Ziam one shots

you could be my cure

Ao3
By: orphan_account
Summary: The thing is, Zayn is almost overwhelmingly certain that he's only ever fallen in love four times but he thinks this is the only one that actually counts

(alternately: Nothing about Zayn is traditional, especially not the way he falls in love with Liam, or everything before and after that)

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The thing is, Zayn is almost overwhelmingly certain that he's only ever fallen in love four times but he thinks this is the only one that actually counts –

Because the first time he fell in love, he was seven years old and his mum had to explain to him that Wonder Woman will never feel the same for him as he did for her.

And he was twelve when Irene kissed him behind the schoolyard before holding hands with that sporty lad Sam a week later but Danny swears it's because Zayn was too shy then. Zayn was sort of in love with Danny back then, also, but that doesn't really count either because he hadn't quite figured out the difference between kissing a mate for 'practice' and kissing a mate because he wanted to.

And he was sixteen and broody when Talia, with her raven hair and big eyes and shiny pink lips, snogged him in the middle of a dusty old basement, halfway through Truth or Dare at some nameless kid's party. He wrote her poetry and she broke his heart on a Wednesday, six months later, with a 'Dear Zayn' letter –

Because she thought he was things like 'reserved,' 'painfully shy,' and 'weird.'

But he is almost positive this is the only time that counts and he thinks it all starts like this –

//

October 2012

Zayn hates blind dates.

He hates all forms of dates, period, but blind dates are the worst.

He thinks they're pretentious. They're just a prerequisite to two things – shagging or a relationship, two of which he's learned he can manage without trivial things like a meet-and-greet over coffee or nervous chatter in a posh restaurant. It's a waste of time, really.

And he's quite certain he's absolute shit at them, anyways.

Zayn thinks, partially, it's the reason the girl – Lana? Maybe Daisy? – sitting across from him in this tiny coffee shop just off the London Met campus has looked disinterested for the past thirty minutes now.

She's pretty – of course she is because every girl his mum sets him up with always is, even if she won't admit it – with soft olive skin, a colorful knit scarf tangled around her neck, a top that draws attention to her chest and leggings. Her dark hair is messily done under one of those inconsequential berets, an ugly canary color that draws attention away from her eyes – smudged with heavy eyeliner like she's trying too hard – and she keeps shooting him these dazed smiles like she's half-interested in all of the things he loves –

Even though she rolls her eyes when he talks about comic books or how much he enjoyed the Avengers.

Even though she taps her fingers on the table when he chats about his undergraduate program – English Literature because he's still addicted to tragedies and poetry, thanks Talia – and sighs a put upon giggle at all of his jokes.