Chapter Text
kiss on the cheek for her one night man
It's got nothing to do with the way Harry looks lying in his his tiny twin bed. His ridiculously large feet hanging over the edge of the mattress, one sock on, one sock off. Baby-blue sheet tangled around his waist leaving warm, honey skin in a near endless display where his broad shoulders taper down to a trim waist. He's lying on his front, soft snores muffled by the pillow his head's buried in, but Zayn can still hear them.
Zayn blinks, shakes his head to clear it, and regrets it immediately when bright lights and pain bloom behind his eyelids. He needs a smoke and perhaps a coffee, but he doesn't know his way around this new place of Harry's. Doesn't want to make too much noise knowing how late - or early, really - they got in. With Harry halfway through his first year of Uni, he probably needs as much sleep as he can get.
Zayn spots his jacket lying where one of them threw it when all that was important was access to more skin and getting to the bed. He pulls on a pair of Harry's joggers that are on top of a wash basket. They're folded, so Zayn assumes they're clean; Harry's generally good about that sort of thing. He scratches at his stomach, stepping over what is either his or Harry's jeans before picking up his jacket and thankfully finding a few cigs left in the pack and his trusty lighter. He'd be well mardy if he'd lost that, a gift from Harry for luck the night before he'd tried out for X Factor.
He'd not let it out of his sight since.
Even when he'd gone out the third week in because bloody Louis had wanted him to sing some bubblegum pop rubbish that just wasn't Zayn's sound at all.
Still, though, it was getting better now. A bit of airplay on Radio1, a single in the top fifty and the latest debuting in tenth place. His concerts had gone from shitty little clubs to slightly bigger yet still shitty clubs, and he'd done an interview for Australia's MTV last week because apparently he's got a bit of a following there. His agent was in talks with Chuggy at Frontier Touring to bring Zayn and a few other up-and-comings in the UK R&B fold Down Under for the summer.
It was all pretty exciting really, and Zayn had barely felt his feet touch ground in the past nine months when it had really started taking off. It doesn’t feel like he’s that person who has actual papz following him about in airports right now. Not here in Harry's tiny bedroom, the bay window looking out over a patch of mostly green that qualifies as a park because of the two sets of swings in the middle of it. It's not the nicest of flats, what with the wallpaper peeling off the walls and revealing at least two different decades underneath, and a rainbow of mould in one corner of the ceiling which after a good rain resembles Benedict Cumberpatch's profile. Sort of. It's a room, though, and no one really knows where he is when he's here with Harry. His mum might, but his "adoring public" . . . not yet, and he hopes they never do.
Zayn taps out a cig on his thigh and the window squeaks terribly when he budges it open with some effort, just an inch because Harry shifts on the bed and Zayn freezes. It's enough. Harry will go on about Zayn's health later, but he needs a smoke right now so Harry will just have to deal with it. He curls up with his back against the wall, knees tucked in close to his chest, and nearly drops the lighter as he flicks the flame into life and Harry sleepily calls out a rough, "Those things will—"
"Kill me, I know," Zayn finishes with a grin, looking down at where his feet poke out from the bottom of Harry's ratty joggers, the ends so long they curl under his heels. He can still remember when he could use Harry's head as an armrest; now it's nearly the opposite, but Harry's always had lovely long legs. They felt particularly good wrapped around Zayn's waist last night, and just the thought has the semi he’s been sporting since he woke up, curled around Harry's side, twitching with interest.
He hears Harry shuffling around on the bed, feet banging none too softly on the wooden floor, the pop and crackle of Harry straightening out his back in a long stretch. Zayn lights his cigarette anyway; for all Harry's moaning, he knows Zayn needs it. Needs something to do with his hands lest the shaking start. The only thing that cures the tic he's had for what feels like his whole life is a smoke or a microphone his fingers can curl around.
"Coffee?" Harry asks as Zayn takes in is first proper lungful of acrid smoke. The pub only had Bensons the night before when he'd run out of the sweeter clove hand-rolled he's started to favour lately. It's a bit harsh but he manages not to choke, holds it in as an extra tightness in his chest instead. Zayn nods, knowing that Harry won't be looking anyway because he's getting dressed. He's covering up his lovely long legs and little bum with jeans Zayn knows are his because Harry's have a gigantic hole in the right knee and Zayn’s were bought new the previous week.
Harry's always been a bit of a clotheshorse; most of Zayn’s wardrobe when he was younger found its way to the Styles’ house. Then again, in his bag that's still packed from a quick trip to LA, at the very bottom is a hoodie of Harry's that Zayn might have "borrowed" when he was fifteen. It didn't smell like Harry anymore or the campfire smoke it had when he’d first nicked it, but Zayn sometimes liked to imagine that it did. Especially when he was all alone in some hotel room in a city he couldn't remember the name of and he needed a piece of normality to anchor him down.
"Any chance of—" Zayn begins, and Harry's calling back, "Dozen eggs and a loaf of bread with our name on it in the fridge waiting."
Zayn grins a little wider. He watches a flock of blackbirds pass by, the sky mostly clear of clouds and a blue that makes his eyes sting a little.
"New bottle of HP in the cupboard, too, when you’re quite finished fucking up your lungs," Harry snarks, and Zayn turns toward Harry's voice, his brown curls tied tight in a little topknot on his head from where it appears to be floating at the edge of the door.
Zayn flips Harry the finger and blows several smoke rings in Harry's direction. He's too far away for them to reach, but Harry makes a show of coughing before disappearing back into the kitchen.
Zayn's stomach does that swoopy thing again and it's fine. It's just the way they are. It's him and Harry and how they've always been since they grew up two doors down from each other. Silly little seven- and eight-year-olds bonding over comic books and a love of superheroes and needing the company of another male whilst growing up in houses filled with women. The thing he feels for Harry is what every best friend feels. Not that every friendship involves sex without strings whenever Zayn’s back home or Harry's come down to London to visit.
It's just who they are.
And it's fine. It's perfect and good and with Zayn's sexuality not being a "thing", though his agent knows that he likes who he likes and isn't one way or the other, it's not important. It's just Harry. Harry and Zayn and the way they can be laughing one minute and falling into bed the next. Even if Zayn did want more, it wouldn't exactly work with Harry being here in his first year of Uni at Leeds. Zayn's busier and busier every day; studio time bought that needs to be used, photos of his face to be taken, interviews to repeat the same answers to be done. Neither of them have the time even if Harry did want what Zayn won't allow himself to even admit thinking about.
"You could set the table, you know," Harry calls from the kitchen, and Zayn sighs and takes one last pull on his smoke before rolling off the bench, stopping to stub his cigarette out on the outer windowsill.
He grabs his shirt from where it landed on Harry's desk chair and tugs it on, throwing his jacket on over the top before making his way to the kitchen. He winces a bit; there's an ache in his arms from how he had them planted on the bed on either side of Harry’s chest last night. He'd held back Harry's thighs as he fucked him deep and slow, Harry's eyes rolling back into his head with every thrust. Zayn tucks his hand under the waistband of his joggers, adjusting himself before heading out of the bedroom. Their breakfast will burn if Harry catches sight of Zayn's hard-on. It's happened before.
Harry's at the stove, eggs sizzling in the pan and the radio on low, something far too upbeat and poppy for this hour of the morning playing in the background. Zayn nabs the kettle from the bench, fills it up, and switches it on. He's staring at the row of cupboards, wondering which might contain the mugs, when Harry's voice interrupts his musing.
"Coffee is in the cupboard to your left, mugs in the one beside."
Zayn smiles a little to himself as he reaches up and grasps at the handle Harry mentioned. It's always been this way between them, finishing each other's thoughts and sentences like they were one mind, not two. After scooping out his own coffee he preps Harry's tea just the way he likes it, two sugars with milk and leaving the bag in.
"Don't forget to—"
"Leave the bag in, I know." Zayn bites at his lip, anything to stop the stupid fond grin he knows is already tugging at lips. There's more than a tiny string pulling at that place in his gut now; it's shifted up and seems to be tangling around his heart.
He blinks and looks back down at the mugs. He fills his own with a dash of milk and then heads to the little table in the corner, sitting on the chair that looks like it'll hold his weight. Harry's flat is an eclectic mix of run-down and possibly broken furniture, the kitchen chairs mostly wood and held together with gaffa tape and twine. It's always a gamble when choosing a seat. The white timber and ratty brown vinyl chair he picks only creaks when he tentatively sits down, makes no other sound as he puts his full weight on it. He checks his phone where it's lying on the table: a few messages and a missed call from his mum, but he can get to that later. He spins it around, listening to the sizzle and pop of the eggs in the pan and Harry singing softly under his breath to a tune Zayn doesn't recognise.
Harry can sing - better than Zayn, he's always thought. His tone is gravelly and deep, like the way he talks but mostly faster. They've done so many nights at karaoke, laughing while overacting the lines to "Islands in the Stream" or "I've Got You Babe", stupid tunes that gain them a laugh and a round of applause before they fall back into their chairs, sharing the occasional sloppy kiss. Life was so much easier when they were both in college, both studying hard but playing even harder when it came to breaks and a need to slow it all down. Zayn misses those days sometimes; how simple it all seemed back then. How much easier it was to just be them. He frowns into the creamy brown as he lifts the coffee to his lips. He can't be letting thoughts of Harry make him feel like this, like there's something more than the friendship they've had for years. He can't let the stupid reactions his body has around Harry make his mind wander, because it's not fair. The life he has, the career he's building . . . it can't contain a Harry yet.
He isn't sure it ever will.
Harry's just . . . he's this amazing part of Zayn's life before all of the record deals and contracts to sign, and yeah, he's still a part of it now, but for how long? Harry's got a life of his own to build with Uni and then working in a career that Zayn brushes shoulders with on the odd occasion. Those faceless men that are mostly just suits, who Zayn forgets the name of an instant after being introduced, and he can't. He can't have Harry becoming one of those. He can't have Harry giving it all away to be anything less, either.
He really should go.
He's stayed too long, anyhow.
Something icy claws its way into his chest, freezing the lines of an emotion he can't name right down to where they still pool in his gut. It's a decision made, really. He picks up his phone, feels the weight of his wallet in his pocket when he shoves his hand inside. Zayn stands, takes a mouthful of coffee that's too hot, and moves to the sink, leaving plenty of room between him and Harry as he goes. He tips the rest of his coffee down the drain, taking a moment to regret that he couldn't swill the lot faster, then puts the cup back down and faces Harry. Zayn tugs at the strings on the stupid apron Harry's wearing and focuses on a burn mark on the bench that looks a lot like the bottom of the pan Harry's flipping tomatos in now.
"Haz, I'm sorry, I forgot I have a thing this morning and I've—"
Harry doesn't skip a beat, just shifts the tomato and onion around to fit in a bit of buttered bread and Zayn's stomach growls in a way he hopes Harry can't pick up. It smelled good from the table, but this close Zayn remembers he hasn't eaten anything since lunch at his Mum's the day before.
"You've got to go, right. More for me and Niall, then, when he gets in later," Harry says, and there's this moment after he says "Right" when Zayn swears he hears a sigh or this little bit of sadness, but it's gone before he can decide if it was there at all.
Harry turns, buzzes his lips to Zayn's cheek, and goes back to shifting the bread around so it won't stick, eyes never once meeting Zayn's. "You still coming up for Danny's birthday?"
Zayn's staring at this curl at the back of Harry's head, this lone, out of place little thing that's come unstuck instead of being tied into that silly knot with a pink elastic. "Yeah, told them I had to have that weekend home. Have to do three extra interviews and some magazine thing to get out of it, though."
Harry laughs and some of the ice in Zayn's chest starts to thaw. He should go. He should leave, now . . .
. . . but he can see the outline of a bruise in the shape of his thumb just under the neckline of Harry's shirt. Zayn knows he made that, pulled too hard when he was kissing Harry outside the pub as they rutted against each other with bricks biting into Zayn's back even through his leather jacket. This mark that's already turning purple and Zayn's mind is a blur of mineminemine but Harry's not.
He can't be.
Zayn takes a deep breath and steps back. Keeps stepping back until he can close his eyes and turn, throwing Harry a casual sounding goodbye as he steps out the door. Out of Harry's life for another moment.
It's only when he's on the street below, calling a cab, that he realises he's still in Harry's joggers.
{ .. }
"Bye, Mrs Malik!" Harry calls back over his shoulder, already dragging Zayn out the door. Zayn tightens his grip on Harry's hand as he fights to keep them upright. Harry's hopelessly unstable on his own feet at the best of times and his boots skid over the rocks as he pulls them forward. Harry's dark curls are bouncing in Zayn's eyeline as they laugh, nearly tripping over their own feet on the gravel.
"She hates when you call her that," Zayn says into the lambswool cuff that curves around Harry's neck. Zayn loves this denim jacket on Harry; it's one Harry's had since they were ten and surprisingly, it still fits. Just. Zayn's slid his arm down around Harry's waist now, Harry's own coming to rest over Zayn's shoulder, his grip tight over Zayn's regular leather ensemble, pulling him close to Harry's side.
Harry's breath is warm against Zayn's cheek when he speaks, citrusy from the tangerine he snagged from the kitchen bench before. "Didn't hear her complaining last night."
Zayn shoves at Harry's side with a "Fuck off!" Harry pushes him back and then they're squaring off, kicking up the small rocks in the drive, throwing jabs left and right with grins on their faces.
And this is good. This is just what he needed after the two weeks in Sweden recording and then another two back home and filming the bloody clip to his single. It was fun, it was exciting laying down tracks for the second album even though he'd only just finished a mini-tour for the first. He workedbwith Ben Winston again for this new clip, which was great, but after the third night of waiting for the sun to rise at the exact moment for one particular lyric, Zayn wasn't exactly having fun anymore.
"Oi, you two! You getting in the car or what?" Niall's voice rings out from the street and Harry gives Zayn's hair one last ruffle from where he has Zayn in a headlock and jogs over to the car.
He spins around just as Zayn's grumbling about not touching his bloody hair, and Harry's smile stops the words short in his mouth. Harry’s dimples are deep and he looks so happy - happy to be there with Zayn, or happy in general, Zayn doesn't know - but it lights that spark inside Zayn that he tries to clamp down on when he's with Harry. That little warm glow that he can't let flare into something bright because they're friends and Zayn needs friends right now.
Needs proper ones, especially after having to pay off one of those so-called "mates" they had in high school after he tried to sell his story to The Sun of being Zayn's first time. Luckily the bloke was a bit of an idiot and tried Zayn's management team first. It wasn't even true - Harry had been the one to take Zayn’s virginity and Zayn his in return - but Zayn was seventeen and the bloke had been fit and into it at some party and, well, things happen. Zayn had been close to hyperventilating when he'd got off the phone with management. He barely held it together on the drive over to the office, Paul talking about his kids this pleasant buzz in the background. He couldn't stop his leg from tapping under the table when he got inside, where three suits he didn't know and a few he did explained it all to him. Zayn had been freaked out, apologies and excuses getting lost on his tongue as it tangled in his mouth, but they'd just shook their heads. "All part of the job, sir," and an undisclosed amount and possibly a bit of strong-arming from Zayn's security team, and that was that.
Then there was the fact that Zayn had security at all. They'd only recently informed him about the threats on his life, once they had started to include his family. It's why he always has someone at his side. Always has a ride even when he doesn't think he needs one. It sent shivers down his spine when they told him, all straight-faced with Paul and Preston looking on, fierce at his side.
Not that Harry knows it was the reason for Zayn’s unexpected trip home. Harry's just happy Zayn’s around, that they can go out clubbing like they haven't done in forever. Or at all, really. Zayn hadn't really asked about getting out of the city before he left. The look on his face, or the way his hands shook or something, must have been enough for Sarah to give him the weekend off. He'd started smoking a lot more heavily, too, something his mum had picked up on in the four hours since he'd got in the door. He'd do anything to quell the twitch in his fingertips, stop the way he kept biting at his bottom lip until it was a bloody, chapped mess.
Harry's tilting his head to the side now, brows furrowing slightly. Concern is etched across his forehead and Zayn can hear the questions that are playing in Harry's mind. The "You've been quiet all afternoon, why won't you tell me what's wrong?" and "Why won't you let me help?" that Zayn can't give him answers to. He blinks hard instead, shaking himself before jogging to catch up. Harry straightens, now standing beside Niall's second hand orange and blue shitbox of a thing that sputters black smoke no matter how often he replaces the oil.
"You alright?" Harry asks as Zayn climbs in through the passenger side and steps over the front seat into the back, which is littered with take-away wrappers. Niall's a bloody slob.
Zayn waits while Harry pushes the seat back into position and gets his seatbelt on before he answers, squeezing a hand on Harry's shoulder as he does. "Yeah, mate. Never better."
"Okay then." Harry nods, fingertips wrapping over Zayn's. Zayn settles back, leaving his hand where it is until he has to straighten his arm when he gets jerked forward.
"Sorry 'bout that, reverse is always a bit tricky," Niall mumbles, and there's a grinding of gears before they're actually headed in the right direction.
Zayn and Harry's laughter fills the car, and when Niall joins in after a few choice curses Zayn thinks this might be just what he needed.
{ .. }
The club is loud and Zayn's not drunk. He's had a few and he's been nursing this vodka tonic for an hour now, content to sit back in the booth and watch.
Of course, it helps that he's got quite the view.
Harry's dancing.
It's not that Harry's great at it. His wild arm movements in the air, long legs, and near to no bum twisting about while he thrusts in every direction are nothing like the precise moves of the dancers Zayn's met out on tour, or on set when he films a piece for X Factor in some country or other. Harry's pretty terrible, actually, but there's something about how bad he is that makes it utterly endearing. He has not one care out there on the dance floor. This quiet smile graces his face, or he looks ever so passionate belting out words to a favourite song, and Zayn can't look away. Can't let himself tear his eyes from what Harry's doing for one second in case he misses something important.
"Zayn, my man." Niall shoulder-bumps Zayn as he slides into the booth beside him, three pint glasses in hand, and Zayn knows there's not a chance that one of those is for him.
"Enjoying yourself?" Niall asks, lifting a glass to his lips and draining half of it in one go before downing the rest of it.
Zayn nods, still focused on Harry but pretending to let his gaze wander in case Niall is looking. He's probably not.
"Can't believe his mum got him ballet lessons when youse were both younger. Didn't do much good, did it?" Niall chuckles, pointing his next pint in Harry's direction. Obviously paying attention, then.
Zayn snorts because he remembers hating the three afternoons a week Harry had ballet with Gemma. It took away from his Harry time, and even though Harry truly was shit at it, he liked it and continued going even through Zayn's whining, which by the end of the first month turned to pleading that they just stay home. They could work on Harry's balance playing pirates or ninjas in the vacant block at the end of the road. They could do anything as long as it was together. Mrs Styles had dragged Zayn along one afternoon, and as boring as Zayn thought it was, he'd not minded when he got to see Harry dance. Harry had loved it, though, and stayed for the entire year until his dance teacher pulled him aside at the end and told him he just didn't have the "it" factor.
Probably why he wouldn't try out with Zayn for any other "Factor" in the future.
Zayn hadn't cared too much. He had Harry back and the year of ballet training was pretty much forgotten until Zayn saw him on the dance floor and remembered Harry in those tight black tights and how much his jeans did the same thing for his bum and, well, Zayn had always liked watching Harry move.
"He was shit at it, don't let him tell you otherwise," Zayn says, lifting his near warm drink to his lips.
Niall laughs at his side. "Well, he's right about one thing: said you always liked to watch."
Zayn sputters at that, feels his cheeks heat, and even though the slight coughing fit he's having shouldn't be able to be heard where Harry is, Harry still turns and raises a concerned brow, mouthing "Are you all right?" Zayn nods and holds up his thumb and Harry smiles, then turns to hold some bird’s hands and spins her in circles.
Niall rubs a hand over Zayn's back as Zayn blinks back the stinging in the corners of his eyes, taking a slow sip of his drink to ease the tickle at the back of his throat.
"He's a bloody disaster. What's not to like about watching?" Zayn gets out after clearing his throat a few times. There are green and blue strobes playing off Harry's curls as he raises his face to the roof, like the fake rain the lights are making is actually real. He's such an idiot, but it makes Zayn smile none the less.
Niall hums in answer and they're quiet, Zayn sipping slowly at his tonic and Niall finishing off another pint glass. It's as Zayn’s considering getting up for a fag that Niall speaks again.
"Is that how long you've been in love with him then? Since he paraded around in a tutu?" Niall spills all of this like he's asking Zayn about the weather, or how the new album is coming along, or if he'd mind ever so replacing the bog roll when he's finished next time he's over. Zayn sputters again and his eyes go wide as he turns in his seat to look at Niall.
Niall stares back at him, looking for all the world as if he's not laid the one question Zayn's been avoiding himself for the past six years on Zayn's shoulders.
"He never wore a tutu," Zayn says, voice strained as he drops his eyes to stare at the coaster in front of him instead of Niall's blue gaze boring into him as it had been before. The ring his drink left on the cardboard surface has started to bleed out into the writing, making the number some girl dropped there earlier all but indistinct.
"Can't imagine that he did, no. Still, you ever going to tell him?" Niall continues. Zayn must have had more to drink than he’d thought. Words spill from his lips like the condensation running down his glass as he places it on the coaster.
"I can't. He's the one thing I want more than anything. More than the record deals and singing to people who sing back my words, more than the flat in London and the trips to the other side of the world that still freak me out everytime I get on a plane. Harry. He's—" Zayn pauses, licks at his lips, feeling deflated of all he's been holding in for so long. "He's . . . he's everything." He shrugs and stares even more resignedly at his drink, imagining he can actually see the few remaining ice cubes melting.
"I want to be with him all the time. I want more than the odd night with a fry up before I head out the door. I turn to tell him things that have made me laugh when he's not there, I walk into my flat and imagine him at the stove and he's not, and it breaks the hold he has on me little by little and then he calls or I come home and he's here and - I need him. I need him more than he could ever know, and because I do and I'm selfish I can't let it be anything more. He's got a life here and I've got this. . . whatever it is for as long as I do."
Niall lets out this long breath, this half a curse as he presses closer to Zayn's shoulder, his knee knocking with Zayn's under the table. "He'd give it all up for you, you know. He's never said anything, but I know he would."
Zayn shrugs, because there's been enough honesty this night and he needs to get out, clear his head from thoughts Niall is helping grow and shape that he can not let his mind dwell on. "He could, but I won't let him. I can't."
He slips away from the table then, before Niall can utter another word, and he's kicking himself for saying all he did. Niall won't say anything to Harry - as much as he's Harry's friend, he's grown to be Zayn's, too, and Niall won’t hurt Harry any more than Zayn won’t. Or hopes he won't. He catches his security's eye - it's Preston tonight; sometimes it's Andy or Paul or some big bloke called Max - and nods toward the back. His hands are shaking, he can feel them jittery at his side as he twists his way through the crowd, knowing that Preston will follow at a discreet distance.
When he gets to the door that leads to the alley outside he lets Preston through first, waits for the all-clear, and braces himself against the cool of the night compared to the hot press of bodies inside. He leans up against a wall, hoping that he's not resting against piss or anything, and after a few tries he gets his cigarettes out from his jean pocket. His jacket is in the coat-check, and even though he knows there's a possibility of paps back here he trusts Preston will keep anyone at bay. Preston knows Zayn needs tonight, probably spotted the tremor in his fingertips before Zayn did.
He gets through three cigarettes before Harry finds him. Before Harry drags him into the bar. Another hour later and it's back to Harry and Niall's and fucking all quiet and slow, giggling about what Niall might hear. It's waking up and putting on last night’s clothes before a breakfast of eggy bread and Preston texting him and he's out the door.
The sad, almost pitying look he catches on Niall's face as Harry kisses his cheek at the door stays with him the entire drive back to London.
It's behind his eyes every time he closes them for weeks after.
{ .. }
It's Zayn's turn to entertain Harry this weekend.
He's playing some little gallery opening for a friend of his stylist. It's not something he probably should be doing at this beginning point of his career, but he likes Caroline and the artist friend is talented. Zayn bought two pieces earlier in the day when Caroline took him down for a look around where the stage would be later.
He sings and Harry's right there in front, smiling at him all huge white teeth and dimples that look like Michelangelo carved them there himself. Harry looks incredibly hot in his skinny black jeans - not the ones he nicked from Zayn months ago but his old favoured ones with the ridiculous rip in the knee. He'd been wearing these layers of plaid in red and blue when they'd come in, but he was down to a thin white tee now. Maybe it was the lighting or the shirt was just that worn, but Zayn could see the birds inked on Harry's chest, could even make out that dumb butterfly below them. It just made him think of earlier that afternoon when Harry'd come all over the smooth inked lines, how it felt under Zayn's tongue as he licked Harry clean.
Harry was dancing like he normally would, all lanky body parts jerking everywhere and managing not to hit a soul. Even if he did he'd get out of any trouble with a wink and a smile, that Styles charm obliterating any hard feelings before they had a chance to erupt into something else. He's ridiculous, and when Zayn finishes the singing portion of the evening and steps behind the decks to dj it's not long before he loses Harry in the crowd, only to suddenly find him standing beside him.
"Here," Harry says, holding out a cup that Zayn, when he takes a sip after faux clinking their glasses together, finds is hard cider. It's refreshing after drinking water most of the day and night for his voice. Harry wraps a hand around Zayn's neck, pulls him in close so the tips of their noses and foreheads line up. Harry's green eyes disappear into one and he's so beautiful. More stunning than any of the art on the walls, better to look at than any of the sculptures, too. He's just so much and Zayn's everything calls out to hold, to touch, to make Harry his own.
But he can't.
Not here, anyway.
Harry's grinning, his grip tight on the fine hairs at the nape of Zayn's neck. "You were fucking awesome, Zayn! Smashed it!"
Zayn laughs because Harry's words are slurred; he's obviously taken advantage of the free bar on site. "What are you even drinking, Haz?"
Harry sways back and, with a wink, shakes his glass in front of Zayn. Zayn is paying more attention this time and spots a swirl of apple skin in the mix. His eyes widen because he was sure Caroline said it was just a wine and champagne event. "How on earth did you get that?"
Harry winks again, but it's more of a blink with added movement of one eye as he taps at his nose with a finger. "The fruit of the apple calls me and I can not help but surrender,"
"You make no sense." Zayn laughs again and Harry’s hand winds around his waist as he sips his drink, smiling at Zayn as he does.
"Apple martinis make no sense!" he shouts in Zayn's face, licking his cheek before bouncing away back into the crowd, leaving Zayn a bit baffled. He's hoping if any camera's caught that move it can be explained away as two mates having had a bit too much.
The night goes on and Harry dances like no one is watching until the studio lights come on and Max, this time, is tapping at his watch, ready to leave.
Zayn doesn't really notice, though.
His eyes are focused on one thing.
Eventually Max pours them both into the car and makes sure they get into Zayn's posh building in one piece. They're giggling as they head upstairs and Harry's taking the mick out of one of Zayn's songs, singing it like he's a bloody chipmunk and at twice the speed, at that. Zayn keeps trying to hush him with his hand over Harry's mouth, but Harry just licks at Zayn's palm until he breaks away to rub it down his side. They're shushing each other all the way down the hall to Zayn's door, cheering none too quietly when they finally get in and close it after them.
Zayn flicks on the lights as Harry sings softly behind him, the sparse furniture of his flat coming into view as he moves from room to room. He notices that Harry isn't following only when he gets to the kitchen, and he sets the kettle on the stove before getting the gas on.
"Tea, Haz?" he calls out, and he hears a murmured yeah that sounds like it’s coming from the living room. He smiles because Harry's always been a sucker for the view when he comes over and Zayn only put the little lamp on when he walked through, knowing how good the city looks all lit up, even at three in the morning.
Zayn rolls his eyes when he finds himself singing the Chipmunks’ Christmas song under his breath as he fixes their drinks - tea for him, too, at this time of the night or morning. He doesn't stop as he wanders back into the living room and finds Harry standing with one hand deep in the pocket of Zayn's jacket that he stole the moment they got out of the car. He looks small, sort of, all curled in on himself and slightly unsure when he raises his eyes to Zayn’s. He's chewing at the skin of his thumb and his lips quirk up into a smile for a second before it disappears and his curls fall forward over his face.
"Vas happenin'?" Zayn asks, using that stupid phrase he'd tried to make catch on when he and Harry were twelve. It fails to get a laugh. Harry doesn't even smile. The silence goes on between them with Harry only shrugging before taking the mug from Zayn's hand when he holds it out.
They both take silent sips and it's so quiet Zayn can hear Harry breathing, the shift of his shoulders a tiny movement, barely noticeable because he's hunched over so much.
"Harry," Zayn starts, because it's not like this between them. They don't do awkward silences. Not when they have such short amounts of time together, not when it's all smiles and laughs turning into kisses and groans and getting off.
Harry licks at his lips. His eyes flick down to the sofa and Zayn looks too, but sees nothing that should have Harry acting this out of sorts.
"You want me to - I mean, I didn't expect - never do, really - but, I mean, it's fine." He looks past Zayn and goes to step in that direction when Zayn stops him with a hand to his wrist. Zayn takes from Harry’s grip the mug, which he’s sort of shaking, and sets it down with his own on the coffee table.
Harry won't meet his eyes but seems lost in this staring competition with the floor as he waffles on some more. "You have a toothbrush I could borrow? I didn't pack one or anything - forgot, which is weird for me—"
"Harry," Zayn interrupts, because he gets it now. Takes in the folded-up duvet and sheets, the extra pillows from when Zayn's sister was down two nights previously and Zayn had taken the sofa, giving his sister his own bed. He hadn't gotten around to putting them away, too busy with meetings and interviews, songs to practice. He sees Harry being unsure, out of sorts in this much of Zayn's world no matter how much he's had to drink and no, Zayn can't have Harry feeling like that at all. It's the reason he shelters Harry from so much of what he does. So much of his heart.
"It's fine, really, Zayn. We don't - I'm drunk anyway, fall right asleep I will," Harry continues, and he's still not looking at Zayn and it's stupid.
"Safa spent the night after we recorded this thing for some documentary or something they're doing on me a few days back."
Harry grins quickly but the corners of his lips soon fall down again, didn't show his dimples anyway, and Zayn knows that look. Knows all of Harry's looks, really. Harry should remember that. Zayn's been building a catalogue since he was eight years old.
"It's fine if you want - I mean, I'm sure your sofa's well comfortable, it probably cost as much as all the furniture back at mine." Harry laughs but it falls flat and Zayn can't handle Harry like this.
He grips both of Harrys arms, tugs at his wrist until he's got Harry's hands clasped in his. "I'd be more comfortable with you in my bed, with me."
Harry does smile then, this little thing that lifts further as Zayn steps in close and fits a knee between Harry's legs. He drops his voice lower, softer, as he runs his lips over Harry's jaw. "Be even more comfortable if you weren't in my jacket."
He lets go of Harry's hands and they fall to Harry’s sides. Guides his fingertips over Harry's shirt and slides his own hands up until he's got them under the cool leather of the stolen jacket Harry's wearing. Pushes at the material until it bunches at Harry's back, a few good pulls at the cuffs loosening the smaller fit from Harry's broad shoulders.
His lips find their way to the corner of Harry's as the jacket falls noisily to the floor. "Or in any clothes, really,"
Harry surges up then and layers are falling left and right as they head toward the bedroom, Harry leading the way as he always does. He's got one finger crooked in the belt loop of Zayn's jeans, dragging him in close the moment they step across the threshold into Zayn's room. Zayn goes willingly, because if he can do anything without having to let thought in, it's what he does with Harry in the darkness, in the quiet of their breaths bouncing between them. It's so easy to pretend he can have this, have Harry like this and the possibility of more after, when it's just them.
Harry's sucking on Zayn's tongue now, his fingers a warm press under the waistband of Zayn's pants and pushing Zayn's jeans lower. Zayn's got both of his hands on Harry's chest, and even in the low light from the hall he can see his palms are covering the birds. He sweeps his hands down, catches Harry's nipples between his fingers and squeezes, pulls back and swallows Harry's moan with his mouth. Harry rocks forward and Zayn can feel how hard Harry is getting, how much Harry wants this now, as much as he always does.
The weirdness about the sofa is now completely gone from both of their minds as Zayn pushes Harry to the bed. He has to laugh a little as Harry goes flailing backwards, bouncing a bit on the mattress, feet kicking at the duvet where it bunched up after Zayn rolled out earlier that morning. Zayn chuckles as he struggles to get his own jeans off, losing his footing at the last second. Harry's not doing all that much better when Zayn starts crawling up on the bed. Harry's got this pout on his lips as he tugs at the zip of his jeans, getting nowhere fast.
"Let me," Zayn says with a grin, and Harry tugs at the zip once more before throwing his hands behind his head and thrusting his hips up in Zayn's direction.
"Big baby," Zayn mutters, easing the zip down slowly, and it goes with not too much effort on Zayn's part. He's about to rub it into Harry's face a bit but Harry's sat up again. It's just enough to get his hand around Zayn's neck and pull him in so they meet relatively halfway as Harry takes most of Zayn's breath away with how hard Harry's snogging him. He's sucking on Zayn's tongue and his fingers are tugging at Zayn's hair while his hips rise up to meet Zayn's, and everything feels so right.
They fit like this, as Zayn lowers himself down, fills the space between Harry's thighs, pressing his chest against Harry's own. Harry's eyes are closed but Zayn can't stop watching. Harry gets Zayn's face between his hands, thumbs rubbing softly over his cheekbones as he guides their kiss, and just that, without anything else, has Zayn's heart racing. He rolls his hips anyway, hands pressed deep into the mattress on either side of Harry's neck, feeling how hard Harry already is against the soft curve of Zayn's belly. He swallows down Harry's groan, noting the line that deepens between Harry's brows and the catch in his breath when Zayn gets a hand between them and wraps his fingers around Harry's cock. He's wet already - always messy like this - as Zayn runs his palm over the head, stroking down with his thumb pressed into the underside and dragging it purposefully over the thick vein there.
Harry's bucking up into his touch and Zayn doesn't know what he wants to do first. They could come like this - have done before - or he could stop kissing Harry and suck him off. They could pause for a moment, get the lube and shit from the drawers, and Zayn could fuck Harry slow and sweet or hard and fast or maybe roll him over and lick him out first . . . the possibilities are endless when Harry gets like this. With the noises he's making and how he hasn't let go of Zayn yet. Needy, almost.
Harry's so different from how unsure he was before. Before Zayn reminded him that he wanted Harry to be here. Always wants Harry, even if he can't bring himself to say the words.
"What do you want?" he whispers, breath ragged as his lips brush soft against Harry's.
Harry's eyes squeeze tight, hips rolling up so he can fuck into Zayn's fist. "I don't know."
Zayn nips at Harry's bottom lip, ruby red and bruised by the intensity of their kissing so far. "That's not an answer, Harry." He tightens his grip on Harry's dick, gets the edge of his thumb rubbing against the slit, watches Harry swallow hard as he gasps for air.
"Fuck! Want you," Harry gasps, head thrown back against Zayn's pillows. Zayn takes advantage of how much of Harry's neck is on show to suck a bruise over where he can feel the fast beat of Harry's pulse beneath his lips. Harry moans again, gets his ankle hooked over Zayn's calf, heel pressing into the muscle there. One of Harry's hands slides over Zayn's back, gathering the slick sweat from Zayn's skin; the other has fallen limply to the bed, hand fisted in the sheets below. The light from the hall falls over Harry's face, casting it into deep relief, and it hits Zayn again how beautiful Harry really is. This gorgeous boy who could be with anyone, anyone, but he chooses to come home with Zayn or let Zayn into his bed time and time again.
Zayn sits back on his knees and rubs his palms over Harry's thighs, feels the muscles trembling under his touch. "Roll over," Zayn says softly, focusing on the fine trail of hair below Harry’s belly button, on the rise and fall of that moth on his stomach. Anywhere but his eyes. He just can't look at Harry right now. Can't see how perfect Harry is, this Harry that he can't keep as his.
Harry shifts, pulling himself up the bed as he turns over, nearly taking Zayn's head off with his foot. Harry apologises and Zayn chuckles, grabs at Harry's ankle and helps to get him settled, forearms on the mattress, face smooshed on one side into the pillows. Harry pulls his knees in tight and Zayn runs his hand up Harry's leg, over the sweet curve of his arse, pushing down on the small of Harry's back. Zayn licks his lips, breathes in deep as he takes in the sight of the long line of Harry's back, the smoothness of his skin. The only part of Harry's torso that remains mostly free from the swirls of ink that line his front. Only the side of the empty birdcage is really on show, bits of ink at the top of his left shoulder.
He's still undecided about what to do. He bends down anyway, rubs his palm over Harry's bum, leans in and nips at the round of it. It's the way Harry shivers, the way he pushes up into Zayn's touch that settles it. Zayn grips both of Harry's cheeks, spreads them wide to run his thumbs down the middle, just short of the tight pink furl of skin that Zayn's got on show from holding Harry back. Harry breathes out Zayn's name, all short and harsh like it’s mostly stuck in his throat. Zayn can't hide his grin, dick twitching against his stomach. Precome blurts from the head and rubs sticky against his skin, sending sparks down his spine as Zayn dips in low. There's a heat burning low in his gut from what's to come, how much he loves doing this to Harry, how much he loves bringing Harry undone.
They haven't done this in a long time. Harry always gets a bit shy about it but loves it all the same. It's probably because of how much Harry's had to drink that he's not whining about it now, not trying to stop Zayn but instead offering himself up, pushing his backside into Zayn’s face. Zayn takes the hint, licks a long stripe from Harry's sac right up to where his fingers are holding Harry's cheeks apart. Harry moans then, this long, broken sound that cuts off short when Zayn blows a stream of air where his mouth just was.
"Shit, Zayn, don't - just - please," Harry begs, curling one arm under his head, mouth settling close to the sail of the ship on his bicep.
Zayn can hear the need in Harry's voice, can feel how tense Harry is under his fingertips, so he doesn't make Harry wait any longer. Zayn dives right in, licking right around Harry's hole, tongue massaging the soft, tight skin as he listens to Harry's moans above him. He presses his fingertips into the meat of Harry's cheeks, knowing full well he'll leave marks behind but not caring in the least. It's the way Harry shifts against him when Zayn points his tongue, pushes in until the furl gives, lets him in little by little as Harry chokes on these sounds that have Zayn aching to get a hand on himself. Not yet, though, not until he's taken Harry completely apart.
Spit is dripping down his chin as he opens his mouth and sucks, feels how the ring of muscle flutters against his lips. Harry's nearly sobbing above him as Zayn slides his thumb down Harry's crack and slips through the wet that Zayn's mouth has made until he's pressing in, running his thumb just around the inside of Harry's rim. He's warm and wet and Zayn's thumb slides in easily. Harry pushes back until he's nearly fucking himself on Zayn's thumb, whines as Zayn exchanges it at once for two fingers. Harry's back arches like a cat. Zayn pauses for a moment, wondering if he's pushed Harry too far, but when he looks up at Harry's face he's licking at his lips, bitten and swollen with abuse, and whining Zayn’s name. Harry blinks and manages to shoot Zayn this look and Zayn groans himself. His hips stutter forward and he thinks about getting a pillow under him so he has something to rub off against. He doesn't, though. His mind quickly settles back on Harry when he pushes back hard, yelping a little as Zayn’s fingers slide in deeper. Zayn lowers his head and his tongue meets soft, wet skin around his fingers as he fucks them into Harry with renewed purpose.
Harry moves, dropping down on one side, and without looking Zayn can tell he's got a hand on himself. Knows from the extra vibrations at his fingertips that Harry's pulling himself off and not going at it particularly slowly either. It's so hot, knowing that Zayn's got him to a point where he has no self control, where the only thing Harry's focused on is falling apart. Zayn tucks a third finger in, stretches Harry even more as he does, nips at the meat of Harry's arse as Harry makes more and more noise. The sound muffles after Zayn twists his fingers in a particular way - years of prepping Harry or watching him do it himself means Zayn knows exactly where to touch. Zayn looks up, drags his mouth away from Harry's skin to see Harry biting at his arm, teeth embedded lightly but hard enough that the skin whitens around his grip.
Zayn won't be the only one leaving marks in Harry's skin tonight.
"You close, then?" Zayn murmurs, lips tracing the line of Harry's spine as Harry's hand works away underneath him. Harry makes this muffled yes around his arm and Zayn wants to kiss him. Wants Harry's lips on his. Wants as much as Harry will give him. Zayn twists his fingers up, crooks them in a way he knows will get Harry off fast and it does. Harry's soon grunting - near sobbing - as his arm becomes this blur of movement under him. Zayn feels it the moment Harry starts to come. He can barely move his fingers, licks the salt from Harry's skin as Harry collapses to the bed, his legs finally giving out.
It takes a minute for Zayn's head to clear, then he's pulling his fingers out and wrapping his hand around himself as he sits back on his haunches. The view of a debauched and wrecked Harry is even more of a turn-on. Zayn's tongue is pressed against the back of his teeth as he curls in on himself, gives in to finally letting himself feel good. Harry's not having Zayn do all the work, though. With shaky limbs he turns himself over and reaches up, patting at Zayn's thigh and chest, then wrapping around Zayn's neck as Zayn leans in. He knows without needing words what Harry wants. Harry's on his back now, pulled mostly up off the bed to meet Zayn halfway in a dirty, wet kiss that is more tongue than anything joining them. Harry's other hand bats Zayn's away, his grip tighter than Zayn would have expected as he pulls at Zayn’s cock. It's almost too much and Zayn is close anyway from fucking Harry with his tongue and fingers - now Harry's got the hand he was wanking himself off with wrapped around Zayn's prick and it's too much. Too much.
He comes with a shout, three long spurts coating his and probably Harry's skin, body curling in over himself. He slumps forward onto Harry's chest, knocking them both back onto the bed, and the last of his orgasm dribbles over his fingertips. Harry manages a breathy laugh but Zayn's barely breathing, a combination of their kissing and coming so damn hard proving to be nearly too much for his body to handle. Zayn fits himself in close to Harry's neck, tangles their legs together as Harry pats at his back, kisses whatever skin he can reach.
"Fucking love you," Harry breathes, voice rough and already sleepy.
Zayn smiles into Harry's neck, squeezes Harry's shoulder in return. The words are spilling from his mouth before he can check them. Words that he shouldn't but he can't help but return.
"Love you, too, Haz. So much."
{ .. }
He knows he shouldn't have said it. Knows that they were words he should never have uttered.
Yet, when he wakes and everything is the same as it was the day before, Zayn starts to think that his little post-coital confession didn't change anything at all. When he opens his eyes, it's to find Harry's closed in front of him. They shifted in the night so Zayn is now on his back and Harry curled in at his side, his arm wrapped around Zayn's middle and a little bit of drool at the corner of his lips in a tiny mess on Zayn's chest where he's using Zayn as a pillow. It's sweet and Zayn finds himself smiling as Harry blinks slowly, yawning as his eyes focus in, and then his grin is sort of shy, one dimple deep in his cheek. Zayn purses his lips, tries to tamp down on the chuckle that's at the back of his throat when Harry realises he's been drooling on Zayn and wipes at his jaw and then, with wide eyes, at Zayn's skin.
Harry lifts one brow and it's sorry without saying the word and Zayn does laugh then, eyes crinkled up tight as Harry thumps a fist on his chest. Zayn turns on his side, curling Harry in with the arm that was under Harry's head, until they're chest to chest and he can hear Harry's laughter, too. It feels so right, Harry lying here in the morning, laughing about stupid things like drool and having so much of Harry's skin bare against his own. His chest feels tight, filled with this lightness he never knew could exist under his ribs. Harry's stopped hitting him and instead is tapping the pads of his fingers over where Zayn's grandfather's name is inked deep into his skin.
Zayn turns his head, presses his lips to Harry's forehead, and breathes in deep. There's a little bit of his coconut pomade left there, a little of the smoke from when he shared a spliff with Zayn before they left for the gig, and it's nice. It's Harry. Zayn sighs - more hums, really - a happy sound that has Harry nuzzling his face into Zayn's neck, pressing tender kisses against his throat. He tightens his grip on Harry, presses his fingertips in deep, and a smile creeps over his face that nearly hurts because it all feels so good. So right.
"I love your bed," Harry says, teeth scraping over Zayn's collarbone so lightly it almost tickles.
Zayn shifts his leg so Harry can fit his knee in better and push up so his body is more over Zayn's than anywhere on the aforementioned bed at all. The tippy-tap of his fingertips has moved down Zayn's chest now, beating a tiny path over one nipple as tongue meets the other.
Zayn was wrong. Just lying in bed with Harry was nice, but having Harry in his bed and all over his body is something better.
Harry slides down lower, his stomach rubbing up against where Zayn's prick is filling fast. The slightest attention from Harry always has this effect. Zayn clenches his teeth but a soft moan spills from his lips anyway. Harry wriggles around and ends up between Zayns thighs with a hand on either side of Zayn's hips. He rests his chin just below Zayn's belly button, not too far away from where Harry clumsily wrote "Don't Think I Won't" when they were sixteen and Danny had procured a tattoo gun from a friend to keep it there forever.
Harry's eyes are bright, bright green in the early morning light, flecks of gold hidden within their depths as he grins up at Zayn. It has Zayn's breath catching in his throat, how beautiful Harry is, how filled with love Zayn is for him. Maybe today - maybe today he can forget about why he can't say it. Why he can bandy about "I love you's" when they're getting a pint for each other or ringing off on the phone or in text. Maybe today he can pretend that he never went on the X Factor and he and Harry are just two idiots with nothing to do on a Saturday morning. Maybe for today, he can love Harry right.
"Why's that?" Zayn asks when he finds his voice to speak, remembering Harry's earlier devotion to the bed they're lying in.
Harry’s dimples deepen. "It's good on the knees, perfect for sucking you off," he quips, and he ducks down lower and licks Zayn's prick from root to tip before taking him in. Zayn has to close his eyes. Can't watch how stretched out Harry's lips are becoming with each pass up and down. He grows harder in the slick warmth of Harry's mouth. Wants to keep being right here in the moment for as long as he can.
Nothing else matters when his eyes are closed, just him and Harry. That's all.
{ .. }
Zayn comes ridiculously quickly and returns the favour to Harry with his hand, wiping the mess off on sheets that will have to be washed anyway. They shower together and Harry lets Zayn style his curls into foam-filled spikes and a ridiculously large mohawk. He lathers Harry up with his bodywash, unable to deny that it's purely so Harry will smell like him even after he goes home. They kiss under the water until Zayn thinks he's drunk at least half his body weight from the times his mouth has been open.
They towel off, each of them giggling when he catches the other staring. Zayn turns his back on Harry eventually and gets dressed in the minimum amount of time it takes to wrangle on his skinnies, a shirt, and an old knit that could possibly be Harry's. When Zayn turns from fixing his hair and finds Harry shrugging on one of Zayn's old hoodies he says nothing. He does corral Harry backwards against the bedroom door, pushing him up against it while aligning their bodies, and takes Harry's face between his hands and snogs him senseless. Harry's cheeks are flushed with colour when Zayn finally pulls back and kisses Harry slower, deeper. Kisses Harry with all the words he can't let himself say.
They break apart and Harry chuckles, shaking his head as they make their way to the kitchen. Zayn falls behind to readjust himself in his pants. It's irrational how good Harry looks in Zayn's clothes. Makes Zayn want to undress him all over again. He shakes himself out of it and follows after Harry.
"You don't have to do that," Zayn says when he comes around the corner to find Harry grabbing some mugs from the cupboard. The kettle is already on.
Harry laughs, and it’s warm and fills what Zayn always feels is quite a cold place in his flat. Then again, there's usually only him banging around here on his own until the odd night Harry or one of Zayn's sisters stops by. Zayn can't help himself but steps up close behind Harry's back and hooks his chin over Harry's shoulder as he reaches around to push the mugs out of the way.
"Let's go out, yeah? You always cook. There's a caf nearby that does eggy bread like your mum used to, maybe even better." Zayn can't stop smiling, presses his lips to Harry's jaw as Harry snorts.
"Zayn, it's well past breakfast. We've slept so long it's not even brunch anymore."
Zayn steps back, feels lighter than he has in days - weeks, even - and grabs at Harry’s hand, twining their fingers together. "Lunch, then. I've been craving a good chips and cheese and I know just the place. Not far from here - we can even walk."
Harry shakes his head. "Chips and cheese. Haven't had that since - shit - I think after you got in to X Factor, when you came home and you were all excited and we—"
"Got drunk off that horrible bottle of port your stepdad had hidden in the garden shed." Zayn smiles and then grimaces at the memory. They'd been so sick that next morning, vomiting in the garden at the back of Harry's parents’ place, sneaking around the side and down to the caf opposite their school that did the best chip butties they'd ever tasted.
"All right then, lead on, good sir," Harry says, and Zayn tugs him out of the flat, stopping only to grab his wallet, keys, and phone.
Zayn doesn't bother calling his security for the short trip. He figures they could do with the day off, and it's not as if he's going to be mobbed at some greasy caf that's nearly hidden in the back alley, way off the main road. It's virtually empty when they walk in and Harry gets a laugh out of Zayn attempting to order with his sunglasses still on when they're inside. He slaps Harry on the shoulder and Harry gets him back. The slap-turned-tickle-fight nearly gets them thrown out when the owner catches on as he brings out their order. They walk out with mostly serious faces that dissolve into laughter the moment they get around the corner. Harry's arm around Zayn's waist is a heavy weight that grounds him to the here and now. To how they are when they're together.
The day is gorgeous for a change. Bright blue skies with a few white puffs of clouds, but otherwise it's almost Disney-esque, with the warmth of the sun on his face matching the heat from Harry at his side. They get their chips and cheese takeaway and head a little further along to what is definitely more of a park than the square patch of green near Harry's flat back in Leeds. They find a mostly secluded spot and lay the grease-stained paper between them, licking the salt from their fingers when they're done. It's so quiet, feels so private where they are that Zayn can't say no when Harry puts his head in Zayn's lap. He doesn't push Harry off, only leans back against the tree himself and runs his fingers through Harry's curls. Harry's breathing slows and Zayn's eyes flutter nearly closed, shifting between awake and asleep even whilst sitting up.
It's nice, is what it is. This quiet moment when they're together without words or friends or anything between them. Just Zayn and Harry and no one and nothing else.
"Love this," Harry says, and Zayn blinks a bit. He’d thought Harry was asleep and was nearly headed that way himself.
The sun's dappled light through the tree above throws golden highlights in Harry's curls, makes the bow of his lips look more pronounced. "Could live like this, y'know? Like, home’s nice and Uni is great, but . . . London, man," Harry smirks. His voice is all soft but there's this sense of wonder to his tone, this longing, and Zayn sort of hopes it’s not just aimed at the city Zayn has to live in for work.
"Today's just been - it's been so great." Harry reaches up to grab at Zayn's hand, the one that's been sitting on Harry's shoulder while the other was lost in chocolatey curls. He laces their fingers together, squeezes them tight around the knuckles. "So great."
Zayn can't think of a thing to say in return, just ruffles Harry's hair a little.
They stay in the park until the sun starts to set, the oncoming dark making Zayn brave. Harry stands and pulls Zayn to his feet, too. Zayn leans right in with the momentum and presses his lips to Harry's, quick and sure. It takes Harry a second to kiss him back but it only adds to the warmth in Zayn's belly when he does. Everything about today has felt right, felt good, and Zayn isn't ready to let it go yet at all.
They walk along the street, hands bumping occasionally, and Zayn's fingers twitch, this tingle at his side, a need to slip his hand into Harry's and not care who can see. But he can't. he knows he can't.
"You ever been on the Eye?" Zayn asks, spotting the top of it in the distance, and Harry shakes his head no. "Want to?"
Harry stops, green eyes locked on Zayn's as he puts an arm up and hails a cab. It's a short ride and Harry's like an excited puppy, pointing out random bright lights and scenes outside the window. Zayn can't keep up, doesn't see what Harry does, either too used to it or not paying enough attention. He likes watching Harry, though, likes seeing the awe in his eyes, the way his hands move as he talks, grabbing at Zayns thigh when he really wants him to notice something.
It's busy when they get to Jubilee Gardens. It's Saturday night, so the crowds are out in force. Zayn's fingers hesitate over his phone; he thinks about letting Preston know where he is but then he doesn't want any of his security around. It's been lovely all day, just him and Harry. He doesn't want to spoil that now.
The guy in the ticket booth recognises Zayn, gets him pushed up the line so they don't have to wait half as long, which Zayn complains about but Harry shushes him. "You never use your face for things like this - just once, mate," and it's Harry's hand on his elbow that has Zayn letting it go. He signs the ticket bloke’s phone case anyway and takes a few photos with some of the people in line who ask, so he doesn't feel that bad about it in the end.
Harry moves nonstop in the half hour they're circling around. He nearly runs from one side of the glassed-in bubble to the other, much to Zayn's amusement and that of the other passengers, and Zayn eventually has to grab at Harry's arm, willing him to stop. Harry smiles even wider. "But there's just so much," he whispers at Zayn's side. "It's sort of beautiful."
So are you, Zayn thinks. He watches Harry's face as something new comes into view. Some bright and shiny thing to replace the old from before.
They catch another cab back to Zayn's place and Zayn makes the tea while Harry packs up his things. Harry refuses to stay another night. He has work in the morning and he won't shirk it, even if Zayn does mention he's got another day free that he might not have for a while after this.
Zayn gives up eventually. He wins the battle on driving Harry to the tube station, one that's a bit closer to where Harry's headed. They're quiet again when he turns the engine off. This time, unlike the rest of the day, doesn't feel quite as comfortable. There's this underlying sadness that's seeping out from Zayn's bones, freezing out the warmth that just being with Harry had built like a good tinder base for a fire all day. There was no spark now, no light. It's just this cold-water feeling that Zayn can't escape. Harry puts a hand on Zayn’s shoulder as they sit in Zayn's car stopped just outside the tube station.
"It's okay. I don't need you to drive me back, the train is fine."
Zayn turns in his seat, presses his lips to Harry's knuckles where they curl over his shoulder. "I know, but you could stay. Another night won't hurt," he whines, pouting in hopes that it'll help. He should let Harry go. He knows this even as the words leave his mouth.
Harry laughs, squeezing his hand tight over muscle and bone. "I'd stay forever if you asked."
He kisses Zayn on the cheek quickly before sliding out the car and waving goodbye to Zayn, then he disappears underground.
The quick quip he threw Zayn’s way stays with Zayn for hours.
If you asked.
It's a question Zayn can't even begin to consider.