Together On The Field - l.s

two

The drive is not that traumatic, after all. He feared for his life only twice. The first time when they were travelling at one hundred miles per hour (when the limit was clearly at seventy, honestly, can't Zayn read?) and the second when Zayn tried to overtake two cars in a row, because apparently that's what motorways with three lanes were made for. But this is normal if you're in Zayn's car, that's why Harry is keeping his mouth shut, doing nothing but theatrically fastening his seatbelt.

He snuggles against the seat and half-closes his eyes, to catch the dim sunlight of six p.m.

Zayn looks at his young face framed by unruly curls, his forehead wrinkled because of the sun rays, his flushed cheeks, his relaxed lips and smiles at himself, happy to see his friend placid and relaxed for once.

"What?" asks Harry confused, turning to him with a questioning look. The landscape outside is gradually changing as they get closer to the city, there are less trees and more billboards and street lights.

"Nothing," Zayn shrugs casually, turning back to watch the road. "Did you see that kick by Mata? I mean, when we were watching the first team practice?" he asks, trying to change the subject. "Not sure if he could pull that again during a match, not even if he tried fifty times," he considers, drumming impatiently on the steering wheel, waiting for the car in front of them to restart.

"Uh, dunno, he's such a good player. Liam was actually good at saving it, don't know how he did that. Even De Gea congratulated him!" replies Harry opening his eyes lazily.

The expression on Zayn's face shifts suddenly, becoming sharper. "Yeah, he had his fifteen minutes of fame apparently," he mutters bitterly.

Thing is, Zayn hates waiting. He hates waiting for the car in front of his to restart. Waiting for Harry to get out of the bathroom. He hates waiting for a teammate to finally pass him the ball. But more than anything, he hates waiting to be called up to the first team, so he will be able to show his value as a footballer.

"Come on Z, it was a good save. You're being a twat because you're jealous," smiles Harry, aware he's playing with the fire. But he doesn't care, because he knows Zayn and knows how far he can go until it's too much.

"Me? Jealous of Payne? Are you serious right now?" roars Zayn in anger. "Jealous of a third-choice goalkeeper? Okay, he's in the first team, but he will only play if he's lucky enough that De Gea and Valdes are both injured at the same time," he changes the gear violently and the tyres make a screeching noise.

Harry diverts his look from the road and stares at Zayn, pursing his lips together in amusement at Zayn's annoyed grimace. "If you say so. Why are you avoiding him then?" he asks softly, and his yielding voice hits Zayn right in the stomach.

"What, did he come crying to you? Poor boy!"

Harry knows how hard it must be for Zayn, see one of your best friends upgrading to the first team and watching from afar, from the youth team, training to face Hull City while Liam tells them over breakfast how excited he is to fly to Dortmund for the Champions League match.

He knows how hard it is, because it's the same for him. Except he doesn't blame Liam just because his dream is becoming true while Harry's not. But Harry also has the excuse of the injury to keep himself from questioning his skills, while Zayn is one year older than him and has never been called up to train with the first team; so nothing can prevent him from thinking that maybe he's not good enough, he's not ready, he wasn't born to be a footballer. He has every right to pull this self-commiseration attitude, and Harry will go through this with him.

"He didn't," hurries out Harry. "But I'm just a little bit limp, not blind. You've been spending all the time with me lately, you're always nervous and Liam is sad," he states simply.