3AM: Soundtrack to Disaster

Niall knocked on the (all too familiar) door in an uneven rhythm. He waited - maybe two seconds, maybe two hours - and got no response, so he knocked again, a steady stream of beats that sounded like a sick bass line echoing through his head, until the door opened and he nearly tumbled into the (all too familiar) chest of his host.

"Ni, what the fuck, it's like three in the morning," Zayn grumbled as he dug the heel of his hand into a sleepy eye.

Forgoing response, Niall seized Zayn's face and forced their lips together, driving them over the threshold. Zayn struggled, pushing Niall away with firm hands on his chest. "You're drunk," he asserted.

"So?" Niall slurred, having difficulty keeping his eyes open. "We only fuck when you're plastered, is that it?" he asked as his hands continued to roam and he pressed closer, nosing at Zayn's collarbone.

Zayn didn't answer, but stilled Niall's hands. He examined Niall's expression for a moment before grasping his face and pressing their lips together with infinitely more control than Niall had.

Niall melted into him.

That night, Zayn lost himself in Niall's body, experiencing a new world he wasn't quite sure he'd confess to reveling amidst in the morning's light.

This time it was Zayn who ran idle fingers over Niall's skin as he studied the empty darkness of the room.

Zayn's thoughts matched the soft hum of Niall's breathing. He wondered. He wondered if this was how Niall felt each time. (Or just the first time.) (Or somewhere in between.) He wondered what it would be like if they were both toasted. He wondered what it would be like if they were both sober. He wondered why his mind wouldn't turn off.

Instead, it filled with the thoughts that often led him to distract himself with a high in the first place (How did this start? How does he feel? How does Niall feel? What is - this?).

But instead of reaching for a joint - or even a fag - from his nightstand, he turned and buried his nose in bleach-blond hair.