Playing the part (Ziam)

Chapter 1: Zayns perspective a walking disaster

Zayn Malik had never been one to play by the rules. Hell, half the time, he barely followed his own. That was probably why he was always the one pushing boundaries, testing limits, and finding himself in situations that most people would call "problems." But Zayn didn't do problems—he did chaos. And right now, chaos was in the form of Liam Payne.

Of course, that wasn't anything new. Zayn had been fighting with Liam since... well, forever. Their relationship could best be described as a mix of love, hatred, and that feeling you get when you want to strangle someone with a silk scarf but also sort of want to make out with them at the same time. Yeah, it was fucked up. But that was them—constantly at odds, always fighting, always annoying the hell out of each other.

"Oi, Zayn!" Liam's voice rang through the hallway like nails on a chalkboard. "Stop being a dick and help me with this!"

Zayn groaned and rolled his eyes, swiping his hair out of his face. "You're on your own with that one, mate. I'm not doing your dirty work."

Liam was probably standing there looking all serious, expecting Zayn to be the hero of whatever bullshit task he'd decided to tackle today. It was honestly a miracle that Liam could even tie his own shoes without Zayn getting roped into it. The guy was a walking disaster in his own right, but for some reason, Zayn always found himself dragged into his world.

Zayn didn't have the energy for this. He walked into the kitchen, the smell of burnt toast and coffee that had been sitting there for hours greeting him like an old friend. It was just the kind of chaotic mess he could tolerate.

"Zayn," Liam said again, this time from the kitchen counter. "Can you at least try to act like you give a shit?"

Zayn shot him a look that could only be described as pure disdain. "What part of 'I don't give a shit' is unclear, Payno?"

Liam huffed, slamming a hand on the counter like he was in a courtroom or something, just waiting for Zayn to crack under pressure. He was determined to get under Zayn's skin today, and it was honestly kind of cute. If Zayn cared about that kind of thing.

"You really are impossible, you know that?" Liam said, leaning back against the counter, crossing his arms like he was the one in charge here.

Zayn smirked, taking a seat at the table and pulling his beanie down lower. "You're lucky you're cute, Payne. Otherwise, I'd say you're completely useless."

Liam's eyes narrowed, but Zayn could tell he was holding back a grin. The banter was familiar, like a well-worn pair of jeans—comfy, easy, but a little bit worn out. Zayn always teased Liam, but deep down, he knew Liam wasn't all that different from him. They both had walls up, even if Liam's were more of a fortress. Zayn's? Well, his were made of sarcasm and bad decisions.

"You're a prick," Liam muttered, trying not to smile.

"Thank you," Zayn replied, feeling the first real laugh of the day bubbling in his chest. "I do try."

Zayn ran his hands through his hair, leaning back in the chair, trying to get comfortable in his own skin. It wasn't like him to care about anything, especially when it came to Liam, but there was this weird vibe between them today. Maybe it was just the fact that they hadn't argued yet—something was off. But Zayn wasn't about to admit that out loud. He just had to keep up the act. The act of not giving a damn.

But despite the sarcasm and the constant fighting, Zayn couldn't help but notice the way Liam's eyes lingered a little too long when they were in the same room. The way Liam's breath would hitch when Zayn accidentally brushed against him. Or how Liam would always find a way to be near him, even when he pretended not to care.

"What now, then?" Zayn asked, pushing the thought to the back of his mind. "You got something else for me to do? Or are you just gonna stand there and stare at me like I'm your next meal?"

Liam rolled his eyes, but Zayn caught the flicker of something in his expression. Was that annoyance? Or was it something else? It was hard to tell. Zayn was so used to reading people, to knowing what buttons to push, but with Liam, everything felt like a goddamn guessing game. He didn't know whether to take the piss or just ask if Liam was okay. And he definitely wasn't about to ask that. No way.

Liam let out a sigh, clearly done with trying to get Zayn to cooperate. "You're impossible," he muttered, grabbing a mug of what was probably the worst coffee in existence and taking a long sip.

Zayn wasn't sure what exactly made Liam say that today. Maybe it was the fact that Zayn had barely even looked at him during their time in the studio earlier, or maybe it was just the usual back-and-forth they always seemed to do. But when Liam looked at him like that—eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a thin line—it made Zayn wonder why it bothered him so much.

The thing was, no matter how hard Zayn tried to pretend he didn't care, there was always this underlying tension. That spark in Liam's gaze, the way he fought so damn hard to get under Zayn's skin, the way Zayn could feel the heat of his body even when they were standing across the room from each other—it wasn't normal. And Zayn didn't know how to deal with it.

Liam's voice broke him out of his thoughts. "You don't even know what you're doing, do you?"

Zayn blinked. "What the hell does that mean?"

Liam shook his head, taking another sip of his coffee. "You're not fooling anyone."

For a second, Zayn felt his heart skip. What the hell was Liam talking about? Was he onto him? Was it that obvious? Zayn quickly dismissed the thought. No way. He wasn't some emotional mess that wore his heart on his sleeve. He didn't even have a heart to wear.

"Fuck off, Liam," Zayn muttered, trying to act nonchalant as he stood up from the table. But the words, the tension, the fact that Liam had just looked at him like that—it lingered. The buzz in the air was too thick, and Zayn didn't know what to do with it.

Without saying anything more, Zayn left the kitchen, headed straight for his room, and slammed the door behind him.

But as he lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling, one thing became painfully clear: no matter how much he tried to fight it, the lines between what was fake and what was real were starting to blur. And the worst part? He wasn't sure if he wanted them to.