ziam smut

I Taste the Sparks on Your Tongue

I Taste the Sparks on Your Tongue
jmcats on archiveofourown

Summary:

He decides, in these shadows of his house, with this new feeling raised over his skin, that this is his favorite place - right next to Liam.

Or Zayn might've fallen for Liam a long time ago, but Harry is the one he awakens him to the idea that Liam has fallen too.

A/N: just bc zayn left im still updating ziam zmut bc zayn and liam fucking is great
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Work Text:

This is their twilight -

His very first flat of his own is his favorite place in this whole city.

Not the endless stretch of Oxford Street, where he can duck off into Selfridges in a pair of mirrored Aviators and a loose leather jacket. Not just south west where Harrods lies, lit up by twinkling street lamps and the buzz of London traffic. It's not the breathtaking view from the bridge over the Thames River under a dusky moon with pinprick starlight or Big Ben or the industrial streets north of his home or that quaint bookshop a few streets just west of his small yard, the one that sells vintage comic books and sick hand-drawn posters of his favorite characters.

No, it's this house - his house - with the hardwood floors and his king-sized bed and comfortable couch a few steps from the foyer that he has a lie-in on when he actually gets a day off. This flat with a kitchen he barely uses but spends more time in than his own bedroom with its bay window and a swing of sunlight every morning that dusts everything pale, glittery gold. The wood steps his socks slip on as he climbs them towards the bedroom or the extra room he stuffs with comic books, unfinished novels, artwork, mementos from their fans. That spare bedroom that stings with moonlight during the summer, echoing across the walls in a canopy of glow like cupping a firefly between your hands.

This house that his mates flock to like desert dwellers in search of an oasis, crowding the living room, mucking up the floors in his kitchen, hanging off the corners of his pool table, lounging at the sparsely used dinner table until every strip of air smells like teenage boy and home.

His favorite place to call home.

"We'll never make it to New York and Madison Square Garden if I am stuck hiding out here for an eternity," Harry says between the cracks of silence and a repeat of Skins on the insanely large flat screen - something Louis insisted upon because 'no flat is complete without a real chap's telly, I'm telling you Zayn.'

Harry waves a nonchalant hand that sticks up high from the back of the couch, the fresh stain of ink standing out against almost milky-soft skin and he groans into a pillow with a foot propped over the ledge of that expensively large couch his mum forced him into.

Zayn shakes his head, perched upon a corner of the island in his kitchen, feet kicking back and forth while wading in the precision silence that always echoes down the halls of this house - empty or filled. The corner of his mouth twitches upward, fingers picking at the fraying material of his jeans, the heels of his bare feet meeting the glossy wood of the island. The cold granite beneath him is shiny and catches rare specks of the purplish sky outside, manipulating the color and shocking inspiration beneath his skin.

"I thought you weren't hiding out," Zayn teases, his nose wrinkling with a wheezing laugh when Harry's feet kick out from the other side of the couch.

"I'm not," Harry squeaks, a tangled mop of curls peeking up from behind the leather and cream-colored material. His eyes are that in-between of spring and summer, the highest hue of gold transposed upon a lily green and Zayn hasn't tired of the life behind them, not in these two years as a group or as brothers or as something more.