Louis can’t let it go. And Liam kind of can’t believe it either. He was so focused on the awkwardness of his strange café rendezvous that he didn’t even think to ask Jade what the boy who now had his photo looked like.
With a groan, Liam passes a few notes across the counter to the bakery cashier and watches her box up his cake. This is it, this is his birthday celebration: a Tesco cake and a dead-end mystery.
“It’s just that this was our chance,” Louis whines, “I’ve got all these people coming tonight, what if that guy is one of them? Now we won’t be able to tell!”
Liam pouts, “I don’t want to talk about it.” He fiddles with the sleeve of his shirt, pushing it up to his elbow. Louis shoots him a surprisingly apologetic look and they walk the rest of the way back in silence.
The thing is, and Liam doesn’t mean to be melodramatic, that his birthday always makes him a bit… anxious. Not the thought of growing up – actually that’s always been the exciting part to him, getting to grow up and see more of his own life unfold in front of him. But despite the fact that the past few years have definitely been a far cry from his empty sixteenth birthday, he still feels a bit haunted by the idea that everyone is just humoring him, that they don’t actually like him. The feeling had stayed with him even when he was dating Sophia; it was like he just couldn’t shake it. Maybe that was what finally broke them down, that pervasive sense of disbelief.
“Oi,” Louis elbows him in the ribs lightly, “I left my key in the room along with my wallet.”
Liam just nods, shuffles in front of Louis to key into the flat. Maybe he’ll be able to convince them that he doesn’t feel well – retreat to his room and hide out until the party finally dies down around 4AM. Louis will be mad and Harry will be pouty but –
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!”
He takes in everything quickly: there’s already about thirty people crammed in their living room, all shouting out their early birthday wishes; the lights are dimmed and nearly everyone already has a glass in their hand; there is a massive cake, stood fairly precariously on the coffee table. It’s nearly three feet tall, Liam guesses, decorated with a large fondant cut-out of the Batman symbol on the middle tier. Lastly, and maybe least surprising, Harry is stood proudly with his hands on his hips, and he’s wearing nothing, save for a pair of small yellow shorts and a fine dusting of flour.
“Do you love it?” He shouts, gesticulating wildly towards the cake.
Liam is speechless. He wants to feel embarrassed about his teary eyes and goofy smile but he’s really, really not. He has two amazing best friends, a party full of people who just want to get pissed and have a good time, and no more exams to worry about. “When—“
“During my shifts at the bakery these past few days!” Harry pipes up, “I had to rush it a bit at the end, but Barbara let me strip down a bit,” he narrows his eyes and makes a straight gesture with his hands, “so I could focus.”
Louis jabs Liam again in the ribs, less gentle this time, “Had to get you out of the room so he could bring it over.”
“Thank you… really. It’s amazing.” Liam smiles tearfully.
Louis and Harry look smug, but loving, and fall over each other to envelope him in a hug, “Ah, don’t cry Panyo!” Louis reaches inside the hug to tug on Liam’s nipple, “You still have over a month before you’re actually old like me, so enjoy it!”
“Yeah, alright, alright,” Liam rubs a hand over his chest and pushes Louis away, but he can’t even pretend to be annoyed by anything right now. Right now, he can’t wipe the dumb smile off his face. Right now, everything feels right.
“Wait… you actually made me buy this cake though,” Liam says, holding up the bag with his Tesco cake, probably a bit smushed from the group hug.
Louis snatches the cake and heads to the kitchen to put it in the fridge, “That’s your birthday cake, this is our hangover cake!” He shouts over his shoulder.
When he turns back to Harry, Liam finds himself being handed a cup of a liquid that, upon inspection, is overwhelmingly sweet, and, knowing Harry, almost 100% guaranteed to get him drunk in an alarmingly short amount of time.
“We need to find you someone to make out with,” Harry says to him very seriously, “Nick says that if you don’t hook up with someone by the end of the night, he’s obligated to give you your pre-birthday snog.”
Liam lifts his drink in a quick cheers and downs it all in one go.
It’s 12:02AM and Zayn is drunk. Very, very drunk. Possibly more drunk than he’s ever been in his entire life, which isn't a difficult task to achieve, considering how little he actually drinks.
The weed is probably not helping, he thinks, but when he finally runs into Louis a bit after eleven he felt nearly required to kip out to the balcony and have a quick light. He and Niall had gotten to the party late, sometime after ten-thirty, and by that time things had already gotten pretty hectic, with some kind of near-hedonistic circle of people gathered around a massive cake. Niall seemed relieved to get out of the crowd into some semblance of fresh air, even though now it’s lousy with smoke.
“Zayn tell you about his mystery man, then?” Niall says to Louis once they’ve been introduced, “He won’t let me see ‘im!”
Louis takes a drag and offers the spliff to Niall, who shakes his head no, “Yeah, I didn’t see the picture either, c’mon Zayner, let’s see it!”
It takes Zayn a second to realize they’re talking to him, and he rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, “What – no, like. I already told you.”
“You’re going to show it to Harry anyway, whenever we find him!” Niall says, and Zayn knows, deep down, that he’s being logical, because Niall is always logical. But Zayn just… isn’t, sometimes. He doesn’t feel right putting all his cards out on the table like that, he doesn’t feel safe.
“Could be ages before we find Harry, he tends to get caught up in big parties like this,” Louis leans forward towards Niall, almost conspiratorially, “Social butterfly, and all.”
Zayn breathes a sigh of relief when this brings them off the topic for a bit. Niall and Louis shoot the shit a bit more, bickering about football, before someone inside calls for Louis and he excuses himself. There’s a minute or two of silence; Zayn finishes off the joint, puts it out under his boot when it starts getting too harsh.
Eventually, Niall leans over and bumps Zayn’s shoulder with his own, “Hey. If I tell ye a secret, will you tell me yours?”
It’s a game they used to play when they first became roommates, when Zayn was having trouble opening up. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, just that it was nearly physically impossible. He’d open his mouth and nothing would come out. So Niall would always meet him in the middle.
“So,” Niall starts once he sees Zayn nod, “I’m, uh. I’m going to America.”
“… What?”
“Woo! Feels good to have that off my shoulders!” Niall grins, a bit sheepish, “Over the summer, yeah. The whole summer, actually, I’ll be in the good ol’ U S of A. Big trip with the some of the film department.”
Zayn just nods, frowning a bit. In a few seconds he’ll congratulate Niall on his trip, ask him where exactly in the US he’ll be going, joke about bringing back some souvenirs for him or tease him about what kind of American girls he’ll be pulling. It’s not like he and Niall had any plans together for the summer, but it’s not like they didn’t not have plans. Or something. Zayn’s not quite sure why he’s feeling a bit put out by the whole thing, except now he knows for sure that he’ll be alone this summer, renting some cheap flat while he stays in Manchester for his internship. Last summer it had been the both of them, Zayn and Niall, splitting the rent on a terrible two bedroom, ordering in and watching terrible films on Netflix nearly every night.
Zayn goes to say Congrats, I’ll miss you, but what comes out is, “When did you find out? That you’d be going?”
“A week ago or so,” Niall frowns, “Look, I wanted to tell you, but I don’t know. You seemed off—“
“I’m not a child, Niall, I’m supposed to be your friend,” Zayn snaps, the words coming out harsher than he intended. He sees Niall bristle, “No, mate, that’s not what I meant. Just, like, you caught me off guard.” He can tell he’s hurt Niall’s feelings a bit, though, and Niall is usually particularly unflappable when it comes to petty drama, but he hates to have his loyalty questioned.
A bit of breeze makes Niall shiver slightly, but Zayn is already warmed by the booze and the buzz, “You know, it’s not exactly easy watching you when you’re in a right mood, or a rut, or whatever you wanna call it,” Niall says, being all-too logical, again, “I didn’t want to prod you before you were ready to talk, didn’t want to come home flaunting my good news around while you look like you’re miserable!”
“Alright, but I don’t need you to handle me with kid gloves.” Zayn mumbles.
“Don’t I?” Niall looks a bit manic, laughing under his breath in a way that makes Zayn take a step back, lower back hitting the balcony railing, “Because you’re always putting a bunch of unnecessary rules on yourself. Like with this feckin’ picture thing, you’re just running away from actually doing anything. For a hopeless romantic, god – if you want this guy, then just go for it! Stop hiding behind made up rules and shit and just – “ Niall trails off, loses his train of thought, apparently, and immediately deflates, running a hand through his hair and letting out a long breath.
They’re quiet for a second. Then, “… That kind of hurt, mate.”
Niall smiles weakly; Zayn knows better than to get mad at him when he speaks his mind. Because the fight – if he could even call it that – is over even before it really begins.
“I’m sorry, Zayn,” Niall reaches over to sling his arm around his roommate, “I should’ve just talked to you about it. I’m a right arse.”
“Kinda. But I get it.” Zayn shuffles a bit to reach into his back pocket, where the photo of his mystery man is. He’s taken to carrying it everywhere – carefully transferring it every morning depending on which trousers he’s wearing. It’s a bit serial killer-y now that he’s really thinking about it, “Here. Check it out.”
He holds the photo up in front of Niall’s face, between his thumb and pointer finger. Niall just stares at it for a while, brow furrowed in a way that makes Zayn think he knows who the boy is. But then his smile just breaks into a wide grin and he shakes his head, “No clue who that is. Looks like I made a big fuss over nothing,” he raises an eyebrow, “He is fit, though.”
“Right?” Zayn smiles, “I’m sorry I was being a…”
“Obsessed lovesick idiot?”
“Yeah, that.”
The pair make their way inside for a kiss-and-make-up shot, followed by another, and another. They both eat a sizable portion of a cake they find in the fridge – the massive Batman cake had already been completely devoured, not unimpressively. “You don’t even like cake,” Niall laughs, and Zayn had forgot somehow, caught up in the hype of everything, and he eventually pays for it, the over-sugary icing making him sick and sleepy. It’s dark in the apartment, but he still catches Niall slinking off in a corner with some tall brunette, and he takes the opportunity to throw up in the bathroom and then sneak into a free room, passing out face-down on the duvet.
They never do find Harry.
Nick Grimshaw has a presence, Liam thinks. He always looks like he’s a bit wankered, even without having a drop to drink. He saunters up to Liam almost snake-like, winding an arm around his shoulder. “Having any luck?”
Liam’s not sure what Nick’s referring to, but he can’t remember the last time he had any kind of luck at all, so he just shakes his head, “Does that mean you have to make out with me now?”
“Please,” Nick laughs, “I’ll spare you, I know you’re saving yourself for your mystery man, and all.”
A dark pink blush spreads across Liam’s face, “I am not,” He shoves at Nick’s arms, “I’m just curious who’s got my picture.”
Nick just laughs again, pulling his arm back and reaching into his pocket, “I’ve actually got a new mystery man myself! Picked this up at Harry’s set-up the other day…”
“I thought you had Louis’ picture,” Liam’s brow furrows – Nicks’ still struggling to fish the picture out of the front pocket his tight jeans.
“I did!” Nick finally gets the photo, dangling it in front of Liam’s face, and it is decidedly not the semi-shirtless photo of Louis, “But that’s no fun, so I picked up another one.”
“That’s cheating,” Liam pouts, instinctively snatching the photo out of Nick’s hand.
It’s a bit blurry – or is that just because he’s a bit tipsy? But there’s one thing in the photo that’s clear; the focus is on a boy around Liam’s age, handsome, vaguely familiar looking, like maybe he’s seen him around campus or walking to class or in the line at the coffee shop. He’s crouched in front of a young girl who’s blurred out in the forefront of the photo, and he’s mid-laugh, a wide smile on his face that Liam finds himself echoing, grinning dumbly at the photo like he’s looking at an old friend.
Nick’s giving him a look, “You know him?”
“Oh—uh. No, I don’t.”
Nick goes to say something else – probably something teasing about the redness of Liam’s face, half embarrassment, half alcohol-induced – but he gets intercepted by a blonde girl Liam doesn’t recognize, and they fall into a conversation that Liam can’t really follow.
He thinks about giving Nick the picture back, of the new ‘mystery man,’ as it were. But he doesn’t. Something about the boy’s smile, his dark eyes, long eyelashes… Liam makes a split-second decision and pockets the picture. Just in case.
It’s 3:05AM by the time Liam wanders into his room, not drunk enough to be incapacitated, but not sober enough to keep his eyes open. Halfway through unbuttoning his shirt he realizes that he’s not alone. And he’s not just seeing things.
There’s someone face down on the left side of his bed, limbs akimbo. Liam doesn’t recognize him, not that he can really see anything of the boy expect a rumpled shirt and black hair. He notices a spread of tattoos across the boy’s forearm, but sleepiness is impairing his vision enough that they all kind of blur together, just a smattering of black ink on olive skin.
“Hello…?” Despite the fact that this is his room, Liam doesn’t want to be rude to the passed-out stranger, so he runs a hand gently across the small of the boy’s back, “Are you okay?”
“Mm,” the boy grunts, and Liam can hear him smacking his lips, the sound muffled by the covers, “’M okay.”
Liam laughs, “D’you want something for your head?” The boy nods his head yes, “Do you wanna roll over?” The boy shakes his head no.
Liam just shrugs and strolls to the bathroom, coming back with two ibuprofen and a glass of water, setting it down on the side table before sitting down on the empty side of the bed. He pulls one leg up to his chest, “You know, if you want to feel better you’re going to have to actually sit up and drink the water.”
The other boy groans, before saying something that Liam can’t quite make out.
“What’s that?”
A beat of silence, “I don’t want people seeing me like this.”
“Bro!” Liam laughs, “Everyone gets drunk! Don’t be embarrassed.”
But the boy shakes his head, “No, like. I look… bad.”
Liam flops on the open side of the bed, jostling the frame enough that the drunken stranger groans again, “So you don’t want to sit up because you look… bad?” There’s a nod, “I mean, I’m not gonna judge you! Plus, I’m not really into dudes so, like. You don’t have to worry about me judging you for not being good looking right now or whatever.” Liam starts, “Not that, like, I’d judge you for being gay or something. If you. If you were. And not that I can’t recognize when a guy is, you know, attractive! I can definitely do that. You seen Justin Timberlake? Major man crush…” His rambling trails off and Liam finishes with a steady, affirmative nod, not that the boy can even see him.
But when he looks over again, the boy has brought his hands up to the sides of his face, to cover himself even further.
Not much else he can do, Liam figures, shrugging and climbing under the covers, “Suit yourself. I’m just gonna sleep, then. Since, you know, this is my room and all.”
The boy doesn’t apologize, just lies there. Liam curls his blanket over half his face and is almost asleep before he hears a muffled, “Aren’t you going to turn off the light? Or change?”
Liam yawns, “Too tired.” And that’s the end of the conversation, until he hears a quiet mumble that sounds a bit like ‘You’re weird.’ Which, well. The boy’s not wrong.
Sometime in the middle of the night, Liam thinks he feels the boy finally sit up and take the ibuprofen and down the water all in gulp. But when he opens his eyes to get a glimpse of him, the light of the lamp on the side table blinds him.
All Liam manages to make out is a silhouette, and before he can say anything, the boy turns off the light and leaves, without even looking at him.
The clean-up is horrendous.
Liam wakes up alone; the only proof there was anyone else there the previous night is a vaguely person-shaped imprint on the other side of the duvet and the lingering smell of cigarettes.
They each set out on their assignments: Liam handles the trash, Louis scrubs the stains out of the carpet, and Harry, naked save for an apron, makes breakfast.
“This is… the worst.” Louis is massively hungover, eyes a bit bloodshot from the weed, residual hairspray making his hair stand up in impossible directions. He slumps down on the freshly-cleaned tile and looks up at Liam, “Did you manage to find your mystery bloke last night?”
Liam feels a bit sour that he has to keep re-living his lack of success in solving his photo mystery, “Nope. No luck.” And it was a nice night, a perfect night by all accounts, what with so many people showing up to celebrate his faux-birthday, but he still didn’t really meet anyone new. Then again, he wasn’t really sure what he was expecting. And he could never not be grateful for the friends he does have.
Louis shrugs, “I guess he never showed up.”
Liam wouldn’t have minded getting to know that drunken boy, he thinks, the one who ended up passed out in his bed. He seemed… interesting. Liam’s not sure why that’s the thing that comes to his mind, but he files it away for later, or maybe for never, since the boy had been gone by morning without a note or a thank you or even a goodbye.
“Guess not.”