Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Takes place over much of the Where We Are Tour. The timeline is approximate. Don't look too closely or peek behind the curtain. Also this is basically an AU where Perrie doesn't exist because I didn't want to navigate all that. 

The title of this fic is from the song Cigarette Daydreams by Cage the Elephant, which I was totally ignorant of until Harry tweet-quoted it.

This fic is also inspired by a million gifs and is dedicated to my BFF because she is Harry and Zayn at the same time. (If you want to find me, I'm on tumblr here. Warning: Niall is my true #1.)

1

“Jesus, Harry!”

There is mojito absolutely everywhere, soaking into the leg of Harry’s jeans and down the front of Louis’ tee shirt, a dark damp patch that smells of mint and tequila. There’s a puddle on the table, seeping slowly toward Sophia, who is giggling nervously as she and Liam frantically try to mitigate the flow with a pile of napkins.

“I’m sorry! I was just...” He’s struggling to right himself, hanging onto the edge of the table and shrinking with shame and embarrassment. “Sorry.”

“Maybe next time you’re getting up to ‘have a wee’, do it like a human being, Harry.”

“I just...stood up. I didn’t think—“

“You swung your LEG. Over the TABLE.” Louis glares down at his shirt, brushing ineffectually at the mess with his fingers.

“Sorry.” He’s mumbling now, embarrassed. There’s a gentle pressure at his elbow, warm fingertips. Zayn. It must be Zayn. He feels himself relax by a degree.

“C’mon Haz. Let’s get you there.”

Zayn tugs at his elbow, but it’s not aggressive or impatient, isn’t even really a tug at all. He applies the lightest, gentlest bit of force, mapping the course for Harry’s body, and Harry allows himself to be led away. He senses Zayn close at his side as they walk, the warmth of breath on his neck as Zayn leans in.

“You’ve had a few, mate. I’ll walk you over, alright?”

“I just...” Zayn ushers him through the crowded bar, his hand hovering just at Harry’s elbow, then his upper arm, applying pressure as needed, moving him around and through the mass of people. “I see what I’d like to do. And it always seems pretty simple, so I do it. But nothing comes out right? And then I spill something on Louis, or run him over. I....poor Louis.”

“Louis is alright. He’s just takin the piss. Here we are, mate. This’s your stop.”

Harry sways and turns and leans against the wall next to the loo. His head feels a little swimmy with booze. He slides down the wall a bit and smiles at Zayn.

“Thank you so much.” He speaks slowly, looking Zayn in the face and trying his best to communicate earnest gratitude. Zayn laughs quietly, his eyes going all gentle and fond the way they do when he’s looking at one of the boys. It makes Harry feel special and lucky and warm, to be looked at that way by Zayn. He reaches out and touches the collar of Zayn’s button-up, just because it’s there and he wonders if it’s soft and pliable or if it’s a thing that has a solid shape, presenting the illusion of softness, like the rest of Zayn maybe.

“You got me there and I didn’t even ruin anything. You always get me there.”

Zayn reaches out and pats Harry a little awkwardly on the chest, above his heart.

"My pleasure, Haz.”

He finds himself clutching at Zayn’s hand reflexively, and that’s also soft and hard at the same time (and why is he thinking so much about Zayn’s soft to not-soft ratio right now why is that even a thing? He must be right pissed). He smiles and closes his eyes, squeezing Zayn’s fingers in his own.

“You know, you’re like a hero. You’re my actual hero, Zayn.”

Zayn laughs again, squeezes Harry back in acknowledgement.

“Any time.”

Then he’s gone, and Harry spins around, careening through the door to the toilet and right into Niall, who cries out and clutches at his chest reflexively.

“Jesus, Harry, you’re right pissed, aren’t ya? Take it easy.”

“Sorryyyy!!!”

2

“Harry, No! You’re comin’ in too fast, lad!”

He always thought flying would be more graceful, like effortless and magical and carefree or something. So far in his experience it’s been...not that. The indoor skydiving was exhilarating, certainly, but it was also nausea-inducing and Harry had struggled to find any sort of ease in it. Didn’t seem natural, being blown sky-high by an enormous fan. Hanging about on wires is less mind-boggling, but decidedly more awkward. And painful.

They’ve been shooting all day, trying to get one good take of each of them snatching the bottle, and they’ve each failed spectacularly, but Harry is set to take home the crown. He’s broken 4 out of the 7 bottles they’ve gone through, and it’s to the point where he wonders why they didn’t pony up for a more durable plastic version. Something that would bounce harmlessly against the floor the 1^st and 20^th time Harry’s taken it out with a rogue limb.

“Cut! Scrap it.”

Harry’s forward momentum is canceled out abruptly, and he’s tugged up and back as if god himself has parted the clouds and chosen to spare this, the third to last bottle.

“Zayn, you’ve got to stay back, you’re in Harry’s shot.”

“Sorry!”

Harry is spinning slowly in midair, belly up. He lets his arms dangle limply at his sides and really it’s not so bad like this, kind of like lying in a hammock...just, you know, a hammock that’s twisted uncomfortably around your bollocks. He strains to see what’s happening down on the floor.

“Are you trying to STEAL my MOMENT, Zayn?”

A chorus of groans. Harry lets his head roll back. He pumps his fist, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Get in.”

“That’s not even the right perfume you git!”

“You’ve really got to relax though, Zayn. They’ve got him on wires, right? There’s only so much damage the lad can do.”

“He’s already taken out four bottles. I’m just tryin t’like...mitigate the damage.”

“Take a day off, Zayner.”

Harry can hear the teasing in Niall’s voice, and then Zayn grunting in protest. They must be touching him. Everyone is touching Zayn and Harry’s up here hanging about like a limp rag.

Not that it bothers him. Not that Harry’s had trouble knowing when or how to touch Zayn lately. Not that it’s been a problem.

“Lower him down, please. We’ve only got a few bottles left. We’ve got to rethink this. Take five everyone.”

Harry feels the lines shudder and moves to right himself, pointing his feet at the floor. He looks down and sees Zayn standing beneath him, peering up. His face is almost comically serious, his eyes large and patient and concerned. Harry watches Zayn’s adam’s apple bob against the line of his turtleneck as he swallows and then he closes his eyes because he’s suddenly worried that he’ll give something away. That he’s transparent somehow. Closing his eyes is all he can think to do.

“Don’t close your eyes, you idiot!”

He opens them just in time to see Zayn’s hands reaching out, Zayn’s face looking up at him, Zayn biting his lip in concentration.

His feet hit the floor as Zayn’s arms go snug around him and they stumble together, one big mass of human. He can smell aftershave and a hint of cigarette smoke. He feels like a drunken giraffe, and worries that Zayn will be crushed under his ungainly frame, but he’s stronger than he looks and keeps them both upright. Zayn laughs and holds Harry to him until he’s found his footing, then he pulls back, one hand still on the nape of Harry’s neck. He tugs at the hair there, quick as anything.

“Steady there, babe.”

He’s looking Harry right in the eye and for a moment, Harry is hyper-aware of how close they are. Of the curve of Zayn’s shoulders under the fabric of his shirt, the way his back moves as he breathes.

“Thanks.” It’s quiet and small and it feels intimate and Harry feels deeply embarrassed but also like he wants to hear Zayn call him ‘babe’ again. Again and again and again. Zayn just smiles sweetly, parts his lips to speak, and is interrupted by a loud shattering crash.

“Fucking cunt! Shit!”

“NIALL.”

“I was just tryin’ to move it-“

“LADS. Step away from the set. Take five. PLEASE.”

“We’ve only got two bottles left, Niall!”

“I knoooow, Liam, I just—Zayn, where the hell are ya when I needja?”

Zayn throws his hands up in protest and then he’s walking away, leaving Harry stewing in his own bewilderment.

“I’m only one man!”

3

Zayn has always been the steady one. The consistent one. Liam still insists he’s the one who’s got all the sense, but Liam’s evolved so much over the past four years, let go of so much baggage. He’s shapeshifted, slipped out of his own skin like a snake, or maybe broken out of a cocoon like a butterfly. Either way, he’s different. Zayn has somehow always been the same. His boundaries have always been so defined, his standards for himself so high. None of that has changed, it’s just the way he wears it that’s shifted.

The way Zayn relates to the boys is a constant. Careful, gently exasperated, protective, even when he’s taking the piss. He’s always been the smart one. Harry likes to think he’s a clever guy, but he gets by mostly on charm. He understands that. Zayn has always been the one who really knows things.

Quiet Zayn, like a dormant volcano of intellect, coming to life once every hundred years. Long-suffering Zayn. Patient Zayn. He’ll go days without saying more than three-word sentences, grunting or humming responses when appropriate, and then--just when they’ve all been lulled into complacency--he’ll sit up from a nap and butt into a conversation with an “it was George Orwell who wrote that” or “the proper word’s ‘succinct’” or maybe he’ll just shuffle around and babble something incoherent in that weird “vas happenin” accent but still manage to come off as the smart one and Harry will feel like the village idiot, like a terrible faker. Like compared to Zayn he’s just the class clown, throwing out a knock-knock joke or two, waggling his eyebrows like an idiot.

Harry sometimes worries that most of his intellect is just sleight of hand, a sort of implied depth. Carrying the right books around, quoting the right people. Zayn doesn’t need to imply anything. Doesn’t need to prep for interviews. He doesn’t even need to spell-check his bloody tweets. He just is deep. Harry and the other boys will rib him, certainly. They’ll take the piss, but when Zayn speaks, they all listen.

Grimmy seems to think Zayn is some sort of sleepy closet dictator. He came to their last London show and sat for most of it in the backstage viewing area, his legs crossed, making jokes at Gemma about the noise and his aching joints, and when he’d loped up to Harry after, poking at his ribs, he’d laughed and declared that Zayn had them all “wrapped around his little finger”. Harry had just brushed him off, denying anything of the sort, and Nick had shrugged, smiled that infuriating knowing smile and said “sure thing, water boy.”

He’d circled back round to Zayn later, after a few drinks, and would not shut up about him. Whether he was some closet dom, if he got off on people falling into line around him. What he would be like in bed. Harry felt like his ears were burning and tried desperately to change the subject because it’s one thing to joke, to make light of how close you are, but it’s another to earnestly speculate.

Harry is so wrapped up in these four boys and his love for each of them, so entirely a part of them when they’re on tour, sometimes he feels on the verge of losing himself. Honestly if he lets himself imagine what it might be like to touch any of them...like really touch them...he’s not sure he could hold it together. It would all feel too muddled. Too immediate.

He makes a point of not telling Nick about Zayn’s ubiquitousness. His gentle guidance. His tendency to always be there when Harry needs to be righted, to be put back on his feet. He understands that he would never hear the end of it.

Since then, it’s like Nick has cursed him or something, because Harry can’t help but notice it. Like...yes, ok, he does make a habit of bringing Zayn water. It’s just a thing they do. When you play the same show night after night, you sort of fall into a rhythm. It’s natural. At some point Harry started grabbing a couple waters at a time because honestly it’s something Zayn doesn’t really think about. Hydration is important, and anyway Zayn smokes (which Harry would rather he quit, all things being equal) which is terribly dehydrating. Harry’s just being a good friend, really.

He has to admit that he and the other lads have a tendency to hover around Zayn...or maybe the word is orbit. They wander the stage, engage with each other, get performative in whatever way strikes their fancy for the night, but they’ll all periodically return to Zayn. Like a touchstone. Like home base. Harry can’t figure out if they’re checking in on Zayn or if they’re allowing him to check on them. It all bleeds together, really. Like everything does on tour. It’s a struggle to carve out your own space...to know where you end and the other boys begin.

When he’s honest with himself--mostly at night, when he’s truly knackered, wrapped in a cocoon of sheets in some hotel bed--he’ll admit that some things have felt more muddled lately. His sense of his own autonomy is slipping...like there’s chinks in his armor. If he had to pinpoint an event, a turning point, he would say it was last July in Chicago. The night Zayn “rescued” him.

He was acting like a complete knob. Hadn’t slept, wandering around on stage with a towel over his head, and nearly wandered right into one of their pyrotechnic displays...which really, number one, why do they even have exploding things on stage? He’s always been firmly in the “our fans don’t need all that” camp. It’s a conversation they had just last week at a pre-tour run-through.

“All they care about is hearing us sing and watching us act like twats,” he’d said, for what felt like the hundredth time. “It’s why I eat all the bananas--I mean aside from the potassium. I bet you ten thousand pounds you could scrap every bit of pyrotechnics from our stage show and no one would bat an eyelash. But if I went out there and DIDN’T eat a banana? There would be riots in the streets.”

“He’s right, you know. Chaos. It would be total anarchy.”

“Thank you, Louis—wait. Are you making fun of me?”

“You might even say it would be-“

“BANANARCHY! Ha! Legend.”

“Hey! Get off, Niall, that was my terrible joke.”

“Well you were too slow.”

“It’s called comedic timing. Anyway, yes Harry, the fans pay to see you acting like a twat, I agree, but they’re also paying for a spectacle. So. You’ll just have to deal with all the bang-bang and try not to wander where you’re not meant to be. Honestly Harry, you’ve got to be taking the piss—“

“Everything is figured. It’s all aces, alright Haz?”

“It’s a serious safety issue, Liam!”

“Well, that’s what Zayn’s for, innit?”

“What’my for? What time is-”

“Nothing, Zayner, lie back down. You can’t do your heroic duty if you’ve not got a good afternoon’s sleep.”

Zayn’s heroic duty. It’s been a running joke going on a year now, since the towel thing, and the fire thing, and the toddling toward a fiery death thing, because it was Zayn who kept him out of harm’s way. Zayn who tried to call out to him, then sprinted over and grabbed him firmly around the waist, turning him away from the fire.  Harry’s certain he would have been fine. He wasn’t really going to wander into an inferno, but Zayn couldn’t know that.

It was all over the internet the next day. Zayn Malik saves bandmate from certain death! They got a lot of ribbing for it on the bus. Lots of impromptu acapella renditions of “I Will Always Love You”, Louis insisting on referring to Harry as “Whitney” for an entire day. It could have stopped there, been a two-week laugh like most of the nonsense they would riff on, except that Harry is such a massive bloody klutz, and with him tripping, slipping or knocking shit over every two minutes, it’s been difficult to let the joke die. He can’t really blame them. And anyway, it’s nice having a bodyguard. Someone to catch you. A firm hand at your waist or a light guiding touch at your elbow. All their actual bodyguards are so fed up with his uncanny ability to find danger and adversity where literally none exists that they all but ignore him, but Zayn’s never gotten fed up. He’s never been frustrated by Harry. It’s just...nice.

He feels terrible sometimes, making Zayn work like this. Keeping him on high alert in a way. But now he can’t help but wonder if there’s something more symbiotic happening. Harry needs someone to guide him, to tell him where to put each part of himself. It feels right somehow, and lately maybe something more than right, because sometimes he catches himself contemplating intentional accidents, just to see if Zayn will come running, where he’ll touch Harry. An elbow, a shoulder, the curve of his waist.

And Harry’s starting to think that maybe Zayn is a person who needs to steer, to subtly and benevolently manipulate the people around him. He wonders if it’s gratifying in some way...if it feels right to Zayn the way it does to Harry. That clicking into place. The deep seated pleasure of surrendering to another person’s control. If he thinks about this too much, if he speculates on this part of Zayn’s personality for too long, or the way it makes him feel, he reaches choppy water. Uncharted territory. A cliff’s edge. He’s got to pull back and try to shut his brain off because again...muddled.

4

The next time Zayn rescues Harry is a week into the tour, during an impromptu meet and greet backstage after a gig. They’re all gathered around a folding table, signing a banner for some kids who were driven down from the local children’s hospital. Louis is crouched down, talking to a little girl in a wheelchair, asking about her family, what she does in her spare time, which is her favorite television program. She’s come dressed in a shirt that’s covered in bright green four-leaf clovers, clearly broadcasting her allegiance, but Harry watches her face absolutely light up as Louis gives her his undivided attention and he thinks those allegiances may be shifting. It’s Louis in his element. Harry wishes more people could see this Louis, but it’s a side of himself he keeps close and secrets away. He saves this Louis for the times when it really matters, or maybe just for those times when he most authentically is this Louis.

As Harry plays the voyeur to their heart-to-heart, a middle-aged man with the tired eyes and the mussed-around hair of someone who has lived through a natural disaster walks up to the two of them. He sets a reassuring hand on the girl’s shoulder and looks down at Louis, warm and appreciative and a little bewildered. Harry is upright and moving toward them before he can think, as if he’s been summoned. Like they’ve deployed some kind of paternal batsignal.

“Is that your DAD?!?”

Liam is knelt just to Harry’s right and he registers the legs jutting out into his path an instant before he gambols into them, Liam crying out in pain and Harry careening forward, helpless and terrified. He has just enough time to let out a high pitched “eee” and throw his hands out to break his fall before he feels someone catch him bodily around the chest, half lifting and half dragging him upright.

He lets his breath out in a huff and then inhales deeply and smells a mix of post-show sweat and leather and Gucci aftershave and yeah maybe a little weed and he knows that it’s Zayn holding onto him, setting him back on his feet. Perfect, brave, heroic Zayn. Actual Batman Zayn--not the inferior Batman of Dads--who somehow sensed an impending disaster and came running. Or maybe he was just there, because Zayn is nearly always just there lately.

Zayn lets him go after spending what seems like an eternity making sure Harry is solidly on his feet.

“There you go,” he says, smiling. “Nearly went arse over elbow there.”

Harry thanks Zayn sheepishly, takes a deliberate breath, and moves forward. Zayn moves with him and Harry jolts a little when he feels warm fingertips brush his elbow. He’s doing the thing again, gently steering Harry across the room, his hand hovering and periodically alighting like a hummingbird.

He accompanies Harry to where Louis is still crouched, absorbed in his conversation, and in the last moment, just before they arrive, Zayn moves his hand to the small of Harry’s back, just above the waistband of his jeans, then runs it along the curve of his hip, squeezing once as if to say “here we are”. Then he leaves.

Harry smiles up at the tired-looking man, then down at the little girl, and he realizes he’s suddenly forgotten all his favorite dad jokes.

5

Harry’s hat has fallen in the pool, surprising no one. Niall started crowing loudly the instant it happened, red faced and doubling over, spilling beer onto the pool deck. Now Harry is just standing there waist-deep in the water, drunk and smiling, watching his hat float on the surface. It looks like a sad dead animal. A very expensive sad dead animal.

He climbs out and lets the sun pull the dampness out of his clothes. It’s hot and dry and it doesn’t take long. He has another drink and moves around happily, enjoying the heat and the light and the company. Enjoying the whole tour thing. He’s missed it.

He loves South America. Ben is here, and he looks all tall and buttoned up and bearded and soft and Harry finds himself attached to his neck, talking in his ear, trying to make him laugh. Ben just shakes his head good-naturedly and pushes him off, tries to set Harry down on a lounger, but Harry doesn’t want to sit. He reels away, flailing his arms demonstratively and yelling something about mimosas, then collides bodily with someone behind him.

He hears a grunt and a splash. He whirls around, his mouth already forming an apology.

“Sorry!!” He can’t see anyone behind him. He looks around frantically, then down at the pool. Someone is splashing around in the shallow water.

“OH MY GOD.” He crouches down, grabbing at Zayn, helping him out of the pool. “I am SO sorry.”

“S’okay.” Zayn lets Harry help him up. He sits on the edge of the pool, catching his breath.

“But you can’t swim! Jesus I could have killed you.” He presses his hands to Zayn’s neck, his chest, his knees, like he’s got to confirm that he’s in one piece, that Harry hasn’t broken him.

“It’s shallow. It’s not a big deal, Haz. I’ll just go change.”

“I’ll walk you up.” It feels like the best idea he’s ever had. He pulls Zayn bodily upright. “I’m so sorry...I just...I’m a menace.”

It isn’t until they arrive at Zayn’s hotel room and Harry follows him inside that he starts to feel a little strange, like maybe it’s weird for him to be here, to have followed Zayn all the way up to his room. But he’s had some drinks and it felt so right when he thought of it. It was just exactly what he wanted to do.

Zayn is all wet and dripping and leaving a damp spot on the carpet. Harry’s head swims with champagne as he watches Zayn peel off his shirt and toss it through the bathroom door, digging around in his backpack for a fresh one. Harry’s had just enough drinks to make him “a tad grabby”, which is what Liam calls it when he gets this way, and he wants to hug Zayn. Or maybe just touch him. Or something. He craves contact.

“I’m sorry, Zayn. Again. Like really proper sorry.” His voice sounds small in the quiet of the hotel room.

“It’s cool, Haz. Like really proper cool, ok?”

“You’re just...you’re always there when I need you, and you’re all gentle and patient and you never get mad...everyone else gets fed up but you’re just...always cool. You’re so like...consistent and stable and perfect-” and these are not the words that are supposed to be coming out of Harry’s mouth right now “and you’re all solid...but like soft at the same time? I don’t understand. You’re so lovely.”

Zayn’s stopped digging for a shirt. He smiles over at Harry and makes a funny face, a little bewildered, a little fond, then he looks down at his own chest and laughs.

“You’ve gone mental, Harry, I’m all skin and bones and weird parts.”

“I like your weird parts.”

He stumbles forward, poking at Zayn’s bare chest, trying to show him the parts that are soft and hard at the same time, but he pitches forward a little too enthusiastically and looses his footing.

“Whoopseh daiseh,” Zayn’s voice is quiet as he rights Harry, clutching him around the waist. This is where Harry should stand and sort himself out and step back to what could be considered a comfortable distance, but Zayn is his friend and he likes him so he just sort of melts and presses his mouth to Zayn’s collarbone and feels Zayn breathe in sharply at the contact.

“I’m a mess. I’m like...I can’t even get myself around like a regular person.” He’s mumbling into Zayn’s skin, and he hears his voice going a little whiney, the way it does when he’s had a drink or two.

“I should just let you like...drive me. All the time. You’re so good at it. You like...know where all my parts should go.”

Zayn brings his hand up and touches the back of Harry’s head, lightly.

“You want me to like...lead you around? Like a guide dog or something? That sounds exhausting.”

Harry wraps his arms around Zayn’s neck and mumbles into his shoulder.

“Or I could just hang onto you. Like those koala bears we saw. You could pick me up and carry me around. Like you do to Liam.”

He’s talking into Zayn’s neck now, and he can taste the chlorine and the salt of his skin and he laughs and he says “you taste like swimming pool,” and then licks, quick and light.

Zayn makes a little choked noise and digs his fingers into the back of Harry’s neck and Harry is worried for a moment that Zayn is going to pull his head away but Harry doesn’t want to leave and thank god Zayn just holds him there, his fingers gripping the hair at the nape of Harry’s neck, a little harshly.

“Ooowww. What happened to gentle?”

“Do you want me to be gentle?”

Harry freezes. Zayn’s voice has gone all quiet and low, and the skin goes hot at the back of his neck, under Zayn’s hand. He wonders if Zayn can feel it. He should say something. He should laugh. He should pull back and go “ha ha ha” and bound across the room and out the door because suddenly he feels weirdly sober and he’s realizing that maybe he is entirely too close to Zayn right now. Like pressed up against him. Alone. In a hotel room. Nibbling at his collarbone, which is all hard angles but so soft at the same time and he knew it would be. He should do a lot of different things, but he just says “no,” and Zayn’s fingers dig in a little harder and he gasps as Zayn hugs him in closer and lifts him off the ground, swinging Harry’s legs bodily around his waist. He does it so quickly and with so little effort that Harry reels for a moment, disoriented.

“Where would you like to go, then?”

Harry just blinks into Zayn’s shoulder. He doesn’t want to look up, or get down, or talk or think. He feels like they are balancing on the edge of a big expansive body of water, and like if he moves or speaks or breathes, he’ll pitch them over the edge into...whatever is down there. Or away from the edge maybe. He doesn’t know what terrifies him more, so when he speaks he just says

“You drive.”

He closes his eyes and Zayn pushes them away from the wall, carrying Harry across the room. He feels his own heart pounding, pressed up against the skin of Zayn’s chest. They cross to the bed, and Harry’s heart beats faster and harder at the proximity, then slows as they pass it by, like a radar.

Zayn is carrying him out the door of his hotel room and down the hall, and Harry twitches and inhales sharply as he feels the soft pressure of fingers on the waist band of his shorts, dipping down, into his back pocket, pulling out the keycard he’d shoved there when they’d left the pool. Zayn shifts his weight slightly and Harry hears the shick-clunk of his own door unlocking. They move to the bed, which is strewn with button-ups and scarves from this morning, and Zayn deposits him gently on the comforter, untangling his limbs. Harry lies there limply, looking up at Zayn, and Zayn for his part doesn’t move away, just hovers over Harry, propping himself up with his hands on either side of Harry’s head.

“You’ve driven me back to my room.” His own voice sounds quieter than he meant it to, a little shaky.

“Yeah. I thought...you seemed a little knackered.” Zayn looks away then, uncertain. His cheeks are a little flushed. “You were drinking...down by the pool. And it was hot so. I thought you might want to sleep it off before...” he looks Harry in the eye now, and there’s something there. Something a little hard and also soft and a little questioning. “before the show.”

Harry looks up at him, swallows. Nods.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. Ok. I’ve done alright then?”

“What?”

“Um...at the driving. I’ve still got the job, yeah?”

Harry laughs, high and nervous. “Yeah. Yeah you’ve still got the job.”

“Sick.” He leans down so fast, there’s no time for Harry to react as Zayn plants a light kiss to the tip of his nose. “Sweet dreams.”

Then he’s gone. 

6

The bar is nearly empty, just the boys and a handful of crew. No muggles. Ugh. Regular people. Not-One-Direction-brand humans. Harry hates that “muggle” stuff. Niall has been saying it since he went on that Harry Potter studio tour and it’s caught on like wildfire. Harry finds it all a bit rude.

Louis is alternately talking football and yelling about being the honorary mayor of St. Louis and his volume and register suggest he’ll be sleeping late tomorrow morning. Later than usual even.

Niall is right pissed and laughing in his particular explosive way. Harry doesn’t know if he’s every met another person who literally went “HYA HYA” when they laughed, but there’s nothing manufactured about it, it’s just Niall. Niall is never anything more or less than Niall. He turns, like he can sense Harry watching him, and sticks his tongue out. Then he does an impression of Harry, frowning comically down at his hands and miming frantic typing. Harry makes a face and holds his phone up, doing his own imitation of Niall taking 500 selfies. Niall throws his head back and laughs again, slapping his knee. It wasn’t that funny really, but it’s Niall. Harry feels a surge of appreciation and love before he looks down toward his lap again.

It wasn’t even a good impression, really, because Harry hasn’t been typing into his phone. He’s just been frowning down at his instagram feed for the past 10 minutes, stuck on a single photo. He shakes his head and presses a button, lets the screen go dark.

Zayn is nursing a beer in a corner booth with Liam, the two of them talking quietly about...whatever they talk about. They’re like a married couple sometimes, living in their own little bubble, speaking their own language. Doting on each other. They’re sitting close and doing that kisspering thing all of them have a habit of falling into, even off stage where the decibel levels are tolerable.

Harry watches them casually. He is definitely not watching them any more intently than he would at any other time. Not eying the way Zayn’s shoulder is pressed to Liam’s. The way Zayn smiles and pokes Liam in the side as he laughs, his eyes crinkling and his shoulders shrugging up toward his ears.

The thing is that Zayn hasn’t properly touched Harry since that day with the pool and the collarbones and the bed. Not really. Not significantly, not in the particular way that Harry has grown accustomed to. No driving.

There was one bit of tactile guidance last week, when they were all descending on the buffet table backstage in Houston and Harry was blocking Niall’s way to the sausages. A quick and formal elbow to the arm. Less gentle steering and more a cursory nudge. Harry’d jumped at the contact and looked over at Zayn, but Zayn was looking down, intently studying a tray of scrambled eggs, his arms cemented to his sides.

It isn’t even something to take notice of really, the nudging. Or the lack of nudges. These things just ebb and flow. Harry doesn’t think he’s touched Liam off stage for months, really--he should probably fix that soon, let Liam know he’s still here--but it’s not a big deal, this touching or not touching.

Even that day at the pool, in the hotel room. Even that wasn’t really anything too out of the ordinary. It wasn’t anything that hadn’t happened before. Zayn carries Liam around all the time. Niall has nearly suffocated all of them in their sleep with his aggressive cuddling. Harry had kissed all of the lads all sorts of places. Foreheads, hands, ears, shoes. Zayn and Liam had apparently kissed on the mouth once even and there’s no reason that should be making Harry feel any sort of way right now. It’s just lad stuff.

It’s just that Harry had gotten so accustomed to having Zayn close, to the warmth of a hand pressed against his back or arm or winding its way around his hip. Not having that sort of close contact--or the unique grounding/exhilarating feeling that came along with it--has left Harry in a sort of tailspin. It’s been a struggle to curb his anxiety.

He worries that maybe he crossed some sort of boundary that day. He knows that Zayn has boundaries in spades. Zayn was never the mysterious one, that was all just a joke at the expense of the media. He’s funny and he’s goofy and he’s shy and he’s absolutely full of love and affection but he is so...reserved. He is an island to himself. A self-contained unit.

It’s something that Harry has always been a little in awe of, this ability to define the space around him. To draw a line. To recognize a need to retreat and then follow through. This job, this life, comes with so many demands. So many people grabbing at you, begging you to jump when they say jump. Harry has maybe always given a little too much of himself, but Zayn is always Zayn. The Sovereign State of Zayn. He defines his own boundaries and limits so clearly that it demands respect and reverence.

There’s nothing cold about it, nothing ungrateful or harsh, but it’s the reason Harry has teenage girls following him in cars around LA or mobbing him on the street while Zayn is able to slip away and disappear, to move through a crowd without being swallowed. The reason that if Zayn says “that’s enough”, they all stop dead in their tracks.

And that’s the thing, maybe. Harry’s worried he’s infringed on Zayn’s sovereignty somehow. That he’s triggered a retreat, or forced Zayn back into his shell. He’s been playing it back in his head for weeks and it’s admittedly fuzzy but he keep coming back to the last bit.

“You seemed knackered. Thought you might want to sleep it off before the show...”

He wonders if that was it. If Zayn was shutting it down. “That’s enough.”

But there’s something else, nagging at him, and it’s the reason he’s holding a glass of ginger ale and bitters and sipping at it slowly. Every time he drinks these days, he can’t stop thinking about it. “It” being Zayn, and his particular softness and hardness and the smell of him and the way his hair has gotten so long and various other perfectly normal regular things to think about your friend and coworker (jesus christ). But “it” also being that thing that Zayn said and the fact that Harry can’t figure out what he meant. Whether he meant “No. Not this,” or “No...not like this,” and Harry clearly has trouble thinking straight when he’s had a few, so he’s taking a break to clear his head. So he can figure some things out. Definitely not for any other reason.

7

The bunk is stuffy and uncomfortably warm when he wakes up, his bladder ready to burst. He silently curses himself for drinking so much ginger ale and climbs carefully out into the aisle, half sleep-walking to the toilet. It’s not really bigger than an airplane toilet, and he rests his head against the vinyl of the wall as he relieves himself, sighing quietly.

He’s so accustomed to small spaces, quarter-bathrooms, bare necessities. It’s a strange thing to find comfort in, considering how much money he has. Like, so much money he doesn’t even know how much money. But he’s grown into a person who feels at home with close-quarters, Spartan surroundings, the contents of a knapsack. His house in LA is beautiful and big and spacious and light and he has no idea what to do when he’s there. He’s not ready to admit this to anyone, but he’s shut himself in the closet there to write once or twice. It helps him focus but it’s still so bloody quiet.

In London, he spends most of his time on couches and in spare bedrooms. He practically lives at Nick’s house most of the time when he’s home, cooking meals in his kitchen, watching telly, following Nick to work like a puppy. He likes the booth at the studio. He likes the dark and the claustrophobic quality and he likes the old worn couch. Sometimes he thinks he sleeps better there than anywhere else, then wonders if this is a problem, or a defect. Like this job has warped his development somehow.

He’s tried lately, to live a real life. Or as real as he can. He tries to be in LA. He flies his family out, he drives around the city and goes to shops and operates like a real human boy. Sometimes it feels nearly authentic.

He sorts himself out and slides the door open, navigating his way through the dark of the aisle. There’s soft music coming from the back of the bus, and the sound of Louis snoring from one of the bunks, the rasp of a throat being cleared. Then the bus lurches, rolling around a curve, hitting a pothole. It’s all completely normal and benign but Harry isn’t ready for it and it sends him careening back, his elbow banging the edge of a bunk, then he’s splayed out, face up in the aisle because of course he is.

He hears footsteps, the slide of the door. He throws a hand across his face to block the light. To hide. He groans unhappily.

“Nooooo...why are you here? Don’t look at me. Just leave me to die.”

“Leave you to die?” It’s Zayn. His voice is low and raspy and a bit garbled, like he’s been smoking. Harry swallows.

“Yes.”

“Like this...wearing nothing but your pants?”

“...yes.”

“How much did you drink tonight anyway?”

Harry moves his arm, peering out at Zayn, whose face is nearly obscured by the dark. The light from the lounge glows around his head like a halo.

“I...I didn’t.”

Zayn smiles sleepily and sinks to the floor. He nudges Harry’s bare thigh with his knee and Harry’s head reels for a moment at the contact.

“Liar. You did. I saw you.”

“That was ginger ale.”

“...Ok.”

Neither of them says anything for a moment.

“...You’re meant to catch me. This isn’t supposed to happen.”

“I’m sorry.”

They just sit there for a minute, not saying anything. Harry peeks out from under his arm again and sees Zayn watching him, sees that his eyes are a little red and blown out. He smells of weed and boy. Then Zayn reaches out and touches Harry’s stomach.

He traces the moth, taps the jutting edge of a hipbone, palms Harry’s side and runs his hand up his ribs. His touch is warm and slow and deliberate and Harry shuts his eyes, breathing shallowly.

“Are you hurt?”

“Just my pride.” It comes out a cracked whisper.

He touches Harry a little more, running his fingers down the plane of Harry’s breastbone, and over his solar plexus. Then like someone flipped a switch he blinks, pulls his hand back, sits up.

“C’mon. Let me help you up.”

Harry allows Zayn to pull him up off the floor, allows himself to be spun around. Zayn’s hands are at his waist now and he’s pushing Harry gently down the aisle, toward his bunk. When they arrive, Harry puts a hand on the blanket and hesitates. He turns.

“I’m awake now...like, if you want to hang out...”

Zayn frowns, blinks and rubs the underside of his eye. “Nah I’m just...I’m just like…sitting around smoking.”

“Ok.”

“Wouldn’t be any fun to hang out with like this.”

“…I like you just fine like this.”

Zayn laughs, his eyes scrunched shut. “I’m boring. If I’d known you were...I would’nt’ve...” his voice is so quiet. It trails off entirely before he finishes and he shrugs, smiles apologetically.

“I could just like…hang out and keep you company or whatever. You don’t even have to talk to me.” Harry wonders if he’s pushing too hard again. If he’s encroaching on boundaries.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright.”

Harry digs around in the bunk and finds a pair of shorts. He slips them on, Zayn’s hand at his elbow steadying him as he navigates which legs go where. He tries not to think of it, of how much he’s been missing that sort of contact, a steadying hand. They move up front to the lounge and Zayn starts fussing at the table, moving things around, picking up an empty crisp packet and tossing it in the bin.

“I’ve made a mess. Sorry.”

“S’fine.” Harry sits on the couch and picks Zayn’s ipod up off the table, “What were you listening to?”

Zayn’s face lights up. “It’s a mix cd someone threw up on stage last week. It’s sick.” He grabs the ipod from Harry, laughing. “It’s called ‘songs for Zayn to dance to’ and it’s all like weird slow jams and stuff.”

Zayn hooks the ipod to the stereo and music fills the lounge. He drops to the floor, kneeling on a pillow by the table, and sets to work rolling a joint while Harry watches him quietly. He’s focused, the tip of his tongue protruding from his mouth a little as his fingers moving in a smooth, precise sort of way. He licks along the edge of the paper and presses it down, wipes a mess of shake off the surface of the table, then lights up and takes a drag. The next song starts. It’s got a beat, but it’s distant and sparse and atmospheric.

Harry scrunches up his face. “This is a dance mix?”

Zayn shudders with laughter as he holds his breath, then breathes out slowly. He tips the joint in his hand, angling it toward Harry.

“So far it’s more of a ‘music for Zayn to smoke out to’ mix. But it’s good, like…you can move to it or whatever.”

Harry considers the cigarette in Zayn’s hand. He doesn’t smoke much, honestly. It makes him even more unbearable and rambly than usual. But it’s not like Zayn needs him to talk. They can just sit. Just a little bit couldn’t hurt, and the music will sound better. He takes the joint, inhales carefully and coughs. Zayn grins over at him, the way he does. He’s swaying back and forth a little to the music.

Harry is still coughing and Zayn nudges a glass of water toward him across the table. He sets the joint in the ashtray and trades it for the water, takes a sip and clears his throat, then clutches the cup to his chest as he listens to the music. The next song is something Harry recognizes. A Radiohead track. He laughs.

“This is definitely not a dance song.”

“What? Nah…it’s like…a slow jam.”

Zayn takes the joint back and jumps up, smiling. He starts moving his hips and his shoulders with the music and it’s so contained…so controlled. He’s biting his lip and looks just on the verge of laughter, but he’s keeping his eyes on Harry, as if daring him not to take it all very seriously. He turns in a circle, moving with the beat, waving his hands in front of his hips deliberately, slowly. Harry laughs and his head starts to feel heavy and cottony. The music sounds loud and expansive and big and good.

Zayn twirls again and laughs.

“I think ‘dance’ may’ve been a euphemism, to be honest.”

Harry mouths the word silently. Euphemism.

“You’re a really good dancer.” His own voice sounds thick.

“Get off.”

“No I mean it. You’re like…I dunno. Nialler and Liam are secretly good dancers, you know? Like they get all the moves and stuff. They pick things up. But you’re just like…a natural.” 

Zayn shrugs, smiling happily. Harry tips his head back on the bench, lets his eyes drop nearly closed.

“Can’t believe you were ever scared of dancing…”

Zayn leans down and picks the pillow up off the floor, tossing it onto Harry’s lap. Harry makes a half-hearted attempt at catching it but he feels sort of slow and syrupy and just ends up patting at it ineffectually.

The song changes. This one’s even slower. Even weirder. Zayn moves around the table, placing the joint carefully in the ashtray, and throws himself down on the couch, his feet up on the arm and his head falling squarely on the pillow in Harry’s lap. Harry feels himself tense, feels his pulse quicken, but all he says is “oof” and then he shifts, getting comfortable and adjusting under this new weight. The music is droning, lots of horns and pounding drums and crooning vocals. It sounds...rude.

“Not a dance song.” He murmurs. Zayn laughs.

“You can dance to it. Might be like…R rated or something.”

He brings his arms up by his chest and moves to the beat, rolling his hips on the leather of the bench. Harry watches for a moment, then looks up. Studies the track lighting on the ceiling. The little plastic AC vents. He hears Zayn laughing softly.

“Hand me the j, Haz?”

Harry leans forward, but it’s awkward with Zayn’s weight on his lap. He moves his hand, propping it on Zayn’s bare chest for leverage, grabs the joint and sets it between Zayn’s fingers. Harry sits back and moves to take his hand off of Zayn’s chest, but Zayn grabs it and moves it back. Harry glances down, but his eyes are closed, his expression neutral. He lifts the joint to his mouth and takes a drag.

He starts to drive Harry’s hand, moving it slowly across his chest, then lets go. The music pulses and feels all-encompassing and it’s making Harry’s head swim even more. He feels a little like he’s watching a movie but the film is skipping, like the frame is slightly off its track. He tries to focus in a singular way on the junction of his fingertip and the warm skin of Zayn’s chest.

He moves his hand carefully, tracing the lines of Zayn’s tattoo with two fingers, traveling down his chest to his solar plexus, back up and over his collar bones. Zayn hands the joint back to Harry and he sets it in the ashtray. It’s just a stub now. He leans back again and watches his hand move. He’s focusing on it like it’s his job. Like he’s meant to solve some sort of puzzle in the skin under his fingertips.

Zayn sighs, makes a little “mmm” noise and turns, pressing his forehead into Harry’s middle. Harry lets his hand falter for an instant. He can feel Zayn’s breath on his stomach, warm and a little wet. His lips are just brushing the curve of a laurel leaf and Harry is definitely stoned and thank god for this pillow. Thank you for that Zayn thank you thank you.

Zayn’s breath gets more rhythmic, deepening. Harry brings his other hand up to Zayn’s hair, smooths it absent-mindedly, then tangles his fingers in it, leaving his hand there. He likes the feel of Zayn’s hair. It’s thick and soft and it’s getting so long, he could get lost in it. He leans his head back and closes his eyes and listens to the music until he falls asleep.

8

He wakes up in Chicago to the braking and downshifting that signal an exit off the highway. He’s fallen sideways in the night, his top half draped across the bench and his legs hanging down toward the ground at a thoroughly awkward angle. His head is cottony and thick.

Zayn is just down the way from him, sprawled across the cushions the bench seat, snoring softly. He looks so at ease, Harry doesn’t want to wake him. Isn’t sure he could wake him, really.

He stumbles stiffly to the toilet, one hand held out to the window, to the bulkhead, then the wall of the narrow hallway, one hand at his back. He shuts the door behind him. His face looks pallid and sleep-addled in the mirror as he pees. His eyes are red. He looks like hell.

There’s a loud insistent banging at the door, then loud insistent yelling.

“WHY? Jesus. Get out.”

Harry tucks himself away and rinses his hands, then slips out the door. He throws up two fingers at Louis as he edges past and Louis just hisses, his eyes swollen, hair all a mess. He stabs a finger at Harry’s chest.

“How much did you two drink last night, then? Passing out in back?”

“I didn’t—“ Louis is peering at him, studying his face.

“I saw you drinking something. What, you got pissed on fizzies?--Wait...Did you SMOKE?”

“Leave me aloooone—“

“You did. You wicked boy.” His other hand darts out and tweaks Harry’s nipple. Harry folds into himself, groaning weakly in protest.

“Get off.”

He hobbles back to the lounge, where Zayn is still sleeping, draped softly over the bench seat. Harry wonders if there’s anywhere Zayn can’t fall asleep. It’s like his superpower.

He drops to his knees on the floor and curls into a ball, trying to work out the compression in his back. He stretches from side to side, breathing deeply as he moves, and his muscles cry out in protest, seizing up around his spine. It’s nice on the floor, his head hanging limp in a cave made by his upper arms. Warm and dark and close and quiet. He registers the bus rocking as they move and it’s soothing. He feels very very chill. It’s probably the weed.

He feels Zayn’s hands on the skin of his back before he hears him move. It’s sudden, but so familiar that he doesn’t start at all, just relaxes into the touch. Zayn knows how to touch him when he’s like this. They all do, really, Zayn’s just particularly good at it.

“That alright?” He’s kneeling just beyond the crown of Harry’s head, his voice thick and sleepy.

“Yeah.”

He moves his hands up along Harry’s spine, guiding him in a stretch, and Harry feels his torso lengthening with the movement of Zayn’s hands. He breathes out heavily, letting himself go soft.

“Should be a yoga teacher...” he’s mumbling into the floor, barely audible.

“Don’t know any of the poses though, do I?”

Zayn moves his hands back down, tracing either side of Harry’s spine, applying firm pressure downward at his hips. Harry sighs.

“Don’t need to...you’ve got good hands. You could just like...wander around the room moving people around or something. Like those new agey people, who heal you by like...petting you?”

He can feel Zayn laughing, and gentle trembling where their skin meets.

“I think that’s called a masseuse.”

“Whatever. You’re just...you’re good at this. At touching, I mean. I like it.”

Zayn doesn’t say anything for a moment, just kneads into the muscles of Harry’s lower back, then moves up his spine again.

“Good.”

His hands travel all the way up and over Harry’s shoulder blades, fingers trailing over the nape of his neck. That feels ridiculously good and Harry’s glad he’s got his face up against the floor because he’s sure he’s turning red. He feels Zayn’s fingertips grip at the ridge of his skull, applying traction, pulling him forward, and then he feels something else. Soft warm pressure at the base of his neck. When Zayn speaks again, Harry understands that he’s feeling Zayn’s lips against his skin.

“There you go.”

Zayn sits up just as the door slides open with a bang and Harry hears the soft whump of someone falling onto the bench seat.

“I HATE EVERYTHING. Who let me drink? What are you even doing out here on the floor, fucking yoga? What is breakfast?”

Louis tosses a pillow in their general direction and Zayn cries out in protest. Harry presses his face into the carpet so no one can see how red he’s gone.

9

Things have changed. Or things have gone back to the way they were. Things are different. Things are normal. All of that. None of it. Harry isn’t sure. The point is that Zayn is touching him again. Like something happened on the bus between St. Louis and Chicago, like a seal was broken.

The boys have noticed and it’s become a hilarious joke, seeing as they’re in Chicago again, the scene of Harry’s greatest blunder and Zayn’s most daring rescue. Zayn seems to be happy to play it up, his fingers all but glued to Harry’s elbow. At one point he’d even pressed himself against Harry’s back, his arm snaking around his middle, and manipulated him across the room like a man-sized articulated doll.

Harry feigns indignence, breaks free and runs away a few times, nearly splits his head open on the edge of a counter and earns a tongue-lashing from Paul. Zayn picks him up and brushes him off carefully while laughing in his face and Harry feels absolutely bloody elated and relieved and like everything is finally right.

They play the first show and it’s electric and it seems like every time Harry turns around, Zayn’s eyes are glued to him, tracking him around the stage. Harry eats a banana and Zayn stands there, a few metres downstage, watching him intently. Harry feels light and exhilarated, his head is buzzing and he wants to run and scream and burn off some of this energy. He feels filled to bursting. He bites into the banana and looks straight at Zayn. Winks. Zayn doesn’t look away. He just smirks and shakes his head. Harry feels like a balloon, ready to float up and away.

They run offstage for the break before the encore, Niall whooping and skipping like a little kid, Liam’s arm around Louis’ neck. Zayn comes at Harry from behind, lifting him bodily and carrying him awkwardly down the ramp. Harry can feel Zayn’s breath on his neck, the tight squeeze of Zayn’s arms around his middle. He relaxes into it, lets his head roll back.

“Happy anniversary, Haz."

“It's our formal anniversary, then?” 

Zayn sets Harry down and twirls him around, laughing. The other boys have run off somewhere, probably queuing outside the loo. Harry lets himself be spun around, sees Zayn’s face, flushed and happy. Smiling. He smiles back.

“You saved me.” He pats at his chest, at the pockets of his pants. “And I’ve not gotten you anything. I’m awful.”

Zayn ruffles Harry’s hair, careful not to disturb his headscarf. He shrugs.

“S’alright. You'll think of something."

“Well don’t go anywhere. The nights not over yet, you may have to save me all over again.”

Zayn’s hand hasn’t left Harry’s head. He lets it drop to the hair around back, tangling his fingers in the curls. Harry doesn’t want him to move. Doesn’t want him to take his hand away. He likes the feel of it. The gentle tug. Zayn leans in and presses his forehead to Harry’s and he's so close suddenly that Harry's breath catches in his throat.

“I’ll always save you. It’s my sworn duty.”

Harry can feel warm breath on his skin. The hair at the back of his neck stands on end and everything feels suspended for a moment. Like they’re waiting for something to happen.

“TWO MINUTES, LADS.”

“Shit!” Harry jerks back with a start. Zayn’s hand falls to his side. “I’ve not gone to the toilet! Shit!”

“Go, go!” Zayn is half-yelling, half laughing, shooing Harry down the corridor. “You’re nearly out of time!”

He runs, one hand on his mic pack and the other clutching the neck of his tee shirt, and he’s not sure whether he’s running for the loo or away from whatever just maybe almost happened. He tries not to think about it too hard. As he rounds the corner, Paul grabs at him and Harry reels away, twirling out of his grasp. It might be the most graceful thing he’s ever managed and not one of the lads was there to see. Typical.

10

He pulls the blankets up to his chin and thumbs at his phone, opening instagram. He scrolls through his feed for a while, clicks a few profiles absently and before he knows it he’s looking at the photo again, the one from the boat. He’s revisited it something like 20 times in the past week, which makes him feel strange and confused and a little ashamed, but it’s not stopped him coming back for another look.

He’s staring intently at Zayn’s mouth. At the flat plane of his tongue. He’s thinking about how wide it is, how soft it looks. He remembers the brush of Zayn’s lips against his neck and he wonders how it would feel to kiss him. To like...properly snog him. There was a moment there, under the stage...

He slips his free hand under the covers and into his briefs and tries not to think too much about what he’s doing but it’s difficult. It’s difficult to ignore that he’s lying in bed looking at a photo of his bandmate’s tongue and gripping his cock, which has gone unbearably hard.

He’s holding his phone gingerly, by the edges, because he’s learned his lesson about accidental likes in the middle of the night. The idea that he might slip and reveal himself makes his heart beat fast, makes him feel massively nervous and keyed up and that’s somehow making him even harder, making everything more urgent, but it also means he nearly jumps out of his own skin when he feels his phone vibrate. The photo is obscured by a pop-up window that reads ZAYN and for an instant Harry feels the sharp breathless panic of exposure but the text just says:

You up?

He freezes, one hand on his phone and the other still wrapped around his cock, overcome by a confused mix of shame and excitement and horror. He feels on the verge of throwing up, or doing something stupid. Both of those things maybe. He types a response into his phone. Hits send.

Yeah. Can’t sleep.

He wants to cross himself then, or walk across the room and throw himself off the balcony, because he’s typing again.

back’s bothering me a bit

He hits send. There’s an electronic pause. He can hear himself breathing, shaky and unsure. Fuck. He’s so transparent. He’s overstepped. He’s misjudged. Or maybe he hasn’t stepped far enough. Maybe he needs to clarify—

back’s bothering me again come over come here help me touch me again I need to know how your mouth feels please.

But there’s no time for that because his phone is buzzing.

Not sleeping either. be there in a min

Oh shit. That’s not...or rather...it is. It is exactly. But Harry didn’t really allow himself to consider that Zayn might actually come over. It was just—

“Oh god.”

His voice sounds small in the empty room and has the unfortunate effect of making everything feel a little too real. This is what he gets for responding to a friendly midnight text with one hand on his cock. Fuck.

He sits up in bed, pushing down on his dick, shoving it back into his briefs, trying to reign things in a bit before Zayn’s at the door and Harry’s got to walk over there and let him in all “heeeeeey hi nothing going on here just tossing off and thinking of your mouth ha ha okay.”

He hears the knock and rolls off the bed, moving slowly and stiffly to the door. He thinks of pavement, thinks of grandmothers...thinks of dead puppies but that’s just awful and makes him sad. Things have calmed down though. He adjusts himself one more time, takes a deep breath and opens the door.

Zayn’s wearing basketball shorts and a tank top and his jaw is dark with stubble. There’s a knit beanie on his head despite the fact that it’s 90 degrees outside the hotel. He punches Harry lightly on the upper arm.

“Alright?”

“Yeah...just a little stiff.” Wow. Ok. Now he definitely wants to throw himself off the balcony. His face is hot and he’s certain it’s going red and he hopes it’s dim enough in here that Zayn doesn’t notice. They walk back to the bed together, Zayn’s fingers brushing his elbow.

“Sorry. I mean...if I hadn’t smoked you out you would’ve gone to bed in your bunk like a normal person.”

Harry shrugs.

“It’s not your fault. It was good.”

Zayn nods. He seems satisfied. He angles his head toward the bed.

“Lie down, then.”

Harry swallows, sits on the bed and lies back. Zayn laughs. 

“On your front.” He twirls his fingers in the air. “Lemme get at your back.”

Harry laughs nervously as he flips over, then squirms his way up the comforter, pulling a pillow to his chest. Zayn moves onto the bed, over his body, straddling his hips, and then the weight of him is bearing down on Harry’s middle. Warm hands spread wide over his shoulder blades, large and solid and unmoving.

“This ok?”

Harry nods into the pillow; he doesn’t trust his voice. Zayn starts to move his hands. He kneads at the muscles of Harry’s lower back, pressing into them, freeing up the knots.

He talks quietly as he works, telling Harry about the trip they took to a bar for Liam’s birthday, how much Niall drank, what he was yelling about. Harry feels himself unwinding. Zayn’s presence is relaxing, everything about him is so familiar: the sound of his voice, the thick drawl of his vowels. When Zayn’s touching him, Harry’s anxiety melts away. It’s when Zayn’s not around that the trouble starts.

Harry feels himself drifting, so he barely notices his phone buzzing, only feels Zayn slow and stop, registers the shift in weight as he grabs it from the tangle of covers. He makes an “mmm” noise.

“S’Nick. But it’s like....in code or something.”

Harry hums into the pillow.

“Probably drunk. Just close it out.”

He hears the words come out of his mouth and registers a split second later that maybe he should have said “just drop the phone and back away” or “GIVE ME THAT” because Zayn isn’t moving, he’s just sitting there, and the phone hasn’t hit the bed so it’s still in his hand and if he’s closed out the little pop up window, he would be looking at the last thing Harry’d had open on the screen which—well, fuck.

An eternity passes. Harry is about to shift, to turn and look up at Zayn because he needs to know what sort of face he’s making, then Zayn speaks.

“Ha.” His voice sounds light. Pleased. “It’s me.”

Harry squirms uncomfortably.

“Give me that. I was just—“

“Were you looking at this when I texted you?”

“No. Yes? I don’t know.” He shoves his face into the pillow, muffling his own voice. “I was looking at the fish.”

Zayn slides off of Harry, falling onto the bed next to him. He leaves one hand on Harry’s back, like he’s saving his spot for later.

“It was a sick fish.”

Harry nods into the pillow. He needs to adjust..something. The situation in his briefs is unbearable. 

“Leemo and I smashed it. You should’ve come.”

He peeks. Zayn is smiling down at him. It’s crooked and a little wicked and he looks like he’s daring Harry to say another word about the fish but Harry just swallows.

“Are you...like did you--” he brings two fingers up to his mouth, a question.

Zayn shakes his head, and Harry can see that he’s not. He didn’t need to ask, really. His eyes are clear and alert and frankly lovely in the soft light of the beside lamp and Harry is sure he’s got it right this time. He knows that this is significant. He doesn’t look away. 

“I wasn’t looking at the fish.”

Zayn just nods, but something changes in his face. He looks so young suddenly, a little apprehensive. A little lost...but brave. Harry feels the blood rush to his cheeks and he’s suddenly so tired of saying things without really saying them so he sits up, pulling the blankets up over his lap to obscure his delicate condition and plucking the phone from Zayn’s hand. He glances at the screen then shuts it off and sets it on the table.

The room is quiet, save for the electronic hum of the minibar and the small noises the bed makes as he moves. He squares his body toward Zayn and clasps his hands in his lap and says,

“I was looking at your mouth.”

Zayn doesn’t move. His eyes go a little wide, his lips parting. Harry doesn’t give him a chance to speak.

“I was looking at your tongue, actually. I was thinking about how it would feel. It looked soft, and I wondered if it would feel soft, or...or not soft.”

“Harry-“

For a moment Harry wonders if he’s pushed too hard. If he’s infringing on Zayn’s boundaries. But he’s already speaking again and he doesn’t think he can stop.

“Did you snog Liam?”

Zayn looks spun around. He laughs, sharp and disbelieving.

“What? On the boat? No. Bloody hell.” He wrinkles his nose. “He kissed a fish. It was disgusting.”

“Ew. I mean no, like...years ago. He said you were fighting. Like play fighting and you kissed. I just...I can’t stop thinking about it. I nearly asked him.”

Zayn is shaking his head, like he’s trying to orient himself.

“No...no. That was just a joke.”

“Ok.”

“Harry what-“

“I’d like to kiss you now. On your...” he gestures vaguely to his own lips. “...face.”

Zayn’s mouth snaps shut. Harry waits. He doesn’t look away. This is all too important.

“Ok.”

“Ok?”

“Yeah. I mean...me too.”

“You too...”

“Yes.” He laughs, short and sharp and breathy. “Obviously.” He’s talking fast now, his voice higher-pitched, the way it gets when he’s nervous. “I like...can’t keep my hands off you. Yes.”

“I thought maybe you were just being nice.”

Zayn laughs, his eyes squeezing shut. He brings his hands up over his face and pulls his hat off, shaking his head. His hair is a mess, and it’s longer and more unruly than it’s ever been. Zayn has always been perfect, all cheekbones and eyelashes and angles, but something about his beauty has settled in the past year, gone all muted and subdued and sleepy and a little rough around the edges. It makes Harry want to cry a little, it all looks so good.

“I still think you’re nice. The nicest maybe.”

Zayn drops the hat on the bed. He smiles at Harry. “I am though. I mean...I like being there. I like touching you and like being close...when you need me. But I don’t want to make you do anything you-”

“You’re not. Making me. I mean...I want to do lots of things.” Harry reaches up and touches Zayn’s cheek, runs a finger over the stubble at the curve of his jaw. “Um...show me your tongue.”

Zayn laughs.

“What?”

“Come on. You know...like in the picture. I’ve been staring at it for ages I just...want to see.”

Zayn just looks at him for a moment, bemused, then opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out. He hesitates.

“Do you want me to say ‘ah’?”

“Shhh. Humor me.”

He does. He sticks his tongue out and closes his eyes and it’s just like the photo. Wide and plush and soft-looking. Harry edges closer on the bed and moves his hand over Zayn’s cheek, fingering the curve of his jaw, then slides his thumb over the surface of Zayn’s tongue. Zayn opens his eyes in surprise, looking right at Harry, but he doesn’t pull away.

It feels as soft as it looks, warm and wet and forgiving. There’s so much of it. He runs his thumb along it and watches Zayn’s lips close around him. The feel of Zayn’s mouth around his thumb makes Harry’s head go hot and as he pulls his hand away, sliding his thumb out through closed lips, he leans in and covers Zayn’s mouth with his own.

Zayn’s lips are soft and rough at the same time, a little chapped from the heat but mostly smooth and they give under his easily. He hears Zayn make a little “hhmph” noise and then they’re moving their mouths and suddenly Harry knows how Zayn’s tongue feels on his.

It feels like he’s kissing the ocean. Zayn moves his tongue slowly and rhythmically, like waves rising and receding, like he’s trying to draw something out of Harry. Out of the deepest part of him. It’s all very overwhelming and it’s making Harry feel like he could burst because a few minutes ago he had no idea and now he’s being absolutely overcome by sensation. It’s the softest thing that Harry’s ever felt. Gentle and warm and engulfing.

Zayn moves his hand to touch Harry’s cheek lightly, then the back of his neck, tangling in the hair there, fingers pressing into Harry’s scalp. He pulls back for a moment and looks down at Harry’s lips and Harry thinks he looks a little stoned, which makes him feel like laughing again. That seems inappropriate though so he just smiles, and it’s big and crooked and dumb and he probably looks drunk. It all feels very ironic after all the ginger ales but more importantly it feels very big and right and unbelievably hot. Like pre-tty fucking steamy.

Zayn moves forward again, making another noise as he presses their lips together. His voice is louder this time, breathless, and it sounds like “fuck”, which makes Harry’s heart leap, makes him feel like he’s going a bit crazy.

Zayn’s tongue is less soft now, stronger, more insistent, and Harry knew it would be this way, soft and hard all at once. Everything is hot and close and a little clumsy and Zayn’s hands are everywhere, applying pressure, pulling Harry to him. They tumble backward onto the bed and Zayn’s lips are abruptly gone as they hit the mattress, a little awkwardly. Or rather a lot awkwardly, Harry’s elbow pinching the flesh of Zayn’s upper arm and Zayn saying “ooow” and Harry grunting and then they’re both laughing and it all deteriorates.

They’re wrapped around each other, Harry’s weight bearing down on Zayn’s slight frame, his face buried in the curve of Zayn’s shoulder, and they’re giggling uncontrollably. Zayn is doing the ridiculous donkey-braying thing he does and it shouldn’t be this attractive but Harry is buzzing with desire and reeling at the prospect of what they might be about to do and he thinks that this is by far the strangest and best thing that has ever happened. He props himself up on his hands, looking down at Zayn, who has one hand pressed up against his mouth, stifling the last of his giggles, and he says

“I’m glad we’re such good friends.”

That sets Zayn off again. His laugh sounds breathless and disbelieving and he moves his hand over his eyes.

“I mean, I just like you so much. That’s all.”

Zayn nods, his laugh quieting, and peeks up at Harry through his fingers. Then he moves his hand away.

“I like you too.”

He looks down, toward the place where their hips are pressed together and puts his hand on Harry’s side, running it over his ribs. He looks Harry right in the eye and his face is so serious Harry almost laughs again but then Zayn nods, like he’s decided something important.

“I’d like to suck your cock I think.”

Harry thinks his head might actually detach itself from his body and fly across the room. It’s weird, like all the blood in his body is rushing to his face and to his dick and he wonders if a person can die from that. He tries to speak but it comes out like a croak.

“Like...right now?”

“Like right now.” Zayn reaches up to Harry’s face, and his eyes are soft suddenly. He looks unsure as he runs a thumb along Harry’s lips.

“Is that ok? You said you wanted...to feel-“

Harry is off of Zayn and sprawled across the bed in what feels like no time. It’s like he’s teleported there, his legs spread wide and the blankets in a mess at the foot of the bed. He palms his cock through his briefs for a moment and feels a little embarrassed and exposed and desperate but fuck it, something needs to be done with it and Zayn has just declared himself so he really doesn’t intend to waste any more time. He reaches back toward Zayn with his other hand, grabbing at him. Trying to pull him close.

“Yes. Ok. Yes. Yesyesyes let’s do that. Right now.”

Zayn laughs, moving himself upright as peels his shirt off. He drops it on the floor and kneels next to Harry’s supine body, running his fingers over the curve of a hip, along the elastic of his briefs. The lightness of his touch is nearly unbearable and Harry rolls his hips up into Zayn’s palm, groaning with frustration.

“Oh my god Zayn, please-“

“When did you get so bossy?”

As quick as anything, Zayn’s hand is at his nipple, one hard pinch and a twist.

Harry cries out, and it might be the unsexiest noise he’s ever made, but Zayn doesn’t look bothered. In fact he looks positively wicked. And hungry. Sort of like a cartoon wolf, and Harry can’t really take seeing his face like that.

He grabs at Zayn’s wrist impatiently, guiding him lower. Harry pushes the fabric of his briefs out of the way, pressing Zayn’s palm against his cock and Zayn to his eternal credit doesn’t hesitate. He shifts, moving between Harry’s legs, and wraps his hand around Harry, squeezing gently, experimentally. Harry brings his hand back up, covering his sore nipple. It feels hot to the touch. Zayn’s hold on his cock is warm and dry and soft but so solid at the same time. Harry wants to scream. Zayn is staring intently down at his hand, down at Harry.

“You’re lovely.”

His voice is so quiet that Harry wonders if it’s even meant for him. Zayn pulls his lower lip into his mouth and bites down. He looks incredible. Like the most beautiful thing Harry has ever seen.

“God you look. Fuck. You look amazing, Zayn.”

Zayn smiles up at Harry, and it’s a little sheepish, which isn’t helping Harry calm down at all. He feels so sensitive all over his body, like he’s right on the edge of something. On the edge of everything.

“I want you to...I want you to do everything. I want your mouth on my cock.”

He can hear himself babbling and he thinks maybe he should shut up and let this all happen but he can’t, it’s just coming out of him.

“I want you to let me touch every part of you. The soft ones and the hard ones and the weird ones. I want to taste you and I want you to hold me down and I want you to fu-“

Zayn squeezes Harry’s cock once, hard, and the word turns into a cry. It feels so good.

“You’ve gone so demanding. I thought I was the driver.”

“Oh my god. I just--I’m the one with a license, really. You can’t even drive.”

Zayn exhales with a huff, frowning with mock offense.

“That’s not very nice, Harold. Do you want my mouth on your cock or not?” He goes to pull his hand away and Harry whimpers, grabbing at it.

“Nooooo. Please don’t go. I want that so much. You drive. I want you to. I’m sorry. I love you.”

He opens his eyes and feels his breath catch, because it just sort of came out...the way it’s come out a thousand times. It’s something they all say, really. Niall says “I love you” to someone once an hour...but this feels different, like it might be a thing you’re not supposed to say when your very good friend is sitting between your legs with his hand wrapped around your cock. Like maybe context is key here, but he looks up at Zayn and it’s still just Zayn. Smiling down at him, laughing a little.

“Love you too. Put your hands over your head.”

Harry moves his arms up and links his hands above his head.

“Like this?”

Zayn nods. He strokes Harry up and down, slowly, which feels unbelievable. He moves his other hand up and holds Harry’s wrists, pressing them together. It jolts something inside of him, send a shock up his spine.

“Keep them there.”

He moves his hand to Harry’s head, tangles his fingers in his hair and tugs, then leans down and kisses him chastely on the lips.

Then he’s bending down and Harry’s cock is in his mouth. Like proper all the way in Zayn’s mouth. Zayn’s tongue feels big and soft and warm and wet as it moves, and Harry’s pretty sure he’s not going to last but he wants to keep feeling this as long as humanly possible so he reaches down and grabs at the back of Zayn’s head, gripping his hair, holding him still. Zayn slides his mouth down, taking most of Harry’s length, which feels fucking amazing. His hair is soft and thick in Harry’s hand and that’s also amazing and it’s all very much too much.

Zayn rolls his eyes upward toward the ceiling, or maybe toward Harry’s hand, then looks him right in the eye, raising his eyebrows pointedly. Harry pulls his hand back like he’s been burned and clasps his fingers above his head again. Something deep inside him stirs and he feels his cock go harder. Unbearably hard.

“Sorry I just need to slow...” His voice is a whisper. “I’m not...I’m going to come. Like really soon. Like immediately. I may have...started without you.”

He can feel Zayn laughing, a shaking, pleasant sort of vibration that isn’t making things any easier, and then Zayn’s working him without really budging, his tongue moving over Harry’s cock, tracing the contours of the head, going flat and running along the base as he sucks, hard, which doesn’t seem fair, really.

There are noises coming out of Harry’s mouth, embarrassing whimpers from the back of his throat. His hands are clasped together so hard they’re starting to ache and his breathing has gone ragged and uneven, a little choked. He wonders suddenly if people can die from this. He feels a warmth radiating up from the base of his pelvis and it’s bigger than anything and when he looks down Zayn is smiling around his cock and looking right up at him and his eyes are so fucking soft and dark that Harry feels utterly lost.

It’s going to happen and he can’t do anything about it, so he loses himself in it, moving his hips, fucking up into Zayn’s mouth. He says “oh fuck” and “oh god” and he thinks maybe he says Zayn’s name, desperate and quiet.

“I’m gonna...Zayn, I’m-“

He feels Zayn’s hands bearing down on his hips as they buck upward, and Zayn’s not budging, not pulling off of him, and then Harry is coming in his mouth for what feels like an eternity. Zayn’s eyes go a little wide, but he doesn’t move, and Harry watches a drop slip out of the corner of his lips. It’s mesmerizing. Harry’s head is spinning and he wets his lips, feels his whole body tense and release with a shudder. Once, then again.

“I’m sorry” and it sounds like a whimper. He feels like a petulant child. He feels used up. He feels warm and limp and his body is buzzing. Zayn sits up and wipes at his lips, smiling. He reaches out and runs a finger down Harry’s stomach.

“Do you always apologize when you finish?”

Harry’s breath is slowing but his heart is racing. He’s still coming down, and he feels confused. Why is Zayn asking him questions? Is this some sort of torture?

“No....I mean...yes? Sorry.”

Zayn laughs fondly and falls onto the bed next to Harry, one leg thrown over Harry’s own. “You’re welcome.” He moves a fall of hair off of Harry’s forehead, so tenderly that Harry feels like he’s breaking. His voice is quiet when he speaks.

“You can let go now.” He taps at Harry’s hands and Harry lets them fall apart limply.

“You taste good.”

Harry doesn’t open his eyes. He doesn’t know how to speak so he just goes “mmm?”

“It’s the bananas, isn’t it?”

Harry smiles and shrugs. He feels Zayn’s lips brush his own, lightly, feels his breath when he speaks.

“You look amazing too, you know. Like this...you look like...extra amazing.”

“Thank you. You’re so nice.”

“Ha.”

“You’re just the nicest person...you’re the best one.”

“Are you falling asleep?”

“Noooo. I’m fine it’s-“

“It’s alright. I just mean...do you want me to stay?”

“Stay. Don’t go anywhere. I’m not tired. I’m--you still need to do all the things to me. I need to do everything to you and-“

“We can do all that later.”

“Promise me you won’t go.”

“I promise.”

Harry can feel himself drifting off. It’s like a tidal pull. Like he’s sinking. He hums, satisfied, and falls asleep to the sound of Zayn breathing. 

“I promise I’m not going anywhere.”

11

It’s hot as hell on stage. It’s always hot, hence the non-stop hydration and the changing of shirts and the towels but jesus...LA is something else tonight. Niall is running around the stage with birthday balloons attached to his jeans. They’ve played I Want--which they haven’t done in years--because they know Niall loves it, and there’s something electric in the air but Harry is struggling somehow.

They’ve just come off a break but he doesn’t feel refreshed. He feels bone tired, worn down. His chest is all tight and achey, and he’s not sure if it’s all in his head or if he’s coming down with something.

Staying in one place was nice. Seeing his family. Trying to take it down a few notches and just exist, but then there was the worry. Harry has never been an anxious person but the past couple weeks have been a sincere test of his will.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

That was the last thing Zayn said to him. Like the last time he properly spoke to Harry, just Harry. Speaking on stage doesn’t count. Interactions that play out in the fishbowl of their working life. And they haven’t had any sort of opportunity to escape that fishbowl since they’ve been back.

They woke up to insistent knocking on Harry’s hotel room door the next day--the morning after--to the sound of a keycard fitting into the slot and the heavy clunk of the lock disengaging.

Harry’d shot up, clutching at the blankets, and looked over at Zayn frantically just in time to see the dark shape of him rolling lazily off the bed, to hear his body hitting the ground with a soft thud. Paul had charged into the room like an angry rhino, not-quite-yelled about how many times he’d called their phones and given Harry 5 minutes to be dressed and on the bus.

“If you’re not on your way out the door by the time I come back from Zayn’s room, I am carrying you out of here.”

Harry just frowned and went  “heeeeyyyy,” but Paul was already on his way out the door, grumbling something about grown men and his generous salary.

Harry crawled over to the edge of the bed, where Zayn was wriggling into his shirt and picking himself up off the floor.

“You’re missing.”

Zayn had flashed a sleepy grin, reached out with one hand and mussed Harry’s hair. Then he was running out the door, tugging at the waistband of his shorts.

“I promise I’m not going anywhere.”

Which is funny because he had, hadn’t he? He’d left that morning. Home to see his family. Harry feels terrible thinking of it because it’s not like he can begrudge Zayn a trip back home, and it’s not really leaving if they’re both going in opposite directions. But still, Harry felt a bit left with his literal and emotional pants down. Confused and uncertain and in a right proper state.

He’s watching Zayn, who’s attending to Niall across the stage, taking a few of his birthday balloons off of his hands. Helping. Zayn is always helping, bringing them ice packs for the heat, checking in. This is Niall’s night and Zayn’s been hovering around him like a proud doting mother. Harry studies the two of them, thinking about something Gemma said last week, chewing at his lip, then forces himself to snap out of it, getting his head back in the game. He turns to jog down the stage, clutching at his chest reflexively, and smiles brightly.

“Are there any dads here tonight?”

**

 “Do you think I’ll ever have this?”

Gemma had dropped a cracker full of cheese onto the plate in front of her to stare at him, aghast. “My god, Haz, you’re a pop star, not a mutant.”

He’d just shrugged, staring down at his hands.

“Harry. Come on. What’s gotten into you lately?”

They were sitting by the pool at the Azoffs, watching the youngest kids play tag on the lawn, eating snacks, just...being normal? Harry felt tired. Like exhausted. Like he wanted to sneak upstairs into one of the spare bedrooms and crawl into a strange bed and never leave.

He had a book open on his knees that he’d all but given up on reading. He’d tried to focus, tried to make some kind of progress, but his head wasn’t in it and the dour gritty realism of the text was not jiving with the sunny Californian opulence of the scene in front of him. His mind kept spiraling off, following his anxiety down one rabbit hole after another.

He looked down at his lap again and read the same line of dialogue for what felt like the hundredth time:

“Lady, how the hell do I know who you are or I am or anybody is?”

“I don’t know, it’s just...it gets difficult to see the end of the line sometimes. Like hard to imagine that things will ever settle.”

“Harry. You’re 20 years old.”

“I know. I just wonder if a normal life is ever going to be a possibility? Or...a normal connection. With a normal human.”

“I find myself to be pretty acceptably normal.”

Harry scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“You’re also family. You’re morally obligated to love me.”

“Is that what this is about?”

“What?”

“Love? Is this about girls?” She’d caught his face slipping then, “er...I mean people...romantic-type people...you know what I mean. Is that this?”

“I don’t know.”

“So yes then.”

“I just...I’ve never had the chance to actually like properly connect with someone...without it being informed by...all this.”

He waved his hand around limply in a way that was meant to indicate this entire absurd reality. Gemma frowned over at him, which made him laugh.

“You look just like mum.”

“Look...” She set her plate down on the lounger and leaned forward. “I want to say all these things like ‘oh you’re young, you’ve got time’ and ‘the right person will love you for you’ but I mean...that’s all useless right? Like I’m pretty rubbish at this.”

Harry snorted in agreement.

“I’m just...I guess I’d say...take it a day at a time? And honestly, your entire life...everything...it might be too crazy right now. You’d either have to find someone from before...someone who really knows you, like Liam and Soph have got, or you go the other way...just 0 to 80 right away. But...that’s not you, is it? I love you, but you’re not the easiest person to know.”

“Heeeey. I’m a great friend!”

“You’re a great friend, Harry, but I’m not sure you’d be a great boyfriend. That requires like...giving a part of yourself away. Trusting someone else with a piece of you. I’m not sure that’s something you can do right now. In real life, outside of this bizzaro world you occupy, that’s something you build slowly, with the right person. But as it is...it’s all non-disclosure agreements and having the talk after your first date. It’s not natural.”

“Thanks, Gem. This has been a really uplifting chat.”

“Come off it, I’m not your therapist.” She took a sip of her drink and set it gingerly down on the patio. “But...I see what you do, you know. This...with the families, getting people to adopt you. You’re like an exceptionally well-dressed tramp, squatting in other peoples’ lives. I understand why you do it, but just...remember that you’ve always got us.”

“I know that. I do.”

“And you’ve got the boys.”

Harry swallowed hard.

“They know you better than anyone. Maybe better than Mum and I, honestly. Like...to have four other boys experiencing this circus along with you? I don’t know. Just treasure that, ok? Let that carry you through. That might be the realest connection you’re going to find. Like more real that most ‘normal’ people experience in a lifetime. So ride it out. Appreciate what you’ve got for now and worry about the love thing later.”

He had nodded and choked down his anxiety. Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? He’s not sure what it all means. What happened with Zayn...did that count as “treasuring” it? Or was it more in the neighborhood of “tossing it in the garbage”? Harry had been driving himself mad over it all week. He’d nearly texted Zayn what felt like a hundred times during the break. But what would he say?

It used to be so benign, this casual checking in, but now everything seems so loaded. Like he’s typing in code. “Miss you bro” becomes “I miss your mouth”. “Things all good in Bradford?” becomes “come back to me”. “Can’t wait for next week, gonna be siiiick” becomes something dire and pathetic like “I’M GOING CRAZY WITHOUT YOU”, and he is. He is going crazy.

He needs to know what it all means. He feels like he’s suspended in midair, thrashing about, waiting to be lowered to the ground and unsure if there’ll be anyone there to catch him.

“It won’t always be this way, little brother. You’ll be old and washed up someday and then your life with really start.”

**

 “Y’alright, Haz?" 

Zayn’s hand is pressed to his lower back, soft and solid all at once, and he suddenly realizes how starved he’s been for this because he nearly loses his footing. He turns, tugging at his in-ear.

“Yeah.”

Zayn moves in close, pressing his lips against Harry’s ear. It feels like he’s everywhere, at Harry’s hip, his chest, at the curve of his neck. Zayn’s hand on his skin feels cool and smooth.

“You’re burnin up, babe. You sure you’re ok?”

“I mean...it’s possible I’m getting sick. Again.” It’s embarrassing, really. His mum says it’s to do with stress, with not taking care of himself emotionally. He’s trying to keep his face neutral, for the crowd. He smiles goofily and gesticulates a bit for effect.

Zayn looks him dead in the eye. He has the face of a concerned mother and Harry wants to laugh and cry all at once. He wants to fall forward into Zayn’s arms. Wants to be carried to bed and not even in a sexy way. Like a soup and hot tea and cuddling and watching Power Rangers sort of way, and he doesn’t even like the Power Rangers really.

He wants to push Zayn away and throw up his hands in a question and demand to know why Zayn is talking to him now. Now, when he can’t give a proper answer. Not that he knows what a proper answer is. But he stands there, inhaling Zayn’s smell and letting himself be held and wondering if he’s going to throw up.

“We’re leaving right after the show. You’re going straight home, yeah?”

“Yeah I’m fine. I’m good.”

“Your mum’s there?”

“Yeah.”

He tries to pull back a bit, but Zayn’s still holding onto him.

“I’m fine, really. I don’t need you to babysit me.” He regrets it as soon as he says it. It sounds weird and bitter and petulant. “I mean...I’ve got my mum...” he says it quickly, keeping his voice light. “You go take care of Niall. Get him good and drunk and then keep him out of trouble.”

Harry feels Zayn’s hand move over the hair at the nape of his neck, then a firm tug. Harry breathes in sharply and his head goes even hotter.

“Alright.”

Then he’s gone.

12

Just got in. Niall is an idiot god help me ;)

Hope yr feeling ok x

He’s sitting at the kitchen counter, holding a spoonful of porridge and chewing at his lip and staring at his phone.

“Harry. Breakfast or texting. One or the other. Clearly you’re rubbish at multi-tasking.” 

He waves his phone in Gemma’s general direction, grunting in a way that’s meant to convey shut-uppiness, except he’s gotten his hands confused again and ends up dribbling porridge onto the table. He hears Gemma scoff.

“You’re beyond help.” 

Harry just shrugs in a “what can you do” sort of way and doesn’t take his eyes off his phone. 

He contemplates Zayn’s last text. He feels like it contains a whole universe.

Hope yr feelin ok x

How does one respond to that?

Feeling alright, just a little warm. Mum’s on duty.

Which would address his being sick, yes, right, good. Alternately something like

Just feeling a little confused. Need to talk to you.

Which would address the complete fucking insanity of what happened last time they were alone together or maybe just something along the lines of

I need to touch you ASAP please.

Which would...what? Cut through the talking part? Assume that nothing needs to be explained? Sometimes he feels that way. Like anything he and Zayn have--any way that they feel toward each other--is so complex and so unique that there really isn’t a way to put it into words. None of this is normal. None of it is sane. He’s not friends with these boys. They aren’t his coworkers. They’re a part of him. They’re his arms and his legs and his conscience and his equilibrium. Without them, he’s not sure what he’s for.

He sets his phone down on the table and finishes his breakfast, giving himself time to process, then settles on a nice benign

Doing alright. Mum’s packing me full of porridge and pills. You good?

Zayn’s response is quick. Like within ten minutes, which in Zayn time is practically the speed of light.

We’re good. Just chillin around the hotel today, clubbing tonight or something. Dunno if I’m up for it though might stay in.

Harry carries his mug of tea to the living room and settles on the couch. His mum putters over, covers him with a blanket and presses a hand to his head. He waves her away, peering at his phone, mulling over an appropriate response. This used to be so much easier, this texting Zayn thing. Then again, have they ever texted this much?

His phone buzzes again.

Might call you tonight, that ok? You in?

Harry feels hotter suddenly. Like his fever is getting worse.

Yeah I’ll just be here, watchin telly and fighting my mum off

Wicked. Tell her to take care of you :B x

Harry drops his phone. His palms are sweaty and he feels properly feverish all of a sudden. He groans and throws the blanket over his face.

“FUCK.”

“HAROLD. Language.”

“Soooorry.”

13

They eat a late dinner, takeout from some fancy French place the Azoff’s are always talking about. His mother is thoroughly amused, and they spend the meal reminiscing about their favorite curry and chips places. They’ve nearly finished, and his mum is just coming back from the kitchen with some dessert pastries from the bakery back home when his phone buzzes. He turns it over on the table, expecting to see a new text and is momentarily thrown by the blinking “incoming call” screen. He scrambles to pick the phone up, pressing it to his chest.

“Who’s that?”

Gemma is leaning over, trying to get a look at the screen. Harry feels embarrassed and exhilarated and nauseous and like he’s on the brink of being found out and it’s all so fucking absurd because when he answers he just says

“it’s Zayn, probably calling to check on me,” which is completely and totally the truth.

Something about the simplicity of that fact puts everything he’s not saying in stark relief for a moment and he feels his face going red.

“I’m just gonna see how they’re doing and then lie down for a bit. Feeling hot.”

Gemma just shrugs. His mum smiles and nods.

“Say hello for us.”

He answers as he heads up to his room, taking the stairs two at a time, which makes him sound breathless.

“Zayn?”

“Hey. You alright?”

“Yeah. Just finished dinner.”

“Cool. Mum’s good?”

“Yeah. She and Gemma say hi. She’s loving this opportunity to baby me.”

“I bet.”

Harry slips into his room and shuts the door behind him. He hesitates for an instant, then reaches out again and locks it.

“Vegas is cool, yeah?”

“Yeah. Niall is raising hell. He just left to go clubbin with Lou and the gang. Gonna check on him later I think. Make sure he gets back alright.”

“You’re not going out?”

“Just didn’t really feel up to it tonight. Dunno.”

Harry hums an acknowledgement. He sits on the bed, swinging his feet up and leaning back against the headboard.

“They’ve got these like...crazy bath kits in here. Might take a bubble bath later or something. It’s sick.”

“Staying in to have a spa day? That sounds lovely. You’re a regular Las Vegas party animal.”

“They’ve got every channel. I’ve been watching Batman.”

“Nice.”

“Wish you were here.” Zayn’s voice is quiet and Harry feels caught off guard, like something is shifting and he’s got to keep up.

“Ha. Yeah. But I’m the baby now, aren’t I?...and a sick baby at that.”

“You could’ve stayed in with me.”

“...watched Batman...had a bubble bath...” It’s a joke, obviously. Like exactly the joke he’s supposed to make. But it doesn’t feel like a joke, which makes his face go even hotter than it was. 

“Yeah...could’ve ordered you up soup or something.”

“My mum would never let you usurp her like that.”

“Nah, I expect not.”

“She treasures the little things.” He hears Zayn scoff and grins.

“Are you alone now?”

The question feels abrupt, out of left field, but also neither of those things at all. Harry licks his lips. He sinks lower on the bed, so just his shoulders and head are propped up against the pillows.

“Yeah. Mum and Gemma are downstairs but like-“

“Where are you...are you like...in bed?”

“...yeah.”

“Me too.”

“Uh huh.”

“Listen...um...if you want to talk...about stuff. We can talk.”

“Ok.”

“Or you could just like...finish what you were saying. Before.”

Harry is confused. “Before?”

“I...” he stops, like he’s considering his words. “when I interrupted you. It was really rude. I’m sorry.”

For a moment, Harry can’t figure out what Zayn means. Then it dawns on him what Zayn could mean, what he must mean, and his face burns so hot he thinks he may actually die. He presses a hand to his forehead.

“Fuck. I’m burning up.”

“You’ve got to let the fever break, babe. You drinking water?”

“Yeah...yeah I’m good.”

“Good.”

“So like...what I was saying.”

“Yeah.”

“Before.”

“Before...um...like before...at the hotel.”

“I-“

“Wait. What are you wearing?”

Harry feels a nervous giggle escape his throat and suddenly it’s like all these pieces are falling into place because this is ZAYN. He’s on the phone with Zayn. He hears Zayn stifling a laugh, then he’s shushing them both.

“Shush shush. Ok. Um...I’m wearing...this isn’t really...I’m wearing awful trackies. And like...an old striped shirt? I think it was Louis’s. I’m like really sweaty. This isn’t very sexy.”

He tries not to think about that too hard, tries to let the moment pass unmarked, but he feels like he just broke through a barrier of sorts, or brought something into focus that was hovering just in their shared peripheral vision. The idea that this is meant to be a sexy conversation. That they are about to...to what? 

He hears Zayn groan, in a decidedly not sexy way. “Please don’t make me think about Louis right now. Take the shirt off.”

“Ok.” Harry lets the phone fall onto his lap, pulls the shirt over his head and drops it on the bed. He picks the phone up again. “It’s off.”

“Good.”

Harry’s nearly whispering. “What are you wearing?”

“Doesn’t matter. Stuff. Listen. If I was there, I’d touch your collarbones. I like them. So like...do that for me.”

Harry brings one hand up and taps at his chest. He feels awkward, and confused and sick and excited and turned on and he’s not sure if it’s the fever or just the whole strange situation that’s making him feel light-headed.

“Like...how? Touch them how?”

“Just...light. Like trace them or whatever.”

“Ok.”

“I’m really rubbish at this.” 

“You’re great at this.” The praise feels nearly automatic. It’s something they just do for each other. Positive feedback, unconditional support, another way of being that’s thrown into stark relief in this strange new context. But it feels good. Familiar.

Harry runs two fingers along the curve of his collarbones. His skin is hot and it feels incredibly sensitive as he closes his eyes, imagines the warmth of Zayn’s fingertips. He always seems to know exactly where he’s going with them, while Harry is just sort of meandering. He tries to replicate the feeling of Zayn’s hand. His gentle confidence. He can hear Zayn breathing softly on the other end of the line.

“I like it better when you do it.” His voice is quiet. It’s difficult to speak. To make the words come out. He’s still afraid he’ll say the wrong thing.

“Me too. Does it feel hot?...your skin I mean?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve gotta let the fever break. That’s how you get better.”

“Mmmhmmm.”

“I want you to feel your nipple. The one I got at when we...”

His voice trails off. Harry slides his fingers down, over his nipple. It’s already hard.

“Does it hurt?”

“Little sore.”

“Good. If I was there I’d put my mouth on it. I want to taste you again.”

Fuck. Harry feels his cock twitch in his sweats. He’s already half hard. He thinks of Zayn’s mouth, the wide expanse of his tongue, the wetness of it on his swollen nipple.

“I wish you were-“ his head is swimming and he feels so fucking overheated with fever. His skin pricks at the nape of his neck, behind his knees. He feels a bead of sweat roll down the inside of his arm. “...so fucking hot.”

“Yeah?” His voice is slow and deep and somnambulant. Like he’s half asleep. “You like thinking about that? About my tongue on your skin? About my mouth...the way it felt..." 

“Yeah,” That’s not what he meant but maybe also that’s what he meant. He moves his hips on the bed. He wants to touch himself so badly. He wants Zayn here. His hands in Zayn’s hair. Zayn pinning him to the bed. Zayn’s mouth all over him. “What next?”

“Are you hard?”

“Yes. Jesus.” His cock is tenting out the front of his trackies, unbearably hard now, but he doesn’t move his hand. He needs Zayn to tell him what to do. He needs permission. He reels at that for a moment. Feels anchorless. When the fuck did he start needing permission from Zayn to do anything?

“Can I...”

“Not yet. Just...wait.” Zayn’s voice sounds tight, a little strained, and Harry wonders if he’s dressed. Where his hands are.

“Are you-“

“Shhh. I’m talking. Just listen.”

Harry shuts his mouth. He arches his hips again, lets out a quiet frustrated groan.

“Patience, babe.”

“Uh huh.”

“I want to hear you come. I want to hear the sounds you make. I wish I could see your face. You’re so fucking pretty that way.”

“Fuck, Zayn, I-“

“Shhh. Do you remember the time in Dallas...with the girls?”

Jesus. Harry exhales sharply. The time in Dallas. God. It feels like a thousand years ago and he remembers it so fucking well. Zayn arranged this thing with a couple girls from the show. Cute girls. Snuck them into the hotel and up to his room. They’d meant to hang out there together at first, drink some awful chaff from the minibar and then go their separate ways if the mood struck them, but these girls were wild. It was like they were on a mission. They had a couple drinks and before Harry knew it he was sprawled out on the bed with a mouth on his dick. Zayn’s bed. In Zayn’s room.

“I remember...” he’s barely whispering now. He moves his fingers, circling his sore nipple, pinches lightly.

“It happened so quick like...I wasn’t sure if you’d be okay with it. Those bloody girls.”

“Yeah...”

“This bird was letting me fuck her mouth and it was alright...like not the best blow job ever or anything...but I looked over and I saw you. You were like—“

Zayn’s voice catches for a moment and Harry hears him breathe out shakily. That makes his cock jump again and he bites down hard on his lip, resisting the urge to reach down, to touch himself.

“You were all laid out on the bed...and you looked so fucking hot...all...flushed. And your prick. I could see your prick and it was...“

Zayn trails off again and Harry feels like he may pass out. His entire body is burning from the inside. There’s sweat pooling in his navel and he knows that if he touches himself...if Zayn lets him touch himself, he’ll be slick and wet and he’ll come in like two nanoseconds but he genuinely feels like he’ll burn too hot and it may kill him. This can’t be safe.

“I watched you.” He takes a chance. He’s not sure he’s meant to speak. “I looked over and I saw you looking at me.”

“And you liked it.”

“Yeah. I fucking...” he digs his fingers into his chest. “I loved it. It...it scared me.”

 “You came so fucking hard that night.” His voice sounds heavy, breathless. “You looked so fucking pretty. I wanted to see it again. I wanted to make you feel like that. I want you to touch yourself now. I want your cock in your hand and I want you to think about the way it felt when I put my mouth on you.”

Harry’s is fumbling in his pants before Zayn can finish telling him what to do. It’s such a fucking relief he whimpers a bit, pumping himself roughly up and down. He’s drenched in sweat and slick with precome and he’s so hard and so close it hurts. He’s so turned on the pleasure feels sharp, like bolts of electricity up his cock. He can feel sweat dripping down his brow and the heat is nearly unbearable.

“Fuck. I’m so...I’m fucking burning up. I’m so close.”

“Tell me what you meant to say the other night. Tell me what you wanted.”

“Oh god,” he chokes, “I want...I want your mouth all over me. I want to—god--I want to touch every part of you and taste your cock and I-“

“Yeah?”

He bucks his hips up into his hand and whines. “I want you to fuck me.”

“Jesus Harry-“

“I want you to hold me down and I want you to fuck me. I want your hand in my hair and your cock in my-“ 

Zayn lets out a choked gasp. “Fuck, Harry. I want to--I want you to come for me now. Oh god. I’m—“

Harry comes so hard he cries out and drops the phone, which is upsetting because now he can’t hear Zayn. He rides the wave of his orgasm, whimpering, his entire body wracked with spasms. He can’t think straight, his head is spinning and the one sharp edge in his consciousness is a sudden keen awareness that his sister and mum are just downstairs, cleaning up the dinner table. He chokes out a quiet “oh god...” and takes his hand out of his pants, wiping it on his thigh, grimacing.

He’s soaked in sweat and sticky with his own come and thinks he may have just died and been brought back to life but oddly he feels...better? Like his fever is a wave that’s crested and is receding. He fumbles for the phone. Presses it to his ear.

“-arry? Babe are you there?”

“I’m alive. I didn’t die.”

“Y’alright?”

Zayn sounds sleepy. Slow. The edge has left his voice.

“Yeah...I think...I think my fever broke or something.”

“Good.”

Harry’s eyes are heavy. The sweat drying on his chest makes the air in the room feel cool as he shifts his body, wriggling out of his trackies and pulling the covers up and over him.

“You’ve healed me. You’re like a genius. Like a doctor. Or like a wizard or something.”

“Mmmm. Don’t tell Niall that. He’ll get jealous.”

“I won’t.”

“You should get some more sleep.”

“Do you want...” Harry rolls over on his side, curling his legs up to his chest, pressing the phone to his ear. He’s whispering. “Do you want to talk about this?”

“Do you?”

“...I don’t know.”

“Me neither.”

“I meant what I said...”

“Hmmm?”

“I’m not going anywhere. Ok?”

“Ok...” He lies there for a moment, his head buzzing. “there’s one thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you like it?”

“You’re going to have to be more specific.” His voice is slow and thick. Harry thinks he might be falling asleep.

“I mean the uh...the driving.”

“Driving.”

“Do you like telling me what to do?” It sounds blunt, when he says it that way, and he winces a little. The question hangs in the air for a moment.

“Do you like it?” Zayn sounds awake suddenly, and so so young. His voice is quiet and unsure, and Harry wants to protect him, to make him feel ok.

“Yeah. I really really like it.”

“...me too.”

“I think...I want more of that. Is that...It’s not weird, right?”

“...I don’t know. I mean...you eat like a thousand bananas in a week.”

“What does that-”

“Just...that’s pretty weird.”

“You have two of the same hairbrush.”

“You wear girl’s jeans.”

“You’ve got a tattoo that says ‘chillin’.”

“Steady...”

“So...”

“So.”

“Yeah. I guess you’re right. What even is weird anyway? It’s just...I talked to Gemma last week, and she told me I should treasure you.”

“Ha. That’s good advice. Tell her I said so.”

“I mean she meant all of you, all four of you. I just...does this count? I don’t want to fuck things up. Any of it.”

“Yeah I’ve been...” his voice trails off, like he’s weighing his words, parsing out what he means to say.

Then finally, “I think I was worried for a while. Like I tried to keep away from you because I thought---“

“I didn’t want you to keep away.”

“But...you know how people talk about stuff. About how things get ‘complicated’ or whatever.”

“Yeah...”

“I thought maybe it was gonna get complicated...that day at the pool. So I backed off. Like I needed some time to think? But I think I’ve figured it out.”

“saw the mistakes of-”

“Ssshhhh. Shush. I dunno. It’s like...you know the first time we flew together...and Louis and Niall were taking the piss, like, telling me the plane was gonna loop de loop?”

Harry closes his eyes. He can picture the motion of Zayn’s hand as he speaks, mapping the path of the plane. Loop de loop...

“You were terrified. They were being mean.”

“I was. I was terrified. But I didn’t move. I didn’t budge. And the plane took off and it never went upside down. Everything was fine.”

“Yeah.”

“But it could’ve. That’s the thing. Like, I was ready for it. I was ready to sit through this bloody terrifying thing because I was with you lads. I trusted you. I knew it would be ok.”

“That’s really...” He doesn’t know what to say. It’s really...nothing. It’s just true.

“This’ll be ok.”

“Ok.”

“Even if it’s not ok. Even if the plane goes upside down. Alright? It’ll be ok. Because you and I...and all of us, we’re more than this, right?”

“Yeah. Alright.”

“Love you, Haz.”

“Love you too.”

“I’ll see you in Arizona, ok?”

“Yeah.”

“What I mean is, I’m going to fuck you in Arizona.”

“Oh my god-”

“Bye, babe.”

He hangs up.

14

It takes him time to find the right song. He spends the morning wrapped in a blanket on the couch, his headphones on and his phone clutched in one hand. This is what he does. He feels a feeling and it takes everything over and he’s not sure how to process so he tries to find it outside of himself, to externalize the gist of what he’s going through, to find a reflection of himself in the world.

It makes him feel acknowledged, to know that someone’s already put what he’s experiencing into words. He wants to be that for someone someday. He wants to know that something he’s written could make a person feel seen like that, to feel known, but he’s not sure he’s worthy. He finds glimpses of it sometimes, in stuff he wrote ages ago. Little bits that seemed like throwaways when he put them on paper but become weirdly transcendent with time. That’s it, he’ll think, there it is. Why can’t I write like that anymore?

It happens in the car with Gemma of all places, when he’s finally feeling well enough to leave the house. They’re driving down the PCH and he’s playing a mix and the song comes on the stereo and he recognizes it. This is the one. This song. He listens to it twice more before Gemma rips the phone out of his hand and tells him he’s lost his privileges.

They get where they’re going and he takes his phone back, sits for a moment in the driver’s seat and fires off a quick tweet. Pings the universe. Lets his feeling out into the wild.

You can drive, all night.