Chapter Text
Zayn sits in the coffee shop on campus, waiting for someone he's never seen and never met. He shifts in his seat, tugging at the top of his messy hair. He readjusts his watch, making the face straight on his wrist since it runs a little big on him, before shifting yet again, moving his coffee cup from hand to hand across the table.
Zayn doesn't get nervous often, not when it counts. He doesn't speed, so he hardly gets nervous around cops. He studies hard, he's smart, he's able, so when he puts his mind to something, anything really, he does it with a level head and a steady hand. Sure, he can be a little shy. But he doesn't get nervous around people, so much as he gets overwhelmed by them. He just doesn't enjoy being in crowded rooms, around large groups of people he hardly knows.
So don't get the wrong idea about Zayn Malik being nervous now, it's not a thing he usually has to deal with. It's just that he's about to meet a new person, a fresh face, for the first time, and that innately makes him a little wary. Sue him.
Zayn's last roommate Stephen ("with a ph") was kind of an asshole. He was rude to Zayn's girlfriend, he didn't give a proper hello to his mom when she visited the first time, and he always ate the last of the eggs without buying more. He always left the bathroom too steamy after his long showers, he walked around the apartment like it was summer all the time, even when it was chilly, and that's just stupid, if you ask Zayn. He was also messy and left the hall light on, which drove Zayn absolutely crazy.
So when Stephen finally moved out, on short notice no less, Zayn put an ad on Craigslist, an ad he made sure had a specific and detailed list for what his next roommate must possess.
Zayn, by the way, makes great lists.
UCLA senior seeking male roommate to share two bedroom apartment near campus. Must be neat, quiet, preferably also a student, and agree to pay all utilities equally, including internet/cable. No pets, no parties, no George Strait music, no excessive soda drinking. Rent is $785. Email for more information.
A few people emailed about the ad, but they all seemed too flaky. Zayn doesn't trust anyone who won't answer emails right away. So when some dude emailed him and asked to see the place without any other questions, normal questions like "How much are the utilities normally?" or "Why no George Strait music or soda?" Zayn was skeptical. He replied that he'd like to meet up first, see if they would make sense as roommates, and the guy responded literally three seconds later, asking where to meet. After that, Zayn figured he'd give this Harry person a chance.
So as he waits, Zayn makes a mental list of things he needs to check off when it comes to a new roommate. Stephen was annoying, pretentious, and hardly offered to clean the main rooms of the apartment. He said Zayn was "too particular" about how the vacuuming should be done, said Zayn just "rewashed" all the dishes when he did them anyways, which isn't fucking fair because that was one time.
Zayn shifts in his chair again, wondering what Harry looks like. Zayn politely told Harry he'd be wearing a jean jacket and a black tshirt, but Harry just responded two seconds later with a quick see you soon. It was annoying. Zayn shifts yet again.
Just then he sees a guy walk into the coffee shop, looking like a cross between a young, drug fueled Johnny Depp on a good day, and a Sunset Strip hipster on a bad day. He's wearing a ridiculously tight pair of black jeans, holes all over the knees and thighs, a plaid shirt hanging off his lanky frame, and a fucking scarf wrapped around his mopped head of hair. He's also chewing gum, but in the most obnoxious way possible, rolling it around in his mouth from side to side, letting everyone know he doesn't have a care in the world. Zayn narrows his eyes slightly, wondering how this guy can possibly be real, who this act is even for. He doesn't seem to be carrying any books, a bag of any kind. He just has a phone and a lone credit card in his hand, looking around with big, doe eyes.
Zayn knows this must be Harry, because apparently he's incapable of procuring a normal fucking person to live with, and he hates him already.
Zayn literally has to stop himself from rolling his eyes at this absurd person walking towards the back of the coffee shop, as he raises his arm to gesture him over. Harry lights up and stumbles over, tripping over his massive feet, shoulders slightly hunched.
"Hey," he says on an exhale, plopping himself into the seat opposite Zayn, smiling.
"Hey, I'm Zayn. Thanks for meeting me," Zayn says, reaching out for his hand. When Harry grasps him firmly, Zayn can't help himself so he continues. "Why don't you have a wallet?"
Harry looks down at his phone and credit card.
"Uh, I don't know. I guess I just grabbed what was on the table. Didn't need my wallet."
Zayn lets go of Harry's hand, face set so his annoyance doesn't come across, as Harry keeps talking.
"Thank you, for responding to me so quickly. I really need a place to stay, so. You're my last option," he says, pulling his arm back so he can sit on his hands, still smiling like an idiot.
"Well, I can't say for sure if you'll be moving in. Not yet, anyways."
"Understood."
"Tell me about yourself. Tell me what your deal is," Zayn says, businesslike, as he opens up the list in his mind, imaginary pen at the ready. He has a feeling this Harry guy will fit absolutely zero of his needs, but he's here, so Zayn has to be somewhat polite.
"Well, I'm going into my junior year in a few weeks when the semester starts. Still undecided, though. Uh, I'm from Castaic, a really small town north of here. My parents are still there, they live near the lake, my sister too."
Zayn stares at him, this awkward muppet of a person who still doesn't have a major as a junior. He also doesn't really care where Harry's from. Harry must sense it because he barrels on.
"Uh, I just don't know what I'm going to declare as my major yet. I think I have a little more time. But I'm neat, I swear. I don't have like, parties or anything. I'll pay the rent and bills on time, I'm good for it. And I like to think I'm nice, I'm friendly. I'm always up for hanging out, studying, whatever," he says, smiling.
Zayn hates how much he smiles. It's unsettling.
"I hated my last roommate. Stephen. He was messy and didn't replenish the eggs. He left the hall light on," Zayn says, crossing his arms. "I don't need a friend, or anyone to hang out with. I just need someone to pay half of everything and not listen to loud music."
"Especially George Strait?" Harry says, sitting back, pulling his hands out from under him, laughing.
"I hate George Strait."
"Why?" Harry asks, tilting his head, curiously, like he's in class, wondering what a formula means or how it's useful to the world.
"I just don't like him. I never have. His music reminds me Stephen, who was a jerk and listened to him all the time, and I don't like his voice," Zayn replies, sternly, finally.
"Understood," Harry nods, like it makes complete and utter sense. "Quite random, and oddly specific, but understood."
Zayn is smart enough to know that it doesn't make sense, and that it's completely irrational to ask this of a roommate. He at least knows he's irrational, that it's odd for him to dislike the things he dislikes, but he won't apologize for his preferences, so there.
"And why no soda?" Harry asks, still looking at him like a baby deer. Zayn wants to roll his eyes again, this kid is so fucking annoying.
"Stephen used to drink so much goddamn Mountain Dew it made my teeth ache. It's just… it's not good for your teeth and the bottles take up too much room in the fridge, and I just don't like it, so." Zayn says, moving his coffee cup around again for no reason.
"Okay," Harry nods.
"Okay?" Zayn asks skeptically, shaking his head slightly. He thought for a fact his ad would be fucking ridiculous to the entire student body, and even if anyone did fit the criteria, he certainly didn't think it'd be someone like this kid.
"I need somewhere to live, Zayn. And it's your place. So if you need me to not listen to George Strait or drink too much Mountain Dew, that's fine," he smiles again.
Zayn thinks for a beat, mulls it over in his mind, wondering if Harry is who he says he is, a clean guy who will do what Zayn asks. Harry is ridiculous, clearly, but he seems harmless. He seems to have a brightness to him at least, so that can't hurt. Zayn's been told he can be "too intense" and "set in his ways," so maybe having a person like Harry around wouldn't be terrible.
"And you can pay the rent? Every month? You won't be late with it?"
"I'm good for it," Harry says, smile sliding off his face. "Seriously. I want to live near campus and I want this apartment, if you'll have me."
Zayn stares at him, before getting up and putting his bag over his shoulder, shifting it. He picks up his Lakers hat from the table and throws it on backwards, gesturing for Harry to follow him.
"I'll take you to see the place, but don't touch anything. This doesn't mean you can move in yet," he says over his shoulder and Harry shuffles to keep up.
"Okay," he smiles.
***
Zayn stands back and watches Harry as he walks around the living room, before venturing into the combined dining area and kitchen. It's nothing fancy, just a classic college-type apartment, he supposes, white walls and beige carpet, all white kitchen. There's a balcony with shitty hanging blinds covering the sliding door, the balcony Zayn likes to chill out on, smoke a joint on when he feels too stressed. He noticed when they walked down the hall towards the front door that Harry initially eyed it nervously, looked at the 913 on the door with an odd expression, but Zayn notes that once inside, Harry weirdly seems to make sense here.
Harry nods his head, as he takes it in. He walks around with his hands behind his back. Zayn doesn't have much decorating the place, nothing really on any of the tables, and only a painting he did last year on the main wall. Stephen took the couch when he moved out last month, so there's nothing to sit on, nothing facing the large TV.
"I have a couch, I can bring it," Harry says expectantly, turning towards Zayn again, eyes huge.
"The room's down the hall," Zayn ignores him, turning for Harry to follow, as they pass Zayn's closed door and the bathroom.
The second bedroom is small, but the closet's a decent size. Harry looks out the window overlooking the parking lot, the same view from every window in the apartment, as Zayn continues to watch him. He strolls around the room, in a wide circle, breathing deeply.
"I like it," Harry nods again, hands on his hips, turning to Zayn. "It feels right. Good energy here."
"What?" Zayn says, voice dripping with disdain. This guy can't be serious.
"Some spaces just feel heavy. They feel heavy, or like there's too much there, you know? This place is light. I like it," Harry says, still fucking nodding.
This time Zayn really does roll his eyes. He can't exactly be surprised, living in California his whole life. If he had a nickel for every hippy ass vegan he met, drinking their green drinks, babbling about moon phases and astrological signs, he'd be richer than his fucking dad, and that's saying something.
But seeing Harry stand in the bedroom, seeing how content he already is, how ready he is to move in, Zayn relents. Fuck, if nothing else, Harry mentioned a couch, so that's a plus.
"Whatever, dude. If you want the room, you can be my roommate. I need rent and utility money when you move your shit in," Zayn says before walking back to the living room.
"Holy shit, thank you, Zayn. Seriously. Thanks. This is going to be great, you'll see," Harry says excitedly, following after him like a puppy.
Zayn stops by the front door, opening it to let Harry out, before turning back to him.
"Seriously. No big parties, no noise, no nothing. I study, Harry. I study and I have a girlfriend who likes to study in the quiet, as well. So don't be a dick, don't be annoying, and do your own thing," he says, serious expression lining his face.
"I'll be good, I swear," Harry nods, with a sweet smile.
Zayn has to force himself from rolling his eyes again, as they both pull out their phones to exchange all their contact information. Harry has dirt under his finger nails and Zayn wants to scold him for it. But he doesn't.
The last interaction they have that day is as Harry passes Zayn to leave, as he walks out the front door. He grabs Zayn's arm, curls his fingers around his bicep to give a reassuring squeeze and another goddamn smile, before vanishing down the hall.
Zayn sincerely hopes by the end of the year, he doesn't end up murdering Harry. He really, truly does.
***
The semester was quickly approaching, only two weeks away, and it was stressing Zayn out. Unlike Harry Styles, he knew exactly what he wanted to do with his life and his major was nothing to joke about. He decided in high school to study media arts when he found out a straight art degree wouldn't do him much good. His dad also refused to pay his tuition if he went the art route, so they compromised with media arts when they saw how the program was structured and how much money Zayn could make by designing video games someday, drawing animation, working in visual communication somehow.
So Zayn spends the week leading up to Harry's move in getting the place ready, while also trying to wrap his head around his rigorous senior year class schedule. He gets his books, sets his desk up the way he likes, the desk facing the window in his room looking over the parking lot. It's not a great view, but the lighting helps him focus, on gorgeous sunny days. If he faces the open window, he can let the sun wash over his face while he stares at his massive iMac screen for hours on end.
He makes sure the place is vacuumed correctly, the blinds aren't dusty in Harry's room, the bathroom looks presentable. It's not until Sara mentions how he had done all of it right when Stephen moved out, and the week after, and two days ago, that Zayn realizes Harry is still making him nervous.
"I just want it to be done now, so I don't have to worry about it being clean when he gets here," Zayn says to her, on his hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor.
"You need to relax, babe," she says, tugging on the back of his shirt, pulling him to stand up and face her.
She kisses him chastely on the mouth, sweetly, just the way she likes, and Zayn shakes his head. He knows he's being fucking crazy. He peels off the plastic yellow gloves and throws them towards the sink, letting her rub the back of his head and kiss his cheek.
Sara has been Zayn's girlfriend all through college, after they met on their very first day near the dorms. She was trying to lift a heavy box during move in, and people kept walking around her, too wrapped up in carrying their own belongings into the dorm. Zayn immediately felt sorry for her. She was petite, had shoulder length brown hair and big, blue eyes. She looked absolutely ruffled trying to carry it all by herself, so when Zayn ran to grab it from her, she sighed in relief.
The rest, as they say, is history. They lived in the same dorm, on different floors, and they spent their spare time holed up in Zayn's room, studying together, laughing over random comedy albums Zayn downloaded, having easy and casual sex when they felt like it. Zayn would never admit it, that the sex was the least of his concerns, but it never seemed to be at the top of Sara's priority list either. It wasn't even a discussion, that their relationship fell a few notches below other things on the totem pole of life. They both studied too hard, hung out with their own groups of friends, friends Zayn had to force himself to make, partied occasionally. They only ever came together when one of them was stressed, or needed someone to keep them company when they buried their face in a book.
Liam had asked Zayn a few weeks ago, before he put the ad on Craigslist, why Zayn and Sara didn't just move in together and make it easy on themselves. Zayn didn't have the heart to tell Liam, or even admit to himself, that him and Sara had a shelf life. They weren't the couple who move in together, who live happily ever after. They were comfortable with the way things were.
But Sara cared for him, and knew Zayn. She knew he became obsessive when he was nervous. She knew he hated new people, people who could potentially let him down.
"When does he get here?"
"Soon."
"You want me to stay? Keep you company?"
"No, stop. You have to work. It's fine. You can meet him tomorrow?" he says, standing back, blowing his hair away from his sweaty forehead.
"Sure, I'll text you. Bye babe," she finishes, kissing him quickly, before heading out of the kitchen.
Zayn stands with his hands on his hips, surveying the room. It's already fucking clean, he knows it. The whole place is clean. But he still can't put his finger on Harry, can't peg him, or read who he is. He says he's neat and quiet. He seems polite. But Stephen seemed fine at first too, and he ended up being an asshole.
Regardless, Zayn forces himself to give Harry a chance. He reminds himself to be open and honest, to tell Harry the rules first thing, so there's no confusion later. He almost texts Doniya, just because, to reach out while he's stressed, but he doesn't.
He instead takes a hot shower, scrubbing under his fingernails extra hard.
***
Harry knocks on the door promptly at two, just like he said he would. Zayn has to give it to him, he answers emails quickly and he's punctual, so that's something to go in the NO column of the "Do I Hate Harry Styles?" list he currently has in his mind.
Zayn opens the door and sees Harry in another pair of ripped jeans, another shitty plaid shirt, and a different scarf around his head. It doesn't even hold his hair any certain way, doesn't keep it off his neck, so Zayn hardly sees the point of it at all. But Harry smiles at him, all big and bright, so Zayn moves back to let him in.
"Hey Harry," he says, closing the door, noticing Harry has nothing in his arms.
"Can I be really honest with you?" Harry turns to him, hands on his hips.
"Okay."
"I hate the number on the door. I really do, Zayn. I hate it so much. So I'm putting it out there now, that I dislike it, to get it out and to let it go."
Zayn stares at him, wide eyed.
"I don't like the 9-1-3 of it, I hate all the odd numbers. It adds up to be thirteen. It's literally the worst number I could possibly live behind. But this is me, letting it go. It's gone," he says, moving his arms, as if he's physically pushing something away from his body.
Zayn truly doesn't know what to say, or how to answer Harry, if there was even a question anywhere in there. So he just stares at Harry, stares as he walks in a big circle around the living room again, probably "feeling the energy" or some bullshit like last time.
He's saved when they're hit with a huge bang coming from the other side of the door, muffled angry voices mixed with it.
"Open the fucking door, you idiot," Zayn hears. He's bewildered, so he hurries to open it, as Harry continues walking in a circle.
Two guys hold a couch in the hallway, a brown ratty thing that's probably older than all of them, and they not so delicately push Zayn out of the way to get it into the apartment.
"Jesus Christ, Hazza. You walk in with nothing, and leave us the couch. Fucker," the shorter guy says, huffing, as they drop it against the wall.
"We still have to get his bed in here, too. Shit," the blonde kid says, stretching his arms out, rubbing at his palms.
Zayn just stares at them, these two new strangers in his place of residence. He feels like the back of his neck is burning. The shorter guy, with crazy hair like Harry, pops an unlit cigarette between his lips, as the blonde one in the thin tank top tips his sunglasses back onto his face. They both turn to look at Zayn, as Harry settles next to them.
"Zayn, this is Louis and Niall. And this is Zayn, my new roommate," he says, gesturing around at them all, smiling.
They each give a quick hey, before walking back out into the hallway, leaving Zayn and Harry alone again. Harry won't look away from him. He won't stop fucking smiling. Zayn wants to be in his room at the moment, so he doesn't have to do this any longer, be around people he doesn't know, be around this stupid kid he's stupidly letting move in. But he can't be impolite.
"Do you like, need help or anything? Anything I can grab?"
"Oh please, Zayn. I'm not going to make you help me. That's why I brought those two goons," Harry says, pointing to the door. "Don't you lift a finger, roommate. I got this."
And with that, Harry grabs his arm again, before walking out the open front door.
***
Zayn listens from his room later that day, as Harry and his friends make trip after trip from their cars, up to Harry's new room. They constantly walk past his door, as they bring boxes and furniture in. Zayn notices their voices are low, they're not yelling or playing music at all, which is nice. The semester hasn't started yet, Zayn isn't actually studying anything, but it bodes well.
He hears Louis and Niall moving around in the living room, after they're done getting it all in, as Harry walks up and down the hall a few times. Zayn wonders if he's still feeling energy or whatever bullshit he said before, but he shakes his head, telling himself not to worry about it. Not his problem.
It gets quiet a few hours later after the sun has set, which Zayn is grateful for. It's not like Harry can't have people over, but Zayn had hoped their first night in the apartment would just be the two of them. They have things to talk about, after all.
So he walks into the living room, wearing his favorite track pants and a simple grey tshirt, to see Harry fucking Styles doing yoga in the middle of the floor. He's on an orange yoga mat, shirtless, wearing tiny yellow shorts, ass towards the ceiling, curls brushing against the mat between his hands. Zayn realizes the lights are all off except for the hanging lamp over the kitchen table, but there's a candle burning in the corner near the sliding glass door, a scent Zayn can't place.
Harry shifts, bringing a leg forward to bend it in front of him, his arms swinging high up above his head, crossing his thumbs as he angles his face towards the ceiling. His eyes are closed, Zayn can tell now, as he watches for a second longer, before shaking his head.
"Uh," he says, walking around Harry towards the kitchen, announcing himself.
"Oh hey, " Harry says, turning his head to smile at Zayn, bringing his arms down. He's still in a lunge, even as his hands drop to his sides. Zayn notices how strong his legs must be, if he can hold the position without shaking. He also notices the seemingly random bits of ink all over Harry's chest and arms.
Zayn sits at the kitchen table, still dumbfounded at the fucking crazy person doing yoga in his living room. He shakes his head again, tells himself to focus, as he gestures to the chair opposite him at the table. The light above it illuminates Harry's face as he sits down and leans in slightly.
"What's going on?" Harry says easily, looking at Zayn expectantly.
"Yoga?" Zayn questions.
"It's very relaxing. Have you ever done it? I needed to de-stress after today. Moving sucks. And I still need to unpack everything, which overwhelms me, so."
Zayn just nods. Harry seems to be a very self aware person, very in touch with his feelings, which Zayn finds alarming. He's also never tried yoga. It looked complicated and weird, and he's not exactly the most flexible person in the world, so the whole thing spelled disaster. But he moves on.
"So we should talk, now that you're here," he says, folding his hands on the shitty fake wooden surface.
"Okay."
"We need to set ground rules. We need rules we both agree to follow."
"Rules?"
"It's important to have rules, Harry. Everyone should have rules and standards to live by. Everyone should make the choice to set a standard," Zayn says seriously. "I have rules. You should have rules for me, too. It's only fair."
Harry frowns slightly, but he nods anyway.
"Okay, what are your rules, Zayn? Tell me everything," he says, now folding his hands on the table as well. They're acting like they're in some sort of deposition or meeting, and Zayn almost smiles at how ridiculous they probably look.
"You already know the basics. No pets, no parties, no George Strait, no excessive soda. No noise. Replenish the food you eat the last of. Don't leave the hall light on."
"Done."
"But there's a few more," Zayn says, firmly. "Smoking on the balcony only, cigarettes and weed… Oh, and I don't do well with new groups of people, as I'm sure you gathered. So if you're going to have people over, even like a small group, or just one or two, just warn me ahead of time. Tell me their names, who they are. Then I'll at least know, if I answer the door."
Harry nods, eyes telling Zayn to continue.
"Don't touch my stuff, if it's out here in a shared space. I don't like it when I put something somewhere and then it's moved and I can't find it. I'm not messy, or careless with my stuff, but still. Just thought I should say it. Don't go in my room when I'm not here. Uh, if my girlfriend Sara is over, be respectful. She's doesn't like being talked to like 'just a girlfriend,' or some 'chick.' Same with my family, if they're ever here, just be nice to them," he finishes, with a shrug.
"Can I be honest with you?" Harry says thoughtfully.
"Okay."
"The fact that you have to say any of this, like it's a rulebook, like it's stuff I wouldn't already do, makes me sad for you."
If Zayn didn't know any better, he would think Harry is about to reach out and grab his hands, hold on to him, touch him. So he pulls his hands into his lap quickly.
"What do you mean?" Zayn says nervously.
"You must've had a really, really shitty roommate before, Zayn. Like he must've been a fucking prick," Harry says, serious now, angry. "I won't disrespect you, or your personal property. I'll be kind to you and let you know who strangers are, before inviting them into your home. I'll be nice to your girlfriend and your family, because human beings should be nice to other human beings."
Zayn can tell Harry's anger is directed at Stephen, which makes him smile. He can't help it.
"Thanks," he says, looking down at his hands. "I appreciate you saying that."
"Of course."
Harry smiles at him again. He glances to his right, towards the apartment, towards his bedroom, no doubt wondering if the conversation is over, if he can go to his room now. But Zayn shakes his head.
"Go on, then. Now you go, tell me your rules," Zayn says, waving his hand a little.
"Uh," Harry says, scrunching up his face, thinking. "I don't know if I have any."
"Yes you do. Everyone has rules. And if you don't, you need to get some, Harry. You should always set a standard for yourself," he says hurriedly, leaning in.
"Okay," Harry chuckles, still thinking. "Well, I guess… I guess don't go in my room either, when I'm not here?"
Zayn stares at him. He won't let Harry leave yet, and Harry must sense it, so he sighs, thinking harder.
"Well, I think my only rule, in life, for myself and for those around me, is to have an open mind. We're not meant to be confined in boxes, you know? We should all be honest, but also open to the things around us, right? So like, my only rule, is to not have too many rules."
Zayn stares at him.
"So that's my rule, Zayn. My rule for you. Have an open mind, and trust me," he says finally, nodding his head once.
"That's it?"
"That's it."
Zayn almost comes back at him, telling him it's bullshit. Harry must have something that annoys him to no end, some rule he makes his friends and family adhere to. Zayn can't be the only person in this apartment with a set of guidelines.
But as he looks at Harry harder, as he stares him down, trying to break through this hippy ass facade Harry wears, he finds himself seeing less and less of one. It seems like this "act" isn't actually an act. Harry Styles really is just… like this. He's a kid with holes in his jeans and a scarf around his head, a kid who does yoga and feels energy when he walks into a room. It's not an act, it's just Harry.
Zayn hates to admit it, but now that he's seeing him fully, he almost admires it.
"Okay, well… if I do something that bothers you, or you want to set a rule for me in the future, just let me know, I guess," Zayn shrugs, still looking at Harry intensely.
"Understood," Harry smiles, before getting up from the table. He bends down to roll up his yoga mat, and Zayn notices again how tiny his shorts are. They're bordering on obscene. He has to look away.
Later when he's in his bed, the moonlight streaming through the blinds, bouncing off every surface in his room, Zayn thinks about Harry and how he is who he is. Now that he's accepted the person Harry is, the positivity Harry puts out into the world, Zayn actually appreciates it. He also thinks again that having Harry around might not be too bad. It might be nice, to be around someone who is nice and respectful, but also so different from Zayn, different to the point of being able to teach him a few things.
Zayn decides to crumple up the "Do I Hate Harry Styles?" list in his head, as he rolls over, deciding he doesn't need it anymore. He really doesn't want to hate his roommate, not again.
***
As it turns out, Harry Styles wasn't exactly telling the truth about himself. Zayn knows this, as he surveys the living room a month after Harry moved in. Harry is a dirty, rotten liar.
Well. That's not exactly fair. Because Zayn has totally unreasonable standards. He can't say Harry is messy, or loud, per se. He's just not especially neat or quiet. Zayn knows he's ridiculous, knows he holds people to an impossible standard they can never actually achieve. The only way he would see someone as neat or quiet would be if a person had exactly zero belongings and happened to be deaf-mute.
Zayn walks around the living room and sees touches of Harry everywhere. His yoga mat is rolled up and perched against the lamp by the sliding glass door, a pair of his shoes next to it. The candle he insists on burning sits in the corner. Harry decided to hang up a few small paintings, weird little things he got at a garage sale. There's even a small circular rug in the kitchen now, this ugly woven thing he said his favorite neighbor on his old block gave him, some old man who just wanted to give a piece of his house to Harry before he moved. It's horrendous.
Zayn also hears Harry singing in the shower, his voice traveling through the apartment. It's gravely, rough, but also sincere and clear. He's singing "I Wanna Dance With Somebody" by Whitney Houston, doing the high pitched screams as well.
It is literally the stupidest thing Zayn's ever heard, so it should annoy Zayn, all of it should, but it doesn't.
He smiles to himself as he sets his bag down near the shitty brown couch that's so comfortable, he's found himself falling asleep on it almost every night this week, only going to his room when Harry shakes his shoulder lightly and nudges him off it.
Zayn grabs a beer from the fridge before sitting down, drinking it slowly, as the TV plays softly. He wonders if he should text Sara, to see if she wants to study with him, or read next to each other. But he doesn't. She's probably working. And at any rate, he doesn't want to sit around and watch her and Harry fall more in love, becoming fast and best friends without him. He smiles to himself.
The day after Harry moved in, Sara came over to introduce herself and she absolutely tripped over herself, she became so enamored with Harry and his weird fucking ideas. Harry asked if her name had an H on the end, which she promptly said no to, her name simply being Sara. Harry told her he absolutely loves names with four even letters, that's why he loves Zayn's name so much, and went on to explain why he likes even numbers better than odd numbers. He showed her the random shit he had hanging in his room, from trips to various places around the country.
He even showed her the crystals in his pocket, something Zayn hadn't seen up until that point, so he moved closer to Sara to see the rocks Harry held out in his palm.
"I carry blue quartz when I need to feel calm," he says, offering them the small light blue stone, ridged edges. "And then if I'm feeling overwhelmed or like I have too much pressure on my chest, I carry this black onyx. It gives you strength, see?"
The smooth black stone doesn't reflect light and is bigger than the blue quartz. Zayn likes it, it seems dark, but also sleek. He moves it around in his fingers, feeling it.
"One of my favorites is the bloodstone, though. It's good for your energy levels. It centers you," he says, holding up the small dark stone with flecks of red in it.
Sara sat transfixed, asking Harry question after question about why he carries the stones, what they mean to him, how he knows all this. Apparently Harry's parents are quite the hippies themselves, so Harry grew up with this kind of stuff. In fact, his parents didn't make him wear shoes until he was forced to wear them at school when he was five. That's why he prefers to be barefoot now, if he can help it.
"But the most important stone I have, I wear around my neck. It's my clear quartz pendant. You can't touch it, only I can touch it. It's important to have a crystal like this close to your heart, to absorb any negative energy, something no one else can touch or affect, you know?"
By then, Zayn started to tune out. It's nice and all that, believing crystals make your life fuller and richer, removing negative emotions around you, but Harry spoke so highly of it, it started to make Zayn feel uncomfortable. So he sat back and let Sara pester him with questions, gripping Zayn's hand tighter whenever Harry said something especially engaging. He laughed at how intense they both became.
So now on the couch, as Harry continues to sing Whitney Houston in the bathroom, Zayn sighs, wondering if Sara will ever come over just for him ever again, if Sara will ever fuck him without wondering what Harry's up to in the next room, crazy, interesting, Harry.
He would be mad, but it was kind of sweet, seeing two people in his life connect over something so outside of his realm. He drinks his beer lazily, as Harry finally opens the bathroom door, waltzing down the hall to his room, still singing. Zayn can't see him, but he guesses that he's probably dancing as he walks.
Zayn wonders then, if his list of rules are slowly deteriorating, and if he's even upset about it. Harry leaves random things in the living room. He doesn't always put the dishes away in the order Zayn likes, but he puts them away at least. He's not quiet by any means, constantly walking around the place rambling about weird things he sees through out the day, singing song after song of random music, no semblance of a favorite genre or artist. He sings Whitney, The Cure, Duran Duran, and even some Keith Urban when he's feeling especially jaunty.
Harry does yoga all the time, sometimes in his room, but mostly in the living room because it's "more open." Zayn caught him doing it naked once, as he walked in the door when his class got out early. He saw Harry's bare ass, the long slope of his back, his strong thighs, as he held himself up with his extended arms underneath him, dick probably swinging in his face. Zayn squawked, flailing his arms around not knowing what to do, but Harry just laughed and said hello, as Zayn ran into his room.
Every piece of Harry's clothing has a hole in it, picked up from random estate sales or second hand stores. His jeans are too tight. He has a candle for every room of the apartment now, except for Zayn's. He touches everything, likes to hold things in his hands. Sometimes he knocks on Zayn's door and walks right in, babbling about classes he's taking, papers he's writing, books he's reading, completely ignores when Zayn is studying. He runs his hands over the books on his shelf, walks around his room like he owns the place, puts Zayn's hats on his head, one after the other, for fun. Zayn lets him do it.
Harry even grabs for Sara's hand sometimes, when he gets excited about whatever song comes on the speakers when they all sit in the living room together. She excitedly grabs him back. Harry pulls her up to dance every so often, as Zayn watches, laughing to himself.
All of a sudden it feels like Harry has weaseled his way into every nook and cranny of Zayn's apartment, his life, his relationship.
As Zayn finishes his beer, as he smiles again at Harry's high notes coming from his room, it doesn't seem too bad. Not yet, anyways.
***
They've lived together for two months when they get high for the first time. Zayn had spent the last few weeks stressed out of his mind, his classes getting to him, day after day of stress, while Harry wanders around, flitting from class to class like it's fun. Zayn doesn't even know what "fun" means when it comes to school, he has to work so hard at it. He briefly wonders if Harry takes any random class that "speaks to him," wonders if any of them will even fit together to make a cohesive degree after four years, but he doesn't say anything. It's not his business.
Besides, Harry pays his rent, he pays the bills, he hasn't had a party, or even had a friend over to the apartment. He's done everything Zayn asked, for the most part, so Zayn can't really complain or get on Harry for not being stressed enough, if that's even a thing.
So when Harry comes to him holding a joint one Friday night, Zayn very nearly hugs him.
"Thought you might need this," Harry says muffled, lips around the joint, as he lights it up. Zayn kicks back in one of the shitty plastic chairs on the balcony, pulling the ashtray closer to them for when they need it.
"Thanks, Haz. You're a fucking life saver," Zayn says, taking it from him and taking a hit. He takes a second hit soon after, hopes Harry doesn't mind, and hands it back.
They sit in silence, passing it back and forth, as the sounds of the city move around them. Someone in their building must be having a party, the bass line of a song coming up to the balcony as they smoke.
Zayn feels warm, even as the crisp fall air nips at him. He feels like the hoodie he's wearing is constricting him, so he throws it off, joining Harry in all his topless glory. Harry walks around like it's summer all the time, which Zayn actually finds to be endearing. Harry chases the sun even when it's cloudy, it seems, and that's admirable.
"How you been lately?" Harry says slowly, turning his head to look at Zayn.
"Just a lot of shit happening these days. Lot of shit, you know?" he says lazily back, turning to look at Harry now.
"You should carry my black onyx in your pocket. It'll help you."
"Sure, Haz. Whatever you say," Zayn smiles.
His smile doesn't last though, as the worry creeps back onto his face. He just feels so tense, so nervous. He's anxious over his classes, over the fact that this is his last year, the last year to make it count.
Harry looks at him again. He moves his chair closer to Zayn's, to place his hand on Zayn's shoulder. He holds him tight for a moment, before moving his hand, gripping the back of Zayn's neck, massaging the tight muscle there. Zayn can't even help it, his head falls forward to his chest as he exhales. Harry works his hand across his neck, back to his shoulder, using his fingers to work the kinks out. Zayn's so grateful, he feels himself wordlessly move his entire body, so his back is to Harry now.
Harry doesn't miss a beat, he moves even closer, now putting both hands on Zayn's shoulders. He uses his thumbs to roughly work at the muscles along Zayn's neck, his upper back, under his shoulder blades. Zayn can feel the knots loosening, his entire body relaxing. It's the weed, the high, but it's also Harry, his hands.
Zayn briefly wonders about energy and if Harry's positive energy is physically moving into Zayn by way of his hands. It's ridiculous, stupid really, but he feels lighter. He feels himself unraveling.
It's really fucking nice.
"You shouldn't let yourself get so tense," Harry whispers, hands moving.
"I know," Zayn says, as his head falls forward again. He almost falls asleep it feels so good, the roughness of it, the feeling of his body being moved around without his brain telling it to.
But they snap out of it, of this trance they're both in, when they hear a key in the door. Sara had told Zayn she was coming over for the night. So Harry delicately removes his hands, with a final squeeze to Zayn's biceps, and moves back to sit fully in his chair. Zayn swivels around again, to rest in his chair like before, giving Harry what he hopes is a grateful and earnest look.
Sara opens the sliding door and comes out, wrinkling her nose slightly at the smell of smoke, and sits in Zayn's lap. He holds her around the waist, lets her kiss him once, before she pulls away and asks Harry about his day.
Zayn sits quietly as they talk, as Harry tells her about the sweet old man who came into the coffee shop earlier, the one he works in after class some days, the stories he told him about his old army days. Sara listens, that look of awe on her face, as Harry tells her all about John W. State. Zayn tries to pay attention, to listen to the words Harry is saying, but he can't because all he can focus on now are Harry's hands.
He's always talked with them, waved his delicate little fingers around when he gets excited. But now that Zayn knows how strong they are, how so not delicate they actually turned out to be, he can't look away. Harry wears these really dumb rings, rings he hasn't told them the meaning of yet because everything in Harry's life has meaning. The flash of silver catches on the light, and Zayn feels like he's trying to watch a flying bee buzz around his head, only catching glimpses of it every few seconds.
Zayn hates himself for it, he swears he does, but later that night, as he pushes into Sara, he thinks about strong hands. Sara is so delicate, so small, she doesn't touch Zayn with roughness or intent. When she holds onto his shoulders when she comes, she doesn't grip him. His muscles don't feel a thing.
He comes across her stomach, eyes closed, envisioning hands on his back.
Three days later when he's waiting in line for coffee, holding Sara's hand, Zayn reaches into the pocket of his favorite jeans for his wallet and is surprised to feel the smooth black onyx crystal, pressing against his skin.
He smiles.
***
A few weeks later, Harry tells Zayn for the first time that he's going to have a friend visit. He very politely approaches Zayn in the kitchen and says his friend Matt is coming over. They know each other through their history class, he's very nice, he plays the drums, and Zayn should know he'll probably stay the night.
Zayn shrugs his shoulders as he washes the dishes from their dinner, because whatever, Harry can have people over. He graciously did as Zayn asked and told him first, gave a few details. He also, in so few words, informed Zayn about his sexuality once and for all.
So when Zayn answers the door an hour later to see a tanned, muscular guy with a bright smile, he ushers him in and introduces himself, before pointing down the hall to Harry's room.
Zayn sits on the couch and turns up the TV as high as it'll go, not knowing if Harry will do as he says and not make noise. He drinks three beers rather quickly, as well.
But it does nothing because that night as he tries to fall asleep, he hears all of it. They're not loud, or obnoxious, or even rude about it. But when you're listening for something, when you strain your ears so hard and so forcefully, willing yourself to hear what you want to hear, you'll definitely hear it.
Zayn hears their breathing, the moans escaping Harry's lips. He hears one distinct bang against the wall, as if one of them pinned the other against it, and then the shush from Harry right afterwards. He hears the shifting of bodies, bodies flipping on Harry's shitty bed, springs straining underneath them. He hears Harry whine, a sound he's never heard a guy make before, this mix between guttural and breathy, this weird combination right in the middle. It's a sound Zayn decides he never wants to hear again.
So he presses his pillow on either side of his head, to the point it almost hurts, because he doesn't want to hear the sounds that come after the sound Harry just made, the sounds sure to follow from both of them, as they climax together.
Zayn doesn't want to hear anymore.
Harry is a dirty, rotten liar. Because he's not quiet. He's not quiet at all.
***
Harry tries to talk to him the next morning, as he walks into the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee, as Zayn is turned away from him at the stove. Zayn won't turn around because he doesn't want to know how half naked Harry probably is, doesn't want to see his face, or his smile, or the marks probably on his chest and back. He doesn't want to hear Harry and he doesn't want to see Harry, not now.
Harry tries to engage him again, tries to ask about his weekend, what he's up to, where Sara is.
Zayn ignores him completely, until Harry sighs, defeated, and goes back to his room.
Zayn leaves the apartment soon after, deciding he'll spend the day in the library, alone and in a completely quiet room, a Harry Styles-less room with no noise.
***
Everything starts to feel overwhelming after that, after the night Harry has a guy over. It's like suddenly Zayn's classes all hit him at once, each one of them getting harder and more intense. He has projects to finish, papers to write, books to read. None of them are letting up and he finds himself pacing in his room more often than not, running his to-do list over and over in his mind, not knowing where to even start. Harry still won't let up, still walks around the apartment, babbling about nonsense, asking Zayn what's wrong, if he can help. But Zayn just sighs and says no, Harry can't do anything.
Sara can sense it, can sense he's stressed. He gets angry at her for no reason, for looking at him in a "weird way," or calling him too much. Even when he apologizes, when he whispers it into her neck as they try to fall asleep, that he's sorry for being so anxious and stupid all the time, she only rubs his hair a little before turning away from him. Whenever they're together now, it's like they wear permanent frowns.
They stop having sex almost entirely.
Harry senses it all, can sense the tension between them whenever Sara leaves in a huff, can sense the tension Zayn can't stop carrying around. They didn't talk after Harry had a guy over, didn't discuss it at all, so things between them have been a little weird.
But it doesn't stop Harry some nights when it feels especially shitty. He'll silently pull Zayn up from the couch, or the kitchen table surrounded by books, or his desk, and stand behind him to rub his shoulders. He'll push his thumbs into Zayn's skin so roughly, Zayn feels the sharp pain all the way to his toes. He chases it though, let's Harry remove the kinks however he wants. He lets his head hang down, lets his body relax under Harry's strong hands.
Those nights are the most productive, and those nights he actually sleeps soundly.
***
Zayn tells his mom a few weeks later, when he goes home for the weekend, how good it's been living with a person like Harry, a person who can't help but see the good in any situation. He levels Zayn out, makes him feel better when something gets him worked up. She smiles and holds his arm, because she knows him, and knows what he's really saying.
But nothing ever goes how you think it'll go, because Zayn's just as surprised as anyone when he gets back Sunday morning to a trashed apartment.
He walks in, bag over his shoulder, to see bottles and red cups all over the carpet and coffee table. There's a bong on the table, pizza boxes on the counter tops in the kitchen, sticky alcohol seeping across the linoleum. Zayn looks around, can barely move he's so angry, at the shit strewn all over the place.
He legitimately thinks he's going to murder Harry Styles, so he practically runs to his room, busting in the door.
Louis is in Harry's bed, shirtless, drool all over the pillow and Niall's on the floor, curled around Harry's body pillow, snoring, not a Harry in sight. Zayn can feel his hands clenching into fists, wondering where that little fuck face is, when it dawns on him. He prays he's wrong.
Zayn walks to his own door and pushes it open, to find Harry in his bed, completely naked, face down. His comforter and sheets are a tangled mess around him, there are more cups and random clothes on his floor. He sees his shelf of hats has been knocked off the wall, his snapbacks and beanies everywhere. He notices his desk is a mess, his books and notebooks knocked over, his iMac laying screen side down.
If nothing else, Zayn vows that if his screen is cracked, if his computer is broken, if he's lost even one thing from his hard drive, he will honestly and genuinely kick Harry's ass. He will beat the shit out of him.
Harry groans and rolls over, realizing he's not alone, covers himself with the sheet.
Harry sits up, looks at the room around him, before finally looking at Zayn, bewildered.
They stare at each other for a long time.