Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

ZAYN 

Simon steps on the pedal, screeches away from the bar, and Zayn tightens his grip on his own thigh, hesitant to look nervous when Simon’s in a mood like this. 

"Where have they all gone, hmm?" Simon says, voice low, irritated. "The fresh blood? The needy little cunts who’ll do anything for ten pounds but also have a fucking iota of something attractive than I can bloody polish up?” 

Zayn’s pretty sure that’s rhetorical. He looks out the window, as London zooms by. 

"And it’s not like I’m not willing to lower my standards, I mean, sweetheart, I admit, you were a mutt when I first saw you," Simon says, mean, laughing. "A mutt. Thought I’d have to check you for fleas. But look at you now.” 

Zayn coughs into his elbow, smiles sideways at Simon. It’s not like he’s expected to talk, really, unless he’s asked a direct question. Simon doesn’t mind him quiet. It’s only the fourth time Zayn’s gone out looking for recruits with Simon, and it’s always pretty much the same. Simon goes to bars and has a drink at each one and talks to pretty boys and pretty girls with hungry eyes and either takes them home or leaves them in the cold with a fiver for their time. By the end of the night he’s drunk and coldly furious, unless it was successful, in which case he’s drunk and happy, and he lets Zayn drive him back to his flat after he does a bump of coke in the toilet of wherever they are. 

Zayn remembers when Simon seemed completely infallible to him. Right about the time he pulled Zayn out of a bar in East London, five years ago. Told him he had nice eyes, and took Zayn into a car that cost more than Zayn’s family’s house back in Bradford. 

Now Zayn feels a mix of fear and awe and pity towards him, and for some reason it’s comfortable, it feels familiar. Simon’s just a man, and Zayn knows men. 

"You were quite a project," Simon murmurs, going too fast around a corner. "That horrendous accent. Like your tongue was glued to the roof of your mouth." 

He laughs to himself and then says, “Where’s that corner where we picked up Jade?” 

"It was near a Starbucks, I think," Zayn says. "But I can’t remember which one." 

"Some seedy alleyway," Simon says pensively. "By a Tesco, maybe. Let’s try there, and then turn in. You’ve got a job tomorrow, haven’t you?"

"Yeah," Zayn breathes, rubbing his hands over his thighs. He does have a job. A man in his thirties who likes Zayn very clean-shaven, very soft, dolled up in knickers and mascara. It’s not a bad time, really, except the man’s breath always smells like stale coffee and his hands are clammy and Zayn doesn’t like sucking his dick. Still. It’s not the worst thing he’s done.  

He might end up with a job tonight, if they don’t find anyone and Simon decides he wants Zayn’s mouth. Not exactly a job, since he doesn’t get paid, but it’s a job in that it - facilitates his other jobs. Simon likes to dip into his own supply if the mood strikes, and what’s Zayn going to say, no? He can’t say no.

Zayn sighs out a quiet breath, peers anxiously at the window, feeling a flicker of irritation. He doesn’t really want to get on his knees in the car, tonight. He wants to smoke a joint and go to bed alone. 

"Wait," Simon says, slowing down at the start of a narrow alleyway, peering in. There’s a light shining down the alley from the street at the other end, and Zayn squints, sees someone standing there. 

"I can’t see," Zayn says. "Go closer." 

Simon hooks a right turn, and slows to a crawl. Midway down the alley, the headlights catch on the person’s face, and Zayn raises a curious eyebrow. A boy. A pretty boy, big eyes, big lips, long girly hair, tight tight jeans. Underdressed for the weather, a bag over one shoulder, peering hopefully down the alley at the car. He’s a whore, that’s for sure.

"Seems alright," Zayn says to Simon, who stops the car and opens the door. He leaves the key in the ignition, and Zayn stays back, rolls down the window so he can hear. 

The boy’s walking away, slowly, and Simon calls, “Wait!” 

The boy stops. From this distance Zayn can see his face more clearly. He really is gorgeous. His brown hair’s greasy and he’s got some spots on his forehead and chin, but then, Zayn was a complete mess once, wasn’t he. Or whatever Simon likes to say. 

There’s something about this kid. His eyes, maybe. Even from a distance, they’re massive, green and shiny and arresting. 

Zayn can’t hear what Simon’s saying, but then Simon straightens up and comes back towards the car. 

He leans into Zayn’s window. 

"What do you think?" 

"He’s a hooker?" 

Simon nods, lets out a laugh. “Asked me if I wanted to see what he could do with his mouth. He looks desperate.” 

Zayn purses his lips. Desperate’s good. 

"Here, come out and play," Simon says, arching an eyebrow. "See if you think he’s up to snuff." 

Zayn looks down the alleyway again. The boy’s huddled against the wind, an arm crossed over his chest. 

"Fine," he says, and slides out of the car, tugs his leather jacket around his shoulders. 

The boy’s taller than Zayn thought, an inch or two taller than Zayn, and his eyes are curious and steady on Zayn’s. He looks faintly nervous. 

"Well, Mr. Malik," Simon says, putting his hand against Zayn’s back, warm through his jacket. He rubs a little, back and forth. Zayn tries not to twitch away. "What do you think?" 

Zayn exhales slowly, looks at the boy top to toe. That hair’s a problem, and his posture is awful. His arms are a bit too long, and he’s got some softness on his lower belly that’ll need to go. 

He’s busy studying the boy’s eyebrows when the boy opens his mouth and says, “Threesomes cost extra.” 

He’s got a backbone. Zayn breathes out a laugh. 

"Pretty," he says, noncommittally. "Bit greasy, though." 

Simon hums. “Greasy can be cleaned.” 

Zayn nods, watching the way the boy’s back hunches at the words. Maybe not much of a backbone. 

"What’s your name?" he asks. 

The boy doesn’t make eye contact, doesn’t open his mouth. There’s a hardness to his eyes that Zayn recognizes, responds to. He gets the sudden feeling that the boy could bolt at any second, like a fearful animal. Zayn has to bite down a strange laugh at the thought. 

"Does it matter?" Simon says, sounding amused. 

"I want to know," Zayn says quietly, swallowing. He keeps his eyes steady. "Hair needs a cut, doesn’t it." 

Simon laughs. “Yours did too. We cleaned you up, didn’t we?” 

Mutt, Zayn thinks, and he steps behind the boy, looks at his backside. A nice arse. Small but full. People will like it. 

He steps back, conscious of the way Simon’s tensing up next to him, impatient. He has this feeling that he needs to make Simon think this is all his own idea. That he can’t want it too much. Simon could still leave him behind, if the boy’s too thick, or too mouthy, or won’t agree to the terms. 

Zayn just wants to go home. He wants to go home and smoke and sleep.

"Yeah," he says. "He’s cute."

HARRY

It all starts because Harry changes his regular route, avoids the Tesco Metro he usually stands behind and ends up in an alley next to a Nando’s and a boarded-up electronics store with ancient-looking flip phones in the window. 

He’s not sure about the new location - seems deserted when he gets there, a little after nine, straightening his threadbare grey t-shirt and shifting his bag from shoulder to shoulder as the weight grows more taxing. But by nine-thirty he’s climbing into the front seat of a car, and by five past ten he’s back on the corner with forty pounds in his back pocket and a free half-finished cup of Coke from McDonald’s into the bargain. 

"Mind throwing it away?" the man had said, pulling it out of the cupholder as he dropped Harry back off, and Harry had shrug-nodded, wiping the bitter taste off the corners of his mouth, and then taken a cautious sip once the man pulled away. It was flat but sweet, and the sugar went straight to his head and his empty stomach. When Harry goes home for the night, he’s getting Nando’s. And lots of it. Enough to last him for a few days, in case business slows down. And if his arsehole flatmate eats a single bite of it, Harry will stab him with a fork.

He’s leaning against the wall, scuffing his shoes against the pavement and trying to look inconspicuous and yet conspicuous to the right people, when a car turns down the opposite end of the alley. 

Harry looks up, hopefully, with that little curl of fear in his belly he still gets, every time he does this. 

The car slows, and then stops, fifty yards or so from Harry, the engine still running. The driver’s side door opens, which is unusual. 

Harry edges towards the street, the bright light of the Nando’s. They can try and kill him, but they’re less likely to if he’s not in the dark. 

"Wait," a voice calls, just as Harry’s thinking about turning the corner. 

He looks back. It’s a man - white, mid-forties, long black jacket. He looks impatient. 

"Yeah?" Harry says back, tugging his bag up onto his shoulders. 

"C’mere," the man says. "You’re not usually here, are you? Not usually on this street?" 

Harry gulps in a nervous breath. He’s thought about that, too, about being on someone else’s turf, by accident, about getting beaten up or knifed or worse. It always seemed clear around here. Harry thought it was alright. 

"I can leave, if you want," he says hastily, as the man walks toward him. Now that Harry’s looking at him more closely, he can see the man is rich. Shiny leather shoes, well-cut trousers, and the car idling behind him is an Audi, a new-looking one. 

Harry perks up, a bit. 

"No need," the man says, eyes scanning Harry’s face. "I was looking for someone like you. Am I correct in assuming that you’re loitering in a London alleyway to - do business, so to speak?" 

Talks fancy, too. Like the characters in the Jane Austen books Gemma was always reading. 

"Any kind of business you like," Harry says, trying to sound charming, but he regrets it straight after. What if the man thinks he’s got drugs or summat? Harry doesn’t have any drugs. 

The man nods, coolly. "Pretty mouth," he says, looking at it. His gaze is heavy but not hot, not hungry. More like he’s assessing a work of art, not looking for a blowjob. Harry licks his lips nervously, tries to play it off like he did it on purpose. 

"Fancy seeing what I can do with it?"

The faint smile slides right off the man’s face, and he looks annoyed.

"Don’t be crass," he says. "That’s not - well. Maybe that is attractive, out here."

Harry’s cheeks are hot. What a prick. 

Still, he finds himself brightening up under the attention, hopeful. The man’s got such a nice car, is the thing, and nice shoes, and Harry’s bloody hungry. 

"Alright, then," the man says. "Stay there for a moment." 

Harry shifts from foot to foot, crosses an arm over his chest. It’s getting colder as the wind picks up, the evening slides into night. He bets a man like this has got a big fancy flat, maybe in Primrose Hill or Belgravia. Or a lavish hotel room, if he’s an out-of-towner. 

The man’s bending down to talk into the passenger seat of the car, and then he steps back and the door opens and someone comes out. Harry squints against the fading light. It’s another man - no, a boy, maybe, maybe in his mid-twenties. He’s slender, with caramel-colored skin and dark tight jeans and a leather jacket. He has the biggest eyes Harry’s seen on a bloke, and high cheekbones, and every inch of him looks polished and pretty and buffed to a sheen. 

Harry’s quite fond of his own face, but looking at this bloke, Harry can feel every imperfection he’s got. The spot throbbing on his chin, the sunburnt freckles on his nose, his greasy hair. He’s not perfect at all. Not like this boy. 

He keeps the arm crossed over his chest. 

"Well, Mr. Malik," the first man says, putting a hand on the small of the boy’s back. "What do you think?" 

The boy looks at Harry, up and down, pursing his lips. 

"Threesomes cost extra," Harry says, into the silence, only half-joking, and the boy huffs out a soft laugh and ignores him. 

"He’s pretty," he says to the first man. "Bit greasy, though." 

"Greasy can be cleaned," the first man says, and Harry hunches over further, chewing his bottom lip. He should run from these people, probably. They might be rich but they also might be serial killers. God, Harry’s got the worst instincts for people, which is why he got roughed up last month and didn’t get paid for the blowjob he gave to the man who did it. 

The boy nods, slowly. 

"What’s your name?" he says suddenly. 

Harry looks across the street and doesn’t answer. He’s starting to properly feel the cold now, in his legs and down the back of his neck. 

"Does it matter?" the man says. "At this point?"

"I want to know." The boy keeps looking at him. "Hair needs a cut, doesn’t it." 

"Yours did too," the first man says, looking amused. "We cleaned you up, didn’t we?" 

The boy ignores him, steps behind Harry and looks at his arse. Harry swallows unsteadily. 

"Yeah," the boy says, stepping back. "He’s cute." 

"Where are you from?" the man asks Harry, watching him. 

Harry wants to say none of your bloody fucking business, but if he does that they might go away, and rent’s due in two days. 

"Pay for it?" he says, cheekily, grinning at them both. 

The boy keeps watching him like he’s an experiment, and with a huff, the first man digs in his pocket, comes out with a black leather wallet. 

He hands Harry a five-pound note, and Harry shoves it in his pocket, thrilling with the victory. This could work out, maybe, if they keep going with it. Five pounds for his hometown, imagine what they’ll pay for a blowjob. 

"Holmes Chapel," he says. 

"Northern lad," the boy says. "That’s good. Northern lads are sweet. Good talkers, too." 

"And how old are you?" the man says. 

Harry holds out his palm. 

"Good god," the man mutters, putting another note into his hand. 

"Eighteen," Harry says, pushing the money into his pocket. "I’m eighteen." 

"You lying?" the younger bloke says, raising one perfectly-plucked eyebrow. 

Harry shakes his head. 

"Got an ID on you?" the boy says next. 

Harry shakes his head. That’s a lie; he does have an ID. But he’s got a feeling that would be stupid. That’d be showing his hand.

"How much education have you completed?" the older man asks. He’s got the tone of someone who’s taking notes, but he isn’t - he’s just watching. 

"Through sixth-form." 

"Done your A-levels?" the boy asks. 

Harry nods. 

"Passed them all?" 

He nods again. 

"That’s good," the boy says. "What’s your favorite book?" 

The man snorts, looks at the boy sideways. “Favorite book, Malik?” 

"People like if you can carry on a decent conversation," the boy says quietly. "It’s not like out here, where they can’t be bothered as long as you know how to suck a dick." 

“Tales of Ordinary Madness,” Harry blurts out, dropping his arm from where it’s crossed over his chest. “It’s by-“ 

"Bukowski," the boy says, with a flicker in his eyes. "Interesting." 

Harry swallows. “I’ve been reading The Essential Rumi. Too. Also. I mean.” 

The boy tilts his head, watching him. “And do you like it?” 

Harry nods, too many times. He does. He does like it. It makes his chest hurt, sometimes, but he likes it a lot. 

"Rumi and Bukowski," the boy says. "They’re very different."

"Not that different, though," Harry says, shakily. 

"Oh?" 

"I mean. Both, uh, both are about, uh, trying to get to the truth. The real things in life.  Not the things that aren’t important. You know, like, the immaterial…" 

He trails off, feeling stupid, and the boy’s mouth curves up at the corner.

"Interesting analysis," he says, and it doesn’t sound mean. He turns to the man. "He’s good." 

"There is something quite fascinating about him," the man murmurs. "How long have you been doing what you do?" 

Harry’s got a feeling it won’t go over well if he keeps asking for money with every question. 

"Four months," he says. 

"Must be tired of it, huh," the man says, sounding kind for the first time.  

Harry watches him suspiciously. 

"It’s alright," he says. 

The boy huffs a laugh, his eyes cool when they meet Harry’s, and Harry feels an unexpected wash of embarrassment. 

"Can I buy you dinner?" the man asks, and something that’s not exactly just hunger makes Harry nod, quickly. 

The man doesn’t look at the other boy when he says, “Zayn, bring the car around, we’ll be in the - chicken place, whatever it’s called.” 

Harry watches as the boy turns around without a word, pulling a set of keys out of his pocket. 

"What’s he, like, your assistant or summat?" Harry says. "Who are you, anyway? Why d’you want me?" 

"So many questions," the man says, putting a hand on his back to escort him over the curb, and for some reason the touch makes Harry feel comfortable. "Let’s sit down, before we get into it, how ‘bout." 

They sit down over a plate of chicken thighs and chips, Harry trying his hardest not to shovel it into his mouth. He’s starved, alright. It’s been a tight few weeks. 

He’s a bit embarrassed when he comes up for air and the man is watching him, sipping a cup of tea, looking faintly amused. 

"Sorry," Harry says, wiping his wrist over his mouth, fingers sticky with peri-peri sauce. "I, uh. It’s really good. Thanks." 

"Of course," the man murmurs, as the shop door creaks open and Harry sees the boy - Zayn - coming in, tucking the car keys into his jacket pocket and looking around in visible distaste. 

He sits in the chair next to the man, and Harry straightens up, watching him. God, he’s pretty. Harry’s not sure what these people want, but at least he’s gotten a free meal and a glimpse at Zayn’s cheekbones. All in all, a good night. 

"Ready to tell me your name yet?" the man says. 

"What’s yours?" Harry asks, eating a chip in two bites. 

"Can you answer his bloody question?" Zayn snaps, and the man looks at him sharply. 

Zayn shuts up. Harry watches his throat work in a swallow, his eyes drop submissively. 

"My name is Simon." The man - Simon, Harry supposes - takes another slow sip of tea. "And I have a business opportunity for you, if you’re willing to listen." 

Harry looks from Simon to Zayn, then back to Simon. 

"Yeah," he says, shrugging. "Alright." 

———

The next day, Harry meets Zayn at his flat in London to begin. He’s not entirely sure what he’s beginning, despite Simon’s explanations the night before, but he’s game. He’ll probably get another free meal out of it, and Zayn doesn’t seem like he could kill Harry in cold blood. He’s got skinny little arms. 

Zayn lives in a building full of loft flats in a fairly nice part of London. His building’s got an elevator. Harry knows that’s not really a big deal, but he’s currently on the sixth story of a shitty walk-up in East London with moldy stairwells that set off his asthma something awful. 

Zayn’s place has high ceilings and shiny wooden floors and two rooms - just for Zayn, two whole rooms. Harry feels a rush of something when he steps inside, wild and desperate. He wants this. He wants it so much. 

"Would you like some tea?" Zayn asks, shutting the door behind Harry, and Harry nods, dumbstruck, pushing his bag up his shoulder. 

"You keep that bag with you," Zayn says, as Harry trails behind him into the small but spotless kitchen. "You’re not homeless, are you?" 

"No," Harry says, pulling a face at his back. Never mind that he’s fast approaching it if he doesn’t make rent this month. "I just - I keep some stuff with me. My flatmate’s a klepto." 

Zayn hums, uninterested, and says, “Earl Grey alright?” 

"Yeah." Harry peers around the room. There’s a small kitchen table, two chairs. Shiny tile floor, a countertop with a few things scattered over it - half a loaf of bread, a box of tea, a jar of what looks like marmalade. He’s still taking it all in when Zayn slides a cup of tea across the counter to him, says, "Sugar’s on the table." 

Harry nods, picking up the cup. 

"Your flat is really wicked," he says. "It’s so posh." 

Zayn looks at him, eyes cool. 

"Thank you," he says. "And if we’re starting this now, here’s your first lesson. Always say thank you when someone gives something to you, and don’t act too impressed by money." 

Harry’s halfway through a sip of his tea, and he chokes a little, mumbles, “Yeah, I- sorry. Thanks for the tea. Uh. Sorry.” 

Zayn sips his own tea. 

"What’s your background like?" he says, sliding into a seat at the table. Harry sits at the other. "Money, parents. Family. Etc." 

Harry chews his lip, takes a gulp of his tea to stall. 

"It could be me asking these questions, or it could be Simon," Zayn says, voice flat. "It’s important he knows everything about you before you start working for him."  

"At least Simon likes me," Harry mutters. 

He flushes, and looks up after a second. Zayn’s watching him. 

"What makes you think I don’t like you?" he says, sipping his tea. 

Harry stares into his tea. 

"Born in Holmes Chapel," he says, instead of answering Zayn’s question. "Got a mum and an older sister. Parents got divorced when I was seven. I still see my dad sometimes. My mum’s been married, uh. Three times now. My sister’s in uni in Manchester." 

Zayn nods. “Did you have money, growing up?” 

What a question. Harry thinks - not for the first time- that maybe he shouldn’t have agreed to try this. 

But Zayn’s alright, even if he seems cold. And Harry was so, so sick of standing on a street corner and selling his arse. He was so sick of it. 

"Uh, enough," Harry says. "Got tight for a while when I was younger. But. I dunno. I was never too hard-up." 

"Why’d you come to London?" 

"Was in a band," Harry mumbles. "We split up after a few months, they all moved back home. I stayed." 

Zayn nods, slowly. “Said you’ve been working for four months on the street, yeah?” 

Harry nods. 

"And do you like doing that?" 

Harry chews his lip again. 

"Does anyone really like it?" he says, and Zayn’s mouth curves up just the slightest bit, even as his eyes stay neutral. 

"Fair point," he murmurs. "I guess I mean, how did you fancy having sex in exchange for money? Were you alright with it? Does it make you feel sick?" 

Harry thinks about the question. It wasn’t the worst part of his life in London - the worst was trying to make rent, and his arsehole flatmate, and standing around on the corner, and people who were mean. The actual sex wasn’t that bad. Harry’s always enjoyed a bit of sex, and sometimes, on good nights, the money felt like a bonus. 

That started getting more rare near the end, as the nights got colder and the people got, well. Worse.

"It was alright," he says. "Didn’t make me sick. People said I’m good at it, so." 

Zayn nods again, sips his tea. 

"Did you ever do it?" Harry asks boldly, watching his face. Zayn’s fingers clench around the handle of the mug, but he puts it down slowly. "Sell your arse on the street?" 

"What I did or didn’t do isn’t important," Zayn says levelly. 

"Simon said you needed a haircut, too," Harry says, not letting it go. "When they found you." 

"It’s not important," Zayn says, a bit louder. "What you should care about is making yourself bloody presentable so you’re not back out there next week freezing your nuts off." 

He lets out a long breath, and then sips his tea. 

"This can be a good thing for you," he says. "Being one of Simon’s employees. He’s a good boss, he takes care of us, and the pay is good. But if you don’t learn quick, it’s not going to happen." 

"You learned quick," Harry says, tilting his head. "Right? That’s why you’ve got this fancy flat and all those nice clothes?" 

Zayn looks at him for a split second, then away. “It isn’t just having sex,” he says, ignoring Harry. “That’s the difference, between this and what you did before. It’s not just putting your mouth on someone’s dick for five quid.” 

"Scuse me, I never sucked dick for a fiver," Harry says, reaching across the table and grabbing a biscuit from the dish next to the sugar bowl. Zayn hasn’t touched them so Harry didn’t either, but sod it all. If he’s gonna get a lecture, he’s gonna eat. 

He shoves half of it in his mouth in one go. “I do have some standards. Ten pounds or bust, at least.”  

He can feel the eyeroll Zayn suppresses. 

"It’s about an experience," he continues. "It’s about a level of quality in manner, intellect, and the physical-" 

"Mate, I know what a high-class hooker is," Harry says, chewing obnoxiously loud. Something about Zayn makes him want to act like a little shit. Gemma always said he was too contrary for his own good, but too passive to really tell someone how he feels. "Don’t go pretending it’s rocket science. Have a chat, have a laugh, act sweet, get him off." 

"Oh, you know, do you?" Zayn says, arching an eyebrow. "You ever worked in kink before?" 

"What, like getting tied up?" Harry says, reaching for another biscuit. "Not for money. My girlfriend in sixth-form tied my wrists together once. It was hot." 

"Not just getting tied up." Zayn looks irritated. "Listen, when you work the street, you and the john both know that he isn’t paying nearly bloody enough for you to pretend to enjoy it. Sure, you might moan a little bit around his dick for a tip, pretend it’s getting you hard, but at the end of the day he’s paying you for your mouth and just your mouth. Or your hand, or your arse. Whatever.” 

Harry licks crumbs off his fingers, doesn’t say anything. Zayn’s definitely been a rentboy. Which is a bit funny in its own way. He’s so pretty, like a show dog. It’s hard to imagine him crawling into the front seat of a van and going down on someone. 

"But this is different," Zayn says, leaning forward. "They’re paying for an experience. For genuine attraction. They’ll want you to get off on it just as much as they do, they’ll want you to be into it. They’ll want you to offer yourself up before they ask, like you’re their boyfriend and you’ve never wanted anything more in your life." 

Harry crunches a bite of biscuit. “Sounds a bit pathetic.” 

A muscle in Zayn’s jaw tightens. “They can smell pity,” he says. “Trust me, I know. And they won’t want to come back to you.” 

Harry shrugs. “I’m a pretty good actor.” 

"Let’s say you’re getting fucked," Zayn says, leaning back in his seat, watching Harry over the rim of his mug. "By some old bloke who’s taken pills to keep his dick hard. Let’s say he puts a hand around your throat and says who’s my pretty little girl? Who’s a pretty little girl for Daddy? What’re you gonna do, you gonna make a face, or are you going to play along?” 

Harry considers it, licking his fingers, and then says, in a low purr of a voice - “I am, daddy. I’m your little girl.” 

He tosses his head back, sighs in faux pleasure, groans out daddy - and then sits back in his seat and pops the last piece of biscuit in his mouth. Grins.

Zayn watches him, a small twitch at the corner of his mouth the only indication of his approval. 

"You think you’re incredibly bloody clever, don’t you?" he says. 

"No," Harry says honestly. "I just think I’m not as dumb as you think I am." 

Zayn looks away, rubbing a palm over his smooth-shaven jaw. His eyelashes are incredible, dark and thick and curled. Harry stares at them for a moment, then swallows. 

"I don’t think you’re dumb," Zayn says, haltingly, like it’s difficult for him to admit. "I just. I’d just like you to be prepared, because I wasn’t." 

Harry scoots forward in his chair, interested. “You mean after Simon plucked you up off a street corner?” he says, solemnly, steepling his fingers under his chin. “Tell me all about the street corner.”

Zayn lets out a hesitant little laugh, like he can’t tell if Harry’s making fun of him. “Finish - finish your bloody tea and let me show you a couple things you’ll need to know before you start working.” 

Harry gulps the rest of his tea down, and right then - the bitter last dregs of his tea making his tongue rasp and Zayn watching him from across the table - he decides to give it a go. 

It can’t be worse, right? 

ZAYN

Zayn looks up from his fag just as it lights. Ben’s holding the door open for a woman behind him and then stepping out, peering down the street like he’s waiting for someone. He sees Zayn, nods, mouth curling into that warm familiar sort of smile he used to get whenever they saw each other.

Fucking hell, Ben Winston. It’s been ages. It's been six months since Ben started seeing Harry - the freshest blood in the agency - and longer than that since he last asked for Zayn. Zayn looks back down at his cigarette. 

"Mr. Malik," Ben says warmly, touching the small of Zayn’s back through his thick camel-colored coat. "Fancy meeting you out here." 

Zayn just takes a drag, blows it out. He’s aware of the way he’s acting differently, even just one second in - standing up a bit straighter, licking his mouth so it’s shiny, so Ben looks at it and notices. He hates that he still does this, but. What’s that saying? You never forget your first? 

Ben was Zayn’s first real client. 

That’s all. Client.

"Mind if I bum one?" Ben says, with an apologetic smile, like he’s not got a net worth of seven hundred million. Think he’d be able to buy his own fags. 

Zayn shrugs, fumbles in the pocket of his jacket and takes out the pack of Gitanes that’s already almost half-empty. 

"You smoke the most pretentious fags," Ben says once he’s got one between his fingers, as he takes Zayn’s lighter out of his hand and flicks it, takes a deep drag. 

"I like them." 

"They’re just French. Don’t act like a connoisseur, Zayn, I could put Marlboro Reds in your pack and you’d smoke ‘em without even noticing the difference.” 

Zayn smiles tightly around his cigarette, gives Ben the finger, and Ben just laughs at him, eyes crinkly and fond. 

"Where’s Harry?" Zayn says, exhaling a cloud of smoke. 

"Ah, in the toilet," Ben says, waving a hand. "He’s a sweetheart, isn’t he?" 

"He’s a good kid," Zayn says after a minute. 

"Very charming. And a lovely arse." 

Zayn sucks on his cigarette, because the things he wants to say aren’t appropriate, or nice, or pleasant. 

"He’s been lovely company," Ben says softly. 

"Good," Zayn manages to say. "I’m glad." 

There’s a pause, as they both smoke. 

"How’ve you been?" Ben asks. "How’s business?" 

"Been fine." Zayn really wishes Harry would come outside now. 

"Anyone interesting? You know I love a bit of nasty gossip." 

"Confidentiality, so," Zayn says, flicking his lighter a couple times. 

"Never stopped you before, did it?" 

Zayn looks up at him, sharply. Ben’s gazing at him, looking amused, his mouth curled just a bit. 

"No one interesting," Zayn says. "But then there never really is." 

There’s something unspoken that hangs in the air after that. You were, is what Zayn means. You were interesting. 

"Just a bunch of old, rich perverts," Ben says, with his mouth still quirked with amusement. "Isn’t that right." 

"That’s right." 

"We had a good time, didn’t we," Ben says quietly. "You and me." 

God, he can’t just bloody - say shit like that. Zayn doesn’t look at him, just takes another long suck on his fag, steeling himself.

"You say that to everyone you’ve sacked?" Zayn says, and immediately regrets it. He sounds like a child. Like a petulant child. His stomach goes hot with embarrassment.

Ben just breathes out, audibly. 

"Sacked," he says, considering the word. "Is that what you think happened?" 

"I don’t want to talk about this-" 

“Sacked,” Ben says. “More like, I fell a bit in love with you and that wasn’t bloody allowed.” 

Zayn makes a sound like a laugh, but it doesn’t feel like one. “You weren’t in love with me.” 

"Yes, I was," Ben says, very low. "I left my wife for you, Zayn." 

Zayn scrubs a hand over his face. “You think it’s my bloody fault you got a divorce-“ 

"I explained to you why I-" 

"You paid me for sex," Zayn says, forcing a laugh. "That’s it, Ben." 

"Don’t fucking act like what we were was all bloody professional," Ben says, sounding angry for the first time. His voice is tight. "Don’t act like that. You think I don’t know what you sound like when you’re lying?" 

"You don’t know anything about me," Zayn lies, fag burning down in one hand. 

"You told me - stuff," Ben says. "That you never told anyone. You slept in my bed and you - you told me all those things. Unless you made all that up. Did you make all that up, Zayn? About your family? Those things you did when you were younger?" 

"Don’t," Zayn says, loudly, his ears buzzing with something like panic. "Shut your fucking mouth." 

"You always fucking pushed me,” Ben says, sounding angry but calm, his voice hushed. “I forgot that about you, how you push me.” 

Zayn didn’t forget about it. 

"And Harry’s sweet, he’s such a sweet kid," Ben says softly, stepping close to Zayn, all expensive black jacket and rich cologne. Zayn drops the fag, grinds his toe on it hard, feeling his skin prickle in anticipation. "Nothing like you, though." 

Zayn closes his eyes, and opens his mouth, because Ben is about to kiss him. 

Ben does, softly, his bottom lip catching roughly against Zayn’s and his hand coming up to stroke against Zayn’s cheek. 

His hand slips down, fingers tightening possessively against the side of Zayn’s neck, and then he steps back, and Zayn forces his eyes open. His mouth is tingling. 

Ben’s staring at him, dark-eyed. Zayn looks at his mouth helplessly. He wants that again. He forgot the way Ben kissed, the way it felt like being taken care of. 

"Don’t act like you felt nothing," Ben murmurs, and turns around just as the door opens, Harry piling out in a flurry of fluffy scarf and big grin and long legs, apologizing for taking so long, there was the worst queue, and this bloke had to go so bad I felt awful I left him cut in front of me- 

Zayn lights another cigarette, lets Harry bounce up to him and give him a sweet kiss on the cheek, whispering in Zayn’s ear, “See you tomorrow?” 

Ben stays behind him, checking his phone. 

"Yeah," Zayn says, brushing a piece of fluff off Harry’s flushed-pink cheek, straightening the lapels of the buttery-smooth leather jacket Ben bought Harry last month. "Have fun." 

Harry nods, and Ben looks up over his head, gives Zayn a nod and puts his hand on the small of Harry’s back to turn him away. 

And then they’re slipping into the back of a waiting black car. Gone. 

Zayn smokes the whole fag standing right there, digging his free hand into the thick, plush pocket of his jacket and shivering against the cold. 

He calls Simon after a few minutes, tells him he wants to work, and Simon gives him an address. The man at the address is old and posh and alone and he looks Zayn up and down with a critical eye, muttering something that sounds vaguely racist. Zayn’s cheeks go red but he stays, because he needs the money - he wants the money - and Ben’s with Harry right now, letting Harry bounce on his dick in Ben’s gorgeous Belgravia flat, and Zayn hates that he even gives a shit where Ben is. 

He hates it. He wishes, not for the first time, that he could just stop having feelings entirely. 

The man asks Zayn to undress and put on a pair of black lacy knickers and organize a bookshelf, all while he rubs himself through his trousers and looks at Zayn with his eyes dark. Something about it feels degrading, even though Zayn hasn’t even seen the man’s cock. Something about it makes him feel on the edge of tears the entire time, keeping his face turned away and perfectly blank. 

"Come here," the man says, after the books are sorted. He has a lot of books, dusty and hardcover and heavy - volumes of law, encyclopedias, Faulkner, Hemingway, books of poetry. 

Zayn turns, and the man pats the seat next to him. 

Zayn sits, keeping his back straight. His throat feels prickly. 

"I’d like you to go into the kitchen and make me a cup of tea," the man says. "Earl Grey. It’s in the cupboard. Two sugars." 

He runs a hand over Zayn’s naked thigh, lightly, like he’s dusting off a piece of furniture. 

Zayn nods, clearing his throat, and stands up.

The kitchen is quiet, refrigerator humming. There’s a photo on the fridge, stuck with a small black magnet - a girl in a graduation cap, dark hair, a wide happy smile. Zayn stares at it as the kettle boils. It’s an odd thing to be (mostly) naked in a kitchen, and Zayn’s been naked in a lot of odd places. It still feels - just. Strange. 

Zayn wonders whose knickers he’s wearing. 

The tea boils quick, and Zayn tries three different drawers to find a spoon, stirs in two sugar cubes from the bowl on the countertop. 

He brings it back out to the man, and the man says, “Thank you. That’ll be all.” 

Zayn stands there wrong-footed, surprised. “I - that’s. That’s it?” 

The man sips his tea, looks up at him. 

"That’s it," he says, his face impassive. "I believe the payment’s already been taken care of with your manager." 

Zayn nods. 

"You can leave the underwear in the bathroom," the man says, looking away from him. "Where you changed." 

"Thanks," Zayn says, and flushes, feeling stupid. "I mean. Uh. I hope that was alright." 

"It was fine." The man gives him a long look, dragging his eyes down Zayn’s torso. "Thank you." 

"Thanks," Zayn mumbles. 

His clothes are in a pile on the bathroom floor, and he strips out of the knickers, folds them awkwardly and places them on top of the closed toilet. When he’s dressed he looks at himself in the mirror. 

He doesn’t have photos from before Simon picked him up at a bar, that Saturday night five years ago in East London. When Zayn left home he didn’t bring any photos. At the time it didn’t seem necessary.

He looked different, though. He remembers how different he looked before Simon polished him up.

The man doesn’t move, as Zayn slips out of the front door the way he came. He pulls out of the long driveway slowly, and for some reason for a minute his eyes go hot and he has to suck in a couple deep breaths to stave off a sob. 

He checks his phone before he pulls out onto the street. There’s a text from Simon: Easy money, eh? Call when you’re done.

Zayn lifts the phone to his ear. 

"Hello?" Simon says. He sounds drunk. "Malik?" 

"Yeah," Zayn says. "I’m on my way out." 

"Fucking simple, innit?" Simon roars. Definitely drunk. "Pays out the arse for it, though. Hope you were sweet." 

"I’m always sweet," Zayn says distractedly, as he switches lanes, tucking the phone on his shoulder to grasp the wheel with both hands. 

Simon laughs for an unnecessarily long amount of time. “Feel like being sweet for a couple friends over at my place? Jess is here but she could always use the company. A grand for a few hours?” 

"I’m exhausted," Zayn says. "Cheers, though." 

"Next time. My friends are nice, Malik, they don’t bite. I'd like to see you here." 

Zayn laughs tiredly. “Do they tip well?” 

"Always." Simon breaks off to laugh at something someone’s yelling in the background. "Good night, then. You saw Harry off safely with Mr. Winston?" 

"Yeah," Zayn breathes. "They’re all good. Night, Simon." 

Simon hangs up. Zayn puts his phone down, and breathes out hard, and hits the gas pedal.

---

Next week he has a dinner with Harry that turns into a club night with a few girls from the agency, Jade and Aria and this new redhead Zayn had never met before. It's fun, actually, until Simon shows up and buys them drinks and takes Zayn into the toilet, coaxes him down onto his knees. 

That part's not that fun. But free drinks, and on the cab ride home Harry is happy and cuddly, slurring about how they totally have to do this more often, and Zayn can't begrudge him that. 

When they get in from the club, Harry falls asleep fast, dropping into Zayn’s bed, rolling over, snuffling like a toddler before Zayn even turns the lights out. It’s sweet, but then mostly everything Harry does is sweet. 

If Zayn were younger, he’d be jealous, probably. Harry’s got this face that people want to protect, that people gravitate towards. It’s cute. Zayn knows that he himself is quite fit - pretty eyelashes, men have told him, and beautiful cheekbones. Gorgeous, they say.

But not cute. 

Even when Zayn was younger, when he was a kid, and Yaser’s old uni friend came over to their house for dinner and looked at him a little longer than necessary- Zayn knew he wasn’t cute. 

Sexy, Alec used to call him, when Zayn was fourteen and wasn’t sexy at all and his body felt clumsy and strange while they touched each other, secretly, when Zayn’s parents were out of the house. You’re so sexy, god, I can’t keep my hands off you. 

Zayn sits up in bed the way he does when the memories start to feel too heavy, fumbles on the bedside table for his phone. 

There’s a text from Ben, and Zayn’s heart jumps in his chest before he realizes, with another jolt, that it’s not his phone he’s holding - it’s Harry’s. 

He stares at it for a second- Harry has a photo of his sister as his background, holding a fat ginger tabby cat and laughing- and then swipes it open, guiltily. He knows Harry’s passcode because he changed the song playing on Zayn’s iHome earlier while Harry was making their tea, Harry calling out from the kitchen- “Oh, it’s two-two-three-two, put on some Katy Perry please?” 

Zayn goes to Messages, clicks on the first one. 

Night love, I’ll send a car for you at 5:30 tomorrow. Wear that suit you got last weekend. xx 

Zayn stares at it, something curdling slowly in his stomach, and then scrolls up. Two days ago they were sexting while Ben was in a meeting, and Zayn scrolls past What would we do if i were there? and yea fuck im wet, and a picture of Harry’s dick, thick and hard in his hand. Zayn scrolls past it all, feeling numb, the images blurring in his mind. 

He used to do this too, send Ben dirty messages during work - but God, god, Zayn doesn’t need to go down this road, of the things he used to do with Ben. Zayn fucked him, Harry fucks him, they both make money, and that’s it. Nostalgia for a client is distasteful, and unnecessary. 

Zayn puts Harry’s phone back, turning the screen black with a click of his thumb, and finds his own in the darkness. No texts, just an email from Simon, about a potential client. Zayn swipes it open, opens the intake form, shuffles back to sit against the headboard and draws his bare knees up to his chest.

Sixty-three years old, lives in Totteridge, wants a weekly engagement, no kink, just sex, and a sleep over, and affection. 

Zayn stares at it, chewing his thumbnail. Above the intake form Simon’s typed - seems more Harry’s type but I thought I’d give you first crack. £1500/hour including PM. Email me back by noon tomorrow if you want it.

Zayn exits the email without responding, opens up a new text, enters Ben’s number. Ben’s not in his phone anymore - standard procedure when someone stops being a client- but Zayn knows it by heart. He doesn’t like to think of why.

His hand hovers over the keyboard. 

What the hell could he say, at this point? If Simon found out, he’d have Zayn’s head. It’s a strict no-no, fucking around with former clients, especially when they’re paying good money for someone else. 

It’s just, Ben kissed him. 

It felt so good Zayn hasn’t stopped thinking about it since. 

There was this one night, a few years ago. Before Harry came along. Ben asked Zayn to bring weed over, and they got high off Zayn’s tiny glass spoon pipe, sitting on the porch of Ben’s flat, looking out over the twinkling London lights and smoking. Zayn’s memory’s gone all blurry now, but he remembers Ben’s hand on his thigh, and then he remembers taking off his jeans and sitting on Ben’s dick, riding him outside with his arms around Ben’s neck and Ben whispering, kissing his ear, stroking his face. 

The next morning they were cotton-mouthed and fumbly and Zayn had slept over, even though he wasn’t strictly required, and Ben ran his hand over Zayn’s side and said softly Good morning, Mr. Malik, and right then Zayn felt like he was in love. He felt warmed, in the pit of his stomach. He sucked Ben off and Ben poured him a bowl of cereal afterwards (he couldn’t cook for shit, he could never cook for shit) and Zayn ate it at the kitchen counter with his feet tucked up on a stool, feeling sleepy and content and cared-for. Zayn didn’t tell Simon, afterwards, about how he’d stayed, about how he’d hooked up with Ben again without charging. He kept it just for himself.

God, he was stupid. 

Zayn closes out of the new message box, sets his phone down and slides back into bed next to Harry. Harry grunts softly in his throat like a sleepy puppy, rolls over and into Zayn’s side, slinging an arm around Zayn’s waist. It’s warm and it should be comforting, but Zayn shoves him off as carefully as he can, not wanting anyone’s hands on him right that second. 

He stares up at the ceiling, listens to Harry breathe, until finally his eyes close. 

HARRY

"Let me uppp, Zayner!" Harry calls into the intercom, and the buzzer goes. Good. Zayn’s awake then, which is rare for a morning, but it’s nearly noon anyway. Harry yanks the doorknob, clatters up two flights of stairs and nearly falls when Zayn opens the door just as Harry’s about to pound on it. 

"Whoa," Zayn laughs, catching his weight, staggering back. "Jesus, Harry, relax." 

"I’m relaxed," Harry says, wrapping his arms around Zayn’s waist. "Hi." 

"Hi." Zayn pats his head a few times, then unwinds Harry’s arms from his person. "You want a brew?" 

"Please." Harry fumbles his scarf off his neck, hooks it over Zayn’s coatrack. He loves Zayn’s flat, has since the first time he was allowed inside, a full year ago, now. 

Harry’s got his own nice place now, just down the street. His own high ceilings and wooden floors and elevator. But he still loves Zayn’s. 

He wanders into the kitchen, kicking off his Converse. It’s a day off, which means looser jeans, t-shirts, and sneakers. Zayn’s in sweatpants, which is a sight that Harry only became privy to about a year ago. He didn’t believe it the first time. Harry had always seen Zayn wearing dark trousers and skinny suit jackets and, if he wasn’t working, tight well-cut jeans and V-neck tees. 

It took him a while to figure out that Zayn was simpler than he first thought. Zayn likes his time off, he likes a night alone, he likes a good book and a rolled joint and a comfortable sofa. 

He also likes Harry, now, and Harry’s pretty bloody proud of that fact. 

Zayn’s pouring out the tea, yawning, his back to Harry. His feet are bare, t-shirt riding up to show the narrow line of his waist, an earring sparkling in one ear. Harry’s hit with a sudden wave of affection, and he wraps himself around Zayn from behind, hooks his chin over Zayn’s shoulder. 

"Whatcha doin?" he says, nuzzling against Zayn’s neck. 

Zayn snorts, grabbing the sugarbowl, back muscles shifting under Harry’s chest. “Making you tea, idiot.” 

"I mean today. What’ve you been doing." 

Zayn shrugs. “Not much.” 

"Me neither." Harry has to move away from Zayn to grab his tea, but after a sip or two he slides back in under Zayn’s arm, puts it around his shoulder. 

Zayn sighs, but Harry knows him by now, and that’s his I’m-only-pretending-to-be-annoyed sigh. Not his I’m-really-actually-irritated sigh. It’s a subtle difference. 

"Had this party last night," Harry says, gulping his tea, walking Zayn over to the sofa. Zayn’s cursing every time a drop of tea slops out of his mug, batting at Harry’s arm with one hand. "This bloke - did something in fashion. Don’t remember. He bought me all these drinks. Apple drinks and something that tasted like liquorice."  

"Anise liqueur," Zayn says. "Maybe." 

"Anise liqueur," Harry says, and snorts. "Ha. Anus licker." 

"That was awful," Zayn says, setting his tea down before he sits on the sofa. "You’re an actual child-" 

"You love me." 

Zayn just rolls his eyes. His face is scrubbed clean of any makeup, and there’s a dusting of freckles on the bridge of his nose. He’s still got the longest eyelashes, even without the bit of dark brown mascara Harry’s watched him put on before he works. 

"You’re pretty," Harry says dreamily, and Zayn rolls his eyes again, goes a bit pink around the cheeks.

"Don’t be an idiot, Harry," he mutters, and fumbles for the remote. "You working tonight?" 

Harry shakes his head. “Got the night off. Luuuucky Harry.” 

"What have I said about talking in third person?" 

Harry grins. “Not to?”

"Exactly," Zayn breathes, and turns the television on. 

"Why, are you working tonight?" Harry asks belatedly, after a few minutes of staring at a rerun of Corrie that he can’t really follow. 

"Yeah," Zayn says. "That bloke out in Moor Park." 

"The one with the mansion? Who took you to that party at Shoreditch?" 

"That’s the one." 

Harry nods, tugging a blanket over his lap and grabbing one of Zayn’s cosy printed pillows. “Could be fun.” 

"No party tonight, though," Zayn says, tucking one leg up to his chest on the sofa. "Just wants me at his place. Having a couple friends over, I’ve got to serve some drinks, be available." 

Harry pulls a face, rubbing his hand over Zayn’s knee in his soft sweatpants. He hates that most of the time -  a couple people, small parties, getting passed around. He prefers big events, lots of people, lots of excitement, and then a dirty shag in the toilet or the cab home. People’ll pay a lot for that, for the whole boyfriend experience. 

They pay a lot for smaller parties, though, too. Simon gets them to. He says it’s like four separate jobs at once, and they’ve got to pay accordingly if they want to partake. 

"I’ll make you tea if you can’t walk tomorrow," he says loyally, and Zayn laughs, rubs a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. 

"Let’s hope that’s not the case, but. Cheers." 

"When’re you getting back?" 

"Tomorrow morning. Probably around eleven. Said he’d call for a car." 

Harry hums, leaning his head against Zayn’s shoulder. “Posh.” 

Zayn nods slowly. 

"Yeah," he says, a minute later. "Sure it’ll be fine." 

"Yeah, m’sure," Harry mumbles against Zayn’s neck, drowsily, and Zayn puts an arm around him as Harry drifts into sleep. 

He wakes up to an empty sofa and late-afternoon sun shooting through the blinds. 

"Zayn?" he calls, lying on his back on the couch, not willing to get up. "You here?" 

"Yeah, babe!" Zayn calls back. "Getting dressed!" 

Harry’s phone vibrates on the coffee table, and he fumbles for it, covering a yawn with one hand. It’s an email from one of Harry’s clients, a woman - Elise is her name. A divorcee with three kids who likes to bring Harry round and get drunk and fuck on the sofa.  

Are you free tonight, Harry darling??? Around ten? 

Harry hums in his throat. 

"Zayn!" he yells at the top of his lungs, and Zayn says from about three feet away, "What? God, don’t scream at me." 

"Oops," Harry laughs, stretching his feet out over the armrest of Zayn’s sofa. "Think I should pick up a job tonight? That woman I told you about." 

"With the kids?" 

"Yeah." 

Zayn shrugs. “If you’re up for it.” 

Harry stares at his email, then opens a reply, types back, yes sounds good. see you then love xx. 

---

Harry’s phone starts buzzing on his nightstand, and he rolls over in bed, moans at the way his head starts throbbing, and grabs for it. 

"Morning," he mutters. 

"Sweetheart," a voice says. Low, London-accented, warm. Ben. Harry grins. "It’s two in the afternoon." 

"Mmgh," Harry sighs, arching his back in bed, popping his joints and groaning happily. "Is it? Good afternoon, then, Mr. Winston." 

"Christ, you’re shameless," Ben says, sounding amused. "Were you a bit drunk last night, darling?" 

"Maybe I’m just lazy," Harry murmurs, digging his head back into the soft feather-filled pillow, though the truth is he was quite drunk. He nearly vommed while his face was buried between Elise’s legs. God, he hopes she didn’t notice, since she was completely pissed herself. "Maybe I just like to stay in bed." 

"I’d like to see you in bed," Ben says back, predictably. "And I’d like to keep you in bed, but unfortunately I’m at work. I just wanted to remind you, I’m sending a car for you at 6:00 PM. Be prompt, please." 

"You’re at work?" Harry pouts, running his hand down his stomach into his briefs. He can’t even count how many conversations have started with Ben being at work and ended up with them jerking off over the phone. "Are you in your office?" 

"Don’t start, sweetheart," Ben laughs. "I’m about to go into a meeting and I need to think about tapping the U.S. market, not how bloody sexy you probably look right now." 

"I do look pretty sexy," Harry says with satisfaction, even though his face is probably all puffy from sleep and too much wine and his hair’s a mess. 

"I’m sure you do. Be ready tonight, alright, Harry love? And wear something-" 

"Tight?" Harry suggests, grinning.

"Mm. Something edible," Ben murmurs, voice rough. "Look as beautiful as you are." 

Harry knows what that means- jeans so tight they’re hard to zip, something that shows off his chest, something sheer and kind of slutty so he looks like a dumb, pretty, easy model. He knows what Ben likes to see, at parties with all his movie-making friends. 

"Will do," Harry says. "See you tonight." 

"Can’t wait," Ben says softly. "Have a good day, sweetheart." 

"You too." 

He rings off and sits up in bed, rubbing at his temples, sends a text to Zayn.

heyyy fancy getting breakfast ???? my head hurts :( x

Zayn doesn’t answer immediately, so Harry tosses his phone aside and stands up, stretches luxuriously. The afternoon sun is warm and golden through his blinds, and London is buzzing outside, and Harry feels very, very good. 

He takes a shower, touches his arsehole to check his wax job is holding up - he might need to make an appointment, but Ben’s never been bothered by a bit of hair. In fact he seems to like it, sometimes. Gets real hungry and fascinated by Harry’s arse, pulls him open, fingers him slow. 

Harry sighs, tugging at his dick a few times at the memory and then holding off. He wants to be keyed up for tonight, in case Ben wants to fuck him in the toilet at some point. Ben’s not that wild most of the time, but once he gets a few drinks in him he can’t keep his hands off Harry. 

Harry turns the shower off, runs a hand through his wet hair and shakes it out, wanders back into his room, dripping everywhere. There’s a text from Zayn on his phone, and he dries his hand off cursorily on his duvet before he picks it up. 

breakfast? babe it’s 2:30. i’m at the salon won’t be home til four, what about tomorrow? 

Harry pouts, sends back alrighttt fine how bout like 10am at pain et chocolat, and tosses his phone aside again, goes back into the toilet to rub product through his hair. It’s some organic yet chemical-smelling serum he bought while fucking around in Sephora the other day while Zayn picked up a weirdly-specific list of makeup a client wanted him to wear. That’s one thing Zayn does a lot more than Harry, wear makeup. Whenever Harry gets made up he looks sort of cheap and sloppy, like a low-rent drag queen at some cheap pub in the country, the childlike roundness of his face emphasized by blush and powder. Zayn looks exquisite, and fine-boned, and beautiful. 

Harry can wear knickers with the best of them, though. They make his arse look fantastic. 

When he’s done fucking with his hair he scrunches it to let the curls come in, pads into the kitchen and peels the lid off a raspberry Greek yogurt that’s about to go off. He’s licking at his spoon, rereading his texts, when his phone buzzes in his hand. 

Zayn. 

I’ll make a reservation for 10.

Harry smiles to himself. 

thanks zaynie !!!!! 
how was last night? can you walk? Ha ha xxx 

Zayn doesn’t respond until 5:30 PM, when Harry’s putting the finishing touches on his outfit. 

He stops with his jeans unzipped, fumbles for his phone. 

V. funny harry. it was fine, he was nice. have fun tonight x

Harry reads the text, glances up from his phone to look at himself in the mirror - skin glowing from the pearlescent moisturizer Zayn bought him at Selfridges, hair falling in silky curls past his ears, eyes bright and excited. 

He does plan on having a bit of fun. 

Thanks Z see you tomorrow xx, he types, and throws his phone aside. 

---

The dinner is in a ballroom at Claridge’s. Ben and Harry pull up to the front of the hotel, and Harry has to swallow hard at the cameras flashing outside. He’s still not sure of how to do this, how to be looked at. The few times he’s made it into the gossip rags, they’ve called him an unidentified friend or a model (which is quite nice). 

"You look incredible," Ben says, rubbing Harry’s wrist under the sleeve of his sheer black shirt. "Let’s go, shall we?" 

Harry nods, and follows Ben out of the car. Ben grins graciously, keeping a hand pressed gently to the small of Harry’s back as they walk up the steps into the hotel, slowly, pausing for photos. Harry keeps his face steady, flashes that small, enigmatic smile Zayn taught him, back when he started doing this. 

It feels good after a minute, the flashing lights and the buzzing crowd. It feels warming like a hot bath, and it makes Harry’s stomach shudder with satisfaction. When they’re inside and in the quiet, Harry’s almost disappointed. 

"Alright?" Ben murmurs into his ear, rubbing Harry’s back gently. 

"Yeah," Harry says, shooting a dazzling grin at him. "All good. It’s really nice in here." 

"Can I get you a drink?" Ben asks. "We’ll mingle for a bit, then sit down for dinner at 7:00. You might find our table interesting, I hope." 

"Whatever you’re having," Harry says, and Ben kisses his cheek, wanders off to the bar. 

Harry escapes to one of the cocktail tables that are set up around the room, digs his phone out and snaps a quick photo. The ballroom is lit with sparkling crystal chandeliers, rich red velvet drapes over the windows and an arched ceiling that makes Harry feel very small. He’ll never get over places like these, really. Zayn told him, once, to never act too impressed by money, but sometimes it’s hard. 

He scans the room, thrilling with each semi-familiar face he sees - the crowd is thick with celebrities. There’s a girl off EastEnders, and Caroline Flack from the telly, and, holy fuck, David bloody Beckham. Harry stares shamelessly for a full minute, is contemplating sneaking a photo when he hears a pointed cough from next to him and turns around. 

It’s a bloke he doesn’t recognize - tall, a floppy brown quiff, big warm brown eyes and a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

"Dinner’s not served til seven, love, you look like you’re ready to pounce." He flicks his eyes over at David Beckham, and Harry flushes, feels the heat of it in his cheeks. 

"Was it that obvious?" he asks, sheepishly, peering at the man through his eyelashes. 

"A bit. Can’t blame you. It’s mad seeing him at these things, innit? Like, I couldn’t care about football if you paid me, but it’s Becks. He’s like, divine.” 

Divine. Harry coughs out a laugh into his hand, and the man grins easily back. 

"Oh, I’m sorry, was your interest of an entirely academic nature? You a big Man City fan?" 

"Man U, I think he played for, actually," Harry says, and the man rolls his eyes. 

"Man U, Man City, Man-ville, whatever." 

Harry laughs again, looks across the room to the bar. He can’t see Ben in the mess of people, but he’ll come back, Harry knows. 

In the meantime, well… 

"I’m Harry," he says to the man, who’s sipping at a glass of champagne and looking out at the crowd with his shoulders loose and relaxed, a faint smile on his face. 

"Nick," the man says, holding out a hand. "Grimshaw." 

"Waaait," Harry asks, taking his hand - he knew he recognized that voice, warm and creaky and Northern. "Like off the radio?" 

"Like off the radio, yeah," Nick says, laughing. "Wow, that’ll never get old." 

"I, uh. I like your show," Harry says, looking at him more fully now, trying to connect that face with that voice. Harry rarely wakes up to hear most of Nick’s breakfast show, but he quite fancies listening to the last hour or two while he lies in bed and pretends to read a book. 

"Thank you very much." Nick drains his champagne and sets it down. "Now don’t tell me, you’re in a film, aren’t you? Something about vampires, where the boys are shirtless for eighty percent of the time." 

Harry snorts. “No.” 

"You’re not the new estranged son off Corrie, are you? The one with the amputated leg?" 

"Noo," Harry laughs, trying to bite down his grin, which is starting to hurt his mouth, it’s so wide. "I’m not an actor." 

"Model? Did I see you at the St. Laurent show last month?" 

"Nope. Try again." 

"A popstar, then," Nick says, his eyes warm. He has a very wide smile. "Or maybe you’re indie, are you indie? You’re not in Rudimental, are you?" 

"You think I’m in Rudimental?" Harry says, laughing breathlessly. "How would I be in Rudimental?" 

"I don’t knowww, I’m only guessing!" Nick squawks, running a hand through his quiff. "Don’t tell me you’re behind the scenes or summat. You’re much too pretty to be a producer. But don’t tell my producer I said that."

"Maybe I’ll wait for you to figure it out," Harry says, cheekily, grinning when Nick pouts like a toddler. 

"Whatever you are, darling, a face like that should not be drink-less," Nick says, leaning in. "Can I get you something?" 

"Nice line," Harry says, still feeling all bubbly with amusement. He’d never say that to a client - just sigh appreciatively and murmur the name of something sweet and boozy, maybe with pineapple just as a tease. 

"Isn’t it? You wouldn’t believe how many models that’s worked on. What’ll it be, then? You look like a boy who knows his way around a cocktail menu." 

Harry laughs again - Christ, he can’t stop - and feels a hand on his back. 

"Grimmy!" Ben says from behind him, sliding a glass of red wine onto the table in front of Harry. Harry hates red wine. "Fancy seeing you here. What time do you have to wake up tomorrow, eh?" 

"That never gets old with you, does it, Winston," Nick says, leaning forward to kiss Ben’s cheek. Harry’s cheeks are red, for some reason, a knot in his stomach, and he gulps at his wine thirstily. "Five-thirty AM, not that it’s any of your business." 

"You’re a legend." 

"It’s not like I can stop living my life," Nick sighs, and then, curiously, "Who’s your friend, then?" 

"Harry, Nick, Nick, Harry-" 

"We met," Harry says, thumbing wine off his mouth. 

"Hope he hasn’t been bothering you," Ben says to Nick. "God, I can’t leave him anywhere alone." 

He squeezes Harry’s shoulder, laughing into his ear, and Nick says, “Not at all, not at all. We were just discussing drinks. Speaking of, I need a refill. If you’ll excuse me-“ 

He disappears into the crowd, and Ben stands next to Harry, sipping at his own glass, which doesn’t have wine at all but something light brown and fizzy. 

"What’s that?" Harry says, taking another large swallow of wine, resisting the urge to pinch his nose as he drinks. 

"Whiskey-ginger," Ben says absently, looking at the crowd. "Sorry I took so long, love, I got caught up chatting, you know how it is." 

"It’s alright," Harry says, and a silence falls. Harry’s thinking a tiny bit about Nick, about his warm, large face and his big hands wrapped around the delicate stem of a champagne flute. It’s odd, sometimes, in the moments when there’s nothing much to say and Harry remembers that Ben’s paying him to be here, that their relationship ends with money transferring bank accounts, that if he wanted to walk out right now he couldn’t. 

Not that he does, Harry’s not saying he does, but - it’s just. It comes back to him sometimes with a jolt. This is all fake. 

Not fake, he hears Zayn saying in his head. It’s not fake just because he’s paying for it. If you don’t believe it, he won’t believe it. So believe it. 

Harry shakes himself, drinking the last of his wine and then taking a sip from Ben’s drink, which is sweating on the tabletop while Ben scrolls through his emails. Ahh, that’s better. Whiskey isn’t his favorite, but it’s loads better than wine, which makes his mouth feel all dry and scratchy like he’s got a cat’s tongue. As cool as it would be to have a cat's tongue, Harry doesn't like feeling it every time he bloody drinks wine.

"Shall we sit down?" Ben says, slipping his phone back into his pocket, turning his gaze on Harry, and Harry nods, lets Ben lead him away. 

Their table has eight chairs and five people, none of whom Harry recognizes or knows at all. He slides into a chair next to Ben, runs his fingers over the elaborately-folded napkin on top of his plate, gives a wan smile to the other people at the table. They don’t give him a second look. Ben starts chatting with the man on his left, and Harry’s contemplating making a run for the toilet and getting himself another drink when the empty chair next to him pulls out and Nick slides in. Last one to the table. Harry’s heart thrills like a teenager’s. 

"Angela, darling, so lovely to see you," Nick calls across the table. "Bloody floral arrangement’s blocking my view of your gorgeous face, what nerve - ahh, there it is. How are ya?" 

Harry has to suppress a giddy grin. Nick smells like cologne and vodka and he’s already pulling his napkin out of its shape, idly, like a nervous habit. 

"Ahh, what a uniquely uncomfortable chair," Nick says, half to himself, half to Harry, and then he turns his head and properly sees him, and a smile spreads over his face. 

"What luck," he says, eyes crinkling happily. "Hiya, Harry." 

"Hiya, Nick," Harry says back. "You alright?"  

"I’m good, me," Nick says. "And you? I’m still working on where I know you from. I tried to IMDB you only I don’t know your last name. Just typing "Harry" didn't get me too far." 

"I told you, I’m not an actor," Harry laughs, subtly checking to see if Ben’s paying any attention to them. He’s still chatting. 

"Ahh, but if you were an actor, you’d be really good at lying, wouldn’t you," Nick says, shaking his fork at him. "I don’t trust you for a second." 

"I’m just a friend of Ben’s," Harry says, perfectly innocently. 

"Well, Ben’s a very lucky man, then," Nick murmurs back, giving him a smile that makes Harry feel warm from top to toe, and then turning around when someone calls his name and ducks over the back of his chair to give him a kiss on his cheek. 

"Flackie!" Nick says, muffled, and she pulls back, grinning. Harry’s eyes widen as he recognizes her. Caroline Flack, off Xtra Factor. Harry’s always had a bit of a thing for her, always imagined himself doing interviews post-performance with her laughing at him from across the sofa. 

"Who’s your friend, Grim?" she says in her raspy voice, squeezing Nick’s shoulder. 

"Ahh, Caroline, this is Harry-" 

"Styles," Harry supplies. "Harry Styles." 

"Nice to meet you, Harry Styles." 

"Harry is Ben’s latest boytoy- I’m sorry, his friend, excuse me,” Nick says, laughing wickedly, and Harry punches him in the thigh and shakes Caroline’s soft warm hand. 

"Pay no mind to Nick, he thinks he’s funny," she says, and then she lowers her voice, whispering conspiratorially. "Honestly, the early mornings have taken their toll-"

"Shut up, you horrid woman," Nick says, and she lets out a squeaky laugh and hugs him again. 

"I love seeing you at these things," she says into his ear, Harry watching and trying not to stare at her chest. "Honestly, why aren’t you at my table?" 

"I’m sure Becks is asking himself the same question," Nick says very seriously, and then laughs when Caroline giggles. "Go have fun. Olly Murs looks very keen to talk to you.” 

"Oh, Olls," she sighs, letting go of Nick. "Find me later, babe, I’ll buy you a drink." 

"Absolutely," Nick promises. He turns back to the table, eyes it, and then murmurs to Harry, "Ugh, look, all they’ve put out is wine. I bloody hate wine." 

"Me too!" Harry says, too loud, and then giggles when Nick looks around with comically-wide eyes to see if anyone heard. 

"Harry, the person sitting two seats down from me runs the vineyard that made this wine," Nick says, with a stern shake of his head. "Frankly, it’s rude of you to-" 

"Oh shut up," Harry says, punching him again, and Nick catches him by the wrist. 

"No punches, popstar!" 

"I’m not a popstar," Harry says, not moving his hand out of Nick’s grip, and Nick’s fingers trace over the vein in Harry’s wrist for a split second before he lets go. 

"Yes, yes, you’re just Ben’s friend, I know," Nick says, coughing and reaching for his glass of ice water. Harry puts his hand back in his lap, chagrined. "You’ve got a popstar look about you, though. All shiny-eyed and hopeful."

Harry takes a sip of his own water. 

"I used to be in a band," he admits - something that even Ben doesn’t know - and Nick snaps his fingers. 

"A-ha. I knew it. What were you called?" 

"It wasn’t - I mean, like. We weren’t famous or anything. Barely ever got gigs in London. We broke up ages ago." 

"Still waiting to hear what you were ca-lled," Nick says, sing-song. 

"Uhh. White Eskimo," Harry says, grudgingly. 

Nick snorts. “That is - very sixth-form.” 

"Shut up." 

"So what’d you do? Drummer, guitarist - whatever the other things are-"

"I was the singer," Harry says, and goes red, completely involuntarily. 

"You’re blushing," Nick observes, not unkindly. 

"I am not." 

"Singer, eh? Don’t know why I even asked. You’ve got that frontman look all over you. Too pretty to be hidden behind a clunky old drumset." 

"Stop calling me pretty, you’ll give me a complex," Harry says, fumbling for his water again. He feels prickly all over, like people are watching him act stupid, even though no one’s paying attention. 

Nick just smiles at him. “Sorry, love. Call 'em like I see 'em.” 

He sits back in his chair, sighing. “Honestly, they should put a bottle of vodka in the middle of the table, make this interesting. Wine’s so snoozy, it just makes me want to go to bed, you know? Oh- cheers, love!” 

A waitress leans over them to set a platter in the middle of the table and Nick looks at her beseechingly and says, “Is there any way in the world I could order a vodka tonic from you? Pretty please?”

She doesn’t even look at him. “You can go up to the bar,” she says flatly, and then turns away, and Nick sticks his tongue out and sits up in his chair, peering at the platter. Harry does the same. It’s covered in crushed ice, with weird grey shells dotted on it, filled with something cloudy and jelly-looking. 

"Ooh, lovely," Nick says happily. "Oysters." 

"Harry?" Harry hears from his left, and he turns around, feeling all shaky like he’s just come up from underwater. Nick’s attention is like that, all-encompassing. Ben’s holding out the wine bottle, smiling at him. "Fancy a glass?" 

"Um, sure," Harry says, his instinct to say yes to Ben all muddled with the way he knows Nick is probably watching. "Thanks." 

"Of course, sweetheart." Ben pours him some wine. "Having fun?" 

"Yeah," Harry says, smiling at him. "It’s lovely."

"Don’t believe a word Nick says about me, he’s an awful liar," Ben says with a wink. 

Harry just smiles wider, feeling forced in a way he never usually does with Ben, and then turns back to Nick. He takes a sip of wine as a reflex, struggles not to make a face, and Nick laughs at him gently. 

"You and your wine, Harry Styles." 

"It’s alcohol and it’s free," Harry says tartly back, and realizes too late it sounds both desperate and cheap. He winces.

Nick just laughs delightedly, though. “Cheers to that!” 

"Should we pass these around?" a woman to Nick’s right says, gesturing at the plate in the center of the table, held up on a silver stand like pizza at the old-fashioned pizzeria Harry used to go to back home.

"Betcha we could all reach 'em, don’t you think?" Nick says back, stretching his arm out. "Or do I just have terrible table manners and freakishly long arms? Here, I’ll pass them." 

He sets an oyster on Harry’s plate with a little clink, says, “You fancy cocktail sauce? Lemon wedge?” 

"Umm," Harry says in a panic. The thing’s dripping water and looks very slimy. "No, thank you." 

"Alright." Nick sets an oyster on his own plate before passing it to his right, dolloping a healthy spoonful of red sauce on top of it. Harry watches him, and then looks away quick when Nick notices him watching. He picks up his fork and stabs at the soft thing in the middle of the shell. 

It won’t - stay - on his bloody fork. It keeps slipping off, landing with a little splash, some weird stringy bits connecting it to the shell. Harry can feel his face starting to heat with frustration. He doesn’t look up, until a hand reaches over from his right, gives his thigh a gentle squeeze. 

He looks up, sees Nick looking at him knowingly, and he watches as Nick takes his little fork, jostles it at one end of the oyster, and then lifts the whole shell to his mouth, tipping it and sucking the contents into his mouth. 

He swallows, then nods at Harry, looks away to pour himself some more water. Harry chews his bottom lip, and follows Nick’s lead. 

The oyster slips down his throat, slimy and salty and cold, like a mouthful of seawater, and Harry chokes with surprise, starts coughing frantically. Eurgh, that’s awful. That’s not food. That’s worse than swallowing jizz. 

He fumbles for his water, takes a deep gulp, coughs a few more times as Nick watches him, amusement etched in the lines around his eyes.

"Alright there, love?"

Harry nods, face still red, takes another sip of water.

"Normally I’m really good at just swallowing," he says breathlessly, slapping his chest with his hand, and Nick collapses into laughter. 

"No, I- that’s not what I meant!" Harry protests. "I meant like pills and stuff-" 

Nick’s wheezing into his water glass, face going red, and even Ben looks over to see what they’re on about. 

"Alright?" he mouths to Harry, and Harry nods, tries to look composed and sane. 

Ben smiles absently and turns away. 

Harry lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, grabs his wine to wash the taste out of his mouth. That’s how bad it was, that he’d rather drink wine than taste it. 

"Not a fan?" Nick says lightly, cheeks still flushed from laughter, and Harry looks at him suspiciously, not sure if Nick’s taking the piss. 

"Maybe it'll grow on me," he says, trying to be diplomatic, and Nick snorts a laugh, puts his empty shell back onto the platter, does the same with Harry’s. 

"Fair enough. Shit, I’d like a proper drink. Fancy a trip to the bar?" 

Harry really shouldn’t. They’re starting to come around with salads, and Ben might want to show him off soon, introduce him around. 

But god, Harry does want a drink. 

"Yeah," he says. 

"Ask Ben first, don’t want him thinking I’m whisking you away," Nick says, pulling his phone out of his pocket for a quick peek. 

Harry drains his wine to fortify himself, slips his palm onto Ben’s thigh. Ben barely turns his head. 

"Mind if I go get a drink with Nick?" Harry murmurs into his ear, and Ben nods absentmindedly, patting his hand a few times. 

"Yeah, of course," he says, and then - "So as for a production schedule, I was thinking early 2015 to start shooting and then we could-" 

Harry stands up, setting the napkin down to the left of his plate, and follows Nick to the bar. 

Nick knows bloody everyone. He’s shaking hands and kissing cheeks left and right and it takes a good five minutes before they’re bellying up to the bar, Nick looking over at him. 

"So," he says. "Harry Styles. Where’re you from?" 

"Holmes Chapel," Harry says, putting a few peanuts into his mouth from the bowl on the bar. Nick does the same. 

"Ahh, I knew you were Northern," Nick says, licking his fingers. "I’m from Oldham, myself. How’re you enjoying London, then?" 

What a question. Harry eats another peanut. 

"It’s, uh. It’s big," he says. 

Nick huffs a laugh, signals for the bartender. “That is - factually accurate.” 

"I mean- it’s just. It feels big. But - but I like it. Didn’t like it at first, but, you know. I like it." 

At first is code for standing on a street corner for four months, selling his arse and eating ramen in the shitty flat he shared with some psycho he met on Craigslist. But Nick doesn’t need to know that bit. 

"The best part of London," Nick says, confidentially. "Is that if you meet the right people, it’ll feel small." 

"Guess I just haven’t met the right people yet," Harry says, and it feels like flirting. He can’t help it. It’s so easy to flirt with Nick. 

"Well, the night is young," Nick says, grinning at him, and then to the bartender - "Two vodka tonics, please?" 

"Oh, you don’t have to-" Harry starts, and Nick waves him off, throwing a tenner onto the bar. 

"Oh don’t, don’t. I want to. So how long have you lived in London?" 

By the end of Harry’s second vodka tonic, he’s feeling decidedly looser and happier, and Nick looks quite the same. They’re both still upright and generally coherent, so Harry’s not too worried. 

They wander back to the table just in time for the main course, which consists of some kind of almond-crusted whitefish and a minuscule amount of green beans. Harry’s drunk and still starving by the time they take the plates away, and he raids the bread basket with Nick, both of them slathering multiple pieces with butter and finishing the wine bottle. Harry gets into a brief but intense conversation with a man on Nick’s other side about a Banksy documentary he watched while stoned with Zayn. Nick offers unhelpful commentary with his mouth full. 

After dinner, they bring out coffee in tiny individual French presses, but Harry doesn’t want any. He’s feeling a bit belligerent, a bit ignored - Ben’s back still to him - and what he wants to do is keep drinking. 

"You want to go back to the bar?" he murmurs to Nick, as Nick nibbles at the little buttery vanilla biscuit on the side of his coffee saucer. 

"Yes," Nick says without hesitation, and it makes Harry laugh as he scrapes his chair back. 

---

"You know what we should do?" Harry says when they’re at the bar, leaning their hips against it and facing each other. He runs a hand through his hair. "We should take a shot." 

"A shot!" Nick says, breaking into laughter like this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard in his life. "A shot! I haven’t taken a shot since - well, last Friday, actually, but only because it was my mate’s birthday and she’s well sloppy. And if you’re at Funky Buddha you have to take shots, right? It’s practically a law. I couldn't refuse." 

"Never been there, so," Harry says, a bit jealously. He goes to the most beautiful places, but sometimes he just wants to get trashed with a load of people his age - or closer to his age than his clients are. Zayn hates clubs and prefers smoking to drinking. Harry misses dancing, a little bit. He barely ever has club nights here. He used to go with his mates in Holmes Chapel, jump around in some sticky-floored place that played hip-hop and served bright blue drinks in tall glasses that got you wasted. 

"Oh my god, Harry, that’s an outrage," Nick says, offended. "I mean, it’s like the sloppiest posh place in town.  There are bloody theme nights, and the DJ plays, like, all requests. Full of poshies who want to feel all laddy and trashy for a night. Hilarious on a Friday night.” 

Harry shrugs, and Nick pats his hand where it’s resting on the bartop. “You know what, love, we’ll do shots. Just for you. You poor Funky Buddha-less child.” 

Harry grins like a kid, all teeth, and Nick calls the bartender over. 

They do two rounds, blissfully unaware of whatever else is happening in the room - though Harry keeps mumbling something mush-mouthed about how he’s not supposed to get too drunk, and every few seconds Nick whines pitifully about how early he’s got work the next day. 

"Another!" Harry says, too loud, and Nick shushes him, giggling, asks sensibly for two glasses of water instead. 

They drink in silence, Harry bopping his head to the elevator-quality music provided by the four-piece string quartet in the corner which is inexplicably playing an old Madonna cover. 

"Is this…" Nick says, realizing the same thing, and Harry says, "Yeah." 

“Strong choice,” Nick laughs, and they both sing the chorus as it comes in. Nick’s voice is terrible, creaky and flat. 

"Hey," Nick says, after a minute, and Harry looks up from his water glass, still humming the last bar of the song. "Hey, you’re really good." 

Harry’s really pissed. “Wha?” he says. 

"Singing. You." Nick is also apparently quite pissed. "You’re good." 

Normally Harry would brush it off, because singing isn’t - it isn’t part of him anymore. That part left when his band broke up and Matty moved back home and Harry tried open mics until they asked him to stop showing up.

But tonight, he’s drunk, and he feels good, so he just smiles at Nick. 

"Thanks," he says, and Nick grins back at him, until the smile slides off Harry’s face and he’s just staring. Nick has such a nice mouth, and warm eyes, and he’s - he’s just- 

Shit. Harry swallows hard.

"D’you, uh, do you want to go to the toilet?" he says, a hot little current of excitement stirring in his belly, and Nick looks wide-eyed and dazed when he nods. 

Harry sneaks a look back at Ben as they duck out. He’s still deep in conversation. 

The men’s has someone coming out of it as they pass, but the single-use handicapped toilet is empty, and Harry ducks inside, lets Nick follow him, shuts and locks the door behind them. 

"I’m sort of drunk," Harry says first thing, swaying on his feet, fingers itching to grab at Nick’s shirt. 

"Me too," Nick says. "Is this okay?" 

"Yeah," Harry breathes. "Yeah, yeah, it’s okay-" and he’s pulling Nick towards him, kissing his mouth. Nick moans right away, like he’d been waiting for it, and his hands slide down to Harry’s waist. His tongue is hot in Harry’s mouth and his hands are gripping him tight and Harry hasn’t felt this good, this turned-on, in bloody months. 

He feels the cold of the door up against his back, his head knocking back against the wood, and he lets out a long, loud groan when Nick ducks his head and mouths all the way down Harry’s neck, licking and sucking. 

"No- no marks," he manages to choke out, eyes fluttering shut, back arching as each touch of Nick’s lips makes his body twitch. 

Nick grunts against his neck, lifts his head and they’re kissing again, sweet and deep. Harry could do this for years. He could do this forever. Nick feels so good, and Harry’s skin is hot and sensitive, and it feels fantastically dirty when he thinks about where they are, pressed up against a door in a posh bathroom in a posh hotel. 

And then Nick’s reaching down between them and undoing Harry’s jeans with one hand, and- 

"Jesus," Nick says, hot against Harry’s mouth, when he’s touching Harry’s bare skin. "That how Ben likes you? No pants?" 

It is, actually, it’s what Ben asks for, but Harry doesn’t say that. 

"Like how it feels," he says instead, baring his neck, shuddering when Nick takes the invitation to kiss it. "I- I like it." 

"Mm, me too," Nick breathes, and he licks his palm and starts to jerk Harry off. 

This isn’t how it usually goes. Not that Ben doesn’t get him off, not that Harry doesn’t have clients who love to suck and jerk his cock, but - he never really goes first, he never just sits there. Even if they ask him to get himself off, they want to watch, and they want it to be about them. 

This doesn’t feel like that. 

He makes a feeble attempt to reach for the fly of Nick’s trousers, but Nick huffs in annoyance and pins Harry’s hand to the wall with his free hand. When he does that - makes Harry stay still - everything comes together dizzily in Harry’s head, and he thrusts up into Nick’s touch, grunts, loses himself for a little bit. Nick’s hand is hot and solid and sure on his dick, his mouth gasping hot against Harry’s ear. It feels so good all Harry can do is whimper and bang his head back against the door until the pain mixes with pleasure. When he comes, it’s with a groan that feels obscenely loud, his hips jerking as he spurts hot into Nick’s hand. 

He comes down shaking, full-on shaking, his arms clutching around Nick’s neck and Nick kissing him very slowly, gently sucking at his tongue as Harry’s mouth falls lazily open. 

"Here," Nick says, mouth against Harry’s cheek. "Let me wash my hands before I accidentally get this on your shirt." 

He pulls away, sticks his hand under the sink, and Harry leans back, eyelids heavy and skin buzzing gloriously, feeling very pleased with himself. 

And then Nick’s back, and his hands are damp when they grope up under Harry’s shirt, and Harry kisses him, happily. 

"Christ, you’re - fucking fit," Nick breathes out into the kiss, and Harry bites his bottom lip, drags his teeth down Nick’s neck and sucks a lovebite into the skin. 

Nick looks like he wants to be offended, but seeing as he’s practically riding Harry’s thigh and his eyes are glazed with lust, Harry really doesn’t think he has grounds to complain. 

"What do you want?" Harry asks, lifting his head from Nick’s neck and licking his lips. "Hand?" 

"What- whatever," Nick stammers. 

"Or my mouth," Harry whispers into Nick’s ear, making it slow and coy. 

"Fuck," Nick whispers back, voice trembling. "Christ, Harry, please." 

Harry gives him a soft kiss on the lips, then flips them around until Nick’s against the wall, slides down to his knees. He’s tempted to make it into a performance - undoing zippers with his teeth, sucking him like porn, sloppy and over the top - but then Nick’s hand tangles in his hair, and Harry suddenly just feels urgent. 

His mouth is watering, genuinely watering, not the way he says it is when he’s sending dirty messages to Ben and Ben sends a photo of his cock taken under his desk at work. 

This all feels so real, it’s doing Harry’s fucking head in. 

He unzips Nick’s trousers, pulls them down around his knees along with his black briefs, and Nick strokes his head, gently. 

"That’s lovely," he breathes, hissing in a breath when Harry licks at the slit of his cock, precome bitter under his tongue. Nick’s been hard for a while, and he smells and tastes incredible, the plump head of his dick flexing, dripping in Harry’s mouth. 

Harry works him over with his mouth and his hand, shivering down his spine whenever Nick pulls a handful of his hair, thighs trembling beneath him. By the time Nick’s finished - he comes quietly, with a shuddery sigh - Harry’s hard again, and embarrassed about it. His cock is throbbing against the fly of his jeans, desperate for more attention, and Nick keeps stroking, scritching his scalp. 

He slips a hand into his jeans, undoes the zip, and Nick says unsteadily, “Are you-“ 

Harry puts his face into Nick’s thigh, slides his hand down his dick. It hurts to try and get off again so soon, his skin feeling terribly sensitive, but it feels so good all the same. 

"None of that," Nick says, hushed. "Get up here." 

He drags Harry to his feet, gets his hand around Harry’s flushed cock again, starts to jerk him off. Harry leans against his shoulder, and is faintly surprised when Nick tips his face up, starts to snog him again. Ben doesn’t like to taste himself - doesn’t like to kiss that much at all, actually, and sometimes Harry doesn’t want to get up to brush his teeth after he gives head-

The thoughts slip out of his brain when Nick’s other hand wriggles between Harry’s legs, cupping the heavy weight of his balls and then - further back. Harry groans, twitching, spreading his thighs as wide as he can. God, why didn’t they fuck? They should have fucked, Harry has a condom. He lets his mouth go slack against Nick’s. 

"That good?" Nick mumbles, knuckling against his perineum.

Harry just buries a moan in Nick’s jaw, thrusts up into his hand. 

Faster, faster than he would’ve thought possible for a second round, he’s coming in Nick’s hand, making high shaky sounds until Nick shushes him, kisses him. 

Harry slumps against the door, his knees wobbly, and watches Nick wash his hands for the second time. 

Nick turns to him, shaking water off his hands, and Harry’s expecting it to be strange, uncomfortable, but Nick just laughs. 

"Your turnaround time is amazing," he says, voice hoarse and still a little slurred. "You’re not like, seventeen, are you?" 

"Twenty, actually, but thanks," Harry says, his tongue feeling thick and strange in his mouth. He can’t stop running over it in his head - Nick jerked him off, Nick kissed him, Nick’s dick was in his mouth. It feels like a movie reel he’ll want to watch for a long while. 

"Twenty?" Nick says, wincing. "God, you’re an infant." 

"Why, how old are you?" 

"Ugh. Don’t want to say." 

"Just tell me," Harry says, catching one of Nick’s hands, pulling him towards him. It feels easy and simple to do that, and Nick settles up against him with a hand on Harry’s neck like he’s been doing it forever. 

"I can’t," Nick whispers. "It’s embarrassing." 

Harry pouts, an expression which he knows is particularly affecting after he’s just gotten off, when his mouth is fuller than usual and his eyes are shiny. “C’mon.” 

"Fine, ugh." Nick rolls his eyes. "I’m thirty. Just turned! Literally weeks ago. But. Yeah. I know, I’m decrepit." 

"Thirty?" Harry asks, thoughtfully. "I kinda thought you were-" 

"If you say older, Harry Styles, I swear to god I won’t be held responsible for my actions," Nick says, and Harry laughs, and then stops laughing when Nick pulls him into a gentle kiss. It feels just as good and satisfying as it did before they both got off, which isn’t always the case with the people Harry shags. 

Nick’s softly stroking his palm through Harry’s hair when someone pounds on the door and they both jerk away, nearly colliding foreheads. 

"Shit," Nick says, running a hand through his quiff. "We - fuck. We should get back. What time is it?" 

---

They wind their way back to the table, Harry still unsteady on his feet and feeling entirely shagged-out, Nick exchanging murmurs of goodbye with nearly everyone they pass by. 

Harry slides back into his seat, taking a gulp of now-lukewarm water. Ben turns to him, slips a hand onto his thigh under the table, giving him an easy smile. 

"There you are, darling." 

"Sorry," Harry says, feeling Nick behind him, seeing him out of the corner of his eye, hyperaware of his scent, his presence. Harry should feel guilty, but instead he feels good. Naughty, or something. This razor’s edge of risk that makes his stomach quivery. “I was at the bar.” 

"I can see that," Ben laughs, reaching out to thumb at Harry’s mouth, and Harry freezes in fear for a moment before Ben continues. 

"You’re pissed. You didn’t tell any embarrassing stories to anyone who looked important, did you, sweetheart?" 

"No one important," Harry says wildly, as Ben cups his jaw in one hand. "Just Nick."

"Not important at all, then," Ben says with a grin, and Harry hears an offended ey! from behind him. He ignores it. 

"I’m actually - I’m actually feeling a bit sick," he says, wiping at his forehead. It is believably sweaty, even though he doesn’t feel sick, he feels satisfied. "Think I might’ve had a bit too much to drink." 

Ben’s forehead furrows. “Oh, Harry.“ 

"I know, I know," Harry says, waving him off. "I’m fine, honestly. Just a bit, you know. Just need to go to bed." 

"Let me call the car, sweetheart." 

Harry grabs for his water glass, as Ben pulls out his phone. 

From his right he hears a cough, and then feels a hand against his leg, big and familiar. Nick. Harry puts a hand over the hand, feels it slip out from under his, and something crumples beneath Harry’s palm like paper. 

He yanks it out, reads it under his hand as Ben says into the phone, “Hello? Wes? Yes, it’s Ben Winston, we’ll need to be picked up now-“ 

02033568489 Nick x

Harry stares at it for a minute, and then shoves it discreetly into his pocket, looks up. 

Nick’s gone. Harry looks around, dumbly, and sees him twenty or so yards away, chatting with some woman in a furry long jacket. Before he turns to the door, he looks back, and Harry catches eyes with him. It feels palpable, sends a jolt through his weary body. 

Nick’s mouth splits in a grin, and Harry can’t drag his gaze away until Ben touches his arm. 

"Wes’ll be outside in a minute," he says. "Would you like to go home instead of mine?" 

"Yes, please," Harry says, watching Nick turn around. "I’m -  I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so pissed." 

Ben chuckles, presses a kiss to his temple. “It’s alright. At least you didn’t sick up on anyone. You didn’t, did you?” 

Harry huffs a laugh, shakes his head, lets Ben help him up out of his seat and into the car out front. 

Ben drops him off first. He strokes Harry’s thigh the whole way home, even feels at his dick a few times to see if Harry’s interested, which Harry is not, at all. He’s got the vague sense he should at least pretend, but he’s exhausted. 

"I’ll see you this weekend, how bout," Ben says, as he opens the car door for Harry. "Take care of yourself." 

"Thanks," Harry mumbles, barely mustering up the energy to kiss Ben good night. 

"Go to bed." Ben rubs his thumb over Harry’s cheek, and then gets back into the car, and Harry watches it drive away, swaying back and forth a bit in the lamplight. 

Fumbles for the piece of paper in his pocket, clenches it tight in one fist, grins fiercely, secretly to himself.

What a fucking night. 

---

He meets Zayn for brunch the next day. He’s in a bit of a weird headspace all morning - he wakes up early despite his fierce hangover, has two cups of tea and curls up in his armchair with a book and his phone tucked inside, doing a bit more scrolling through Instagram than actual reading. He posts a photo of his book and his steaming cup of tea, sticks a filter on it, captions it lazy morning, adds three book emojis and a teacup emoji and a green heart.  

Then he makes himself a third cup of tea.

He spends a bit too much time looking at Nick’s name where he’s put the number into his contact list and contemplating texting him. That’d be mad, though. In the end he manages to resist, and clatters down the steps of his flat when Zayn honks the horn, waving giddily and trying to shake off the odd feeling that’s still following him around. 

"Zayn?" he says at Pain et Chocolat, pushing his sunglasses up onto his head. He’s due in for a haircut next week, Simon’s orders, which is too bad because he sort of fancies his longer hair. He put it in a ponytail the other day. It was cool. "Can I ask you something?" 

Zayn licks marmalade off his pinky finger. He looks up, peering at Harry through his Ray Bans. “Yeah, babes?” 

Harry looks down, swallows hard. He likes Zayn and Zayn likes him, but that doesn’t mean Zayn is going to approve of what he’s done.

Zayn doesn’t love people the same way Harry does, but he loves Harry, and that’s enough. Hopefully. 

"You ever, um," he says. "Have you ever had feelings for - for someone you’ve shagged?" 

Zayn’s eyebrows go up. “Shagged, meaning, worked for?” 

"I - sort of," Harry says hesitantly. 

"Harry…" 

"Not really, though!" Harry cuts in. "He wasn’t - it wasn’t. He wasn’t paying. I just - met him. While I was on the job." 

Zayn stares at him coolly, sunglasses still on, and takes a sip of coffee. 

"When’d this happen?" he says. "Last night? Tell me you didn’t actually shag him." 

Harry feels his cheeks go hot. 

"He - we. We just. Hooked up a bit." 

“Christ, Harry,” Zayn says, taking off his sunglasses. His mouth’s set in a tight line. “Tell me what happened.” 

Harry looks down at his eggs, pushes a chunk of melon around with his fork. 

"I was out with Ben," he says. "This, um. Some dinner party before a premiere he’s got this weekend. And - and I met this bloke. Well, I knew him, sort of. He, uh. It’s. I guess he’s a bit famous. He’s on radio." 

Zayn looks doubtful, but he keeps his mouth shut, so Harry keeps going. 

"I dunno, so - so we met, and we talked. And had a few drinks-" 

"You were with Ben," Zayn says, slowly. 

"I mean, yeah, but - but Ben was chatting and I - I met Nick at the bar, and we took shots, and, like - he makes me laugh, Zayn. He made me laugh." 

Zayn arches an eyebrow. “That’s not all he did, or you wouldn’t be telling me.” 

Harry tries to scrub the flush off his cheeks with his hand. 

"We sort of got off in the toilet," he says, not making eye contact. "And he sort of gave me his phone number-" 

“Harry-“ 

"It wasn’t a big deal!" 

Zayn presses at his temples with one hand, irritatedly. “Did Ben find out?” 

"No, no," Harry says quickly. "He barely even noticed I was gone." 

"Who is this bloke? He a mate of Ben’s? He’ll tell Ben you gave it away for free, and then there’s a client gone-" 

"He won’t tell Ben. He’s - I can trust him." 

Zayn looks so sad for a second. 

"You’re still such a kid," he says quietly. "Christ, Harry. You know how lucky you are to work for Ben?" 

Harry looks away guiltily. Zayn says he doesn’t care that Ben stopped asking for him, says it’s fine, and Ben’s a valuable client for Harry to have, but that doesn’t keep Harry from feeling like an arsehole.

"He’s a nice bloke and he doesn’t make you do things you don’t want to do," Zayn says, firmly, leaning forward. "He doesn’t make it hurt or share you around. That’s not something you want to lose, Harry-" 

"I know-“ 

"So what the hell are you doing getting off with other guys while you’re with him?" Zayn says, sharply. "Don’t be fucking stupid." 

The words hurt, unexpectedly, and Harry has to draw in a shaky breath to try and stave off the prickly tears he can feel rushing to his eyes. 

He looks down at his plate, coughs. Forks a piece of cantaloupe into his mouth and then lets it sit there, his throat too tight to swallow. 

"Harry," Zayn says, a bit gentler. 

"I get it," Harry says, muffled, and forces himself to swallow. He looks up, eyes dry. Sniffs in hard. "I know." 

"You - you, uh, think you fancy him?" Zayn says, cringing. Harry almost laughs, only because it’s funny to watch Zayn trying to talk like a normal mate would. 

"No," Harry lies, putting another piece of fruit in his mouth. "No. I was just drunk." 

Zayn looks slightly mollified. 

"Be careful with that," he says. "Didn’t I say don’t get pissed on the job?" 

"Yeah, you did," Harry says, flatly. He takes a gulp of his tea. "And I fucked up." 

Zayn bites his bottom lip, searches Harry’s face, and then looks down. 

"It’s alright," he says, pushing his fork through a mound of roasted potatoes. "It happens." 

"Not to you, of course," Harry says, trying to keep the heavy sarcasm out of his voice. It fails, mostly. 

Zayn huffs a laugh, still looking down. “That what you think?” 

"You’re perfect, and I’m a slag who can’t keep his legs closed," Harry says, making it sound like a joke. He fails again. 

Zayn looks up at him, his eyes going wide. “That’s not what I bloody think.” 

Harry just gulps his tea, his throat tightening again like he’s going to cry. He hates having a fight, always immediately regrets saying something right after it’s come out of his mouth. 

"I’ve felt stuff, for - for a- for clients," Zayn says, haltingly. "Would be hard not to, at first, wouldn’t it. With them buying you shit, taking you places. Saying you’re pretty and smart and talented-" 

His voice shakes a bit on the last word, and he gulps at his orange juice. 

"Never ends well," he says. "Nothing good ever comes of it." 

"You don’t know everything," Harry bites out, and flushes a hot red. "And - and Nick wasn’t a client. S’your own problem if you’ve fallen for a client because I haven’t, not ever. Nick’s different." 

The softness on Zayn’s face is gone. 

"All I’m saying is don’t throw everything away for some bloke you’ve known for two minutes," he says, jaw clenching visibly. 

"I haven’t thrown anything away." 

"If Ben finds out about this- or, god, if Simon finds out-“ 

"Are you going to tell him, then?" Harry says, sniffing in hard. "Make sure I learn my lesson?" 

Zayn’s eyes flicker. 

"No," he says after a second. "I’m not going to tell him." 

Harry stares at him. 

"You’re not?" 

"No, I’m not," Zayn says, tightly. "You done? Can we get the check?" 

Harry nods, bites his lip, watches as Zayn pulls out his credit card. 

"I got it," he says to Harry, without looking at him, sliding his sunglasses down over his eyes. 

"Thanks," Harry says quietly. 

---

In the car on the way home, Harry looks over at Zayn, who’s driving with both hands on the wheel, his back straight. So careful, all the time. 

"Hey," he says, softly. "Zayn. Have you ever been in love?" 

He knows before he says it that Zayn might laugh, or get mad. But it still just feels important. 

"Is this about that Nick bloke?" Zayn says, not looking at him. "Harry, you got off with him in a toilet, it’s not Romeo and bloody Juliet." 

"No, it’s not about that Nick bloke," Harry says, gritting his teeth. "I’m just asking." 

There’s a silence. Harry’s about to give up and turn the radio up - Zayn gets very silent-treatment when he’s annoyed, which drives Harry fucking nuts - but then Zayn coughs, and says- 

"I, uh. Yeah. Maybe." 

"Yeah?" Harry breathes, leaning his head back against the seat. "You have?"

Zayn chews at the side of his mouth the way he does when he’s nervous. 

"What’s it mean, being in love, anyway," he says. "S’bloody pointless most of the time." 

"You’re such a cynic," Harry says, with a huff of a laugh. 

"Yeah, well." Zayn rubs a hand over his jaw - another nervous tic. 

"Who was it?" Harry asks, quietly. "A client?" 

"I don’t want to talk about it," Zayn says, levelly, slowly. 

"It’s okay if it - I mean, I won’t take the piss, I literally imagined being married to Nick for like twenty straight minutes this morning." 

Zayn’s mouth twitches at the corners, and Harry grins at the sight. 

"C’monnn. Tell me." 

He leans his head against the side of the seat, bats his eyelashes at Zayn. “Come on. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” 

"You’d show anyone yours," Zayn mutters, but he’s smiling a little bit now.

"I know, I’m awful," Harry says. "So?" 

Zayn’s mouth flattens again. 

"Fine," he says, haltingly. "A client. Yeah. And it doesn’t matter, you know? I was a kid. I still thought I was different and he was different. It was silly." 

"What, did he leave?" Harry asks, voice hushed. 

"I don’t know what I was thinking," Zayn says, ignoring his question. "It was stupid." 

"Bet it wasn’t stupid," Harry says, trying not to sound sympathetic. Zayn hates sympathy. "If you felt it. I mean. It’s real if you feel it." 

Zayn rolls his eyes, and turns the radio up. 

Harry would push, but he’s tired, and Zayn’s mouth is tight, and maybe it’s alright if they both just exist, for a little while, and don’t question each other. 

He takes out his phone, types a text to Nick. 

Hungover? this is harry. (styles) .xx

Nick’s response is instantaneous. like you wouldn’t believe

He’s added a couple skull emojis, and Harry lets out a strangled kind of laugh, covers his mouth with one hand to hide his smile from Zayn and types back - Me too, i just ate a massive brunch though it helped :)x

"What?" Zayn says, suspiciously, after a minute. 

"Nothing," Harry says, shoving his phone into his pocket as Zayn pulls up in front of his flat. "Thanks for the ride. Thanks for brunch." 

Zayn nods, and lets Harry lean over, kiss his cheek. 

"See you soon?" Harry asks. 

"Yeah." 

"Love you." 

Zayn nods, watching him. 

"Be careful, alright?" he calls, out of the open window, when Harry’s halfway up the steps. 

Harry turns back, says, “I’m fine, I swear, Zaynie. Don’t worry.” 

In his pocket, he feels his phone vibrate, and a flush of pleasure goes through him. 

Zayn stares at him for a moment longer, eyes squinted against the daylight and then nods, slowly, and pulls away. 

Harry looks after him for a moment, chewing his bottom lip, and then his phone buzzes again and he forgets about everything in the world except for that. 

ZAYN

Zayn slams the front door of the man’s flat behind him, takes off down the stairs, gasping out audible breaths. He gets into his car, shuts the door and locks it, and then stops. He can’t run out like this, mid-client. He can’t, he’ll get fucking bollocked by Simon, but he can’t just fucking stay and pretend nothing happened.

His hands are shaking, and there’s blood between his fingers, his own blood, and he just wants- 

He remembers this night when he was a kid, twelve or something - a warm night, middle of June. His dad was grilling chicken in the back garden and Zayn was running around in the street with a football and a couple kids from his school, and he tripped over his shoelaces and fell flat on his face. Scraped up his chin and the palms of his hands something awful, and his mum bandaged him up, thumbed the hot shameful tears off his cheeks and let him eat his chicken at the adult table, his face stinging every time he chewed a bite. 

Zayn sees a light go on in the front of the house, and his heart jumps with terror. He hits the accelerator, reverses out of there, and only breathes when he’s on the main road. His heart is pounding. His eye is throbbing deep and painful, and there’s blood on his hand that’s spilled from the cut on his cheek, and he doesn’t know what to do. 

He drives in a daze until he’s somewhere familiar. It’s not til he’s parked and hurrying up the steps that he realizes where he is. 

Ben’s. 

He knocks on the door, crosses an arm over his chest, shivering suddenly. 

It’s a long five minutes and another dozen knocks before the door swings open, and Ben’s face appears, warm, flushed, looking so happy and carefree Zayn wants to touch him, throw himself into Ben’s arms like a child seeking comfort. He clenches his fists so he won’t.

"Zayn?" Ben says, eyebrows rising. "What’re you doing here?" 

His house smells sweet, like something baking, and the light and heat are spilling out. Zayn basks in it. 

"I- I-" he stammers, suddenly not sure how to phrase it. "I just-" 

"Are you here for Harry?" Ben asks, tilting his head in concern. "I asked him to turn his phone off for the night, I didn’t think he’d need it - is it an emergency?" 

Zayn feels slow-tongued, thick. “Harry?” 

"Yeah, are you-" 

"Harry’s here?" 

Ben huffs a laugh. “Yeah, Harry’s here. Is everything alright? Is it-“ 

"Yeah," Zayn says, cutting him off, taking a step back and nearly tripping down the steps. He steadies himself with a hand on the railing. "Yeah, everything’s fine. Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean- to bother you." 

"Zayn, wait," Ben says, when Zayn staggers back down the steps. Fuck, his ribs are really starting to hurt now, from the kick the client laid into them, pointed-toe and painful while Zayn was sprawled out on the kitchen floor. God, he’s been so stupid. "Are you alright?" 

"I’m fine," Zayn calls behind him. "I’m fine, I’m sorry-" 

"Zayn!" 

But Zayn’s around the corner, and back to his car, and when he gets in he sits there for a minute again, blinking. He feels a bit like he’s going to cry, which is stupid. He hasn’t properly cried since he was fourteen and his older sister walked in on him and Alec one afternoon in Zayn’s bedroom. 

Zayn tries his hardest not to think about all that, but it starts to trickle back in, and he starts the car with a terrified sort of hurry, like he’s going to explode, soon, and all he can do to avoid it is drive. 

He goes onto autopilot again as he drives, mind running over the entire evening, until he ends up at Simon’s. He can’t bloody just knock on Simon’s door, that’d be unheard of, so he digs out his phone and calls him. 

"Yes?" Simon says, after two rings. 

"Simon? It’s Zayn. Malik." 

"Yes, I know. What is it?" 

"I, uh," Zayn says, and feels abruptly stupid. He swallows hard, touches the cut on his cheek, but there’s no fresh blood. "I. I’m outside your house, actually." 

Simon hums. “Aren’t you supposed to be with a client tonight?” 

"Yeah, that’s - I. That’s actually what I needed to - it, uh, I left." 

"You left." 

"Yeah, I left, because he - he hit me." Zayn sticks a fingernail into his mouth and gnaws at it. 

"He hit you," Simon says, slowly. 

"Yeah," Zayn mumbles. "It wasn’t - I just got out of there, I had to get out of there." 

"Come inside," Simon says, and then he hangs up. 

Zayn gets out of his car slowly, feeling oddly like he’s gotten in trouble at school, a weight in the bottom of his belly. 

---

"Show me where," Simon says five minutes later, standing in front of him in his lavish front office. Zayn’s feet are bare, digging into the thick Oriental rug. 

Zayn lifts his hand to his cheek. “Punched me here,” he says. “Uh, guess he was wearing a ring or summat because it’s - it was bleeding.” 

"Yes, I see that," Simon says, touching his fingers to the wound. 

"And, uh, I fell, and he kicked me in the stomach." Zayn lifts his shirt. The skin is red and tender, sure to bruise tomorrow. Simon doesn’t touch him there. 

"And why did he do that?" Simon asks, walking over to the corner of the room and taking a glass down from the shelf. He uncaps a bottle of amber liquid, pours a good amount into it, and hands it to Zayn. 

"Um, I- I spilled his tea," Zayn says, unsteadily, feeling awkward holding the glass. He sniffs it. Scotch. 

"You spilled his tea." 

"He- he asked me to make him tea. Serve him tea. And I- it was hot, the cup- I spilt some on my hand accidentally so I dropped the mug, and he hit me."

He takes a cautious sip of the scotch. It burns in his throat. 

Simon nods, slowly. 

"So you were clumsy," he says, and Zayn looks up at him, surprised.

"I didn’t mean to," he says, voice going small. 

"Course you didn’t," Simon says, face inscrutable. He pats Zayn’s shoulder. "And of course he won’t be able to contract with us again. I just want to make sure you’ve learned how important it is to be careful while you’re working." 

Zayn swallows. 

"Yeah," he says. "I know." 

"I haven’t got a plaster for that cheek, but you should wash it out with soap," Simon says, picking up his own scotch and taking a sip. "And tomorrow I’ll-" 

His phone rings on the table, and he sets his scotch down to answer it. 

"Hello?" 

He listens for a minute. Zayn takes a sip of his scotch, wiping his mouth. It makes his eyes water but it feels good in his chest. 

"Yes - hello, Mr. Winston," Simon says, and Zayn looks up, his eyes widening. 

Shit. 

"He did what?" Simon says, eyes fixing on Zayn’s, his face starting to narrow. "Oh, I- I see. Yes. No, I understand. Zayn is fine, I’ve spoken to him. It was a misunderstanding." 

His voice is perfectly polite, but his hand is clenched tight around the phone, and Zayn takes a shaky scared step backwards. Fucking hell, he’s in it now.  

"I’m so sorry about that, Ben, I can’t imagine what he was thinking," Simon says, and then lets out a forced chuckle. "Yes, of course. Well, they are quite close. I know. And of course your payment will be returned." 

Zayn’s pulse picks up another beat at that. He’s so fucked. God, why did Ben call Simon? Why would Ben ever - but then, why would Ben know that this is the worst thing he could’ve possibly done?

"Yes, of course. Thanks so much for your understanding. Alright. Have a good night." 

Simon hangs up, and puts the phone into his pocket. He’s deadly still, except for a muscle working in his jaw. 

"That was Mr. Winston," he says, slowly, not looking at Zayn. "He said you showed up at his home half an hour ago. Uninvited. Unexpected." 

Zayn’s throat feels dry. He puts down his glass before he drops it, fingers trembling. 

"Can you explain to me, Zayn, why you would do that?" 

Simon picks up his scotch, finishes it in one swallow and sets it down again, with a heavy clunk. 

"I- I didn’t- I didn’t know Harry was there," Zayn says, unsteadily. "It was just- it was just-" 

"It was just what?" Simon asks, voice like acid. "It was just what, Zayn, finish your fucking sentences, for god’s sake.” 

"It was just - me being stupid," Zayn finishes lamely. 

How many times,” Simon says, grimacing, loosening his tie, and Zayn takes another step backward. “How many times have I told you that if you tried to see Ben again, there would be consequences?” 

"I know, and I’m sorry," Zayn says quickly. "It was stupid, I shouldn’t have-" 

Simon’s rolling up his sleeves, and then he darts forward quick as a snake, grabs Zayn by the chin, palm against his throat. Zayn chokes, and nearly falls forward against his hand. 

"You told me," Simon grits out, holding him fast by the throat. "That you would never try to speak to him again. You told me- that it was over, and that you were done being foolish, and I bloody believed you.” 

"It’s over," Zayn chokes out. "I swear-" 

"Do you know what I do, with whores who think they’re in love?" Simon says, very calmly. His fingers feel heavy and hot against Zayn’s jaw, inescapable. "I get them the fuck out of my business, because they only cause trouble." 

Zayn’s eyes are leaking, from reflex, and he’s gasping, these short rough gasps that don’t even sound like him. 

"But I gave you a second chance, because I have a soft spot for you." Simon shifts his hand, twists a little, and Zayn muffles a moan of pain. "Because I know you didn’t have fuck-all to go back to. No fucking family, no friends-“ 

He lets go, finally, and Zayn stumbles back, putting his hand to his throat, gulping in as deep of breaths as he can manage. 

"This is your last warning," Simon says, low and cold. "This is the last time I let you act like a child." 

Zayn nods, over and over. There are spots in his vision, black and dizzying. 

"This is real money we’re dealing with," Simon bites out. "This isn’t some fucking fairytale. Ben does not love you. He does not care about you. He paid money to fuck you. That’s all.” 

"I know," Zayn says, voice weak, because he does know, he knows that, he knows that’s what people want. Money and sex. 

"Do you know how easily I could put you back where I found you?" Simon murmurs. 

"Yeah, I know," Zayn mumbles again, not looking at him. His face is burning hot.

"Take away that nice flat, those nice clothes, that car of yours," Simon says, face hard. "Leave you in some bar with everything you own in a bloody backpack giving head for a free dinner. That’s where you were, Zayn, and that’s where you can be again.” 

Zayn nods, thumbing wet off his cheeks. Whispers, “I know.” 

Simon heaves a long sigh. 

"Go home, then," he says. "The money Harry would’ve made tonight will come out of your wages." 

Zayn nods. He expected that. Simon picks up his empty glass and turns around to fill it, and like a shamed puppy, Zayn puts on his shoes and slinks out of the front door. 

He goes home, this time. When he gets there he sees Harry sitting on his doorstep, smoking a fag, back hunched and hair curling around his shadowed face. Of bloody course. A cherry on the top of a truly awful night.

Zayn parks, wipes the last of the tears from his face, tries to feel and look normal. 

Harry stands up when he sees Zayn coming up the walk, dropping his cigarette on the ground and grinding it with the tip of his Chelsea boot. 

"Hey," he says, worriedly. "Are you alright?" 

"I’m fine," Zayn says, flashing him a smile. "You didn’t have to come over here." 

"Ben said you were really- shook up, or summat," Harry says, touching Zayn’s arm. "Didn’t you have that old bloke tonight? The one with the tea and the housecleaning? What happened?" 

"I’m fine," Zayn repeats, carefully taking Harry’s hand off his wrist. "I’m just tired." 

"But Ben said-" 

"Ben doesn’t know what the bloody fuck he’s talking about," Zayn snaps. "Alright?" 

Harry goes quiet and wide-eyed, and Zayn feels a rush of guilt. He steps past Harry to get to the door, and he’s halfway up the stairs when Harry says, low- 

"Is it Ben?" 

"Is what Ben," Zayn says, even though he knows. He’s clutching his door key so tightly in his hand it’s starting to hurt. 

"The client," Harry says softly. "Who you were in love with." 

It feels strange to hear it out loud. 

Zayn forces himself to breathe, slowly. He turns around. 

"I saw you kissing him," Harry continues, voice hushed, telling secrets. "Outside Palazzo, last month. I came out the door and saw you and - and I went back inside and pretended I hadn’t." 

Zayn’s stomach is sinking. 

"I’m sorry," he says, helplessly. 

"You could’ve told me," Harry whispers. "I wouldn’t work for him if you-" 

"No, fuck, please," Zayn says, lifting his head, feeling Simon’s fingers around his throat like a phantom. "You have to. You can’t - we can’t lose him, alright?" 

"Zayn-" 

"We can’t lose him as a client," Zayn says desperately. "You don’t get it, alright, Simon’ll blame me and he’ll - he’ll- just. You have to keep seeing him." 

"Not if I tell Simon it’s my fault,” Harry says, peering at him. “If I just tell him I don’t want Ben as a client anymore-“ 

"Please, Harry." Zayn runs a hand through his hair; it’s shaking. God, he can’t deal with this tonight, on top of everything else. "Please just keep seeing him." 

"I don’t get you," Harry says, stubbornly, his eyebrows furrowing together. "You’re in love with him and you won’t even try?" 

Zayn chokes out a laugh. 

"Try?" he says, voice cracking. "Try?” 

"You don’t-" 

"No, shut up, Harry," Zayn says, jaw clenching. "Shut up. You don’t understand. If I ever fucking try, Simon’ll - he’ll put me out on the fucking street and I can’t go back there, okay? I can’t go back there. I can’t.” 

He’s breathing fast. 

"You don’t know what - I can’t fucking go back there, I can’t ever go back there, o-okay?" He knows he’s babbling, repeating himself, but he’s so tired, and his life feels so tired, and he doesn’t know what to do. He wants to go to bed. 

"Okay," Harry says, soothing. "Okay. I’m sorry." 

Zayn turns around without another word, unlocks the door. His hands are wobbly. 

When he opens it, Harry follows him inside like a lost puppy. He always fucking does. Zayn hates it, and yet he can’t bear the thought of being by himself right this second. He knows if he’s alone he’ll fall into a pit of memories, the bad kind, and he- he just doesn’t want. That. 

Harry shuts the door behind them, and says, “What happened tonight? With the client?” 

"It’s nothing." 

"You’re bleeding," Harry says, following him into the kitchen. Zayn grabs a paper towel, wets it under the sink. "Why are you bleeding?" 

"Harry, I swear to fucking God, can you just lay off?"  

Harry takes the towel out of Zayn’s hand, pushes his back gently up against the kitchen counter. 

"Let me," he says, face set and determined, and he tilts Zayn’s jaw up with one hand, carefully dabs at the cut on his cheek. 

Zayn stays very still. His pulse is beating fast in his neck, he can feel it, and Harry’s hand is very tender and cautious against his skin.

"There," Harry murmurs after a second. He moves Zayn’s chin up a bit, into the light, and then his breath catches in his throat. 

"Shit," he says, shakily. "Zayn, your neck." 

Abruptly, Zayn remembers Simon’s fingers digging into his throat, and he pulls away, grabs the towel from Harry and tosses it into the bin. Harry doesn’t need to know about that. Harry’s a good kid, a good worker, he won’t ever need what Simon does to Zayn. 

He thinks of it unwillingly, of Simon grabbing Harry, hurting him, and he has to shake his head hard to clear it. It won’t happen. Harry will be fine.

"You should get some ice on that," Harry says from behind him. 

"It’s fine." 

"It’ll bruise something awful tomorrow." 

"I’m fine,” Zayn says, and his voice breaks raggedly, and before he can react Harry puts his arms around Zayn’s waist from behind, clings to the back of his neck, puts his cheek to Zayn’s back and lets out a harsh breath that sounds like a sob. 

Shit. 

"Harry," Zayn says, clipped. Harry’s hands are tight against the raw sore part of his ribs, and it bloody hurts. "Get off me." 

"You’re not okay," Harry gulps out, voice all shaky. "You’re not okay. Why aren’t you okay?" 

"Harry, I’m just bloody tired-" 

Harry turns him around by the shoulders, eyes wide. 

"You’re lying to me," he says. "You lied to me about Ben, and you’re lying to me now-" 

"Get the fuck over it," Zayn snaps, tugging Harry’s hands off his shoulders. "I don’t owe you anything. I’ll lie to you if I bloody want to." 

Harry’s mouth opens, and then closes again, and he takes a step back, eyes round.

Zayn rubs at his aching ribs, stops before Harry catches on to what he’s doing. 

"I need to go to bed-" he starts, and Harry cuts him off. 

”- you - I don’t ever lie to you,” he says, haltingly. “We’re not supposed to lie to each other.” 

"Harry-" 

"No!" Harry yells. "You’re the only person I have! Don’t fucking lie to me!" 

Zayn takes a step back, and Harry chokes out a dry sob into his wrist, wipes at his eyes. 

"Fuck," he says to himself, steadying, low. "Fuck." 

"I think you should get out now," Zayn says, feeling a hot rush of regret even as he says it. "Get out of my flat, Harry." 

"I don’t have anyone else," Harry mumbles, voice thick. 

"You don’t have me either," Zayn says cruelly, and it feels like a lie, but it does the trick, because Harry sobs again, into the crook of his elbow, and turns around, grabs his jacket and fucks off out of Zayn’s flat. 

Zayn waits until the door closes and then he walks carefully into the bedroom and kicks off his shoes, sprawls out on his stomach and puts his face into his pillow. His cheek stings when it presses against the cotton, and he knows he should put a plaster on it like Harry said, but he can’t move. 

He fucking hates Harry, and the easy way Harry moves through life, and the way he gets to kiss and fuck Ben and it’s so, so easy for him, so simple. He hates Harry so much, and at the same time he loves him, like a brother, and it hurts. He almost starts to cry because it hurts so bad. What the fuck is that? 

He keeps it in, though, by breathing in and out deeply and digging his fingernails into his palms until pain shoots up his wrists and clears his head.

His phone buzzes next to him and he fumbles for it, his eyes burning. It’s Harry. 

put ice on your neck or itll bruise, the text says. 

Zayn whimpers out a laugh. Good fucking god, Harry’s such a better person than him. 

i’m sorry, he types out slowly, because it feels like the least he can do at this point. As soon as he sends it he wants to take it back. It’s scary to just look down and see his feelings right there, open. Written out. 

yeah, i know, Harry sends back, a minute later, when Zayn’s in the toilet staring at himself in the mirror, patting antibiotic over the cut on his cheek. 

The phone vibrates again. 

brunch tomorrow? Harry’s written. anywhere you want. 

Zayn laughs again, rubs at his leaking eyes, presses down the plaster over his throbbing cheek. 

Yeah, he sends. Good night 

love you x, Harry sends back, when Zayn’s crawling into bed with phone in hand. 

It’s sad, is what it is - Harry saying he loves him when Zayn’s not capable of doing anything but hurting him. When Zayn kicked him out his flat not an hour earlier. It’s pathetic. Harry’s pathetic, and needy, and it’s sad.

But Harry’s the only person Zayn has, too. He knows that. 

Zayn curls up under his duvet, keeps his phone close. He presses it against his chest in case it buzzes again, and falls asleep just like that, clutching it like a lifeline. 

HARRY

Nick’s been in Harry’s flat for about ten minutes and he’s already taken his shoes off, thrown his coat on the floor, rumpled Harry’s sofa, put the kettle on, messed up his cupboards looking for tea, and spilled sugar on the countertop. Harry’s sort of impressed. And fond, that too, the same kind of heart-clenching feeling he’s been getting over the past two weeks as they've texted. They’ve texted constantly. Harry feels like he’s back in sixth-form, except Nick’s thirty years old and instead of finding time to text between classes, Harry finds time between clients. 

"This is posh," Nick says, impressed, picking up a watch Harry’s left on the table. Elise gave it to him last month and Harry keeps taking it off to do the dishes and forgetting to put it back on. "Is this Marc Jacobs?" 

"Ermm, I dunno, it was a gift," Harry says, huffing a laugh as he watches Nick hold the watch up against his wrist, tilting his head to the side to admire it. 

Nick sets it down and wanders back into the kitchen. They haven’t touched other than a perfunctory kiss on the cheek when Harry let him in. Harry would quite like to touch him, but he doesn’t want to, like, pressure him. Maybe Nick only likes to get off in bathrooms in posh hotels. Maybe he doesn’t fancy Harry anymore. Maybe he only liked the thrill of it. 

"Sooo," Nick says, poking his head into Harry’s fridge to look for milk. "I don’t have to worry about Ben Winston coming after me, do I?" 

"No," Harry laughs, handing Nick his mug of tea. 

Nick drips some milk into the mug, takes a sip without stirring it first, raises an eyebrow at Harry over the mug. “Cos I can’t fight for shit. I trip over my own feet about three times a week. I once got a concussion trying to get dressed in the dark. He’d take me down. He’s like proper beefy.” 

"You don’t have to worry, idiot," Harry says. "Is that why you’re being so, like, weird? Ben and I are- we’re friends." 

"Friends," Nick says, doubtfully. "Friends who kiss on the mouth. Friends who take each other to extremely posh dinners. Friends who-" 

"Shut up," Harry snorts. "We’re- y’know. Friends. Friend-friends." 

"I feel like my definition of friend and your definition of friend are very different." 

"He’s my friend," Harry says, coyly. "Who occasionally shags me, and occasionally takes me to posh dinners." 

"Ohhh, that kind of friend,” Nick says, laughing a little, taking Harry’s hips in hand and pushing him gently back against the counter. Harry tilts his mouth up hopefully. “You should’ve said.” 

"Shut up," Harry repeats, breathily, and Nick kisses him. 

Five minutes later he has a hand down Harry’s jeans and Harry’s squirming back against the fridge, fucking up into Nick’s grip. Nick loves to jerk him off, apparently. Harry’s not making any complaints. There’s something dirty and oddly comforting about it, like Harry’s back in sixth-form getting off with boys for the first time. 

Of course, sometimes he wants a bit more. 

"Hey," he says, breathless, kissing Nick’s mouth and then his cheek. Nick’s focused on the task at hand, and he mouths back at Harry’s lips absently, twists his hand on the upstroke and makes Harry’s knees buckle. "Hey. Fancy seeing my bedroom?" 

"Fancy seeing my bedroom," Nick laughs into his ear, his hand slowing on Harry’s cock. "What a fucking line.” 

"Straight and to the point," Harry says, grinning. "Or, you know. Not straight, as it were." 

"Oh ha ha," Nick says, and then, "Go on then, show me this bedroom of yours." 

He huffs out a put-upon sigh, takes his hand off Harry’s dick, and Harry leads the way. 

---

Nick gives a sloppy, enthusiastic blowjob, humming around Harry’s dick and looking blissful, which is sort of a nice surprise. Harry can’t keep himself from digging his hands into Nick’s gelled quiff, breathing hard, staring at his hollowed cheeks until his eyes water. It feels fucking incredible. 

He comes down Nick’s throat, and Nick pulls off after he swallows, gasping. Grins up at Harry and then crawls up his body til they’re face to face.

"How’s that then?" he says. His mouth is swollen. He licks his lips.

"Do you always ask that after you blow someone?" Harry says, laughing. "Pure class, aren’t you, Grimshaw." 

"Absolutely," Nick says cheerily. "So how’d I do?"

"A-star, I’d say," Harry says, cracking a lazy grin, and Nick ducks his head in a mock bow. What an idiot. Harry reaches out to bite at Nick’s red mouth, turns them over so Nick’s on his back, gently holds his wrists down while he undoes Nick’s shirt, kisses down his chest. He didn’t get to touch any of Nick’s body last time. Didn’t get to lay him out flat, take his time. Nick has sticky-out ribs and narrow hips and a softness at his middle that Harry takes his time with, kissing and nipping at the flesh until he can feel Nick’s prick twitching in his jeans. 

"Now I want a full assessment, Mr. Grimshaw,” Harry says, low, just before he undoes the zip of Nick’s jeans. 

Nick’s staring down at him, his cheeks flushed, eyes dazed. Harry loves that look. 

"Take notes," Harry murmurs, as he pulls Nick’s briefs down over the hot hard head of his dick. Nick lets out a shocked gulp of a laugh, and Harry sucks him down. 

He pulls out every trick he’s learned from years of sucking cock. Nick goes absolutely silent, taut and shaking, until Harry lets the head of Nick’s dick snug up against the back of his throat, swallows over and over against the weight of it, and then Nick starts to whimper. 

There it is. Harry gasps for air through his nose, eyes teary, trying not to feel so completely smug. It’s hard not to, though, when Nick comes about thirty seconds later, groaning, his hands fisting in the sheets. 

Harry swallows it down, keeping his mouth around Nick until he’s spent. 

"Good- Christ,” Nick gasps, when Harry licks at him as he goes soft, making Nick’s hips shiver with leftover sensation. “You monster.” 

Harry lifts his head. His lips feel slick and hot and his jaw aches when he smiles. 

"Well?" he says. His voice sounds wrecked.

Nick tips his head back, lets out a weak laugh. “Full fucking marks.” 

---

"So guess what," Harry says five minutes later, when they’re lying side by side, breathing deep. His stomach’s quivering nervously, cutting through his post-shag haze, but he’s got this feeling that he needs to say it. 

Nick hums, looks over at him. “What?” 

Harry looks him over. 

"Remember when you thought I was an actor?" he says. 

Nick breathes out a laugh. “I’m still not convinced you aren’t. That blowjob was all, like, casting couch. Very impressive.” 

Harry blinks up at the ceiling. Well, that cuts a bit close. 

"In a- not rude way," Nick says, sounding sheepish. "Sorry? Was that rude?" 

"It’s okay," Harry says, chewing his bottom lip. "Actually, a bit spot-on." 

Nick looks at him, curiously. “Hm?” 

"That’s sort of what I do," Harry says. There’s a sinking feeling in his chest. "I sort of, um, have sex. Professionally." 

There’s a long, tight silence. 

"Oh, god," Nick says, faintly. 

He sits up, and Harry sits up too, feeling defensive, wobbly.

"Oh god. I’ve been stupid. I’ve been really stupid, haven’t I-" 

"No, I- not you,” Harry bursts out, grabbing for Nick’s knee. “Not you. I wasn’t - I. It’s just my job. I’m, um, I’m an escort.  But I wasn’t escorting you. We weren’t escorting together. Escorting? Is that, um, the right word?” 

Nick’s got his hand over his face. 

"Nick," Harry says, desperately. "That all came out wrong. Um. I probably should have told you, you know, not when we had just had sex." 

"What’s this, like, a freebie, and then I sign a contract?" Nick says miserably, rubbing his forehead. "Like when you try out the gym free for a week?" 

"I’m not a gym," Harry says, quietly. 

"God, I’m so stupid. I thought you liked me.” 

"I do like you." Harry’s throat hurts, and not just from the blowjob. "I’m not- I’m not being an escort right now. That’s just, um, that’s just my job. I’m just being me right now-" 

"And the other night, that was, what, a preview?" 

"Nick, you’re not fucking listening to me." 

Nick lets out a strained breath, and Harry grabs his knee, squeezes hard, until Nick drops his hand and frowns at him. 

"I’m not trying to shag you for money," Harry says, sniffing in hard. "I swear." 

Nick blinks at him. 

"Trust me, okay? This- this isn’t about money," Harry says, voice cracking, and then, trying to lighten the mood, "You’re not rich enough anyway." 

"Heyyy," Nick says automatically, the line of his eyebrows loosening up a bit. "I’m insulted. But also relieved?" 

"Just trust me, alright?" Harry says, knuckling his own thigh with his fingers, nervously. "If I was in it for the money, I wouldn’t have gotten off with you while I was out with Ben. I’m not supposed to do that."

"You mean-" Nick starts, and his eyes go wide. "Ben pays for it? Oh, shit.” 

"Nick-" 

"But Ben’s so fit," Nick says, nose wrinkling. "I figured you’d only shag like old wrinkly blokes." 

"Ben likes no commitment, and someone pretty on his arm," Harry says, and then flushes because that sounds bloody conceited, doesn’t it. 

"Ooh, someone pretty, does he, is that s’posed to be you?” Nick says, poking at Harry’s side and making Harry wriggle ticklishly. 

"You can’t- stop it, Nick-” Harry giggles, batting his hands away. “You can’t tell anyone that, alright? About Ben.” 

Nick mimes zipping his lip and tossing away the key. 

"I mean it," Harry says, biting his lip. "It’s really, like. It’s really important." 

"Don’t fret, sweetheart. I’m good at keeping secrets." 

Harry should probably fret, considering Nick’s choice of profession, but for some reason he doesn’t doubt him, not one bit.

"The point is," he says. "It’s what I do, but - it’s not why, it’s not why I did this. I just, like. I just really really really really fancy you.” 

His cheeks go red. Nick’s smiling a bit moonily. 

"How many reallys was that, love?" 

"Shut up," Harry mutters, punching his thigh. 

"No punches, we’ve gone over this,” Nick laughs gently, grabbing Harry’s fist. “I’m just- God. It’s just a bit weird. Isn’t it? I’m not just an old fuddy-duddy, it is a bit weird, what you do, right?” 

"It doesn’t have to be weird," Harry says, turning his hand around so he’s palm to palm with Nick. "It’s just, like. My day job." 

"Your day job!" Nick says, huffing out a breath. "S’bit different than a normal day job, Harold." 

"Because your day job is super normal," Harry says dryly. "Mr. Breakfast Show Host." 

"That’s more normal than what you do!" 

"Wait, alright, listen." Harry puts his hands out. "It’s like, if I worked at a restaurant all day, it’s not like I’m going to not eat when I’m not at work. I still need to eat." 

"Well, if you worked at, like, a McDonald’s, you might not eat McDonald’s when you’re off work," Nick argues back. 

"Okay, but sex isn’t McDonald’s." 

"Sex isn’t food either, Harry, that’s the point of a bloody metaphor." 

Harry opens his mouth to argue back even though he’s sort of lost the plot, and cracks up helplessly when he sees Nick’s mouth wobble. Nick breaks about a second later, until they’re both clutching each other in bed, choking out gulps of laughter. 

Nick ends up on his back with Harry slumped on top of him, head to his chest, feeling Nick’s belly wobble as he laughs his strange creaky laugh.

"Frankly-" Nick says breathlessly. "Frankly I resent the implication that sex with me is anything like McDonald’s.” 

"I would never insult McDonald’s like that," Harry says, solemnly, and Nick smacks at his head with one hand. 

"Little shit." 

"I quite like McDonald’s, anyway," Harry says, lifting his head, and Nick sticks out his tongue, and Harry kisses him because he kind of can’t help it when Nick looks at him like that. 

Nick hums in his throat and slides his hand up Harry’s back. 

"So," Harry says, breathing hard, five minutes later when they finally break for air. His lips are tingling, well-kissed. "You’re okay with it?" 

Nick looks up at the ceiling, purses his lips thoughtfully. 

"I suppose I can handle it. It’s not like we’re dating or anything." 

Harry nods, a bit deflated. “That’s true.” 

“You’re allowed, though?” Nick says, raising an eyebrow. His hand’s stroking slowly through Harry’s hair, and it feels so nice Harry just wants to collapse into his chest and sleep forever. “To, you know, fuck around when you’re not on the clock?” 

Harry scoffs. “Course I’m allowed. It’s not like my dick’s only got a- a limited number of uses. I mean, in a day, obviously, but not in general- it's like, if I worked at, say, a coffee shop-“ 

Nick laughs, eyes crinkling. He touches Harry’s bottom lip. “Don’t whip out another metaphor, please, I’ll take your word for it.” 

Harry huffs a laugh too and then lays his head down. He stares at the wall as he feels Nick’s heart beat slow under his ear. 

He’s allowed. Isn’t he? It’s not like it matters. 

Simon never needs to know, anyway.