Archive of Our Own

It's July when Zayn's wife finally takes their daughter and heads back to Bradford to stay with her family for a week. He went with them to Kings Cross to wave them off, watched his little family find a seat in a cramped third class compartment and waited on the platform until the very tail end of the snake of carriages was enveloped in thick smoke as the train pulled out of the station.

The heat in London is oppressive and the bus back out to the east end is crowded. But as Zayn stands, crushed between a mother with a pram and a group of workmen with dirty hands, he makes eye contact with a man the other side of the bus. He's handsome, a strong jaw and carefully slicked back dark hair. As he holds Zayn gaze, he raises an eyebrow slightly. It's just the smallest hint of a question, a suggestion of defiance. And Zayn feels his stomach leap, he knows what that means. He used to be the master of The Look, the secret code that only a select few know. He's asked that question himself, and been asked, by city men with shiny shoes and bowler hats, by men in flat caps and sturdy boots. Once by a soldier in uniform near Piccadilly circus and another time by a man who he'd seen again the following Friday at prayers in the tiny living room of a Victorian terraced house that they use as a makeshift mosque.

Because he knows, he also knows to look away and not to look back. To stare carefully out of the grimy bus window until the man gets off. He doesn't do this any longer.

–

It’s two days after his wife leaves when the itch settles into his bones again. He's twitchy, unsettled. He finds himself noticing things that he's forced himself not to notice. Hands, jaws, shoulders. The elegance of a man's lips as he exhales a stream of smoke from a narrow cigarette. That evening he does something he hasn't done for a long, long time. He takes the book from the bottom of the little pile on his bedside table. It's a thin Penguin paperback. And turns to the hundredth page, where a postcard is being used as a bookmark. He knows his wife would never think to look twice at it. It's faded, a little beaten up, with a colour photograph of a grand, English building labelled 'Harewood House, Yorkshire'. Zayn holds it in his hands and takes a deep breath and turns it over, reads the handwritten message on the other side,

Zayn's surprised the ink hasn't disappeared, he must have read those two lines a thousand times. He's scared that it's like the sole of a pair of shoes and it'll wear out once he's walked a thousand miles in the memory.

It’s from a past that he’s deliberately forgotten. He's promised himself that he'll be better. He's a married man now. Sometimes in the evening, he looks over at his wife as she works on the little bits of needlework and mending she does to make a little extra money, and feels so terribly fond of her and of their daughter with her pretty, wide brown eyes. But as he sits in front of the fire in their tiny ground floor flat, a book open in his lap, the guilt can be crushing because he's doing it wrong, because he wants to look at boys and feel their stubble against his cheek. Because he’s done things that could hurt them, hurt his family, he’s put them at risk so many times. But he can’t help it. He falls in love so easily. And it always hurts so beautifully.

–

It’s three days after his wife leaves that Zayn first feels that desperate kick of lust. He’s walking to the newsagent to pick up a packet of smokes, when he spots him. He’s tall and slim and almost Zayn’s opposite. He’s got a mass of untamed curls where Zayn has a carefully neat parting, he’s got a wide, open, soft face, where Zayn has sharp lines and piercing cheekbones, he’s got pale green eyes, where Zayn’s are dark. He’s dressed in a sort of artfully disheveled way, the way someone only dresses if they have confidence that no one will question them. Zayn feels a constant anxiety that he’s being judged, that he must appear respectable and smart. This man knows that others will think him respectable and so has no need to prove it. He can wear scuffed boots without anyone thinking he's up to no good.

They lock eyes, just for a second. It’s just long enough for Zayn to notice his eyes track down Zayn’s body. Again, it’s a look he’s seen before, in seedy drinking clubs in dark attics on Wardour Street, or in basements on Old Compton Street. He smirks inwardly to himself, and if he adds a little extra bounce to his walk, if he stands for a moment in the doorway of the shop where he knows the light will frame his profile, highlight his jaw, well, no one would be able to prove it.

–

Five days after his wife leaves and Zayn’s will finally breaks, as it always does. Sometimes he feels a little as though he’s walking a tightrope between two tall buildings, and it only takes a momentary glance downwards to be overcome by vertigo. To feel that overwhelming pull somewhere deep in his gut.

He dresses himself up, smartly but inconspicuously. The place he’s going is welcoming, it's full of all of those who’ve don’t fit in anywhere else, but he knows he’ll get viewed with a little suspicion. He always does.

The room is dark, deliberately so. There is nowhere more fun in the entirety of London than these semi secret rooms, tucked into the corners of Soho. Perhaps it’s that sense of danger in being there, if the police could raid at any moment, the awkwardness of asking someone to dance or the fear of being somewhere alone seems insignificant. So people throw themselves into the moment, grasp this transient freedom with all their strength.

Zayn pushes all thoughts of his family and the police and the real world to the back of his mind. He orders a whiskey at the bar. He’s never really got into the habit of enjoying drinking, so he just knocks it back for courage, then orders another one. The room is full, a few younger men dancing to a record player on a small table, while most stand about chatting and flirting. The edges of the room are filled with tables of groups sitting, laughing and gossiping. He recognizes some faces, he may not have done this for a while, but even in London, the biggest place he can imagine, there are only a handful of people who go to places like this. There are always familiar faces.

He’s scanning the room when he sees the man from two days ago occupying a corner table with a group of friends. He looks up and catches Zayn’s eye, smirking with recognition as he tilts his head in invitation. Zayn freezes. It’s such a strange coincidence.

He doesn’t hesitate; he pulls a chair up to their table and offers a hand for the man to shake.

Instead he takes it and presses the back to his mouth, before saying, ‘What’s a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?’

Zayn laughs, a real belly laugh that’s only partly being powered by the rush of alcohol in his blood.

‘That’s the worst line I’ve ever heard!’

His friend leans over and mock whispers to Zayn, ‘watch out for him, he’s a hopeless charmer.’

He smiles again, ‘I like to think of it as charmingly hopeless’ he says wittily, with the arch of an eyebrow.

His voice has that cut glass quality that means Zayn knows he was right, this is someone from a rather different background to him. Someone who’ll probably leave here tonight and go back to a family home somewhere in leafy West London, someone who doesn’t have to worry about damp and mice and whether his paycheck will cover this quarter’s electricity bill.

He introduces himself, ‘Zayn. And you are?’

‘Harry’ he replies, ‘Fancy a dance?’

Zayn wants to say no. He’s a terrible dancer, he always defaults back to jumping in a sort of ungainly way. But he’s here, he won’t be here again for months, maybe even another year. He feels a little giddy with the opportunity. So he follows Harry over to where a small crowd is swinging their limbs wildly in time to the music.

He was expecting Harry to have that upper class grace, for his movements to match the smoothness of his accent, but actually, once he’s on his feet, he’s a little clumsy. It’s like his legs have grown too fast and he’s yet to get used to the length of them. He shakes his hair forward, then pushes it out of his face. It’s really quite a ridiculous mop, Zayn’s never seen anything like it before.

The music is upbeat rock and roll and everyone else is doing their own interpretations of the twist along to the beat. Harry gives it a go, arms flailing a little. Zayn does his own stiff interpretation, which makes Harry giggle,

‘We’re a pretty hopeless pair, aren’t we?’ He says into Zayn’s neck, ‘Come here’

He pulls Zayn towards him, so they’re pressed together. He seems to have decided to abandon the pretence of dancing to the music at all, and is instead holding Zayn’s chest to his, rubbing one broad hand down Zayn’s spine.

Zayn has to look up slightly, Harry’s a little taller than him. Close to, he looks impossibly young. His eyes are so clear, his forehead is unmarked by worry. Zayn wants to know more about him, what he does, why he was in East London, why he’s here, if there’s anyone waiting for him at home. But he doesn’t want to pry. That’s the one rule at a place like this. You leave who you are at the door. No one here can risk sharing too much of themselves, even while they share their most secret hidden parts of all.

Harry is so confident in his movements and when Zayn rests his hands on his chest he can feel wiry muscle moving under his shirt. To be held by strong arms, to feel the flat planes of a man's chest against his own, it's all he can think of lying awake late at night. In a moment like this he can barely breathe with how much want is pounding through his veins. Harry's neck is athletic, a strong column that contains a pulse that Zayn hopes is beating as fast as his. He wants to taste it, to taste Harry’s skin with his lips and his tongue. To map the contours of his ribs, to kiss the inside of his knees, the soles of his feet. He wants to know all of him. As they sway, off the beat of the music, he feels increasingly desperate. He feels like he wants to crawl inside Harry’s chest, hold his heart in his hands, pry apart his bones until Harry is as exposed as Zayn feels.

He decides to be brave.

‘I want you’ he breathes into Harry’s ear.

Harry looks a little startled, but pleased.

‘Urgh, yes’ he groans and releases Zayn from his hold, grabbing his hand instead, pulling him towards the door.

–

In the early hours of the sixth day after his wife left, Zayn finds himself being pressed against the grimy wall of a secluded alleyway as Harry presses urgent kisses to his cheeks.

He punctuates them with murmurs, ‘so beautiful’ and ‘so perfect’.

It’s intoxicating.

Zayn wants to regain some control, he feels like he’s loosing his grip. So he takes Harry’s face in his hands, brushes his thumbs over his cheeks, feels the faint brush of stubble under them. He kisses him deeply, franticly. Moves his hands to Harry’s sides, feels the curve of his body as it narrows into his hips, his compact arse under his palms.

He’d feel embarrassed about how out of his mind he feels, expect that Harry seems to feel the same way. Zayn wonders if he also doesn’t get to do this very often, or even if he’s ever done this before. But then Harry lowers himself to his knees, and undoes Zayn’s trousers, pulls his dick out of his underwear. It's a practiced move, Harry's hands are careful and precise as he grips the base of Zayn's cock with his fist. Zayn's mind goes blank with anticipation.

As Harry takes him into his mouth, groaning a little at the feel of it, Zayn scrabbles at the wall, clutches a drainpipe with one hand to support himself. His knees feel weak. Harry’s purposeful and hot, his slick warm mouth in contrast with the muggy London night.

He doesn’t want Harry on his knees though, he wants to be able to look him in his eyes. To lose control while being completely honest with someone, even if only for a moment. He pulls Harry up by the collar of his shirt and kisses him while unbuttoning his fly. He grips Harry’s cock with a firm hand, it’s so hard and Harry pushes his hips forward, straining for friction. They gasp into each others mouths, use tongues to kiss loosely and hotly. Zayn can feel his orgasm building, the rush towards release. He knows Harry feels the same, he's panting with exertion.

When Zayn comes it feels like he’s shattering.

He doesn’t close his eyes, he watches Harry come undone as Harry watches him.

They kiss softly as they recover, gently presses of swollen lips. Zayn feels raw. He denies himself and denies himself, and when he finally allows himself to feel, to open his heart to someone he really wants, the relief of it is like a tidal wave. As he looks at Harry’s face, the masculinity of his throat and the strength of his jaw, he feels his heart flood. He can’t help it.

He falls in love so easily.

Seven days after his wife leaves and Zayn sets about taking the memory of Harry and pressing it into a corner of his mind where it won’t bother him, it won’t tempt him. He knows he won’t see him again.

His wife will be home the day after tomorrow and life will go back to normal. He'll settle into the cosy routine they've built. He’ll be a good husband. He’ll be a good father. He won’t let his own father down, the man who’s worked so hard for Zayn, years of night shifts in a factory thousands of miles away from home. To provide a chance for his son who risks everything because he’s broken. Because he can’t be the person he wishes he could be.

And Harry will become just another faded postcard, pressed between the pages of a rarely read book.