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The entire tour bus smells like boys and sweat: even Harry’s candles and the driver’s Febreeze have lost out to the inevitable heat of summer in the southern U.S. and Louis’ vicious refusal to wank anywhere but his bunk. Zayn has no such qualms, but he also lacks the energy to have Paul arrange a hotel room just for him to toss off.
So his bunk it is, tangled sheets kicked down around his ankles, pillow scrunched up beneath his neck, air heavy behind the closed curtain as he tries to keep his breathing steady. Last time he checked, Louis was passed out in the back with the FIFA menu music on repeat, and Liam had gone out with Niall. He doesn’t have to keep quiet, but it doesn’t hurt; it’s easy to pretend one of the other boys might stumble back onto the bus or that Louis might wake up and have to pass his bunk on the way to the loo. If he were being loud they could hear him all too easy; the bunk curtains are made for muting light, not sound.
He’s heard Louis getting off a dozen times before, so it’s natural that his mind goes there now. Usually he’s loudest when they’ve split a couple spliffs in the back after a show, or when he and Liam have had a few drinks talking about their girls back home. Like maybe he wants Zayn to notice.
Like Zayn could ignore it. Those nights, Louis barely bothers pulling his curtain closed, and Zayn can hear the stupid slapping sound of Louis’ hand on his cock from his own bunk. He doesn’t seem to bother with lube; Zayn’s never seen it in his bunk, or come across a bottle of it digging in his duffel for a shirt to borrow, like he’d found in Liam’s more than once. Maybe he gets wet enough he doesn’t need it. Zayn bites his lip, staring at the ceiling, and rubs his thumb just under the head of his own cock.
He’s never gotten that wet, but he bets Louis does. Lou’s easy like that, desperate when he gets horny. Zayn needs the lube, himself. He keeps the little tube tucked under his pillow, in his pillow case, just in case someone rifles through his bunk. It’s nothing fancy, not fucking scented or flavored like Harry talks about being so much fun. Zayn rubs his fingers, slick with it, down his cock, gives himself a lazy stroke. He wouldn’t need the lube if he and Louis got off together, he figures. Louis’d be wet enough for both of them, and Zayn would just have to take them both in his hand, let Louis spread it between them.
He wonders if he could keep hold both their cocks in one hand, or if he’d need two. Louis’ boasted that he’s thick before, thick enough to make girls talk about it, and he’s looked decent-sized when Zayn’s seen him soft, passing in venue showers or getting dressed together during quick changes. Maybe it would take two hands to hold them so Zayn could rub his dick up against Louis’, bump the heads together and make them both moan. Zayn can nearly picture it when he closes his eyes, imagine it when he rubs his thumb up the vein on the underside of his own cock. If that were Louis’ cockhead, instead.
Fuck, he’d come so fast like that.
He does just thinking about it, anyway.
;
Thinking about Liam comes slower: Zayn’s pulled up porn on his laptop, let the video load while he brushed his teeth. He takes his time about it. If Louis scents blood, he’ll turn shark, and Zayn wants this evening to go according to plan. He likes drawing it out, too, the hot squirmy feeling in his stomach as he watches himself in the mirror, brushing his teeth. How he’s the only one who knows the video is paused and muted on his computer just five meters away.
Louis brushes past him in the hall, on the phone, sounding tired. Something about tonight’s concert; same as always, nothing to tell there. Zayn will ask him later, see what’s up, why he’s being so short with his mum or with Eleanor. Maybe after he gets off. He could go find Louis, talk him into smoking up and maybe have a cuddle or two. Louis gets handsy on weed, and Zayn gets needy after he comes. Human contact’s just nice, innit.
Or maybe Liam will be back—he’d gone up to Harry’s hotel room to shower, but he’d said he might not stay the night. Harry kicks in his sleep, and his legs are long enough not even a California King keeps you safe.
Briefly, Zayn wonders what they’re doing: if they’re sprawled out on the bed watching pay per view or maybe scribbling down some terrible hipster lyrics about older women. He imagines they both have wet hair, pictures Harry shaking his out and making Liam laugh.
He could still text Alberto to come and take him up to join them. He could have a shower, steal some of Harry’s expensive organic shampoo and use Liam’s aftershave, squirm between them on the bed smelling of both of them. They’d shove him around a bit and he could fall asleep like that, easy, curled up in the spaces their knees and elbows leave. Human contact.
But there’s porn pulled up on his laptop, and now he’s half-hard in his briefs, the phantom scent of aftershave so heady he rubs at his nose with the back of his hand to clear it. This time he stays under the covers, sheets tented over his knees as he balances his laptop on his thighs, plugs his headphones in.
The man looks like he’s just back from the gym; that might’ve been the opening plot, but Zayn had skipped it, fast-forwarded five minutes in, to where he’s on his knees, licking at the woman’s cunt like he’s starving for it. He’s got sturdy biceps, and a fine sanding of hair along his pecs and trailing down his abs, and Zayn remembers how Liam’s chest hair had felt against his fingertips when he’d drawn on him in Sharpie. It had been such a laugh at the time, and now he wishes he’d paid closer attention, felt out every line of his muscles, found every spot that makes Liam squirm. The woman moans, and Zayn closes his eyes, tightens his grip on his cock.
Liam might eat him out like that. If Liam were his boyfriend, he definitely would. Zayn bets he’s even thought about it before, maybe when Zayn was Veronica. He hadn’t stopped staring at Zayn in that skirt, and it had been a joke, then, but it doesn’t feel as funny now. He’d wear it again, for Liam. Bend over a desk and press his hot cheek into a stack of office papers, his glasses steamed up from kissing behind the copier, Liam’s hands so big on his thighs and arse as he pushes the skirt up—it’s a full fantasy, complete with tinkling Muzac they play over the speakers at the label office in London. It’s nothing like what’s currently happening on his screen.
Zayn keeps his eyes closed, listens, pictures it.
;
Most nights it feels like too much trouble getting off in the shower. Usually it’s a five minute ordeal backstage in the bowels of the latest venue with Paul beating down the door to get them out and back to the bus. Or Zayn’s been worn down and convinced to get a hotel room for the night, and all he wants to do is stand under the spray and let his muscles untangle themselves, let the stress and the energy and the exhaustion seep away down the drain.
Some nights, though, it can’t be helped.
Harry’d been all over him the entire show: whispering in Zayn’s ear about the girl in the low-cut red top, second row; offering Zayn his water bottle and then biting his lip as Zayn took a sip, watching him with that weird intensity he gets about kale smoothies and cinnamon-scented potpourri and sex. He’d slipped two fingers into Zayn’s back pocket as they strolled down the catwalk to meet the other boys on the B stage. He’d stomped into Zayn’s space and demanded they share a mic for Alive.
It doesn’t mean much, not like it used to, when it used to be a precursor to a night out spilling cocktails on each other’s clothes and huddling close in a VIP booth, picking out girls to share. But Zayn’s brain hasn’t forgotten that used to, and neither has his dick.
It almost isn’t enough, the slide of his own hand eased with hotel conditioner, the tile too cold against his ribs where he’s leaning into it to stay upright. It feels lonely in the way hotels always do now, and Zayn wishes he’d gone back to his bunk instead. Wishes he’d gone back to someone else’s bed.
Harry has big hands; graceful fingers where Liam’s are thick, wide palms where Louis’ are narrow, tan skin where Niall’s is pale. Sturdy bones in his wrist that never feel as fragile as Zayn’s own. They’d feel good around his cock, occasional callouses from his on-again, off-again guitar lessons, whatever weights he’s lifted that morning at the gym. He’d go slow, make Zayn curse at him. Zayn speeds up his own hand because he can. Harry’d want to play with his balls, maybe. Rub his fingertips behind them like he somehow knows, his big cow eyes so smug when he looks at Zayn.
Zayn smacks his palm against the tile hard, his knee jerking out a little. His legs are shaking under the warm spray. Harry’d want to kiss, and they’d probably both get water in their eyes. Zayn can picture how their tattoos would look, glossy black when wet, bodies melting to a single canvas. He’d dig his fingers into the laurels at Harry’s stomach, scratch across the script on his hip and make Harry hiss.
Maybe he’d make Harry come first. Get down on his knees and suckle at the head of his cock, wank him off hard until Harry came up against his own stomach and over Zayn’s face. It’d wash off easy in the shower. Harry’d like how dirty it is, watch it wash down the drain. He might return the favor: shove Zayn against the tiles and hold him there by the hips, suck him down, that wide mouth full of his cock.
Zayn shivers, arches his back against the tiles and takes his cock in both hands, wanking himself steadily with one while the other rubs at the head. Everything feels too hot, and the bathroom has filled up with steam, makes his lungs feel heavy, his head dopey. He can feel every particle of his body, aching to get off. It feels like it takes an eternity.
Harry’s mouth is so red.
Zayn chokes, hips hitching forward into his hands wildly, moaning as he comes in long, shuddering spurts across the backs of his knuckles. It feels like his body is coming apart. He can’t stop blinking, and he’s breathing too hard.
He turns the water all the way to cold, gives himself another reason to shiver.
;
It’s an impulse, and a bad one at that, that finds Zayn glancing both ways as he comes out of the Vans store and heading straight across the mall atrium to Aerie. It’s not as flashy inside as the other stores he’s been in—he thinks of the Victoria’s Secret in LA with Perrie, once, months ago, and some grungy looking “specialty store” with Harry in Australia, years ago—but there are still the posters of gap-toothed models, the bright voices of girls at the register welcoming him in. He ducks behind the first rack, trying to act casual. Trying to feel casual, surrounded by lace and ribbons and a sizing system he can’t read, and cotton pants that look so delicate he has to touch them. They’re butter-soft to the touch, like a distressed t-shirt, and Zayn can’t quite imagine how they’d feel on. He bets it would be nice.
If he buys three pairs, it’s only so he can know for sure.
By the time he’s back to the bus, Louis has seen the pictures on twitter, and is flashing them in Zayn’s face in glee. “What’d you get? Who’s it for? You dirty bastard!”
Zayn clutches the bag to his chest and shoves past him into the bunks, resolutely ignoring him. He pushes the whole parcel under his pillow and lays down on it quick, so Louis can’t get at them. He can wait Louis out. It’ll be worth it.
;
It’s worth it, for the way they look clinging to his skinny hips in the hotel bathroom mirror. He’s gotten his own room for once, to get Louis off his back (literally), but mostly for this. He’d taken his time in the shower, taken his time drying off, and now he’s taking his time with this.
It looks a little funny, maybe, with his thighs still covered in a scattering of dark hair, his happy trail coming out the top elastic up to his bellybutton, but no less good for that. The cotton has enough give for his cock, pressed to one side, even chubbed up and half-hard. It’s as feather-soft as he imagined.
Zayn rubs his thumbs over the elastic of the waistband, and slides his hands slowly up over his chest. His nipples feel tight under his palms, skin hot and a little prickly with incongruous goose bumps. It was a good choice, some time to himself. Time to do this properly.
He slides under the cool sheets of the big bed, makes a half-hearted snow angel shape, running his calves lazily along the fresh cotton, stretching his arms up to grab the top of the headboard. The slight strain in his muscles feels right, like the glow post-workout. Post-really, really good sex.
Zayn closes his eyes, and slides his hands back down his abs, smoothes through his pubic hair and cups his hand over his cock in the underwear. He’s half-hard, and it doesn’t take long to work up to fully-hard, just gentle squeezes at the head and down the length through the fabric. He lets his hand drop and rubs at his balls. It feels funny in the pants, but a nice funny, the sort that tingles in his chest and twists something up tight in his belly, making him want more.
He’d set out a bottle of lube before he got in the shower, and he grabs it off the side table now, squeezes a generous amount into one palm. Shoving his hand down his pants might be messier than he’d anticipated, but he’ll just buy more underwear later. With how this is going, he’s definitely buying more later. He pushes them down so the waistband snaps below his balls, rubs at the sensitive skin leading back to his arsehole, and gives himself a couple long strokes. It’s just wet enough, warm and slick in his palm, and he grunts approvingly.
He thinks, fleetingly, and then more seriously about Niall’s face when he’d asked to borrow the lube. He hadn’t felt like asking one of the crew to pick any up, and like hell was he getting caught in a Boots, or whatever the local equivalent is at this particular stop. He could’ve asked Harry, but Harry would’ve asked to join, and Zayn might’ve said yes, which isn’t something he feels truly ready for at the moment. He would’ve had to explain that tonight is for him to try out the pair of women’s underwear he’s been hiding under his pillow. Harry might’ve been a little too into it.
Niall though, Niall had only laughed delightedly and flushed slowly down his chest, said sure, how much do you need, haha, don’t have too much left but you’re welcome to it mate! Zayn rolls his hips up, fucking his fist, wonders what else Niall would say he’s welcome to.
He comes faster than he’d meant to, and if he’s a little sullen passing the bottle back to Niall the next morning in the hallway, well.
;
The next time he comes thinking about Niall, he’s tucked away in his bunk, the dirty underwear stuffed inside his pillow case. He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it, really, the fantasies recurrent and increasingly insistent in the week since he borrowed Niall’s lube.
Now the bus is humming beneath him, the slight swimming feeling of road motion, and the others are watching a movie in the back lounge. He has to be quiet.
Niall could keep him quiet with a hand over his mouth, wanking him with the other, going slow and using lots of lube. In the fantasy, Niall doesn’t have to be told what Zayn likes, he just grins up at him, silly straight teeth that still catch Zayn off-guard and all, twists his wrist. Or maybe he shuts him up by feeding his cock into Zayn’s mouth, still going slow but shaking with how badly he wants it, wants Zayn.
Zayn tries to imagine making it work in one of the cramped bunks. They’d have to do it when no one else was around, so they could leave the curtain open. He can’t imagine Niall being able to handle having it closed. Zayn gets claustrophobic enough sometimes, and he’s not the one with the actual issue in tight spaces. So maybe a lazy afternoon before a show, when the others are off grabbing lunch with the 5SOS lads; Zayn could tell Niall he wants to talk, and Niall would follow him back to the bus. He’d look so confused when Zayn went to his knees, but Zayn would nuzzle at his cock through his joggers and that would shut him up. And then he could shut Zayn up, hold Zayn’s jaw as he rocks his hips, fucks his mouth. Zayn shudders, and bites his lower lip. He’d have to be so careful of his teeth. Absently, he wonders if it’s different giving head to a bloke who’s not cut, if you have to be especially careful of the foreskin. It doesn’t really matter. He doesn’t mind a challenge in bed.
Zayn spits in his hand before sliding it down his pants to palm at his own cock. NIall probably likes it really wet and messy when he gets head, and Zayn could do that. Lick broad strokes up his cock from base to tip, spread the spit with his tongue until he’s slick enough to swallow down easily. It might drip down Zayn’s chin onto Niall’s balls, and maybe he’d duck down to clean it up, suck one of them into his mouth to hear Niall moan. Zayn isn’t sure if Niall likes his balls being played with, but it’s his own fantasy, so he can imagine what he likes. Besides, Zayn knows what he looks like, going down on someone. They’d be stupid to object.
Zayn licks his lips, squeezes the head of his cock. He’s never eaten a bloke out before, but he’s seen it in porn, and they always get so fucking loud. Niall probably would too, with Zayn’s tongue in his arse. Maybe he’d let Zayn open him up enough for a finger or two, Zayn could lick in between his knuckles and feel Niall go tight around his tongue.
He tightens his hand on his cock and fucks into his fist. He doesn’t even know how to imagine the taste, probably like soap and skin. He’d have Niall clean up first, obviously. Or maybe he’d do it himself, start them off in the shower and then bend him over the sink as soon as they were done, spread Niall’s arsecheeks and make him watch his own face in the mirror.
They could fuck like that too, if Niall wanted, still dripping on the tiles. Zayn’s hips twitch, and he’s so, so close. He imagines Niall coming across the countertop, lines of pearly spunk, maybe splattering the mirror. Zayn’s back comes off the bunk and he nearly hits his head on the ceiling as he comes, a mess all over his shirt and up to his chin.
His breathing sounds too loud when he’s finished, and Zayn can’t quite bring himself to clean up and go rejoin the lads just yet. When he’s had a nap, he thinks blearily. Just a short one.
;
“Mate, you stink.” Niall’s voice breaks up the white noise of Zayn’s dream-fugue state, making him twitch awake faster than he’d like. “Zayn. C’mon, mate, Julian wants us for some recording—oh, fuck, sorry, were you. You’ve got spunk all over you, what the fuck, mate.” He doesn’t sound too shocked, just a little curious and a little grossed out. He’s still got the curtain half-open, staring at the crusting mess on Zayn’s chest with a wrinkled nose. Light floods in around his shoulders and makes Zayn hiss.
“Seriously,” Niall says. “That is so rank, Zayn."
Zayn pulls at his sheet awkwardly, trying to get it up high enough to keep Niall’s judging eyes at bay and fall back to sleep. It doesn’t quite work. Niall just leans into his bunk and shakes his shoulder. “I’m not letting you go back to sleep like this, mate.”
“Fuck off,” Zayn croaks.
“Nope.” Niall sounds far too chipper. “Either get up, or I’ll take a photo and send it to your mum.”
Zayn opens one eye. “Wouldn’t.”
“Would,” Niall nods, solemnly. He has got his phone in his hand, Zayn notices.
“Ugh,” Zayn says, and rolls out of the bunk.
“Good lad,” Niall says, and smacks his ass as he heads towards the loo.
;
Three hours later, when Zayn’s hoarse and nursing a cuppa back in the front lounge of the bus, Niall comes in with a packet of biscuits. He’d stayed longer than Zayn had to record a final take, but he somehow looks more alive than Zayn feels at the moment. He waves the foil package and tosses it into Zayn’s lap. “Got these off Louise’s bus, think she was hiding them from Lux, but they’re the kind you like, so.”
Not much about that sentence makes sense to Zayn, but it’s more down to his own lack of sleep than anything else, so he nods and accepts the offering for what it is. “You want one?”
Niall shrugs. “I’ll have one if you are.”
Zayn pops the end open and digs out two of the biscuits, hands one over and then dips the second in his tea. It’s not too sweet, nicely chocolatey, and reminds him of home. Something aches in his bones deeper than the exhaustion.
Niall slumps down beside him on the sofa and leans heavily against his side. For all the wanking Zayn’s done recently, he’s missed the simple intimacy of a familiar touch. He leans back, drops his head on Niall’s shoulder.
;
The next time he wakes up is to a crick in his neck, and Niall snoring gently somewhere above him. The bus is quiet, and they aren’t moving. Somewhere in his memory Zayn hazily remembers that today is an off day, that the show at this venue isn’t until the next night. They’ve slumped over on the couch, and Zayn’s face is smashed up against Niall’s ribs, just under his armpit.
Niall smells like sleep-fresh sweat and musty cologne. It’s not the best combination, but it’s better than Zayn’s bunk at the moment. Better than Zayn himself smells, probably. Niall shifts in his sleep, reaching down to scratch his balls, and Zayn wrinkles his nose. Following the motion of Niall’s hand, he takes in the slight bulge of the semi in his basketball shorts. He wonders when the last time Niall got off was.
“Hey,” comes Niall’s voice, scratchy and confused. “Sorry, forgot you were there, mate.”
“S’alright,” Zayn mutters, tries to sit up. When he’s no longer squeezed against Niall’s side, the room feels substantially more chilly. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”
“Don’t mind.” Niall reaches up and grabs at Zayn’s elbow, tugs him back down. “Y’warm, don’t go.”
Zayn laughs a little against Niall’s collarbone, face pressed awkwardly into his shoulder. “I thought you might want to be alone with that.” He indicates the distortion at the crotch of Niall’s shorts.
Niall huffs, and rubs at his face with one hand. “Nah. Not bothered. Hand gets old after a while, y’know?”
“Not if you mix it up enough,” Zayn points out flatly.
“Yeah, I don’t do anything fancy,” Niall sounds amused. “It’s just wanking, isn’t it?”
Zayn makes a face. “Well sure, if that’s your attitude.”
Niall actually laughs this time, chiming and delighted if still a little sleep-hoarse. “What’s your attitude then? You got special handjob skills or something?”
“Maybe I have,” Zayn says, slightly defensive. “What if I do?”
Niall wriggles around to shove his arse back into Zayn’s crotch, leaning against Zayn’s chest like a proper little spoon and grabbing Zayn’s forearm, dragging it over his side and pushing Zayn’s hand at his crotch. “So go on then. Show me this special skills that make a handjob more than a fuckin’ handjob.”
“Are you serious?” Zayn asks. He can feel Niall’s cock twitch against his palm even through two layers of clothing, though, so he’s pretty sure of the answer already. His brain seems still half-asleep enough to not be freaked out by this.
“Yeah,” Niall says, a little softer, turning his chin to glance at Zayn. “If you want to.”
Zayn’s only thought about this a few times over the last couple weeks. With glaring clarity he can remember fantasizing about Niall’s arse. He can manage a handjob easily. “Yeah,” he echoes. “Are you sure?”
“Been thinking about it,” Niall says, and it’s surprising enough that Zayn’s blurted out “Me too,” before he means to.
“Oh,” they both say at the same time.
“Well,” Niall mutters. “Fuck, there’s no reason we shouldn’t, then.”
Zayn can’t think of a single reason. So he sticks his hand down Niall’s pants.
Niall’s cock jumps against his hand, hot and eager, and Zayn shoves the elastic of his pants and shorts down together so it can spring up free to his tummy. Niall inhales deeply, and Zayn brings his hand up, fingers brushing Niall’s chin. “Not any good dry,” Zayn says, and his voice is so low it sounds funny in his ears.
When Niall spits into his palm, his tongue touches the heel of Zayn’s hand, kitten-soft, for a half-second. It’s so stupidly hot that Zayn has to shake his head to clear it before bringing his hand back to Niall’s cock. He spreads it around, rubbing the palm over the head like he does for himself. Niall makes a sweet little sound in his chest, like a cat’s purr, and it turns into the prettiest moan at the back of his throat. Zayn thinks for a moment he can feel it reverberating between them, and it warms him up inside. His own cock is chubbing up fast against the small of Niall’s back.
Somehow even the most detailed of his fantasies didn’t quite prepare Zayn for the way Niall’s cock feels in his hand. It’s heavier, thicker when he curls his fingers around it, than he would’ve thought. He can’t help reaching his hand lower, fingertips tracing the shape of Niall’s balls. They’re soft with trimmed pubes, and if Zayn were Harry he might make a joke about tennis balls. As it is, he cups them gently and runs his hand back up, feeling how he’s made Niall go wet at the head with precome already.
“You can—do that again, mate,” Niall mumbles. “Like it, um. People playing with m’balls.”
Again, it’s outside the realm of what Zayn had imagined. He’s finding he likes that: the surprise of the reality of it all. He gropes his other arm under Niall’s waist so he can work with both hands, first using his free hand to touch Niall’s soft inner thighs. He’s ticklish there, jumpy, and Zayn runs his fingernails through the hair on his legs until he’s bucking up into his other hand. He traces the line of hair from his bellybutton down, then, which makes Niall go tensely still. It’s such a contrast that Zayn has to explore it.
“Zayn,” Niall whines, after several minutes. “C’mon, please. Tickles.”
“Alright,” Zayn whispers, nuzzles against Niall’s neck, kisses the delicate skin beneath his ear. “You’re alright, babe, s’okay.”
Niall makes that cat-like purring noise again, this time slightly disgruntled, and Zayn can’t help imagining a wet kitten. He laughs softly, and tightens the hand around Niall’s cock. “Better when you wait, work y’self up, isn’t it?”
“Fuck off,” Niall moans, tilting his head back and grinning at Zayn so brightly Zayn has to duck his face, hide from it. It warms him up to the bone.
He keeps his hand steady on Niall’s cock, reaches down to cup his balls with the other, rolls them gently until he feels Niall’s cock go stiff. Niall comes with a muffled yelp, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth, hips working frantically as he fucks into Zayn’s fist, come dripping down his knuckles and across his own lower abs. “Ah fuck me,” he says, belatedly, when Zayn’s hand has gone still, just holding him gently against his stomach.
Zayn laughs, still muffled in Niall’s shoulder. It was a lot to take in, and now he feels like he’s coming down from a double high, with wet pants of his own.
“Maybe you could share your other tricks,” Niall says. “How else you get off, ‘cause that was unreal, mate.”
Zayn thinks about the other go-to fantasies of the past tour, thinks about the other lads. He has to grin helplessly. “Maybe so.”
Later it’s a tight squeeze, the two of them in the bus loo. Zayn can’t stop meeting Niall’s eyes in the mirror and smiling. They’ve only got one decently clean flannel to share, but Zayn doesn’t mind waiting as Niall cleans off his chest and stomach. There’s something sweet about how careful he is: neat and methodical in each movement as he rinses the cloth and wipes himself down. There’s still a flush spread up his abs to his throat, patchy pink against the rest of his pale skin. Zayn wants to press every inch of his own skin to Niall’s and compare them. They’d look good together. He doesn’t have to imagine it, this time. He just knows.
Niall sits on the toilet and fusses with his hair as Zayn cleans up, and when he rinses the flannel for the last time and hangs it over the faucet, Niall clears his throat. “Was being serious, earlier,” he says. “About doing it again? I wouldn’t mind helping you out, next time.”
Zayn rubs at his mouth, trying not to let his smile split his whole face apart. It feels like he might burst. “Yeah?” he asks, casual.
Niall is looking at him like he can tell exactly how uncool he truly is. “Yeah, you twat, if you can be bothered.”
Zayn laughs, and goes to hug him.
Niall reaches up to meet him, and somewhere in the motion they end up kissing instead.
;
Liam has a hotel room for their off night, and the five of them end up sprawled across the two beds playing FIFA plugged into the big screen tv mounted on the wall opposite. Harry’s green tea and lemon candle is burning on the mini bar by the twelve-pack Preston dropped off for Louis earlier, and there’s a crate of mini packets of crisps in the middle of one bed that Niall’s been rifling through.
“It’s got like, these essential oils that are supposed to refresh the mind,” Harry is saying, tapping something out on his phone.
“Makes me want a good cuppa lemon tea,” Niall grumbles. “D’you know they’ve got this fucking Lipton iced tea with lemon shite here, and it tastes like death. Nothing like a good lemon tea at home.” He’s propped up against Zayn’s shoulder, occasionally jostling him as he moves the controller in his lap.
“Shite,” Zayn agrees easily. He’s been dozing on and off, picking up the threads of Harry and Niall’s conversation and vaguely keeping up with whether Liam or Louis is currently ahead in the game. Being around the four of them, the constant fond bickering, the half-hearted wrestling over the remote and the last beer and who’s going to use the loo first–uncoils something in Zayn’s chest. For the first time in a while he might make it to sleep without a wank.
Although, glancing over at Niall, who raises his eyebrows back–he wouldn't say no.