Not Happening

Chapter 3

Zayn wakes up with a pounding headache. If that were the extent of it, he could deal. But his mouth tastes foul, too, and his stomach is churning and twisting and making this gross guttural sound. There's this horrible thumping, too, that seems to jolt him every few seconds. He groans and rolls over, only to find Liam in the middle of the room, doing fucking jumping jacks.

"You're satanic," Zayn moans. "Cut it out."

Liam keeps jumping. "Why, is it bothering you?"

"Is it going to bother you when I wrap my hands around your throat?" Zayn counters. He reaches for his extra pillow, but it's fallen on the floor. It takes so much effort to grab it that he wants to cry, but he manages to get it over his head. And Liam keeps jumping. "Liam. Stop. I'm dying."

"D'you remember," Liam says conversationally, like he's not still working out. He's hardly even breathless, "that time I passed out on the floor and you woke me up to Call Me Maybe? Or that time when I'd done all those tequila shots, and you wouldn't stop clicking your damn fucking pen?"

Vaguely, yes. That's not the full list of things Zayn's done to irritate Liam when he had a hangover. That's not fair, though. Zayn doesn't ever drink; Liam's always partying. Shouldn't he get this one free pass? "Please."

"Still got - another fifteen minutes of my workout," Liam says. "You're just going to have to deal with it."

Blindly, Zayn searches on the desk beside him. His hand curls around a pencil, and he throws it in the general direction of Liam's grunting. "I hate you. Really. I honestly, truly fucking hate you."

"Mutual," Liam says. "Glad we had this talk."

The rest of the morning is spent like that. Zayn tries to sleep and not leak brain matter onto his pillows through the cracks in his skull, and Liam makes as much noise as possible. Eventually Zayn gives up and stomps out of the room with his shower bag. The warm water doesn't do nearly as much as he needs it to, but at least he doesn't smell like beer and sweat anymore.

His room is empty when he gets back. He considers trying to fall asleep, but he figures he wouldn't manage it anyway. Instead he drops his stuff off, pulls on a sweater over his t-shirt and sweats, and heads to the common room. Harry and Louis are already there, curled up on the couch in front of the TV, watching cooking shows.

"Why are you watching this?" Zayn complains. On screen, the woman adds what looks like a pound of butter to some sort of sauce. Ugh. "I don't even want to think about food."

"That's 'cause you're hungover, babe," Louis says weakly. He's got his head in Harry's lap, and Harry's petting his hair slowly. It looks nice; Zayn's a little jealous. He wants someone to pet his hair when he's hungover. "You need to eat something, though. You'll feel better if you do."

Zayn stomach growls, but bile rises in his throat when he thinks about actually eating anything. "I'm good. And I'm not going down to the dining hall."

Harry stands up, ignoring Louis' sound of protest. "I'll make you a bagel," he says. "You'll feel better Trust me."

Zayn waves him off. Maybe a bagel would be okay. His stomach doesn't exactly flip at the sound of it, and he's not about to throw up (he thinks; he very well might, but he should be okay). As soon as Harry's gone, Louis changes spots, turning so his head is now in Zayn's lap, but he's got another thing coming if he thinks Zayn's going to coddle him the way Harry does.

"You feel pretty shitty, huh?" Louis asks.

Zayn shrugs. He does, but it's more bearable now. He wishes he'd gotten another hour of sleep, though. Or that he'd put his foot down a little harder last night. He's still got to finish with his paper, and now he has to do it while feeling exhausted and vaguely nauseas. "Bit, yeah."