Ziam one shots

Just Let Me Know (3)

Chapter 3: Part III: In London

Chapter Text
He's not home.

Or well, technically he is, since this is Zayn's flat in London and it's filled with his things, his artwork, his touch, but it wasn't the home he'd meant. He'd been thinking of his mum's home, that lovely house he'd bought her and his sisters, away from everything and filled with only the deeply familiar.

Now, though, he's glad that Paul sent him here instead.

He feels useless as he stands in his foyer, oppressively empty like a school when session's out, and his flat feels strange. It feels like an unused blanket, still soft and comforting, but not quite the same as a well-worn one.

He should explore; he should search out the rooms and figure out what he managed to fill them with. He's a bit curious to see if Perrie left holes in his flat, but he's also terrified that he's already filled them, or that they weren't there to begin with. Facing the reality of the massive fuck-up his relationship with Perrie was does not appeal to him.

And, he's exhausted.

He didn't kip on the plane, not for the entirety of the flight. Instead he sat up, harassed by guilt and remorse and pain.

And he just wants to sleep.

His feet find his room on autopilot, and he doesn't fight the siren call of his bed. The comforter is a familiar black – "No, Zayn, you can't have a black cover, that's ridiculous. Do you want everyone to think you're a moody little shit?" – and his room looks mostly empty which is fucking depressing, but he can't face that right now. He can't face the way he's blocked all the windows – "I like the morning light, babe, please." – and how empty he's sure his closet is – "'s not like you have many of your own clothes anyways. That's my shirt you're wearing now, innit?" – and the vast spaces where something used to be.

Where Liam used to be.

His eyelids fall like concrete blocks strapped to his feet, and he lets the water of sleep drown him without a fight.

And he sleeps.

And he sleeps.

And he sleeps.

The shrill ringing of his phone wakes him eventually, and his eyelids don't feel any lighter as they fling open.

"What?" he nearly growls into the phone without checking who it is. He called his mum from the airport, and she knows (the way she always knows) that he doesn't want to be bothered for at least a week, and he frankly doesn't give a shit about anyone else right now.

"Just checking to see that you made it," Paul's voice comes across sounding far too reasonable from the other side of the Pacific.

Zayn sighs and shoves a hand through the rough mess of his hair. "'m fine."

"Wallace came by yesterday, said you didn't answer."

Paul's voice, far too casual, is what tips Zayn off. He blearily checks his bedside clock, displaying the date in the corner, and he rubs the sleep from his eyes only to see the same date still blinking at him. He somehow isn't surprised that he's managed to sleep for two entire days.

"I've been sleeping."

"For two days." It isn't a question, doesn't sound incredulous, contains no judgment, and it still makes Zayn wince. It's just, Paul's looked after them for years now, and he genuinely likes the guy.

"I should have called you."

Paul chuckles into the phone. "I'm not your mum, Malik. Would have been nice to know you were alive though, when I was fending off the lads."