Work Text:
Basic space, open air
Don't look away, when there's nothing there
I'm setting us in stone
Piece by piece, before I'm alone
Air tight, before we break
Keep it in, keep us safe
i.
That night Zayn takes a sniff when Harry maneuvers over to whisper in his ear, screams vaguely registering in the background, and only shrugs when Harry gives him an odd look. Zayn grins, sudden and shocking like the contrast of jet black lines against his skin, and Harry doesn't have time to wonder about Zayn's behavior when he has to focus on breathing and walking properly; left, right, left, right, then all rights and no wrongs when Zayn pulls him away, one hand on his waist, because he's wobbling close to the edge. There's something significant in there about falling but Harry just grins and fills in his dimples with gratitude he wishes Zayn could lap up like the puddles left on the sidewalk after a thunderstorm.
ii.
Harry was Harry. The one who could be so charming, so endearing, one moment and then painfully awkward the next. Later on he'd learn how to smooth over the rocky moments by letting himself say and do anything he wanted to, really, because the times when he forces himself to be quiet is much worse than his endless chatter, but Harry wants to crawl under a rock when he makes a dumb comment about his religion and Zayn goes dead quiet - as if being mad at Harry isn't even worth his time.
It breaks something in Harry, mollifies him more than any mindless rumor or punishment from his mother, and he tries to buy Zayn's forgiveness days later by buying him sweets when he sneaks out one morning to buy himself breakfast. Zayn takes it, thanks him, and eats it with Harry watching like the world depends on it but Harry doesn't feel anything between them change. He's starting to think it's all in his head but he doesn't have time to prove it between all the hours they spend practicing. Harry thinks up a million excuses for them to spend time together, as friends, but he doesn't say any of them and Harry throws himself at the other contestants instead. Some would say Harry needs to have his ego fed, but the ones close to him know that Harry needs the constant reassurance that he's doing something right. That there's a reason why people like him and a reason why he's there in the first place.
Harry feels like he's making progress each time Zayn laughs at one of his stupid jokes and when he smiles, instead of looks away, when he catches Harry looking at him with wonder on his face. They're getting better each week and Harry can feel the fans pushing him on, cheering in his head as he strikes up conversation after conversation with Zayn and all of them go as well as they possibly could. The only thing they seem to completely agree on is how they need to work themselves down to the bone in order to win.
They're so close Harry can taste it and he's never wanted anything in his life more than to hear their name called as the winner of X Factor.
(Zayn's forgiveness and attention comes close, but Harry has priorities - really.)
The news hits him the hardest. It cracks his hopeful heart in half and Harry turns to the nearest person, though if he said it was random it would be a lie, because Zayn is there with his bony shoulder for Harry to cry on and he lets all of his shields and personas fall to his feet. It all feels pointless and Harry hates it so much he cries harder, shaking in Zayn's arms, blind to the world outside of the arms wrapped around him and the shirt he grips with unsteady hands.
Zayn doesn't know that the world starts to come back into focus for Harry when he began to cry too because Harry can't help but think there, that's it, the change he was searching for in vain. The shift between them, the first step closer to the Zayn barely anyone knows because Zayn doesn't like to dole out pieces of himself to everyone like Harry does.
It feels precious, like a secret only they know, and Harry doesn't feel a bit of regret about finding the silver lining behind Zayn's honest, burning tears.
iii.
Niall's naturally friendly and shows affection as if it's as easy as breathing for him. Liam was a hard one to crack but they got there eventually; Harry's glad he doesn't get the occasional odd look from him anymore, especially when he gets the chance to pet and rub Liam's shaved head. Like peaches, Zayn said, and Harry didn't understand why his mood deflated at the comment.
It's no surprise Liam and Zayn get along, god knows the fans seem to like them as much as they like him and Louis, but Harry thinks there's something different about the way they move around each other. Harry wants to have whole conversations with Zayn with just silly expressions and gestures but Zayn never seems to understand what Harry's trying to say. He isn't sure if it's because he's balls at playing charades or if there's some glass wall between them that refuses to break no matter how hard Harry bangs his fists against it - bangs them so hard his knuckles are bleeding, smearing red all over.
The change takes Harry by surprise. It’s slow, coming together bit by bit, because this time Zayn controls the pace and he never liked to rush things. Harry spent so much attention on trying to figure out how he could copy Liam he didn't notice how Zayn started to gravitate towards him in his own way. How his hand lingered just a bit longer when they'd run across Harry's shoulders and how he leaned just a bit closer to tell him something on stage. Harry doesn't notice because he's staring too damn hard at what he can't have so when he does it's as if someone's poured of bucket of ice cold water over his head and slapped him once, twice, for being so daft.
The first time he notices the intention in Zayn's touch, the difference in the way he treated Harry compared to the rest of the boys, is when Zayn runs a hand down Harry's back and doesn't stop until his hand is resting on Harry's lower back and palming at the warm skin underneath his thin t-shirt. Harry shudders, eyes closing, and catches himself from turning and planting Zayn's hand back on him after he pulls away to sing his line.
Harry sings his part with even more enthusiasm than usual and the fans scream because he's practically assaulting his microphone with his voice, shouting hard and loud for everyone to hear. Elation courses through him like a drug leaving him high on cloud nine, even higher when he moves unnecessarily close to whisper to Zayn again and he doesn't pull away - he moves closer and Harry thinks he has enough strength in his legs to jump higher than he's ever jumped before, right off the edge of the stage and into the air as if he can fly from the way suspension grips at his heart.
iv.
Maybe siblings isn't the best comparison because that makes Harry think of incest, which is a big no, and he's glad they're as close as brothers but not actually related. That would be awkward, Harry thinks, because brothers don't have (occasionally) dirty thoughts about their siblings - a real brother wouldn't feel the urge to lick the droplets left on Zayn's skin after he walks out of the shower.
Harry wonders if Zayn does the whole smoldering look into the distance thing on purpose. It certainly seems like that at first, when candid pictures of Zayn look as if they belong in the fashion magazines Harry flips through sometimes, but when Harry asks Zayn about it the other boy has no idea what he's talking about. Sure, Zayn knows he looks good (the title of most vain in the band isn't completely baseless) but the looks that Harry thinks could send any girl to his bed are actually from the most mundane thoughts.
Zayn trying to remember the last time he did the laundry; Zayn wondering if he'll have the time to call his sister later tonight; Zayn craving a smoke and a granny smith apple, one more than the other; Zayn mulling over a thought in his mind, trying to figure out if he wants to say it or not because he has a filter between his mouth and brain unlike a certain someone he knows; Zayn doodling a cartoon in his head based off of that funny line Niall just said, and mentally scribbling it out because it isn't nearly as amusing as was in the moment; Zayn thinking about the last book he read; Zayn being Zayn.
On one hand, Harry wishes everyone could see that side of Zayn. He wants to display him to the world like a proud parent going on and on about all his good points and the affectionate, witty, amazing things he says when the cameras aren't on them. On the other hand, Harry wants to box the real Zayn away and keep him all for himself. Not like a doll in a display case - no, nothing like that, because it would be a shame to leave him untouched and unloved, but as if they were the last two people alive on earth.
But still, the real Zayn is shy. Not the bashful kind but the thoughtful sort, the ones who sound so effortlessly casual when they're being sweet. It's different than how Liam is, forthright and earnest in a way that rubs off on you, and Zayn's is harder to notice. Sometimes Harry feels like he's the only one that pays attention to how Zayn's always holding himself back, so he decides to take it on as his own personal job.
Harry Styles, professional Zayn coaxer. He likes the sound of that, being Zayn's personal anything really, and it's nothing new. He's been trying to pull Zayn out of his shell since day one when Harry heard him sing with a voice so beautiful it was a shame he was so quiet. It was easy for Harry to be confident and loud on stage, despite the stage fright he briefly suffered from, so for a while he doesn't understand why Zayn has so much trouble.
Zayn only smiled, the one with his tongue pressed against the back of his teeth, when Harry told him about how he made it his mission to make Zayn's head grow so big from his ego he'll have trouble walking through doorways. It was a joke because Harry knew it was impossible to stop Zayn from being so humble, more than Harry could ever be, but he tried his best to bolster Zayn's confidence with compliments and knowing looks right after all the high notes Zayn hits in the beginning.
Every song Zayn sings feels like the first one, as if Harry's never heard his voice in that specific melody before, despite how Harry knows all of his parts by heart and can hear him clearly in his head if he sits down and concentrates. He'll do whatever it takes to keep Zayn singing; Harry likes the quiet songs the most, the ones where it's only them and Zayn's serenading some distant figure in his dazed, content, gaze - Harry likes to think he could make someone look like that when they're thinking about him someday.
Soon enough, Zayn doesn't need Harry's thumbs up and grin anymore to know he'll do well in the gig tonight. Harry isn't sure if he ever really needed him, but he knows he's had a part - no matter how small - in how Zayn's last notes fill up the stadium up to the rafters above and his heart down to the tiniest cracks he's sealed up with glue.
It's enough. Yet, it isn't; Harry wonders if it'll ever be.
v.
No, the real honest to god ones are the ones who never have to say it; they just are. It stuck in Harry's head after he talked to Zayn after their first brush with real fame in the form of mobs in the daylight and adoring fans in the nighttime. Harry drinks in fame like a cold beer on a summer's day at first; he can't get enough, fast enough, because it's heaven on his tongue and leaves him with a buzz he can't get anywhere else.
"Isn't it mad?"
Harry's on the balcony of their shared hotel room, waving at the fans below even though they can't see him. It’s been a while since they shared a room since Louis usually bunks with him while Zayn stays with Liam, but last time he and Louis went a bit too crazy on the mattress forts. Long story short, the hotel wasn't happy and (almost) everyone was happy to rearrange the temporary roommate situation.
It's a warm summer's night and Harry's mind is racing at a hundred miles per hour even though he's exhausted and running on a few hours of sleep. He's reached the point where he's so tired he's restless and it feels like it'd be a shame to sleep now with Zayn by his side. Tap, tap, tap, goes Harry's fingers on the balcony edge and Zayn doesn't even notice anymore; he used to snap at Harry for fidgeting too much, touching anything around him, asking questions about everything.
But now, Zayn pauses and takes time to think of an answer for whatever meaningless fact Harry wants to know. Most of the time they're made up, with just a touch of truth to be believable, and Harry seems content even after he tosses shoe after shoe at Zayn for possibly tricking him.
"Yeah."
Zayn nods, once, and takes a slow drag from his cigarette, dusty pink lips pursed as his cheeks hollow out in a way that always makes Harry stare. And now, he has no shame, because he's watching Zayn as if he wants to memorize the slant of his cheekbones and the long line of his throat when he tilts his chin up to blow clouds of smoke into the nighttime air.
"Everything's changing." Harry learns forward as if he wants the wind to sweep him off of his feet to another land, another world. The light up signs twinkle beneath them like another sky filled with stars and Harry can make out one that spells out his name with a big, full, heart next to it. Sometimes he wishes they could see how empty his heart feels sometimes, hollow and empty like a deflated balloon ready to give out.
And the world seems so big, so far from the quiet nights in Chesire, so hard to handle and too much - Harry Styles, the boy with clumsy feet and weak lungs, could never stand a chance. He buries his head in the fold of his arms perched on the balcony ledge to hide the tears welling in the corner of his eyes but Harry knows he can't hide them from Zayn who knows him too well by now. Now is not the time to cry; Harry's tired of being the weepy, sensitive, one because he isn't and Zayn doesn't say anything for a while, only buries his empty hand in Harry's curls and rubs small, reassuring, circles with his thumb.
Usually it's the other way around where Harry's the one who stays relaxed and cheery in the face of fame, while Zayn's the kind of guy who can get so frustrated. The world runs fast and Harry likes to be the one running right alongside it, skipping along with his worn brown boots and swinging arms.
"Some of it's good."
Harry turns to face Zayn and he wants, more than anything, to save the image in front of him. Zayn with his small smile, corners of his eyes just a little turned up, one hand still resting on Harry's head as the other holds his cigarette dangling between his fingers with an effortless kind of grace, and Harry wished they were at a place where the sky wasn't lit up from the city lights because then the embers would glow even brighter.
Harry's mouth opens, closes, and opens again because he wants to ask what Zayn's referring to but he can't because he's only looking, hoping, for one answer. Them, their friendship, and Harry has to think of something to say because Zayn's caught him looking with his lips parted like an odd fish.
"Can I try?" Zayn's eyebrow raises as he wordlessly glances at the cigarette in his hand and Harry nods with his lips pursed in determination. He's always wanted to see what it was like and the teenager still left in him brought a naive sort of excitement about rebelling - being different for once. Not the most mature thought but Harry's used to feeling silly and young around Zayn, as if the boy takes him by the shoulders and shakes him up every time it's just them together.
"Yeah, here." Careful not to drop it, Harry holds the cigarette with an undeserved reverence and brings it to his mouth in a way he hopes looks less awkward than it feels. He presses it to his lips, breathes in, and doesn't notice the way Zayn's eyes seem a touch out of focus because he's trying his hardest to take in the smoke without coughing. For a moment it seems like he has, green eyes calm and shoulders relaxed, then the burn becomes too much to bear and Harry's coughing and stumbling, eyes watering. Then there's a familiar hand hitting and rubbing his back and Harry thinks it makes his head swim even more.
"Might need some practice," Zayn says as he slips the cigarette out of Harry's hand so he doesn't end up burning himself and he tosses it on the ground before smothering the embers with a slipper clad foot. Harry nods because he doesn't trust his throat to talk just yet, but the grin on his face is surprisingly cheerful compared to the way his eyes are still watery and pink.
"Thanks."
They both know Harry isn't referring to the cigarette itself because Zayn isn't petty enough to care about sacrificing one smoke for Harry to try something new - and that was the key. Harry loves new experiences and checking off another first time of off his list is enough to chase away all of the melancholy thoughts that previously occupied his mind.
Instead it's filled with smoke and stars, the way Zayn looks distracted when Harry says they should go to bed, and Harry thinks of pillows that smell like tobacco in the morning after nights filled with slick skin and slow kisses. He can see it, Zayn taking a slow drag looking well fucked, and Harry's mouth goes dry.
He shakes it off because it's only because it's been way too long since he got laid, the brunette with tattoos and a tongue piercing a month or two ago, but the image chases Harry even after he lays in bed with all the lights off and Zayn already knocked out a few feet away. He's already tried surfing his phone but a random picture of a man smoking, looking off into the distance with his clothes disheveled in a way that's too perfect to be accidental, makes his mind jump right back to what he was trying to avoid.
Before he can convince himself to stop he's pressing the heel of his palm against his half hard cock and groaning, soft and low, freezing when the sound of Zayn turning around in his bed interrupts him.
It was never a problem with Louis, they both agreed to ignore any sounds they heard in the night, but Zayn's different. New territory, unexplored, and dangerous enough to give Harry's arousal that edge of shame and excitement. He starts quiet, fingers wrapped around himself as he strokes himself slowly until he's fully hard and starting to pant, but his hips are starting to sway up into his fist and he has to bury his face into a pillow to muffle the small, helpless, noises he's making.
Harry's mouth is covered but his eyes aren't because he can't stop looking at Zayn, staring at the way his eyelashes look flush against the high of his cheekbones, and he knows he shouldn't but there mere thought of Zayn waking up to find him like this is enough to send him over the edge with a muffled cry, orgasm dragged out of him like a punch to the stomach, release coating his hand like a badge of shame telling him it wasn't a dream.
Harry sneaks out to the bathroom and stumbles over his suitcase on the way there but when he pauses, listens carefully and hears the soft sound of Zayn's snoring, he lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
The next morning, everything seems normal enough and the knot in Harry's chest loosens. It feels like he's gotten away with something he shouldn't have done, like a child stealing cookies from a jar, and he laughs along to all of his Louis's jokes until one of them hits a little too close.
"Did he bother you all night, eh Zayn?" Louis elbows Zayn jokingly and Harry prays no one notices how his laugh sounds a bit fake and forced. But Zayn only smiles, the secretive one with a hint of mischievousness, and shoots back, "Nope, slept like a baby."
Harry grins the widest out of all of them, a mixture of relief and excitement at the memory of what he did, but it pales when he notices Zayn staring at him - as if he's a puzzle he's got to figure out by looking straight through him, looking right at the truth splayed all over his face. Then he's gone, chatting with Liam about how his night went, and Harry swears he'll never do it again.
But Harry does, again and again, and always comes with Zayn's name perched on the edge of his lips - reddened from how he chews it raw - like a sliver of forbidden fruit he can't get enough of.
vi.
Harry's more than a few drinks past his limit and he's dancing with someone, all breasts and slim legs, with Niall somewhere nearby kissing a smoking hot redhead. At least he was a few seconds ago, now when Harry looks around all he sees are anonymous bodies and the girl's hands tugging him closer and moving his hands onto his hips. He's moving slowly, limbs weighed down as if he's deep underwater, and he vaguely remembers a deft tongue slipping something bitter and powdery into his mouth.
The music sounds muffled and slower than it should be and Harry can't help but wonder where Zayn is. Maybe he's gone and kissed that pretty blonde that was eyeing him even though she had the fakest breasts Harry's ever seen - though they were nicely done, he had to admit - with a dark purple shade of lipstick that reminded him of Perrie.
That Perrie, the one Zayn's dating, though Harry knows they've been rocky lately from whispered arguments Harry overhears at night. Harry doesn't blame him for fooling around, they're only human and god knows how lonely they can get, but something else about Zayn kissing a stranger bothers him.
Why her? She doesn't know how Zayn smiles with his tongue peeking out in that cheeky way, or what kind of tea he likes the most when he's feeling homesick, or the look on his face that he gets when someone compliments him on his drawings; she doesn't know him. Not like how Harry does.
The woman's pulling him out of the crowd, towards the back of the club, and Harry feels his head swim as people glare at him as he bumps into them with his jelly legs and weak knees. A voice, a familiar one that makes Harry open his eyes for what feels like the first time that night, stops their march and sounds so charged with anger Harry has to gravitate towards it. The shouting continues on, mostly from him as the woman stays quiet seething with anger, and it's clearly starting a scene; Harry's head is starting to throb, spikes of pain in beat with the song blasting in the club.
The thin arms wrapped around his midsection are suddenly gone and pushing him away harshly; Harry only has a second to wonder what he did wrong this time before he's colliding with another body, all lean muscle and broad shoulders he drapes himself on, but Zayn's still making a racket near his ear and Harry does what feels logical in order to shut him up.
Harry tries to kiss him and misses, lips colliding with the side of his mouth hard enough to bruise, but it's enough to shock Zayn still and Harry takes advantage of the moment by wrapping his arms around him tighter. It’s open mouthed and messy but Harry slides his mouth over until they fit together and Zayn tastes as good as Harry thought he would past the alcohol and hint of redbull from all those shots he took.
Someone in the background wolf whistles but Harry can't hear anything except the loud buzzing in his head as he moves on autopilot, tongue darting past Zayn's parted lips for more of that heavenly heat. A chill runs down his neck, the good kind, the kind that leaves him itching to strip and feel Zayn's skin against him but they're in public and Harry goes for the next best thing by pulling him closer and hooking one leg behind his. Zayn stumbles from the sudden weight and Harry swallows the curse that slips out of his mouth right up, kissing him with the intent to draw sweet groans out of his perfect mouth instead.
Zayn's finally starting to respond to him, hand sliding down his lower back towards the hem of his frayed skinny jeans, tongue twisting with his in a way that has Harry half hard already as if he's sixteen years old again and messing around with Rebecca Wilde in an empty classroom, but nothing in the world compares to Zayn right now. Harry would swear years of celibacy just for this kind of kiss, one he's wanted for god knows how long, and he whines out loud when strong arms pull them apart.
Paul. Sometimes Harry loves Paul, mainly when he's fending off fans who want to see if his curls are real or not. But other times, mainly now, he wants to climb Paul like he's a tree and claw at his everything because Zayn's looking at him as if he's mad, as if everything's changed between them in a way that terrifies Harry to the bone, and he's thankful when the darkness in the edges of his vision finally takes over.
Harry's last thought almost makes him laugh if he wasn't losing consciousness and he knows it'd be the hysterical kind, the one that has even Louis looking worried, and Paul smells all wrong; he doesn't smell like Zayn does, like tobacco and cardamom when that Armani aftershave he uses isn't covering it all up, and Harry wants to cry because he can practically taste the traces left in his mouth and he's still thinking stupid things like -
Wonder if Perrie'll know.
vii.
They act like it never happened. Zayn keeps his careful distance whenever they're on stage and doesn't move away when Harry moves close, to reassure the fans he tells himself, but he doesn't touch him like he used to. Doesn't grip the back of his neck to whisper some comment on wherever they're at this time, doesn't turn to serenade Harry with his lines.
Zayn's been mad before, hell he called Harry a twat on a twitcam that still exists to this day, but he's never been like this. Liam says he isn't mad when Harry comments about it without thinking, in a way that's too casual to be truly casual, but Liam doesn't say anything when Harry asks him if he knows what Zayn is if he isn't mad. It's hard to be irked at Liam Payne but Harry finds his moments and slips away before he starts blowing up at the lad even though he doesn't deserve a bit of Harry's frustration. It doesn't help that he's been dreaming about Zayn and his stupid, bloody, mouth for days despite how much he jerks off in the bathroom to thoughts of those perfect lips wrapped around his cock.
Harry has a problem. He knows it - but he has no idea how to solve it when Zayn's giving him the cold shoulder and avoiding him like he's the plague. If Harry could even muster up enough courage in the first place to ask him if the kiss was as good for Zayn as if it was for him, nevermind the whole girlfriend business and I'm-pretty-sure-I'm-not-bisexual Styles, Zayn always finds a reason not to be alone with Harry ever.
As silly as it is, it feels like rejection. Like Harry's one of those one night stands who's hooked and wants more but never gets a call, or even a text, back. It stings even more when Harry puts it into words but he figures it's like pouring rubbing alcohol over an open wound; it'll hurt like a bitch now but later, when the pain's faded and the cut's starting to heal, there'll only be a scar to remind him of the deep ache in his heart.
Harry'll get over it. He always does.
viii.
Most of the time. The last time Harry remembers being sick was in the 9th grade when he fainted in class, quite dramatically they said, and had to be carted off to the hospital. It was a bad case of the flu and Harry wishes he remembers what the dreams were about, because they were supposedly interesting from the bits his mom heard him mumble.
There must be some kind of god out there because Harry doesn't have a flu, again, but he does have a killer sore throat and congested nose that makes him sound like a dying frog.
("Harry's gone and croaked!" Harry throws his pillow at Louis and regrets it a grand total of two seconds later because it was a lovely support for his neck. Louis hands it back to him, but not without making the biggest pity face Harry's ever seen.)
The boys aren't sure on what to do at first because none of they were ever too sick to sing, but Harry's at least had to the luck to be ill on the few days they have to spend traveling and settling in. The downside is the fact that Harry has to brave the worst of the sickness on tour bus number two, which he hates sleeping in, because the bed is never still and it keeps him up at night. Harry knows the rest aren't allowed to visit him in the small chance that they'll catch whatever germs he hacks out of his throat, but it doesn't keep him from feeling immensely lonely.
Harry spends most of his time catching up on the books he wanted to read but never had the chance to, playing charades with Gemma on his laptop so he can hear her laugh instead of hum of the bus engine, tweeting to his fans (though he gives up on that soon when it's clear his mentions are flooded with wishes for him to get better by the time they arrive at the next venue - sweet, but boring), and texting like a madman. Even texting starts to become tiring because Harry misses talking, misses measuring out his words like dollops of thick honey and whipped cream, and misses chatting with someone face to face.
He writes out a record breaking twenty four texts to Zayn and sends none of them. All of the boys send him messages except for Zayn and Harry hates himself for the small flash of hope that he always feels whenever his phone buzzes from a new text.
Three nights of solitude on the bus and Harry's about ready to tear the window open and throw himself out onto the street in the hopes that someone will find him and carry him to a hotel. But they finally reach their stop and Harry is half delirious as he makes his way to the hotel room. It doesn't help that he still took pictures with fans in the winter chill (the facemask from japan came in handy, even though he had to search for three hours to find it) without his coat. A cold, sick, Harry popsicle, and the rest of the boys have already settled into their rooms.
It should seem suspicious, the fact that his door opens without the use of his room card, but Harry stumbles in anyways and strips down on the way, leaving a trail of clothes in his wake starting with the worn brown boots with too many holes, until there's nothing left and he's lying on a cloud. He twists and blindly claws at the blankets until they're at least covering his private bits. In a flash Harry's properly knocked out and doesn't expect to wake up for months, years even, in his aspiration to be the next Rip Van Winkle but in what feels like seconds later a shift in weight of the bed stirs him out of his sleep.
Zayn's always been the heavy sleeper, not Harry, but the movement isn't enough to make him fully wake up. Instead he's stuck in a half awake state, partially aware but mostly sleeping, with eyes still closed and lips softly smacking together to wet his dry lips. He's just so cold, tired of how sore his throat is, and shivers because he was too lazy to yank the blankets out from where they're tucked in.
A quiet shift, the soft rustling of blankets barely registered by Harry, and the blankets are thick and warm on top of him pulled up until the edge is snug against his chin. But a hand brushes against his arm in the process and Harry is snuggling closer, chasing the elusive and unique warmth of body heat, and latches on before it can run away.
It, is Zayn, and Harry figures it out when he pushes close until his nose is pressed against his neck and breathes in deep. The trace of tobacco is lighter than usual and Harry can smell the lavender hints of hotel soap left on his skin. His throat is still hoarse when he sighs, opening his eyes still heavy with sleep, and in some other world Zayn would be looking at him with affection in his eyes. In some other world this would be how Harry spends every night, in bed with Zayn, and every morning so he can wake up to soft kisses and a warm body next to his.
But instead Zayn's eyes are unreadable and his mouth is set in a small frown, eyes furrowed in what Harry thinks is frustration, and Harry didn't think the pain in his chest could get worse than his throat but it does. It does, and Harry can't take it - can't take the way Zayn doesn't say anything, or explain anything, as if he expects Harry to know the answer already. But Harry doesn't and he's starting to think he doesn't even want to anymore.
He tries to get up and climb out of the bed because he can't stay there anymore, can't stay with Zayn so close and so damn unattainable, but a strong arm holds him down.
"Let me go," Harry says sounding as if he's chewed on gravel, struggling to move but he can't overpower Zayn when he's tired to the bone.
"No."
All of a sudden Harry feels angry because Zayn has no right - none at all - to tell him he can't. The insults and biting, cruel, comments sit in his throat like bile eating through soft tissue, the tough muscle of his heart too, and Harry only holds himself back because he knows he'll regret it. But not as much, never as much, as he regretted kissing him that night because Harry would take their friendship over this any day.
"You're tired Haz, sleep." And Harry knows he's far gone because he drinks up his words like a parched man begging for drops of water slowly falling onto his tongue; Zayn hasn't talk to him in days, weeks, and Harry just wants to shove a book in his face and tell him to read, to speak, until he loses his voice and sounds as rough and tumbled up as Harry does.
Harry knows he should leave anyways. Harry knows Zayn could catch whatever bug he has by being so close - so he should leave. Harry knows, he knows, he should leave before Zayn leaves him in the morning with wrinkled, empty, sheets smelling like his and an indent in the pillow next to his; but he can't.
Harry fists the fabric of Zayn's t-shirt in his hands, the ratty gray one that Harry used to borrow, and holds him still so he can burrow close with his forehead pressed against Zayn's collar and his back arched like he's six again after a nasty nightmare; he was a big boy by then, old enough to handle himself, so he clung to his pillow instead of running to his parents room with wide green eyes and cold feet. And Zayn lets him, even tangles one hand in Harry's curls to silently tell him it's okay to be weak.
It isn't a surprise when he wakes up alone but it still aches and makes his head swim, as if the pillow in his arms is actually pressed to his mouth, a smothering death of the surge of hope he feels by slow suffocation.
ix.
Like that film no one else in the group liked, melancholia, but Harry understood it. Understood the fascination they had with the planet that would end them all, the brightest crystal blue they'd ever seen, while they continued living on like puppets in a play out of their control.
And they way Harry finds himself stepping closer after each sip he takes of his drink, chatting with the same people Zayn chose to pay attention to, watching him out of the corner of his eye so he can feel the thrill of seeing Zayn look back, watching him even when Harry's kissing someone - obscene, tongues twisting in a way that leaves her at least damp judging by the way she moans against his mouth, for him - reminds him of gravity. As if Zayn is his sun and Harry can't help but follow him because the burn is so good, so much better than the overwhelming emptiness of space.
She left him.
She left him.
It plays in Harry's head over and over again like an old tape grainy with age. He doesn't know the exact details, Liam would but Harry didn't want to press when he looked like he was about to stress himself into an early grave until Louis pressed a drink into his hand and convinced him to stop in his own Louis way, and the alcohol is telling him not to care.
But Harry wants. He wants to know the way Zayn broke, all jagged edges down to the core to leave him looking like this, so he can piece him back together. Harry wants to be cut and marked up, blood running red and warm, so Zayn can see the scars and remember he was the one who did it - he was the one who was there for him in a way no one else could be. It's underhanded and even perverse, Harry thinks, but it fills his head and he lets it take the place of the hole Zayn carved out when he defined a space for himself and left.
Everything's blurry until Harry's near Zayn who's in sharp focus, like sun on fresh fallen snow, and he can't look away from the dark bruise Zayn's already sporting on his collar. But there's no other trace of anyone touching him, just the mark as if someone made it without Zayn noticing. The nonchalance of it infuriates Harry, leaves his hand trembling when he reaches over to curve it around the nape of his neck, because every single kiss shared with Zayn Malik should be savored like oxygen to a drowning man.
Harry leans forward a touch too far to be truly friendly, lips pressing against Zayn's ear, and Harry basks in how Zayn doesn't move away from him. It feels good, the power of being the reason why Zayn's breathe goes shallow, because Harry wants Zayn to feel the way he does so damn much. Out of breath, dizzy, overwhelmed by what he wants and what they could be.
"Let's go back."
For a second, Harry's struck by the fear that Zayn will say no. That he'll look at him like he's insane, daft Harry with his assumptions and clumsy pick up lines, and dismiss him like he's one of the fans who say insane, improbable, things too stupid to comprehend. But Zayn doesn't - he just nods, untangles himself out of the hold two hopeful women had on him, and Harry nearly misses the way raw hunger flashes in his empty eyes.
He tells Paul he isn't feeling well and Zayn's taking him back to the hotel. It's a bald faced lie but Paul takes it because Zayn looks like he's about to collapse with the way his eyes keep fluttering and because of the way he's clinging onto Harry's side after weeks of them being carefully spaced apart. Harry doesn't know how he looks; he's hit by the temporary urge to look at himself in a mirror but he stops it because he knows he won't like what he sees.
Harry's not her, and he doesn't want to be.
Yet.
They don't touch in the car. They barely look at each other, both of their eyes trained on looking out of the window of their respective side. But when Harry's hand brushes Zayn's by accident he's never wanted to jump on someone more, just devour them without caring who's watching, because Zayn's looking at him as if he wants as much as Harry does. It sparks a fire deep in Harry's abdomen, leaves his mind reeling from the shock and Harry can't stop thinking about how Zayn might taste from the deepest corners of his mouth to the precum smeared against the head of his cock.
The difference this time is Harry thinks, he hopes, he might get the chance to find out.
In all of his fantasies Harry was always the one who kissed him first. Like the night in the club because Harry would always, in any relationship he had, be the one who wanted more. The one who dreamed of them and left voice messages five minutes after leaving about how much he missed them. The one who kissed with a desperation that either made them run away or into his arms because it was charming - endearing, but nothing more because they couldn't understand how desire could take over everything. How desire could define Harry Styles and bring him to his knees, offering his heart and soul on a silver platter.
But Zayn takes him by surprise, pushes him hard against the back of the hotel door once it closes and captures his lips with a roughness that bruises Harry's mouth a raw red and Harry answers back with teeth and tongue. It's brutal and everything that Harry wanted from the moment he heard the news because Zayn's broad hands are already unbuttoning his shirt and palming at his skin with an eagerness that makes Harry's cock ache.
Harry wants to beg, more than anything in the world, but the only noises that fall past his lips are strained moans and soft gasps because he can't speak, can't say anything, in the fear that words will break the delicate tension between them. As if speaking will remind Zayn that the body beneath his, the pale lines of a body hard and flat instead of soft and forgiving, isn't the one he wants. And it breaks Harry more than Zayn's sharp nails scraping down his shoulders ever could, mixes him up into an unidentifiable mess so he doesn't have to think.
Zayn mouths every patch of Harry's skin that he finds, mapping him from the hardened nubs of his nipples to the trail of dark hair leading to the waistband of his underwear, and Harry feels pieces of himself melt away from the contact. Until all that's left is a shell of himself all filled up with Zayn and his cloudy brown eyes, Zayn with his stubble that Harry hopes will scratch at his face and leave him with a subtle burn that no one except him can see.
For once Harry's the one following, not leading, the way to the hotel bed and the realization makes his kisses that much more desperate as he latches onto Zayn with his roaming hands and wild eyes. Harry wants to savor every touch and every bit of Zayn's mouth he gets the chance to explore, yearning for more with each pearly tooth he runs his tongue over, and he loses himself in the rush.
Zayn fumbles on the button of Harry's pants and Harry has enough of himself left in him to laugh, short and amused, and it's worth the dark look that Zayn shoots him. The one that's a bit annoyed and a bit amused, a mix of both, and it makes Harry wish he could have Zayn on a night when he's feeling a bit kinder and sweeter; more like himself. But he can't, and the lament is forgotten when he feels his hips arch up into Zayn's warm, broad, hand.
Please, please, Zayn please- Harry chokes on the words he forces down, deep into his throat until he's panting and lightheaded from the need for air, and he's almost relieved when Zayn slips two fingers into his mouth and orders him to suck with silent command in his eyes. Without missing a beat Harry cranes his neck until they're as deep as they'll go and takes the digits in as if they're Zayn's cock, eyes fluttering madly because the wholeness feels so good, and he only pulls back when he needs to breathe.
Even then Harry doesn't let Zayn go, lips pursed around him in an obscenely wet pout, memorizing the calluses and ridges on the pads of Zayn's fingers with the tip of his tongue. Zayn groans low, music to Harry's ears, and Harry watches Zayn with his lidded eyes until his hand disappears out of his line of sight. Even though Zayn hasn't touched his length once Harry's already impossibly hard, aching for him with obvious desire, and he'd be embarrassed if it wasn't for how badly he needed it.
Needs Zayn's fingers pressing against his opening, learning how to open him up right because he's never done this before, never done this with another man, and Harry rocks his hips down to make it easier for him but Zayn just holds him down with his other hand in a way that drives Harry mad. Mad for him, for more, and the spit isn't enough but Harry would take him in dry at this point because nothing can stop him now - nothing, not even an emergency or a natural disaster because he'd refuse to leave this bed in this moment even if there was a tornado tearing their door down.
Time passes by in a red hot blur of Zayn’s voice hushed in his hear, telling Harry that it’ll be okay –it’ll be alright-, and Harry doesn’t know if it’s real or in his head because the mix of intense pain and pleasure has him delirious. But what’s overwhelmingly real is the way Zayn thrusts into him, slow enough to make Harry think of words like making love and affection in the bruises Zayn leaves, fast enough to leave white noise in his head and sharp pins in his heart.
Harry cries out, high and keening, after a thrust that brushes his prostate but suddenly Zayn is all soft kisses and slow, rocking, hips, and Harry feels more lost than he was before. He wants to murmur reassurance to Zayn and tell him that he’s alright but the words get lost somewhere along the way in his throat and in the corners of his mouth because Harry can’t speak, can’t say, when each inch of Zayn buried deep in him has him shaken down to the bone, to the very matter of his being, in a way he knows he’ll never forget.
“Harry, Harry-”
A deeper kind of satisfaction hits Harry strong enough to make his eyes water. He has to squeeze them shut to keep the tears from spilling out and to make sure Zayn doesn’t see them. It’s because he knows that now, in this fleeting moment, he has all of Zayn. It isn’t Perrie’s name that he’s calling out, it isn’t some anonymous one night stand that he’s fucking all of his frustration into, it isn’t just anyone. It’s him, Harry, and he clutches to the knowledge like a lifeline keeping him from floating out into the sea where no one can see him sink into the depths below.
Somewhere in the slap of skin against skin Harry urges Zayn on with the returning swing of his hips and a needy, almost desperate, moan and Zayn moves faster until they’ve found a natural rhythm that prints stars onto the back of Harry’s eyelids. Printed in like that tattoos etched into his skin, unforgettable and reminders of who they are and what they could’ve been – could be.
Harry’s can feel himself getting close, teetering over the edge, and he lets Zayn know by the red lines he draws down his shoulders; it isn’t hard enough to split skin but Harry feels as if he can touch the blades beneath, run his fingers down the knobs of his spine, reach between the outline of ribs he traces with absentminded affection and hold his beating heart in his hand.
“Now - come for me, Haz, please.” And Harry does with a strangled cry lost in the last minute kiss he pulls Zayn into, painting sticky wet stripes on Zayn’s palm and on the tanned expanse of his own stomach. Through the haze he can taste iron on his tongue from biting Zayn’s lip too hard to silently slip his cries directly down his throat and Harry still feels so impossibly full from the final, hard, swing of Zayn’s hips that make his own shake and his hands tremble. He can’t control them like an addict that’s just shot up with Zayn, all of him, from the burn on his cheeks to the release that fills him up when Zayn follows after with a hoarse groan.
Harry can’t take it all. He can’t, but he tries anyways, and he’s still shaking when Zayn pulls out with a stunned look on his face. Harry can’t control how his fingers are still jittery, buzzing instead of relaxed, when he cups the side of Zayn’s face without thinking. He can’t control how he kisses him even after the deed is done and even when he aches all over on the outside and inside. As if Zayn’s kisses bruised him more than the imprint of his fingertips left on Harry’s sides.
He can’t control how he speaks words as delicate as spun glsas with his tongue loosened from alcohol and the drug of dreams, of hope, that he might be right when he reads more into the way Zayn holds him. As if he’s strong enough to stand through it all with him, but precious enough to be treated with care; because it’s always been one or the other, not both. Never, not until now.
“I love you, you know.”
Harry’s heart is big enough to be another world. To be a place where someone else can burrow in and make their home there to hide away when the lights are too bright and the music too loud. It’s big enough to give, and give, and give, and give because he doesn’t know how to take.
“No, Harry.” Zayn almost sounds regretful. Wistful. “You don’t.”
But Harry doesn't know what to do when he feels it shrink and become a little smaller. A little colder, harder, and warier of the world. He doesn’t know what to do when the world goes quiet except for the static in his head; he doesn’t know the right way to tell Zayn that he’s wrong; he doesn’t know how to make Zayn come back when he rolls off him but doesn’t leave the bed. And most of all, he doesn’t know what to say when Zayn apologizes with a voice that trembles.
So Harry doesn’t. He doesn’t connect the space between them by brushing Zayn’s arm with his hand. He doesn’t say it’s alright, or okay, or even terrible, because the world’s gone quiet and the taste of blood in his mouth is making him feel ill. Zayn reaches over to wipe the stain off of his mouth but Harry turns his head fast enough to give him vertigo which washes away the guilt of Zayn’s hand flinching as if Harry’s slapped it hard enough to sting.
He doesn't.
He can’t.
x.
Harry hates him. Harry hates how he looks when he wakes up, mussed up and half delirious as if he’s just woken up from another world. He hates the fake smile he uses when the press is on him and he hates it when Zayn tells him he’ll never understand him no matter how hard he tries. He hates not knowing stupid, stupid, facts about him like his favorite childhood memory or the reasons why he loves his dad and the story behind that scar he has on his ankle and why he hates and why he loves and if he thinks they could be the exact same thing like Harry does.
So Zayn’s right, and Harry only imagines his face filled with smug satisfaction when he tells him. Instead it only falls and the light in his eyes flickers out and Harry’s not so sure anymore when he walks away.
But Zayn’s right.
He always was.
xi.
But Zayn is the first. Zayn’s the first one that he wants even more of. Zayn’s the one he wants to be with for months, years, decades, until they’re both old and wrinkly and still bickering on about the best kind of tea when it’s three in the afternoon and they’re sitting on the porch of some house they’ve bought tucked in the middle of nowhere. Harry actually wants to kiss him, again and again, until the day he dies instead of until he falls asleep because he’ll still be there in his dreams.
Zayn is the first one the fire keeps burning for, even after Zayn finds a new girlfriend and Harry dates some other girl he won’t remember the name of ten years later. Zayn is the one, that big ‘what if’, that Harry knows he’ll never have because Zayn looks genuinely happy when he announces his new engagement. It’ll be a spring wedding, he says, and Harry realizes he’s never wanted marriage until he met Zayn. Because marriage meant complete and total commitment, death til we part, and the kind of love they write about in books and movies with couples kissing in the rain on the front of them.
Harry thinks it’s that kind of love. The kind that lasts years and years even if it isn't given anything but friendship in return. The kind that lasts four more world tours and three more studio albums, and another movie, and one or two solo albums until the next group comes by and ‘One Direction’ becomes a thing of the past. The kind that makes him hurt for weeks after they all walk away from each other and settle down, but tells him he'll survive because he'll meet him again someday; he has to. The kind he tucks away in his heart and still remembers whenever he watches their first documentary with the premier in Leicester square and looks at old photos taken of them when they were young and hopeful.
The kind that makes Harry’s divorce one year after his shotgun wedding obvious when he thinks about it. From then on he swears off of relationships and he concludes that love is a peculiar thing. Love isn’t how he feels when Niall and Louis still call him every month to see how he’s doing on his small farm miles away from anyone he knows. Love isn’t anything compared to how he feels when he has guests over to his modest house and feeds them food he’s grown himself. Love isn’t the warm, content, thrum of his heart when he watches the sun sink down and paint the sky with shades of deep purple and sweet orange.
Love is wild. Love is crazy, all consuming, completion. Love is still being able to imagine the exact curve of his lips when he used to smile – the one Harry liked the most because it was shy and mischievous and joyful all at once. Love is feeling nineteen all over again whenever he sings love songs no one knows anymore with his spatula in one hand to an audience that disappeared out of his life seven years ago. Love is how he keeps one picture under his pillow and doesn’t care how it’s all wrinkled from being folded up and thrown around. Love is the look in Zayn’s eyes in the picture Harry keeps, captured at his wedding when he saw that Harry turned up to be his best man in his favorite suit and that button up Alexander McQueen shirt he has with all the little hearts on it.
Love is how Harry’s heart jumps up to his throat and how he can’t breathe, can’t stop himself from smiling, when he picks up the phone and hears a voice that leaves his knobby knees feeling weak. A voice that makes him want to cry because there, right there, is the kind of love you can feel in someone’s voice even if all you hear is -
“Babe?”