Hungry for Release

Part 5

A new week, another city, but it seemed like no matter how far they drove on through the dark night, they couldn't shake the snow. Snowball fights and dives into plump drifts had given way to annoyance on the part of Paul, concerned about slush being tramped all over the bus, and, more pressingly, accidental black eyes before press calls. There were enough fake 'in-fighting' blind items as it was without there being actual bruising for journos to seize upon.

The others grumbled, but Zayn was faintly relieved. They were effectively snowbound in their out-of-town hotel, which meant that all they had to do between interviews and rehearsals was endless boxset binges, and massive workout sessions. All of which he'd been able to do fuelled on essentially nothing but black coffee and a few swigs of protein shake.

But, for all the miles he logged on the treadmill, sweat pouring off his body, nothing he could do seemed to shake the cold that had settled in his bones. Even bundled up with a sweater under a hoodie, his hands still felt like they'd been stuck inside a freezer.

Fitting day had arrived. He tried to look casual as he leant against the radiator in the hall, nervously waiting for Henerie to get done with whatever he was inflicting on Niall. Although the warm pipes were starting to sting the bottom of his legs, he stayed put, desperate to absorb any heat that he could.

The door flew open and Niall flew out. "All yours mate!" he yelled as he raced down the corridor. "I was supposed to Skpe my mam half an hour ago, but the bastard took forever picking between identical bloody blazers.

"Cheers," muttered Zayn, reluctantly relinquishing his spot.

"Come on, come on. Put those on." Henerie called, gesturing to a pile of black garment bags as he stepped into the suite. Zayn bit back a sarcastic retort. It wasn't as though he'd been the one that had run late. Henerie barely glanced up from a tangle of neckerchiefs in front of him.

Resigned, Zayn unzipped the first bag, rolling his eyes in disbelief. The skinny-cut trousers inside looked tiny - with a waist that would be more appropriate for a school kid.

"What are you staring at? Move!" his torturer yelled across the room, eager to get the humiliation underway. To Zayn's surprise though, the trousers easily slid up his legs. Even buttoned, there was a considerable gap at the top. Bracing himself against the chill, he slowly pulled off his protective top layers, replacing them with a flimsy silver net vest.

If one of the other boys had been here, he'd have made a snarky remark about the stylist channeling the Backstreet Boys, perhaps thrown in a few camp jazz hands for good measure.

But there was nobody to joke with. No shield.Just him, shivering in front of Henerie and his timid assistant - both of whom were scrutinising him silently. There was nowhere to hide. The trousers were slowly sliding down his hips, and it felt like fat was oozing out of the top, spilling over for all to see. He wanted to wrap his arms around himself protectively, but that would only make the vest accentuate the bulges around his armpits. So they stayed rigidly by his sides.

Henerie let out a jarring snort. "Is this a girlband? Are we dealing with girlband now, hey?" he smirked at Zayn, as though he should be in on the joke. "Come on!"

"I don't...no, it's not...I'm just..I'm not sure what you mean," he mumbled, taken aback.

The stylist humphed to himself as grabbed the dreaded tape measure and strode across the room, letting out a series of increasingly outraged explicatives as the tape briskly traversed its way around Zayn's body. Zayn tried not to look down, feeling as though he were being assaulted in some way. How could this feel even worse than when he was at his biggest?

"Tell me, you think the girls like this?" said Henerie finally, drawing himself up to his full height to look Zayn in the eye, wafting his hands around his hips.

"I...maybe...No. No I don't think they do." he crumbled, feeling hot tears welling up in his eyes, humiliated beyond belief. "Please, please don't tell management. I'll try harder...I'll do better...I'm dieting all the time, it's just so..."

"Tell management? You think I care?" Henerie interrupted briskly. "I'm just here to make you look better. We'll just add some more layers...make you look like a man...not so..." he trailed off. Unusually, there was a kind look in his eyes.

"Tell me," he whispered, leaning into Zayn's ear conspiratorially, "What's your secret? Pills, mmm? Coke? How'd you do it?" Up close, his breath smelt like stale smoke. He withdrew before Zayn had a chance to respond, laughed, and patted his slender middle. "Fine. Don't tell me then. We all have our little ways," he said, winking.

Henerie turned to the stylist. "Get me a belt, and find that red polo neck and leather jacket. We pad him out a bit."

Baffled, Zayn piled on the new items, turning uncomfortably for polaroids. "Good enough...maybe we'll order you some scarves too...hide all this," he muttered, running his hand down Zayn's scrawny neck. "Go now. And, maybe next time we try something a bit more exciting!"

Unwilling to argue with Henerie, who was chatting excitedly to his lackey, Zayn trotted out, not sure what to make of the past half hour. There was a burst of laughter in his wake as he heard the stylist crow, "Just like fashion week..."

As he got into the elevator, glad to have avoided running into anyone else, a stray tear trickled down his cheek. Zayn brushed it away hurriedly. If he was fast, he'd have time for a quick workout, and that'd mean he could allow himself a few extra drinks at the awards do later that evening.

They weren't even eligible to be nominated for anything, but the prospect of a sanctioned evening out was too good a chance to miss for all of them - they'd all be cloistered back on the bus soon enough. Besides, he could definitely use a little fun. What's the worst that could happen?

The six am alarm the next morning seemed to buzz in sync with his pounding head. His body felt like chopped spam. Zayn let out a long low moan as of fragments of the past evening slowly filtered into his mind. There had been a lot of vodka, diluted with the merest of splashes of Diet Coke. Even the others had skipped dinner, bar Liam, who was on an unstoppable mission to build himself up to something the size of the average Shire horse.

There had been drunk dancing. Rubbing one tender hip, he remembered slipping at some point, and...was that cigarette ash under his fingernails? He'd stopped point black at the start of his health kick, but apparently they'd come back with avengence last night.

He tried to tug the cover around him, but there was something weighing it down. Something, or someone. Oh Christ. What had he done? Heart pounding, Zayn slowly turned his head around. Please, please God...

Relief flooded his entire being when he saw the curly head embedded into the pillow. Unless he'd pulled a very convincing drag impersonator, apparently he'd drawn the 'parent Harry' card again - probably on account of being the second most drunk and least capable of palming him off.

If he was right, they had about thirty minutes to pack up and head downstairs for the radio interview. On cue, the phone started to buzz insistently as the reminder popped up. Against his better instincts, Zayn leapt out of bed and hurriedly pulled on some clothes, jamming items into his suitcase as he went.

Both he and Harry were in such a rush to get to the waiting taxi, neither of them so much as glanced at the pile of newspapers laid out in the lobby. They certainly didn't see the lurid headlines splashed across the token tabloid offering, which accompanied a shot of Zayn stumbling out of last night's after-party.

In the shot, he was sleepy eyed, tousle haired, with his shirt mostly unbuttoned, thanks to Niall's earlier antics on the dance floor. He'd pretended to be a salsa master, but what it had resulted in was ripped clothes across the board as he repeatedly grabbed the others and dipped towards the floor.

It would have been amusing - if the gaping fabric hadn't revealed a dramatically gaunt chest. Even the most masterful of publicists would have struggled to spin this. Bad camera angles were one thing - nothing, bar some serious digital trickery, could make someone look this ill.