Tunnel Vision » Ziam AU «

Chapter Twenty Two

Zayn keeps waiting for it. Every show, he stands just off stage with Liam, watching the band perform. And every show, Louis jogs off the stage with a sheepish shrug, and later he'll say "It just wasn't the right timing."

It's not the only thing Zayn's waiting for. He's also waiting for the chewing out from Eleanor, or someone else on his management team. He's waiting for Liam to come into his room any day and say, "So, I'm sort of fired for that photo shoot thing." Because he could get in that much trouble for it. Especially if someone looked close enough at the pictures, realized what was really between them. He knows he would never be forbidden to date Liam, knows that they'd let him see whoever he wants, but Liam would without a doubt lose his job. And would he be able to find another one? Would anyone want to hire him after the scandal where he dated his last employer? And even if they did, what if it was someone like Zayn? What if he was dragged across the country with someone else, barely having any time to see Zayn?

The phone call never comes, though. And Eleanor has the extra pictures from the photo shoot delivered to him without comment. That doesn't make his anxiety any easier. It makes it worse, actually, because why aren't they calling and at least chewing him out? Why haven't they said anything about it? What's going on?

It never happens. They finish this leg of the tour without a hitch. Unless you consider the way Harry continues to ignore Louis a hitch, but at least Louis isn't snapping at him right back. In fact, he's taken to watching after Harry like a lovesick puppy. Zayn would make fun of him for it if he didn't feel so bad for him.

And before Zayn knows it, he's pushing open the door to his flat. The air is stale, and it feels so unlived in, even if he knows it hasn't been empty the whole time. Cleaners should have been in here a few days ago to make sure it was ready for him when he got back, but still. There might not be dust on any surfaces, but there's still a coldness to the whole flat. And it's so quiet. He's not used to quiet anymore. How could he be, when he spends almost every night on stage? And when he's not on stage, he's with the other boys, and you can't find silence around Niall and Louis. And he hasn't fallen asleep without Liam with him in weeks, and Liam snores, so there's literally always sound.

Now, the only thing he can hear is the change in his pocket jiggling and his footsteps against the hardwood floor. It creeps him out, honestly. It feels like he's an intruder in someone else's home. Like he's broken in and is sneaking around, trying not to get caught. So he goes straight to the TV and turns it on, letting the rerun episode of Misfits play in the background to make it feel more like he actually lives here.

He drop his suitcase on the floor by his bed, and then he sits on it. The one good thing about being home is his own bed. Nothing ever compares to it. Not even the comfortable, barely used mattresses at fancy hotels come close to the comfort of a bed that smells like him. That's covered with the deep brown comforter he'd bought years ago and had never replaced because it was perfectly warm and fluffy and when he drops his arms on top of it the feathers inside all move around and make a loud sound. His pillows, too, can't be replicated. Worn down from being used, half of them nearly completely flattened at this point.

That's how he stays for the next three hours, curled up in his bed, comforter hastily pulled over top of him. He didn't realize how tired he was until he'd closed his eyes, and he's been slipping in and out of consciousness ever since.

But he can't sleep. He might drift off for a bit, but then he wakes back up, finds himself uncomfortable, and rolls over to the other side of he far too big for one person bed. Eventually he gives up and crawls out of bed, running a hand through his now messed up hair. He pulls out his phone, turns it over in his hands as he walks back through the apartment, heading for the living room, and then he gives in and calls Liam.

He picks up on the second ring, happy and bright when he asks, "Zayn?"

"Hey," Zayn says as he falls onto the couch. "What are you doing right now?"

Liam yawns. "Trying to sleep, actually. It's only five in the afternoon but I'm exhausted. I haven't left my bed since I got home."

Zayn mutes the TV and drums his fingers on his knees. "Yeah, I did the same thing," he admits. "But I couldn't sleep."

Liam yawns again. "I know. Something's off. I keep—" Liam grunts and a ruffling sound fills the phone. "— waking up. I can't get comfortable. Might just miss that bed back in the tour bus a little bit."

Zayn absently chews the nail on his pinky finger, eyes on the TV screen, even if he isn't conscious of anything happening on it.

"You still there?"

Liam jerks him out of his thoughts, and Zayn nearly jumps at how loud his voice sounds on the other end of the phone. "Sorry," he says quickly. "I was just — Do you want to come over here? Stay the night, maybe?"

Silence. "I was sort of looking forward to sleeping in my own bed," Liam admits. "I'm not used to being gone for so long, you know?"

"Oh, right." Zayn nods, even if Liam can't see it. "Yeah, that's cool. I get it."

"I'm gonna let you go and try to get back to sleep," Liam says. "See you tomorrow, though, okay? And we're leaving on Tuesday, right, so we'll be together then, too. "

"Okay," Zayn says softly. "Bye."

As soon as he's hung up with Liam, he tilts his head back against the sofa and closes his eyes. He really is tired, something about knowing you can finally relax after weeks and weeks of constantly being on the go makes him exhausted. But he's too restless to sleep. He gets up, paces around the flat, like he's trying to familiarize himself with it again. He checks the fridge, finds it stocked with drinks and a few microwavable things in the freezer compartment, but nothing that sounds appetizing, even though his stomach is starting to growl.

He decides to shower, leaving his clothes on the floor of his room, walking naked through the flat because he can. His shower is huge, big enough to fit about four people at a time, not that he's, like, tested that. Just like his bed, there's something about his own shower that's so comforting. The knowledge that he's the only person (except Harry, who's used it occasionally when he crashed in the guest bedroom) who's stood naked in this exact spot and washed away the dirt and grime of the day.

By the time he gets out of the shower he feels more normal. He pulls on his bathrobe instead of his clothes, can't be fussed to do much more. And then he falls into his bed again, omitting the covers, and closes his eyes.