Archive of Our Own

Harry’s not really listening to the conversation, if he’s being honest. He knows Louis is going on about something, but Louis’s always going on about something, and as long as someone’s listening not everyone has to pay attention. So Harry’s mostly just basking—in the feeling of being back, in the feeling of being back at school, in the feeling of being back in his old room (well, a new room, but Louis and he have decorated it just how they used to, so it means the same thing) and on his old bed with all the bedding he’s used to even if technically the stuff at home is better, with his boys all around him. Zayn’s next to him so Harry can feel the warmth of him all against his side, and he knows Niall and Liam are on the bed across from him with Louis, and all is right with the world. This is going to be the best year, he knows. Senior year. They’re the kings, basically. It’s everything Harry ever imagined, when he had showed up three years ago, wide-eyed at this place where he would spend nine months.

“My goal for this year,” Louis says to Zayn. “Get you laid at last.”

Harry zones back in, fast. “What?” he demands. That’s not a good plan. He’s not entirely sure why, but he knows it’s not something Louis should be doing.

“Shouldn’t we maybe let Zayn decide when that happens?” Liam suggests. Yes. That’s why it’s a bad plan, they shouldn’t be pressuring Zayn into doing anything. Harry rests a comforting hand over Zayn’s on the bed, so he knows that not all of them support Louis’s crazy plan.

“It’s past time,” Louis waves a hand. “We can’t all be slags like Harry, getting off in loos during breaks.”  Harry makes a face at him, because he’s not that bad, and anyway, that doesn’t mean anything, it’s just random hook ups because they’re both horny, or he needs an outlet, or whatever. It’s not a big deal. And Harry knows Zayn, and he knows this would be a big deal for him, because he’s a romantic. Harry cuddles closer to Zayn, lets his hand wrap around Zayn’s waist. Zayn doesn’t have to be like Harry. Zayn should just always be himself, because Zayn’s the best. “But you, Malik, will just have to bite the bullet.”

Niall wrinkles his nose. “I don’t think there should be biting involved.”

“Depends what the bullet is,” Louis informs him cheerfully. Harry sort of wants to throw something at him, but nestles into Zayn’s side instead. Well, over Zayn’s side, because he knows how he’s comfiest against Zayn and it’s with his arms around his waist and his head against Zayn’s chest, and it’s been a whole summer since he’s been like that so he’s due. It always makes him feel better, more settled somehow, and his contentment from earlier has gone far downhill so he needs that. “So, Zayn, what will your pleasure be? I know Johnson would be up for it. Or next weekend when we go into town, El’s got a friend—”

“No!” That’s not the right way to do things, not the right way at all, at the very least. Not some random friend of someone else. Zayn’s first time should be special. Tender. With someone who knows what they’re doing and will do it well. Harry remembers his first time, awkward fumbling in the backseat of his mom’s Range Rover summer after sophomore year, and he doesn’t want that for Zayn.

But he might have been a bit loud, because everyone but Louis gives him weird looks. Louis just looks like he’s laughing at him, which isn’t any more comforting. “I mean,” Harry stammers. He doesn’t know why he’s stammering. He hasn’t felt awkward in years, and especially not when he’s cuddling with Zayn. “Zayn should do it on his own time, with whoever he wants, and not because you’re pushing him into anything, Louis, that’s—”

“Maybe I do want.” All at once, Zayn’s gone stiff beneath him. It’s not okay, so Harry tightens his arms around him like he can pull all the tenseness out of him, like Zayn does for him when he gets too stressed out over all his work and Zayn pulls him into a hug until he feels better. Like he does to Zayn when new kids give him weird looks, for his skin color or his tattoos or the paint that’s always spattered over his hands.

But it’s not working this time. Zayn doesn’t pull away, like he does when he’s really mad, but he doesn’t relax either. “Fine, boys. Operation get me laid is a go.”

No. No no no no. This is a bad idea, the worst idea ever, Zayn shouldn’t be doing this, he shouldn’t just be sleeping with people willy-nilly. But no one else seems to realize it. Liam just sighs, resigned, and Niall chuckles, and Louis claps his hands and grins, and even Zayn looks determined, his sharp jaw set.

“Great!” Louis says, gleeful. “Now we just need to find volunteers. Any thoughts, lads?”

Harry tries his best not to listen, as Louis starts brainstorming out loud, Liam and Niall throwing in suggestions and commentary. He doesn’t want to hear this. He wants this to fizzle out like so many of Louis’s plans do.

“Hey.” Zayn’s voice is quiet in his ear. Harry shivers and nestles closer. It must be cold in here. “You okay?”

Harry looks up. Zayn’s got an odd expression on—half concern, half something else that looks like how he gets when he’s trying really hard not to show things are getting to him. “Should be asking you that,” Harry replies, hopefully too quiet for Louis to hear. “You know you don’t have to do this if you don’t want?” Don’t want. You shouldn’t want. Please don’t want to.

“I know. I do want to.” Zayn’s chin juts out. “Really.”

His jaw is right there, so sharp and chiseled with the stubble running over it, and Harry can’t resist the urge to lick it. Zayn laughs when he does, and presses a kiss onto Harry’s temple in return. It’s something. Harry focuses on that, then swallows and jumps into the conversation. At least he can make sure it’s someone worthy of Zayn, even if Harry doesn’t know anyone who is.

“No, this is perfect!” Louis insists, loud enough that half the people in the dining hall turn to look at him. Liam sighs, and Zayn hits Louis on the arm to shush him. Harry just glares. He’s been in a bad mood all day. It probably doesn’t help that classes have started giving homework now, after a few days of classes, and he stayed up later than he meant to because they had all been studying in Harry and Louis’s room and Zayn had been reading on Harry’s bed, his head in Harry’s lap, and he hadn’t wanted to disturb him, but really he’d just hoped Louis had forgotten about all of this.It turns out he hasn’t. Not when the moment they sat down at breakfast, he’d started plotting.

“It’s perfect!” Louis repeats, banging on the table. Zayn scowls at him, and takes another sip of coffee. He’s still adjusting to waking up early, Harry knows, and Niall never remembers to get him up in time, so he’s pretty clearly just rolled out of bed, his hair tousled and his cheeks still a little flushed from sleep. Harry sort of wants to send him upstairs right now. He shouldn’t be allowed out. People shouldn’t see him like this, all soft and vulnerable looking, without the cool face he wears like a shield. It worries Harry, what people would do to him if they knew the softness at his core.

Harry edges his chair closer, wraps an arm around his shoulder so Zayn can lean his head on Harry’s shoulder. Maybe that will stop people from seeing him like this.

“Why?” Niall asks. He probably is curious. “Why is it so perfect, Louis?”

“Because Zayn’s comfortable with her. We should start easily, and Natasha’s great. She’s already seen Zayn at his worst.”

“Why does that matter?” Harry asks. He’s seen Zayn at his worst too, when he’s sick with the flu and bratty and nothing’s good enough, and he still knows Zayn’s beautiful.

“Because,” Louis drawls, “It means Zayn has no where to go but up.”

“Love your faith in me,” Zayn mutters, more into Harry’s t-shirt than anything else. Harry giggles, but then he remembers he’s in a bad mood and frowns again.

“So are we going to do this?” Liam looks up from the notebook in front of him to ask. “Or are we just talking about it?”

“Just talking,” Harry mumbles.

Louis ignores him. “We are doing! Come on, up.” Zayn mutters something unintelligible and doesn’t move. Harry doesn’t either. He is performing an important job as Zayn’s pillow. He shouldn’t be moving. “Malik, up, now.”

“No.” Zayn shakes his head, his forehead resting against Harry.

“Zayn,” Louis says, in his most reasonable, most dangerous tone, “You’re making a scene. The new kid’s looking.”

That gets Zayn’s attention. It gets Harry’s attention to, so both of them look across the room to where Louis’s gesturing. Zayn quickly glances away, embarrassed to be caught looking, but Harry is fine with it. Especially when that person is looking at Zayn.

He’s not bad looking, strong features and pale skin with hair almost as dark as Zayn’s carefully styled and a streak of purple in it. But he looks away when he sees they caught him, ducking his head in a way that looks more bashful than aggressive, so Harry diverts his gaze too. Harry can’t blame him for looking. Everyone always wants to look at Zayn. It’s a problem Harry sometimes has as well. But he’s special because he’s allowed.

“Okay, I’m up,” Zayn announces, pulling away from Harry. Harry lets him go, only a bit reluctantly. “Where’s Tash?”

“In the corner,” Niall pipes up helpfully. Harry glares at him too.

“Well then. Here goes nothing.”

They all follow Zayn over to where Natasha is sitting, scribbling on a sketchpad. She grins when they approach, her smile widening at Zayn so it’s brilliant against her dark skin. “Hey, babe!” she says, as Zayn slides onto the bench across from her. Liam grabs the other boys when they approach, so instead they all loiter nearby. Natasha gives them an odd look, but after so many years most of the school is used to them always moving in a pack, and her more than most. “Didn’t think you could move if Harry wasn’t propping you up, this early.”

Zayn opens his mouth, but Louis gives him a sharp, pointed look over her shoulder, and Zayn rolls his eyes before he replies, with a decent attempt at a smirk that’s not half of what Harry knows he can do, because his real smirk is just a quirk of his lips and it’s devastating. “Wouldn’t usually,” he says, deepening his voice almost comically, if it weren’t also all rough with disuse and his morning cigarette, so it’s actually just horribly sexy. “But you’re worth it.”

Natasha tilts her head. Harry sort of wishes he could see her face. Her and Zayn are great friends, the oldest friends, what if… “Are you flirting with me, Zee?” she asks, slowly. Almost incredulously.

Zayn shrugs, his smile curving shyly. “Is it working?”

She laughs, and reaches out to cover his hand with her own. “Zee, I love you. You know that. But we’ve known each other since we were in diapers. I can’t flirt with anyone my mum has pictures of me in a bathtub naked with.”

Zayn laughs too, and flips his hand so they’re holding hands. “Break my heart,” he drawls, then looks over her shoulder to meet Louis’s eye. “Told you.”

“Well, it was worth a shot!” Louis protests. Now that it’s over, they join Zayn and Natasha. Harry makes sure to sit next to Zayn, and to sit close enough to them that he can put a comforting hand on his thigh, in case he really is discouraged. “She likes you already.”

“Worth a shot?”

“Louis’s decided to get Zayn laid,” Niall explains, and steals a hash brown off her tray. She sighs. She’s been dragged into too many of their escapades just from knowing Zayn since forever.

“And you agreed to this?” she asks Zayn. Her eyes flick from Zayn to Harry. Harry shrugs. He’s just as mystified as she is, if he’s being honest. He thought…well, Zayn had never really shown interest in anyone, not since Hannah dumped him sophomore year. Ever since then, he’s seemed to be content with just them. It’s been nice, with Louis talking on the phone to El every five minutes and Niall hanging out with his band mates and Liam starting to obsess over colleges and that fit dancer Dani who he’s apparently waging a long campaign on, to have Zayn always there. Of course, Zayn’s always been there. It’s why he’s the best. He’s always there for Harry, no matter what he needs.

“Yeah,” Zayn replies. He’s giving Natasha his best intense gaze, and his muscles are tense again. Harry strokes his thigh in comfort, but it doesn’t seem to help. He tries again, in case. “I did.”

“Really?”

Louis’s eyes are narrowing. “Why is this so amazing, Natasha?” he demands. Zayn’s eyes narrow ever farther, and it’s only because Harry is so close that he catches how his foot lashes out to kick Natasha’s shin.

Natasha hides her wince well, and just grins knowingly, like she knows irritates Louis the most. Sometimes, Harry remembers why he likes her. Actually, he still likes her. A lot. She’s sort of his favorite. “Oh, so many reasons, Tomlinson. So many reasons.”

“Shouldn’t we get to class?” Liam inserts, before Louis retorts. They all groan, and get to their feet. Harry sticks close to Zayn, but as far as he can see Zayn isn’t at all put off by Natasha’s rejection. It makes something warm start in Harry’s chest, and it doesn’t go away all day, not even when Johnson mutters something to him and then five minutes later they’re jerking each other off in the loo. Harry closes his eyes as he comes, and tries to focus on the warm-feeling rather than the too-big hand wrapped around his cock.

It’s one of those brilliant early fall afternoons that feel as good as summer when the sun is out, so basically the whole school is taking advantage of it. They’re all sprawled out on the quad in groups, doing everything from talking to tanning to one group of people who Harry thinks might be smoking up, though he’s upwind and can’t tell. He could ask Zayn, who’d probably know better, but that would involve moving, and Harry doesn’t want to do that. He’s perfectly content to bask in the sun, his math homework long abandoned—Zayn had sat down next to him and there was no easy way to do math and also get Zayn to pet his hair, so clearly he had prioritized and wormed his way onto Zayn’s lap. Zayn’s lap was just always the best place to sit.

Zayn’s working with Liam on some sort of science project over Harry’s head, and Louis is humming as he reads his English book, and Niall’s foot taps sometimes against Harry’s knee as he fiddles with something he’s writing for the marching band. He could stay here forever, Harry thinks, as Zayn’s hands work through his hair, just like this, lying on Zayn with the sun sinking into his skin.

That is, until Louis shuts his book with a bang that means he’s totally fed up with it. Harry opens his eyes. It’s dangerous not to keep an eye on Louis when he’s antsy. But that just means Harry’s looking right up into the underside of Zayn’s chin, the sharp, strong bones there, the veins of his neck. The hints of stubble left over from when he shaved this morning. His stubble had always fascinated Harry a bit, because Harry’s so incapable of growing any. It’s always made him wonder things. Wonder how stubble would feel against his cheeks, his thighs, his ass. Not any particular stubble, but the general idea of it.

“So what I’m pondering,” Louis says, a bit sharply, and Harry pulls his eyes away from Zayn to turn his head to look at Louis. Zayn’s fingers scratch just behind his ear, and Harry nearly purrs. “Is why you haven’t had sex yet.”

Zayn’s fingers stop moving. Harry glares at Louis. Did he have to bring that up? Harry had been quite happy to forget about that, and pretend Zayn was always going to be there for him to sit in his lap and pet his hair and be wonderful and comforting and solid and Zayn-like.

“I’ve wondered that too,” Niall agrees. Harry turns his glare on him. Why won’t people let Zayn be? Why won’t people let Zayn be okay with his virginity, because he—well, no. Actually, Harry’s pretty curious too. But still. They shouldn’t be asking him that. They should stop talking about this completely, really.

“He doesn’t need to say,” Harry says, as firmly as he can, but Louis’s already talking over him.

“I mean, you’re a good looking lad. I know people have been willing. So why haven’t you?”

Zayn shrugs. Harry feels it, more than sees it. He could see Zayn’s face better if he moved, but when he nudges into Zayn’s hand he starts petting again, so he really can’t. “Didn’t want to.”

“Didn’t want to? What sort of thing is that for a teenager to say?”

“Louis,” Liam says, warningly.

“Okay, yeah, fine, but still. Didn’t want to,” Louis shakes his head. “What are you, saving—”

He cuts off, and Harry can feel Zayn tense, and oh. Oh, that makes sense, because despite all his put on cynicism and the way he keeps them all grounded with common sense and how he sometimes sneers like he hates the world, Zayn’s got the soul of an artist. He’s a romantic. He thinks the world is beautiful, even when it isn’t to him. He believes in love.

“You are,” Louis goes on, gleeful. Zayn’s still tense. If Harry thought Zayn would let him, he’d just wants to wrap him in his arms and never let him go, to let him keep thinking the world is beautiful and that your first time can be with the person you love, because it’s so lovely Zayn can’t help but believe that still. “You are saving yourself! Zayn! Have you been holding out on us?”

“No,” Zayn snaps.

“Louis,” Liam says again, a second warning, but Louis disregards it.

“Come on, Zayn, no secrets, that’s the rule. Who are you so madly in love with that you don’t want to fuck anyone else?”

“No one, Louis, fucking leave it!” Zayn spits out, one of his rare bursts of temper that are all the more impactful for their rareness. Even Louis subsides. But Harry can feel how Zayn’s still tense, so he gets up so he can cuddle into his side for more proper comforting.

But who could Zayn have been in love with? Plenty of people have showed interest in him, obviously, because it’s Zayn and he’s clever and talented and kind and also the hottest thing ever, but Zayn’s also seemed apart from it, somehow, like he didn’t even see it. He’d ignore a girl’s blatant staring to come sit by Harry and the lads and listen to Harry tell one of his jokes. He can’t have been in love. Unless, Hannah—unless, she was most of his firsts, Harry had seen what her leaving had done to him, what if he wanted…

“So you are in love,” Niall says at last. Because it’s Niall, Zayn doesn’t get mad. He just sighs, and sort of collapses into Harry’s side. Harry draws comforting circles on his hip, letting his fingers slip under the hem of his t-shirt because Zayn’s always been best comforted by skin to skin cuddling. “Why do you want to sleep with someone else, then?”

“I…” Zayn sighs again. It’s an awful, wrung-out sort of sound, and suddenly Harry hates this person fiercely, as much as he’s hated anything in the world. He doesn’t care who it is, anyone who makes Zayn sound like that should go die in a fire. They’re clearly not worth Zayn, if they let that happen. No one should make Zayn feel that way. “I just, I need to accept it’s never going to happen. Like, move on, you know?”

He says it like it’s a real question, so Harry answers. “Yeah,” he agrees. Zayn twitches against him, so Harry presses closer, trying to make him feel better just by his presence. Trying to make up for this other person who doesn’t love him back. “If someone doesn’t love you, they’re not worth your time. You should move on. Find someone else.”

Zayn’s face is perfectly closed off, like Harry hates. He can’t read him like this, can’t quite find him, and it’s awful because he needs Zayn with him always.

“Got anyone in mind?” Louis asks on a drawl, and Harry turns his glare to him. No. No, because if everyone Zayn’s been in love with hurt him, then he shouldn’t fall in love again until it’s with someone who won’t hurt him. It makes perfect sense.

“I—” Zayn starts, but Niall cuts him off.

“I do,” he says, calmly, and that is such rank betrayal Harry can’t think of anything to say before he’s calling out, “Hey, Craig! Come here!”

“Craig?” Zayn mutters, as Niall waves to a blonde guy across the quad, who waves back and starts ambling over.

“You know, the junior? We’ve been hanging in band. He thinks you’re cute.”

Harry snorts. If thinking Zayn was cute was a requirement for sleeping with him, the whole world would have slept with him, because everyone thinks Zayn is cute. Well, gorgeous. But cute falls under that heading. It’s just a fact. Everyone who’s ever seen Zayn’s cheekbones knows it.

“Good man!” Louis claps Niall on the shoulder. “Contributing to the effort. C’mon, Harold, move.”

Harry doesn’t move. He’s comfortable. He shouldn’t have to move, shouldn’t have to give up Zayn’s fingers in his hair and his thigh under his head and how sleepy-content he is.

“Harry,” Louis snaps.

“What? You didn’t tell me to do anything.” Harry gives him his best innocent grin. Zayn chuckles, and it makes the happy settle deep in Harry’s belly. He’d like to see Craig make Zayn laugh like that. And Zayn shouldn’t settle for anything less.

“Harry Edward Styles, remove yourself from Zayn right now. There’s no way he’ll get laid with you an inch from his dick.”

But that’s the point. Harry catches himself a second before he says it. It is. Because…because if the person wants Harry to stop cuddling with Zayn, he’ll…it won’t be okay. Harry needs to cuddle Zayn. For both of them. And he isn’t moving Harry away so he doesn’t need to move, ever.

“He’s basically here,” Liam hisses, and Louis actually sits up and grabs Harry’s arm and pulls him up, so by the time this Craig person gets over Zayn’s lounging on the grass on his own, stretched out so Harry can’t really blame Craig for the way his eyes flick over the length of Zayn’s legs in his jeans, up the subtle arch of his back and the way his shirt rides up an inch to reveal a strip of skin above his jeans. Harry’s fingers clench in the grass rather than reaching out and pulling it down.

“Hey,” Niall says, with a grin for Craig. He’s not bad looking, Harry can admit, with dirty blonde hair and nice brown eyes and good legs—maybe Harry’s thought about flirting before—but he’s nowhere hot enough for Zayn. “What’s up?”

“Not much.” Craig’s answering grin is easy. He’s horribly easy-going, like Niall, Harry decides. He’d probably never start anything with Zayn and Zayn won’t so nothing would ever happen. “How’re you?”

“Great!” Niall laughs. “You know the lads?”

“Sort of?” Craig gives a nervous sort of laugh, rubs the back of his neck with a big hand. He’s not looking at Zayn. Good. “I mean, everyone at least knows of everyone, here.”

“Well, I’m Louis,” Louis inserts. “This is Liam, and Harry. And that’s Zayn.” He says the last with the air of someone presenting a grand prize, or a priceless work of art. Which is true. And at least Craig seems to notice, given he’s still only shooting Zayn looks from the corner of his eyes.

“Hey,” is all he says, though, and his whole face twitches before he sits down in the space Liam helpfully opens up next to Zayn.

“Hey,” Zayn says, a little gently. Harry knows exactly what’s happening. Craig’s sparking all of Zayn’s protective instincts, all the things that make him so check in on his sisters once a week, that make him so quick to coddle Niall. But that’s not…that’s a shortcut. And not a good reason to sleep with someone. Or, it shouldn’t be the only reason. It’s why Zayn’s always so sweet to the younger students in the first few days when they’re wandering around, unsure. Why Zayn had talked to Harry, that first day of freshman year, because he was lost and Zayn had noticed and answered all his questions with all the knowledge of someone who’d been here since sixth grade. But now they’re real friends, proper friends, and Harry takes care of Zayn back. Zayn shouldn’t have to take care of someone, his first time, even if that’s always Zayn’s instinct. He should be the one being taken care of.

“He likes all your music,” Niall announces, “You should talk about that.” That gets a wry smile from Zayn, and a rueful one from Craig. But it also gets a,

“Really? What sort of stuff?” from Zayn, and then they’re actually chatting, about Drake and all sorts of r&b Harry’s never cared about, and Harry thinks Zayn’s giving him a bit of a smolder, and Craig’s definitely staring at Zayn like he’s hung the stars, and also like he can’t look away from his lips. Louis’s looking on with proud, self-satisfied expression, and Niall’s grinning. Only Liam seems as concerned as Harry does, glancing at Harry then at Zayn, like he knows that this isn’t right and they should stop. Right now.

“Did you see the new Marvel movie?” Harry inserts, when Zayn and Craig’s conversation lulls. So they have one thing in common. That doesn’t mean anything. How is he supposed to appreciate Zayn properly if he doesn’t understand all the important parts of Zayn? Not just the pretty, cool exterior but also the geek inside who can talk about comics for hours and can recite all of the movies from heart. “The…”

“Captain America,” Liam fills in. Harry grins at him thankfully. He’d tagged along with Zayn and Liam and Louis when they went to see it, but he hadn’t really been paying much attention, because it was more fun to watch Zayn getting into it next to him. Though he did appreciate the chance to see Chris Evans and Sebastian Stan shirtless and Scarlett Johansson in leather.

“Yeah, that one.”

“No.” Craig’s nose wrinkles. It’s a pretty unattractive expression. “It’s not my thing.”

Hah. Harry shoots Niall and Louis triumphant looks. He’d known this guy was all wrong.

“You haven’t seen any of them?” Zayn asks, incredulous. His hand comes up to cover the ZAP! tattoo on his arm. Harry reaches over to pull his hand away. He likes that tattoo, likes the bold shamelessness of it. He shouldn’t cover it up. And Craig should see that there are people who appreciate all of Zayn, and those are the people Zayn lets touch him.

“Of course not. They’re a bit childish, aren’t they? Superheroes are for kids.”

“For kids,” Zayn repeats, flatly. Harry grins. He was so right. And if there’s one thing Zayn can’t take—one thing he shouldn’t take—it’s being called immature. “They’re expressions—”

“Craig!” Niall cuts in, before Zayn starts his rant. It’s a pity. Harry likes Zayn’s rants, because he goes on them so rarely, but when he does he gets so into them, his eyes lighting up and his whole body moving with his passion, and Harry never gives up a chance to see it. “I want to show you this arrangement.”

“What?” Craig’s forehead wrinkles, glancing between Niall and Zayn. “Now?”

“Yeah, want to have it done before rehearsal. Come on, we’ll need the music room.” Niall rolls to his feet. Slowly, Craig does as well. He doesn’t even know what he’s done wrong, Harry thinks superiorly. He can’t read Zayn at all. “See you lads tonight?”

“Yep!” Harry agrees, with a grin at Niall. He even gives Craig a smile too. He’s not too bad, really. It’s not his fault he couldn’t resist Zayn. It’s hard to do. “Nice to meet you, Craig.”

“You too.” His eyes fell onto Zayn. “All of you.”

“Yeah,” Zayn says, but it’s not enthusiastic. “I’ll be sure to send you that video.”

“Great!”

“Okay, come on,” Niall tells him, and leads him away.

Harry immediately falls back into Zayn’s lap. He’s been uncomfortable for long enough.

“Don’t even,” Zayn warns Louis.

Harry hadn’t even looked at him, but now he does, and Louis does indeed look judgmental, that look he gets when he’s sure he knows best. “He doesn’t need to like with everything you like to sleep with you.”

“He called me a kid.”

“You don’t have to be so sensitive, just because Hannah—”

“He thinks comics are stupid, Lou.”

Louis swallows. That hits him hard, Harry knows. “Okay. Yes. But he was also cute. And we’re not talking a relationship, we’re talking sex, so really cute is all—”

“He didn’t like him,” Harry interrupts, firmly. “And that’s what matters.”

“Sure it is,” Louis retorts, which doesn’t even make sense. “I’m just saying, you can’t compare everyone to this person you’re in love with, Zayn. That’s not how you get over them.”

“Trust me,” Zayn gives a rueful smile. His fingers are back in Harry’s hair. “The person I’m in love with doesn’t like everything I like.”

“Good,” Harry purrs. That’s an impossible standard. And it doesn’t matter anyway. It just matters that they like that Zayn likes it, because then they can appreciate it, and anyway, Harry doesn’t really care. The person Zayn loves isn’t here right now. He just wants this moment to last forever, the setting sun behind Zayn’s head, Zayn’s smile soft and fond as he looks down at Harry.

“Where have you been?” Harry demands, as Zayn slides into their dinner table twenty minutes late. That’s late even for Zayn, especially for dinner. Harry wasn’t getting worried or anything, but he doesn’t like it when Zayn disappears. He hadn’t even seen Zayn since lunch, because they don’t have any afternoon classes together and then Harry had yearbook and student council and by the time he surfaced no one knew where Zayn was. That was clearly too long for him to go without his Zayn fix. He’d started getting antsy

“Art room,” Zayn answers with a grin. Harry glances at his hands, but they’re clean. He never comes back from the art room without his hands covered in paint. Sometimes it’s even still a bit wet, so when he hugs Harry and it leaves smears on his shirt like a mark that Zayn Was Here.

“Really?” Harry asks, because everyone else is apparently too busy eating to ask the important questions.

“Yeah. William was showing me how to use this graphic design program, it’s really cool, you can—”

“William?” Harry cuts him off. He didn’t know Zayn knew the new kid that well. Zayn doesn’t make friends quickly, takes a while to let people through the cool, shy exterior to the gooey sweet wonderful center. He doesn’t just hang out with attractive people he can’t have known for more than a month.

“Yeah, the new kid? He’s in my art class, obviously.” Zayn says, around a bite of pasta. “He’s cool. We’re thinking about making some sort of webcomic, maybe. Do you think we could get space on the intranet for that?”

It’s a pretty awesome idea, and it’s great practice for Zayn, Harry knows. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“Thanks.” Zayn grins, his eyes crinkling, his whole face beaming. It’s his special smile, the one only people he loves can get from him, and Harry loves it, loves how he can get it. William can’t, not yet. Probably. He hopes. He wonders if this person Zayn’s in love with can. Probably, he decides, a bit ruefully. But it’s okay because Zayn is getting over them because they probably don’t even know how special it is to be able to get that smile, not like Harry does, so they’re all wrong for him.

“Speaking of new people,” Liam says. Harry starts. He’d…kind of forgotten the other boys were here. “Guess who’s the new TA in my econ class?”

“You get a TA?”

“Yeah, it’s, like, an internship or something, she’s getting her degree in teaching so she needs classroom experience. Anyway, it’s…” he trails off, because he’s nodding towards the door, as she walks in.

Zayn freezes. Harry nearly chokes. He hasn’t seen Hannah since she graduated two years ago, since she broke Zayn’s heart. She’s just as pretty as she was then, though, heart shaped face and rich brown hair and all those curves that have only filled out since she decided Zayn was good enough to go out with for half of his sophomore year but that he was too immature for her to have around once college guys started looking at her.

“She looks awful,” Harry announces loyally. Louis hisses his agreement.

“She’s not that bad,” Liam inserts. Harry gapes at him, and reaches out to put his hand over Zayn’s, where it’s twitching on the table. Zayn hasn’t lifted his head since that one quick glance at her. “She’s…chilled out some. Said hi to me and everything. Even asked after Zayn.”

“Fuck her,” Louis hisses. Harry’s hand squeezes around Zayn’s. How dare she come back? He doesn’t think he’s ever hated anyone like he’s hated her. Which isn’t fair, really, because she was all right when she and Zayn were dating, even if she didn’t really like hanging out with them because Zayn alone was apparently fine, but when he was with his friends they were too childish.

But it had been him who ended up nursing Zayn through the break up the most, because Liam had been abroad that semester, and Louis was great for anger but not always for being a shoulder to cry on, and Zayn hadn’t liked to put his own grief on Niall. And Harry had wanted to, had wanted to take care of Zayn like Zayn had always taken care of him. So it had been Harry who had held Zayn when he cried, Harry who had listened as Zayn muttered things about not being good enough and such a dork and she was right, and Harry who had soothed away the worries with all the praise he could think of, which was plenty. Harry who had fallen asleep with Zayn wrapped around him like he needed something to hold onto. Harry who had slowly, painstakingly, coaxed Zayn into smiling again, like he smiled now.

“You don’t need to even look at her,” Harry tells Zayn quickly. “We can avoid her.”

“I don’t think you will, actually,” Liam contradicts. “She sounded like she wanted to talk to you.”

“Who gives a fuck what she wants,” Harry spits. Zayn’s hand twitches under him again, but he can’t read anything from Zayn’s profile other than surprise. He’s just staring at his tray like it’ll tell him the answers. “She doesn’t get a say.”

“Gave that up,” Niall agrees, almost as fiercely. “Fuck her, Zayn. You’re better than her any day.”

“You are,” Harry echoes.

“No, but fuck her.” Louis says, suddenly excited rather than angry, though his eyes are still hard and cold and mad. “This is perfect.”

“Perfect?” Zayn echoes hoarsely. Harry hooks his foot around Zayn’s ankle, because touch was how he got Zayn through the break up and he can do that now.

“Yeah. Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’ve gotten hot since she’s seen you.” Louis’s starting to talk faster, like when he’s got his most disastrous ideas, but Harry can’t deny that part’s true. “So fuck her and leave. Get back at her properly.”

“Louis!” Harry snaps. That’s awful and won’t help anybody.

“She won’t want to,” Zayn says, surely. It’s not a no, Harry notices. More worrisomely, it’s what he said when he was sixteen and heart-broken. She won’t want me back. She won’t want me. Never the other way around, even though it should have been.

“Everyone wants to,” Harry argues, just as firmly. “Lou’s right, you have gotten hot. But—”

“But it’s perfect! Revenge sex is the best sex.”

“No it’s not!”

“Yes, it—”

“Well, decide quickly, because she’s coming over.” Niall glares over Zayn’s shoulder.

“We can leave.” That’s probably the best idea, Harry thinks, just leave, remove Zayn from the situation so he won’t have to relive any of that. He’ll put Zayn back together again if he has to, but nothing he’d ever seen had hurt him as much as Zayn broken. The mere thought of it now makes Harry’s hand tighten on him, like he can hold him there forever. “Just—”

“No.” Zayn pulls his hand out from Harry’s, and takes a decisive bite of his pasta. “No. I’m staying.”

“You—”

“Zayn?” At least she sounds tentative. Good. She should. She shouldn’t even be here, but if she has to, she shouldn’t think she’s welcome.

Zayn’s face is set when he turns to her, that closed-off half smolder that always makes people wild to make it shift into interest. “Hi, Hannah.”

She smiles a bit. “I just—I wanted to say hi. Let you know I’m back.”

“I heard.” That’s right, Zayn. Harry wants to cheer. Don’t give her anything.

“And…” she trails off, then sets her narrow shoulders. She’s avoiding looking at anyone but Zayn. “I wanted to apologize. It was shitty, the way I broke up with you. I’m sorry about that.”

“Good,” Harry can’t help but hiss under his breath. She glances at him, and her gaze lingers a little, which is at least a bit flattering given she’d used to sneer at him, but her eyes flicks away quickly, back to Zayn.

Zayn’s biting his lip. No. No no no. Harry’d been afraid this would happen, because he knows how much Zayn loved her. What if she was the person he’d been saving himself for, the person he still loved, even though she treated him so badly? What if he’s been waiting all these years for her to come back? He runs his toe up Zayn’s leg, just to help ground him. Zayn’s teeth dig into his lip even harder.

“It’s fine,” Zayn says at last, with a shrug. Like it hadn’t broken him. “It’s not like we would have lasted long.”

“I’m not sure about that. We were good together.” No, Harry wants to shout. No, you weren’t, because he was in love with you and you obviously weren’t in love with him. “And I definitely shouldn’t have done it like that.” She shakes her head, then smiles a little less tentatively. It’s a pretty smile, irritatingly enough. “Anyway, you look good. You grew up well.”

“Didn’t he?” Louis inserts, mostly in a challenge.

“You do too,” Zayn answers, ignoring Louis. “College agreeing with you?”

“Yeah, it’s great! Even the internship is awesome.” She hesitates, then, “We could get dinner sometime, somewhere off campus? I could tell you about it?”

Louis’s grin is sharp and full of ‘I told you so’, but Harry only catches it out of the corner of his eyes. He can’t look away from Zayn. Zayn, who’s hesitating, like he might say yes. Like he’s thinking about it. Harry reaches out to grab his thigh, in support, or maybe a reminder. He can’t still be in love with her. Harry had tried so hard to make him not be. And he had seemed so much better.

“No,” Zayn says, slowly. His gaze is fixed on Hannah’s, but his leg has stopped bouncing under Harry’s hand. “No, thanks. We…shouldn’t. It wouldn’t be, like, appropriate. With you sort of being a teacher and all.”

“Oh.” She looks honestly taken aback. Like she’d expected him to jump at the chance to get back with her. Like she doesn’t know Zayn’s worth about a thousand of her, like she doesn’t know that she gave up the most amazing person in the world. “Well, then. I’ll see you.”

“Bye, Hannah.” Zayn says, and turns his back on her.

Niall cheers quietly as she walks away. “Well done, Zayn.”

“I still think you could have slept with her.” But Louis’s smiling too, the softer one he gets when he’s around them or his sisters or El. “But that was probably, like, mature of you or something. Even if she’s hot.”

“Bit mean, though,” Liam points out.

“You weren’t here,” Harry snaps, then turns to Zayn. Zayn’s gone back to staring at his tray. “So...” he wants to say something about how he’s proud of him, how much he’d grown from the boy who’d jumped when she told him how high, but what comes out is, “It isn’t her, then? Who you’re in love with?”

“No.” Zayn snorts, a little hysterically. It’s been an emotional dinner, Harry figures. “No, it’s not her.” He rubs at his temples, so Harry rubs at his thigh comfortingly. He’ll have to invite himself over after dinner, maybe they can watch a movie together, something that’ll relax Zayn. Hopefully this will be the last time he’ll have to put Zayn back together after Hannah.

It’s more or less a tradition for all of them to spend the first weekend they can at Harry’s house in the city, so by mid-October they’ve all signed the forms for their three-day weekend and piled into the car. It’s also a tradition, Louis informs them as he drives, that they need to go out tonight, because they’re free and people won’t all know they’re underage and so they can get into clubs.

“And get laid,” he adds pointedly, at which Zayn laughs. Harry’s jammed in the back next to him, and they had only just woken up from their nap so Zayn’s head was still on his shoulder, so he feels the laughter against his neck. It sends shivers down his skin, the feel of Zayn’s breath against him, his lips brushing idly over Harry’s skin as he settles back into him to sleep more, so Harry doesn’t object. He needs to go out, needs to get laid himself, what with all this talk about sex all the time.

They get to the city around seven, then split off, Zayn retreating to the room he and Niall always share when they’re here, Niall and Harry going out to dinner, Liam finding a quiet spot to call Danielle, and Louis finding an even quieter spot to Skype El and do things Harry doesn’t want to know or think about.

Harry heads back to his room when he gets back from dinner to get ready, but he’s itchy, antsy somehow, and the best way he knows to get rid of this feeling is to cuddle with Zayn, so he goes to find him.

Zayn grins when he opens the door and sees Harry there. Something relaxes in Harry at that, the bright-eyed grin with his eyes crinkling at the corners and his tongue pressing his teeth, that makes him look a bit like he’s glowing.

“Hey.” Zayn covers a yawn with his hand, even though it’s not even nine yet. “’sup?”

“I…” Harry’s not entirely sure, honestly. He’s just here. He just likes being here, near Zayn, after a week of classes that are only building in stress as counselors are talking about college applications and how far along they should be and grades and all that other stuff that feels like it’s piling on too fast too soon. It’s so past time they got away. And, “I just feel like I haven’t seen you much, recently.”

“Yeah, I’ve been working on the webcomic a bunch.” Zayn steps back to let Harry in. It’s just a guest room, but Zayn’s somehow already managed to cover his bed in his stuff. Harry pushes a sweater and a text book off of Zayn’s bed to sit. “Want to, like, get a bunch up in time for colleges to look, you know?”

“Yeah.” It’s a good idea, but it makes the happy feeling in Harry go away a bit. He opens his arms in response, and Zayn comes easily, settling onto the bed next to Harry. “William’s cool, then?”

“He is. Like, we’ve got all these ideas, and I think the art’s turning out?”

“It is,” Harry agrees, pulling Zayn into his chest. His stomach still feels squirmy, but it’s hard to feel bad when he has a sleepy Zayn against him. Especially because it’s the only time Zayn lets him play with his hair. Even then, Harry’s one of the only one who’s allowed to. Even Louis’s only allowed to on special occasions. “It’s really great.”

“You’ve been reading?”

“Of course!” Harry combs through the thick strands again. It’s not as long as Harry’s, so it’s not as messy, but there’s still a lot of it. Enough that Harry could grab it, if he wanted to. Grab it and pull Zayn’s head up and—he digs his fingers in and doesn’t think about that. Those thoughts pop up sometimes, because Zayn is gorgeous and wonderful. He just has to nip them in the bud and it doesn’t matter. “Everyone has! I’ve been making sure of it.”

Zayn tilts his head up to smile at him again, soft and pleased, his lips pink against this stubble and Harry can’t help but grin back, because it’s the only way to get out the warmth that smile starts in him. “Thanks, Haz. Appreciate it.”

“Anything for you, you know that.” Harry shifts, so he can put an arm around Zayn’s waist instead and lean on him, because he thinks it’s probably his turn to be pet. Obligingly, Zayn scratches his fingers through his hair. It’s messing up all the careful arrangement Harry did in preparation of going out tonight, but Harry finds he doesn’t much mind. He kind of likes the idea, of going out with his hair mussed up by Zayn.

Zayn just hums in response. He doesn’t need to say anything more. Harry can feel himself settling just by being here with Zayn, like Zayn draws all the stress out. He doesn’t know exactly when he started needing his Zayn time like this—sometime last year, he thinks—when it started being so important he get Zayn alone sometimes, curled up close and next to him, but all he knows is it’s the most important thing.

“Hey,” he says, quietly, when Zayn’s breathing is starting to even out. He shouldn’t let Zayn go back to sleep, he figures. They do have to meet everyone in the living room in about half an hour to go out. “I also…you’re okay, right?”

“Okay?”

“With Hannah coming back, and Lou’s campaign, and everything.”

“It’s fine.”

Harry pulls away from Zayn’s hand so he can sit facing Zayn. He needs to be able to see Zayn’s face for this, because he knows Zayn well enough to know he might lie but he can’t keep his emotions off his face, not with Harry.

“You know you can talk to me, Zayn. About that, or anything.”

Zayn glances down to where he’s fiddling with his own fingers in his lap. It makes his hair sweep over his forehead. “I know. I am fine.”

“And…you don’t have to, like, have sex if you don’t want to. Lou can go fuck himself.” Louis probably should, and stop meddling in other people’s business, Harry thinks with more venom than he’s used to.

“I know,” Zayn repeats. “But, I do. Want to. And, like, it’s no use waiting, right?” The look he gives Harry is heart-breaking, the quick flash of honey-colored eyes beneath his lashes. Harry’s heart gives a painful thump. “It’s not going to be what I want, so I shouldn’t, like, pretend it will.”

“It could be.” Harry doesn’t know why he says it, but he needs to stop that look from being on Zayn’s face. He doesn’t know or care how, whether it’s with cuddles or with words or by climbing on top of him and pushing him into the mattress and kissing him until he stops thinking at all, but it needs to stop, because nothing hurts Harry so much as Zayn being sad. As much as Zayn turning cynical and losing the romance in him. “Maybe not with the…person you’ve been in love with? That I still don’t get because if you’ve been pining after someone for years you should have told me, I’m ace at charming people, I could totally have gotten you in their pants.”

And then he would have known, and could have…eased into the idea of Zayn having sex. Made sure this person was good enough for Zayn. Though Harry’s not really sure who would qualify as good enough, but if they weren’t then Harry could have taken his time talking Zayn out of it.

“But it can still be good. With other people,” he ends on a mutter. God. He needs to get off himself. Maybe tonight.

“Yeah.” Zayn sighs, and pushes his hair back off his forehead himself. He still doesn’t look happy, though, and Harry’s not really okay with that. Distraction, he decides. It’s always a good way to make Zayn happy again. Harry can do something silly and then Zayn will laugh and be happy.

So clearly the only answer is for Harry to launch himself at Zayn, and then he does end up on top of him, and Zayn is laughing as he goes down. He doesn’t stay down for long, though, because Harry’s pretty sure he’s magic, so then suddenly they’ve flipped and Zayn’s on top of Harry, pinning him down with a knee on either side of their hips and his hands pinned next to his head. Zayn’s laughing down at him, and his hair is messy around his face because of Harry, and fuck Harry needs to get off because all he can think about is Zayn’s weight holding him down, how their hips are pressed together and there’s friction on Harry’s dick from his jeans.

“Say uncle,” Zayn says. Harry swallows. “Say it,” Zayn repeats, bouncing.

Fuck, does Harry ever need to get off. “Uncle!” Harry cries. Zayn grins, and his tongue flicks out to wet his lips, and Harry can’t look away. Can hardly move, because he’s afraid if he rubs against anything right now he might get hard, and that would make everything weird. And it’s not weird now, not even when Harry’s just staring at Zayn, at how his lashes cast shadows over his cheeks and how his hair falls into his eyes and Harry really would like to push it away, to run his fingers over Zayn’s skin and down his neck and trace his bobbing Adam’s apple and—

Then it’s Zayn who’s scrambling off of him like he’s been burned. “I—I should get ready, right? To go out?”

“Yeah, probably.” Harry sits up slowly, as Zayn crosses to his backpack and leans down to open it. He just stands here for a moment, not moving. The muscles of his back are tight, and Harry just wants to go over and hug him until it’s better, but he’s still worried about getting up. Or, about how he’s not at all worried about getting up. “We should go down in half an hour. I’m going to—I think I need to grab something in my room?”

“Okay, yeah. Can’t have you just sitting here staring at me.” Zayn turns to shoot Harry a teasing grin, and Harry sticks his tongue out before he leaves.

He slams the door of his room shut, then leans against it, his hands braced flat against the wood as he takes long, deep breaths in and out. It’s just…he’s a teenaged boy. Of course someone sitting on top of him is going to make him hard. And Zayn is gorgeous, so of course that’s not going to help.

Still, he reaches down, fumbles his jeans open. He’s not going to be able to think straight when they’re going out if he’s on edge like this, and he’d prefer to take his time pulling tonight, if he does. And Harry will have to sit next to Zayn on the car ride down, to give him a proper pep talk, except the backseat’s not really big enough for three so Harry’s going to be as much on top of Zayn as anything.

Harry gets a hand around his cock, starts to jerk off fast, because he doesn’t have much time. What would Zayn have done if he hadn’t left? If he had gotten hard from Zayn sitting on him, if Zayn had felt it. What if he didn’t run, if he had just kept moving, with Harry pinned down under him. Maybe he’d let go of Harry’s hands and let Harry get his hands in his hair again, and this time he’d let Harry move his head where he wanted him, and get those pink lips around his cock and—

Harry comes on that image seared into his brain, the orgasm shaking through him so he collapses against the door, using it to hold him up. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. He thought he’d gotten over this. He hadn’t thought about any of his friends, anyone he was close to, when jerking off in ages. Well, sometimes familiar eyes or lips or a hand with a bird tattoo snuck in, but not like that. It’d been months since that.

It’s just that Harry hasn’t gotten off in a while, he decides, wiping his hands off on his jeans before taking them off. And they’ve all been talking about Zayn having sex for a while, so of course he’d think about it. And Zayn had been sitting on him. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t anything.

Because it wasn’t anything, Harry lets Niall and Liam pull him onto the dance floor when they get to the club, getting in by a combination of fake IDs and the bouncer not really caring enough to keep them out, and leaves Louis and Zayn at the bar to get drinks. He dances with plenty of people, scopes out the crowd for someone to pull because he needs to get off with someone, because otherwise he’ll keep looking at Zayn. Zayn, who’s sitting at the bar with Louis with his hair in soft, messy spikes, in tight jeans and a white t-shirt with his denim jacket over it. The flashing lights are catching in his hair, and casting shadows on his cheeks, and he somehow looks soft and warm and so very hot all at once.

Maybe Harry should have stayed, should have watched him get dressed, because this isn’t how Zayn should look here. Here, in this city club, Harry wants Zayn to look all sharp-edged like he gets sometimes, maybe with his hair slicked up into a quiff and his leather jacket and too-cool-for-you smirk. Soft Zayn isn’t for all these people, even if it’s a version of soft Zayn that still has a smirk and heavy-lidded eyes. Soft Zayn is for Harry, in Harry’s bed when they’re studying together and Zayn is chewing on the end of his pencil and his face lights up when he gets it right. Not here.

Really not here, Harry thinks, as he catches sight of Zayn again over the shoulder of the girl he’s dancing with, a pretty blonde in tight jeans. Because of course when Zayn looks all soft and gorgeous approachable here, he’s approached. He’s talking to someone, a guy, a tall lanky brunette who looks as cool as Zayn does sometimes, in dark pants and a leather jacket. He’s got broad shoulders, and from what Harry can see he looks older.

And Zayn…Zayn is smiling at something he says, even if it’s more of a smirk than a smile, that lopsided twist of his lips that Harry’s perfectly well aware is irresistible. He’s licking his lips and his giving the guy a glance Harry knows too well from under his eyelashes, that coy, come hither look that’s utterly irresistible. Then the guy reaches out, and puts a hand on Zayn’s arm when Zayn chuckles, and Zayn…doesn’t shake it off, even if Harry knows he’s giving it an uncertain look.

His hand is big over Zayn’s arm, like he could wrap his fingers around his forearm completely, and Harry has a sudden flash of how rough this guy could be. It’s not safe. And really, when he looks at Zayn, Zayn doesn’t look entirely comfortable either. He’s tense, and he’s being flirtatious but that’s not his real smile. Zayn should be comfortable. He has to be comfortable. It shouldn’t be like this.

Harry detaches himself from the blonde with a smile, and starts to make his way over to Zayn. He’ll save him. It’ll be a nice reversal of roles.

When he gets about halfway there, the guy says something, smiles, then slides off the stool…to head to a booth across the club, it looks like, maybe back to his friends. Harry has a moment of celebration, but then he sees the way he glances back at Zayn, and damn. This is a ‘I’m checking in but I’m going to leave now with the hot underage boy I just picked up’ sort of trip. A, ‘hey see that boy over there who looks all gorgeous but who I don’t know is also smart and gentle and the kindest person ever? I’m going to fuck him through the mattress and then not treat him well’ sort of trip.

Harry detours sharply. This is easier. This is solving two birds with one stone. The guy wants an underage boy? Harry can give him one.

By happy accident, he stumbles when he’s about a foot away from the guy, and with the ease of long years of practice tripping, manages to fall against the guy. The guy almost doesn’t manage to catch him, because not all people can be Zayn and catch him even when they’re like halfway across the room to start, but Harry does enough so he ends up pressed against the guy.

“Hey.” The guy sets him upright very politely. He’s quite nice looking up close. Not nice enough for Zayn’s first time, but nice enough to take the edge off of Harry. “You okay?”

“Now I am,” Harry purrs, with his best cheeky grin. Like clockwork, the guy starts to smile too, a little predatory. Brilliant. Zayn’s probably been pretty closed off, pretty quiet and unsure and not forward. So Harry can do forward. “Want to dance?”

“I…” the guy glances back at the bar, but maybe he wasn’t as into Zayn as he should have been, or maybe Zayn just hadn’t been obvious enough, because the guy focuses muddy hazel eyes back on Harry. “Sure.”

Twenty minutes later, Harry leaves the bathrooms while trying to discreetly fix his hair. He had needed that. Even if sucking some guy’s dick in a stall wasn’t exactly ideal, but it’s enough, and Harry’d only sort of thought about Zayn once. And that was only a bit of guilt for stealing his prospect. Mainly.

Zayn’s not at the bar anymore, but Niall and Liam are sitting at a booth, so Harry slides in next to them. “Hey, where’s everybody?”

“Louis and Zayn are taking the bus back. We’re waiting for you.” Niall elbows Harry. “Slag.”

Harry grins, still too loose from his orgasm to care. “Tell that to me once your hand cramps,” he retorts. Niall chuckles. “So,” he goes on, hoping for subtlety, “Zayn didn’t find anyone, then?”

“Guess not.” Liam shrugs. He doesn’t look very worried. “I saw him talking to some guy, but then he left and didn’t come back, so I guess that didn’t happen.”

“Oh?” Harry tries his very best to look surprised. He is really very good at sneaky plans. “Did Zayn look sad about it?”

“Nah, he was chill. Drunk, but chill,” Niall says, “You good to go? We’ll need to hurry if we’re going to get back by curfew.”

“Yeah.” Harry trails after them to the car, then settles into the backseat. The orgasm laziness is fading fast. What if Zayn is mad at him for stealing that guy? What if Zayn had really wanted him? What if that was what Zayn wanted, someone big who would hold him down? Harry saw the appeal, but he didn’t think that was what Zayn was into. But he could…

He drifts off as they drive. When they get back, five minutes before curfew, Harry trails Niall to his room. “What’re you doing?” Niall asks, as he unlocks his door. He switches on the light, because Zayn can sleep through anything.

“I…” Harry’s not really sure. But Zayn is in his bed, and he sits up when he sees them, the blankets falling away from his shirtless chest, so the tattoos show up dark against his skin.

“Nialler. Haz.” He grins, loose and sloppy. He really is drunk. “My favorites.”

“Don’t let Lou or Liam hear you say that,” Niall warns. He grabs his toothbrush, and goes out again to the bathroom.

“Can I stay here tonight?” Harry asks, before he’s thought. He doesn’t know why; he has his own actual room. He just wants to be here, with Zayn. Have Zayn’s scent in him when he sleeps, have Zayn’s arms around him.

“’course.” Zayn scoots over, and Harry strips to his boxers before he climbs in. Zayn smells like cigarettes and beer and him, and the orgasm was great but maybe this was what he needed, Zayn’s arm draping over his waist and his nose in the back of his neck.

Niall doesn’t comment when he comes back, just changes into his own pajamas and turns out the lights, and a second later it seems like he’s snoring lightly.

Harry’s drifting back off too, but more just to a floaty, happy place. He’s glad Zayn didn’t bring anyone back. Didn’t have anyone else in this bed, just Harry. Doesn’t hold anyone else like this.

“I’m your favorite, though, right?” Harry murmurs, even though he’s pretty sure Zayn’s asleep.

But, “Always,” Zayn mumbles back, and his lips press against the top knob of Harry’s spine. “Now shut up and sleep.”

Harry tries his best. But the memory of those lips against his skin, and Zayn’s hands on his stomach, keep him up long past the time Zayn’s breath evens out as he falls asleep.

He keeps thinking about it the next day, and the next. About how Zayn felt around him, how they seemed to fit together like that, skin to skin. How they always seem to fit together. How he’s never met anyone more beautiful than Zayn, and how vulnerable Zayn can be, at the heart of it. How hard he breaks. How much he invests in relationships, even without sex coming into it. How much more he would invest with sex, even if he claimed it was casual.

He’s thinking about this—well, doing his physics homework, if you want to be technical—when he glances out of his window. He can’t help his automatic smile when he catches sight of Zayn sitting on a bench, his butt on the arm and his feet on the seat and a book in his lap. With his head tilted like this, Harry thinks he can see the fantail. It’s not his favorite of Zayn’s tattoos, but he likes it too. His favorite…he’ll say that it’s the don’t think that I won’t, because it kind of matches Harry, or maybe the lips, but really, he thinks it’s the FRIDAY. Zayn had gotten it over winter break last year, so the first Harry had seen of it was when he’d worn a tank top as they hung out that night and there it was, the letters over Zayn’s collarbone, just the right place for someone to bite at. If they were so inclined. But he likes the fantail too, how Zayn’s hair curls over the edge of it.

He could go down, join Zayn, or drag him to dinner with the rest of them. He could—

Zayn looks up, smiles, and Harry follows his gaze to see William walking over with him, also smiling. It’s not a very good smile, Harry decides, and he’s got thin lips and a thin face and his ears are too big, but Zayn still waves and sits up, puts his book aside. William settles onto the bench next to Zayn, so his thigh is hitting Zayn’s toes. That’s awfully close. And he’s certainly leaning in closer, laughing at everything Zayn is saying, and Zayn’s funny but he’s not that funny. They’re not just talking about web comics. That’s flirting. That’s hardcore flirting, the sort you do before you’re about to ask someone out, before you take them on a date and do everything you should and kiss them goodnight and then maybe get asked in for coffee and sex. Is William asking Zayn out?

That’s…different. That’s not some guy who doesn’t like comics, or an ex who broke his heart, or even a hot guy in a club. Zayn likes William. They’re friends. Sort of. Co-workers, more. Friendish. Not friends like Harry’s his friend. But Zayn might say yes. Zayn might say yes and then they’d go on cutesy dates, probably a movie, and then a picnic, and then dinner at a restaurant in town and that would be the third date, so Zayn would have kicked Niall out and he’d take William back into his bed, like Harry had been just days ago even if it was a different bed, and William would get to taste all of those tattoos Harry loves and—

Harry’s scrambling for his phone as Zayn tilts his head back to laugh again. He types out a text, then watches as Zayn reaches for his phone, glances at it, then types something else in.

Harry’s phone buzzes. Now?

Yeah! I’ve had a thought. Harry hits send with maybe more force than necessary. But then he gets to watch Zayn slide off the bench with an apologetic wave for William, who watches him go with a bit of a disappointed slump to his shoulders. Harry feels a bit bad, honestly. But he has had a thought. And he’d like to see William be able to get Zayn’s attention with just a Come here! text.

He has just enough time to move his books a little bit away from the window so it’s not quite so obvious he’s been spying on—watching—Zayn when there’s a knock on the door, and Harry bounces up to let Zayn in.

“What’s up?” Zayn gives Harry a searching look, but when he figures out Harry’s not dying, he drops his backpack on the floor and throws himself back onto Louis’s bed. Harry stays standing. He feels like he should be. Or maybe, actually, he decides, he should be on the same level as Zayn, so he sits down on his bed instead, bracing his elbows on his knees.

“So, I’ve been thinking. About, like, Louis’s mission. The whole, you having sex thing.”

Zayn’s not so relaxed anymore, but he rolls to his side to look at Harry, propping his head on his hand. He looks very long stretched out like that, all limbs and those big, dark-rimmed eyes. “Yeah?”

“So, I think, I mean, don’t tell him, but maybe he had the right idea at first. With Natasha.”

“That didn’t work out so well.”

“No, well, but if it had—” Harry wrinkles his nose, because he doesn’t want to think about that. “Like, that would have been better, right? Because you would have been comfortable with her. And you should be comfortable with your first, like, trust them.”

“Did you?” Zayn’s gaze isn’t wavering from his face. Harry resists the urge to blush, even though Zayn knows this story perfectly well.

“Well, sort of. I mean, I knew them, and I liked them, and it was kind of not a planned thing because there was the car, which was a really good car for it, it had this whole wide backseat, and—anyway.” Harry cuts himself off. Focus. “Anyway. You should trust your first, and be comfortable and not self-conscious.”

“Bit hard for me.” Zayn bites at his lip. Harry forces his gaze back up to his eyes.

“Exactly!” Harry grins, pleased Zayn’s come to the same conclusion as him. “You aren’t comfortable around a lot of people. It’s really just Natasha and us boys. And Natasha’s out.”

“Yeah.” Zayn’s voice is absolutely flat as he rolls up so he’s sitting, mirroring Harry on Louis’s bed.

“So, that just leaves us. And, well, I thought, I could.” Zayn’s face is blank, the way he gets when he’s processing. “I mean, we could. Have sex.”

“You?” Zayn echoes, very slowly. It’s not the most encouraging tone ever, but it’s something, so Harry hurries on. He needs to explain that it’s best for everyone. How this means he can finally bite at the Friday tattoo that’s showing under Zayn’s t-shirt and taste the skin at his stomach and see what it feels like when Zayn holds him down for real, and Zayn can have sex with someone who cares about him and will make sure it’s as good as it can be and would never, ever, ever make Zayn do something he wouldn’t want.

“Yeah! It makes sense, because you trust me and are comfortable with me and not self-conscious, and I’m up for it, so it’s only logical that we—”

“Fuck you.”

“What?” Harry blinks, but Zayn’s already surged to his feet. He’s nearly shaking, and his fists are clenched, and his gaze is burning hot when he glares at Harry, and Harry hadn’t expected that, never expected Zayn’s anger. He’d thought—but it makes sense! And if Zayn just wants someone to have sex with, why wouldn’t he want Harry?

“Fuck you,” Zayn repeats, his voice a low growl. “I don’t need your pity.”

“What? It’s not—”

“And after you’ve been telling me to get over—screw you, Harry. This is just cruel.” He’s biting out each word like they hurt, and they do. Harry never knows how to deal with Zayn’s anger, not really, because it always stabs him right in the heart, because Zayn always knows how to get under his skin and also Zayn’s in pain and it’s confusing and it feels like Harry’s chest is going to burst. “I don’t need a fucking pity fuck. I’m not that pathetic.”

He spins on his heels, and slams the door shut behind him without even picking up his backpack.

Harry stares at the closed door, his heart beating too fast.

---

Zayn doesn’t come to breakfast the next day. He sits as far away as he can from Harry in math, then stays with Natasha at lunch, and when Harry takes a step towards them he gets possibly the scariest glare he’s ever seen from her before she turns back to patting Zayn’s arm and talking very intensely to him. None of the other boys comment. Zayn loves them, they all know, but sometimes Zayn gets in moods where he needs Natasha, needs someone who knows him from the start. Harry can’t help but scowl at his food all meal, though. Harry knows Zayn. He should be talking to him. He’s the one who makes Zayn feel better. That’s basically his job.

At dinner, though, Zayn sits with William, and that’s a thousand times worse. They sit at a corner table, just the two of them, and Louis watches with satisfaction as Zayn smiles and laughs and William looks at him like he’s amazing. Which he is. But Harry doesn’t like William knowing that. Or, he doesn’t like how Zayn likes William knowing that. He doesn’t know. He just doesn’t like it. That Zayn would prefer William to Harry. That Zayn would rather sleep with William than Harry. That Zayn is angry with Harry, angry enough that even though he smiles when Liam passes by to get seconds, that he and Louis are pretty clearly texting, he still won’t respond to Harry’s texts asking him what he meant, or even look at Harry.

Harry still thinks he proposed to only sensible solution, the only one that makes sense, but he gets that Zayn doesn’t. And he knows Zayn, and he knows the only way they’ll ever talk it out is if he corners him, so that evening Harry goes to his room and knocks sharply, trying to sound as Louis-like as possible. You always want to let Louis in because he will stand there and knock until you do.

But it doesn’t matter, because it’s Niall who opens the door anyway.

“Hey!” Harry tries his most convincing grin. “Is Zayn there?” He doesn’t think so, from what he can see of the room, but maybe Zayn is hiding. He’s walked in on some odd things over the years.

“No, he’s still in the art room, I think.”

Harry’s shoulders droop. He’s probably with William. And it’s late, and they’re working together, probably huddling close around the computer screen… “Okay.” Harry will find another way to corner him, and soon. Before anything happens. He doesn’t want Zayn reacting in anger, after all. Jumping into anything rash because of what Harry said. “Um, just, tell him I want to talk to him, when he comes in?”

“Tell him yourself.” Niall yawns, stretches, “I’m going to bed early.”

“I would if he would listen!” Harry snaps, suddenly, and Niall’s eyebrows go up. Harry sighs. “Sorry.” He doesn’t get mad often, and he gets mad at Niall even less. He’s just…frustrated.

Niall’s face does a few odd contortions, then he just rolls his eyes and opens the door, so Harry comes in. Their room is neater than Harry and Louis’s, mainly because Niall’s neat and Zayn isn’t messy, but Harry’s always loved it. It feels like home almost as much as his own does, with Niall’s soccer posters and Zayn’s art on the walls, the pictures of Zayn’s family tacked above his desk, his books in piles. “Okay,” he says, sitting backwards on his desk chair. Harry sits on Niall’s bed, because Zayn’s bed is weird territory right now. “What happened between you two? It’s been weird, him being mad at you. Unnatural.”

“I know.” Harry rubs his hands over his arms, like he’s trying to warm them up. But it’s no substitute for Zayn. “I don’t like it either.” Niall gives him a look. He’s not going to press, Harry knows, not like Liam or Louis would, but it’s a question all the same. “I asked him to have sex with me.”

If he’s expecting surprise, he doesn’t get it. It’s Niall, so he’s not really, but he would have liked a little more of a reaction than the slow nod he gets. “So?”

“So he got mad! I don’t know why, it makes sense. Right?” Harry gives Niall as beseeching look. “I mean, he trusts me, and I’m good at sex, and it would be great! It’d be me and Zayn, it would have to be!”

“Ugh, mate. Don’t want to think about it.” Niall wrinkles his nose. Harry’s not sure why. He likes the image of him and Zayn together.

“It makes sense!” Harry insists. “It’s logical.”

“If you’re trying to justify sleeping with him, sure.” Niall shrugs. “I’m not, so it doesn’t make as much sense to me, but I just won twenty bucks, so I’m cool.”

“Twenty bucks?”

“Tommo thought you’d last the month. But he didn’t see you crawling into bed with him.” Niall grins, loose and easy. “So, twenty bucks.”

“What?” It’s a different confused than the one he feels about Zayn, about how he’s got this empty place in him where Zayn usually is, but it’s a better thing to focus on then the alternative. “Why were you betting on me? Why didn’t I get a say?”

“’Cause you’d have broken the bet,” Niall explains easily, and pulls out his phone to start texting. “Maybe held off or something to get yourself money. Not that I think you would have compromised yourself like that,” he assures Harry. “But Louis didn’t want to mess up his plans.”

Harry’s still pretty sure he missed something. “What were you betting on?”

“When you’d proposition Zayn. Yeah, proposition,” he goes on proudly, probably because he catches sight of Harry’s dumbfounded face. “Zayn got me a word a day calendar.”

“When?” Harry repeats. “What do you mean, when?”

“When you wouldn’t be able to swallow down your jealousy anymore,” Niall replies, like it’s that simple. But Harry hasn’t—he isn’t jealous.

“I’m not jealous!” He’s just…careful. About his friend. And who his friend is going to sleep with. And in making sure that person is him, because he’s the only one who makes sense. Or, maybe the person Zayn’s in love with makes the most sense, but he makes the second most sense. No, the most sense still, because whoever Zayn’s in love with doesn’t love him back and that’s not okay. No one who doesn’t love Zayn back could be trusted with him.

Niall snorts. “Sure you aren’t.”

“I’m not! I’m just trying to make sure Zayn has a good experience for his first time. Because I care about Zayn, and if he’s going to go through with this stupid plan of Louis’s than I need to make sure it’s with the right person.”

“Who’s you?”

“I—” Yes. Who’s Harry. Harry’s the best person, because no one will ever want Zayn as much as he does, want all of him, from his pretty face to his soft heart to the way his eyes light up when he gets excited about things. “Yes. Who’s me.”

“Even though—” The door swings open, cutting off Niall, and both Harry and Niall turn to the door as Zayn comes through. It’s the closest Harry’s been to Zayn in what feels like years, and like usual something in him relaxes just at his presence, even his forehead wrinkles and his mouth purses when he sees Harry.

“Hey, Zee.” Niall gives him a lazy smile. “Where’ve you been?”

“Working on the comic,” Zayn answers. He’s staring straight at Niall, not even glancing at Harry, not even when Harry puts on his best hangdog look.

“With William?” Harry asks before he can help it. Niall snorts.

“Yes, with William.” Zayn drops his backpack on the floor. Harry can’t help but peer at him, trying to figure out—is his hair mussed? Is his shirt buttoned wrong? He’s certainly snappish, more so than most people Harry’s been with get after sex, but maybe it wasn’t what he expected. Maybe it was bad. Maybe William totally screwed up and now Harry will have to put it right. Maybe—“Stop fucking staring, Harry. We didn’t fuck.”

Niall nearly spits out the soda he was sipping. Harry nearly chokes. “You didn’t?”

“No.” Zayn toes off his boots and kicks them into the bottom of his wardrobe, then undoes his belt. Harry can’t help but stare then, at Zayn’s fingers working over the buckle, at how it slides away and Harry could do that, Harry could keep going—“We’re going on a date first.”

“Date?” Harry chokes again. Niall chuckles. Harry doesn’t think he realizes the gravity of this situation.

“Yeah. And then maybe we’ll fuck.” Zayn spits out the last word. Harry shifts uncomfortably. It sits oddly on his tongue. Zayn shouldn’t be fucking. Zayn’s a romantic, Zayn was saving himself, Zayn’s first shouldn’t be a fuck. Zayn should make love, or something. Something romantic. With rose petals and candles and all that stuff.

“But…” Zayn goes onto his tiptoes to reach something on the shelf above his head, so a strip of skin shows on his back, just the right size for Harry’s palm. “But, what about the person you’re in love with?” Harry tries, desperately. At least that will give him time. “If you aren’t over them yet, then maybe—”

“Like you said.” Zayn settles back onto his feet, then turns to go back to his bed. He finally, finally looks at Harry then, and his chin is set mulishly. “No point in waiting.”

He hadn’t said that, Harry doesn’t think, but Zayn falls onto his bed pretty definitively, puts earbuds on and flips onto his stomach. Harry’s gaze catches on the fantail at his neck, the hair strictly styled over it. Would William get to play with his hair? Would he get to sleep with Zayn against his back? Would he get to wake up with him, to turn around and turn Zayn’s just-awake grumpiness into his soft, sleepy smile with his kisses? Would he—

Fuck. Fuck, but Harry is jealous. Harry wants all that, wants to be able to kiss Zayn when they’re cuddling and to kick Niall out of this room for real and to bite at Zayn’s collarbone and neck and everywhere and then to wake up with him and let him comfort Harry and tell him he’s wonderful all the time and make sure he’s never broken again.

But that’s not a good reason to sleep with Zayn. Harry knows he has sex with people for some questionable reasons—to stop them from having sex with the boy he likes, for instance, which in retrospect maybe isn’t the best decision Harry’s ever made—but he’s not going to…make that a condition. He can’t. He wants Zayn still, and if it had just been a friend helping out, he could have justified that, but he doesn’t have a claim on Zayn like this. Not when Zayn likes William enough to go out on a date, and when he’s in love with someone else.

Not that Harry thinks either of those are good ideas. But he doesn’t know what’s him being worried about Zayn’s heart breaking again, or him wanting Zayn all to himself. It still makes sense, he tells himself, a little desperately, as he takes in the curve of Zayn’s back under his shirt, the way his jeans wrap over his ass. He’d still be best. He’d still make Zayn happiest. He can make Zayn happy.

But Zayn’s pretty clearly cut off the conversation, if there was one at all, so he gives Niall a rueful smile that’s not at all how he feels before he leaves.

+1

Harry watches Zayn all of the next day. Zayn’s stopped avoiding him completely, but he’s still not talking to him in that very pointed way Zayn’s so good at. It’s almost worse, because Zayn’s there with them, but not really with Harry. But it’s almost overwhelmed by the sheer shock of how much Harry hadn’t noticed, especially now that he can’t interact with Zayn. When had it started being weird that he wasn’t pressed against Zayn when they were all sitting together? When had his first instinct when he got out of an English test he knows he aced become to text Zayn? How hadn’t he recognized the warmth in his stomach whenever Zayn smiled as the want it was?

Except it’s not just want, and that’s what Harry doesn’t know how to deal with. It’s why he mistook it, he thinks, as he looks across the dining hall at lunch to see Zayn laughing with Natasha, his head whole body hunched inwards like he gets when he really starts to laugh. It makes Harry smile involuntarily, just the knowledge that Zayn’s laughing. And that—that’s why. He’s never had this, not really. He’s gotten off with plenty of people, but it’s never been mixed up with emotions, with knowing how Zayn looks when he’s sick and needing him to keep things calm and everything. It’s confusing and all Harry wants to do is pour himself onto Zayn’s lap and let Zayn cuddle him while he talks it out, and he can’t.

But he does need Zayn. He needs to talk to Zayn. He needs to try again, or something, because once Zayn goes on that date William won’t be stupid enough to let him go, not when Harry’s seen how William looks at him, and then Harry won’t have another chance, and its’ not fair because he only just figured it out. So he knocks on Zayn’s door a few minutes before Zayn should be meeting William by the cars, if Louis’s information is correct (and Louis’s information is always correct) fully armed with the rose he stole out of the drama prop department so he can be properly romantic. He’s watched rom coms.

He knows Niall isn’t there, because Niall is with Louis in Liam’s room, probably cackling over the winnings of their bet. So, just like he planned, it’s Zayn who opens the door. “I know I’m late—” he starts, but his face stills when he sees who it is. “Hey.”

He’s not at all ready yet, of course. Harry can’t help the fond rush that goes through him, because William clearly didn’t know that you always have to give Zayn fifteen more minutes than you actually planned to get anywhere. He’s got his tight jeans on, but only a black tank top, like he’s debating what’s going on over it, and his hair’s a mess.

Not just a mess, it’s a mess like it gets when he’s nervous. Like it only gets when he’s been running his hands through it because his nerves have to go somewhere. Like it had been constantly at the end of the Hannah debacle, when everything was falling apart and Harry had just held him desperately so he could stay together, his hands running through Zayn’s hair in place of his own so he wouldn’t pull it all out.

He wants this. Zayn wants this enough to care about it, to be nervous about it. He wants this, like he hadn’t wanted Harry.

“Harry?” Zayn prompts, a bit sharply.

Harry swallows. Here it goes. “I wanted…” He needs to say something clever and witty that will win Zayn to him. But then Zayn bites at his lip, and it’s such a characteristic gesture, such a Zayn gesture, the gesture he makes when something’s wrong and Harry needs to make it better, that he goes on instinct, and what comes out is, “I wanted to wish you good luck.”

“Really?” Zayn’s eyebrows draw together in confusion. He glances pointedly down at the rose, then up at Harry.

“Yeah. Really.” Harry gulps again, because he can never lie to Zayn. “Well, no, I came over to see if you had thought about what I said the other day. But now—here.” He shoves the rose at Zayn. “Good luck.” Zayn still just looks confused, and Harry can’t help himself. He leans forward, and brushes a kiss against Zayn’s cheek. It’s what they do, after all. Try to make each other better. “I hope it’s everything you want.”

“Harry—” Zayn still just looks confused when Harry draws away. Harry doesn’t blame him. He’s pretty confused himself.

Then Zayn blinks, and it’s like something shutters off. His shoulders go up, and the nerves drop from his face to just show a blank canvas. It’s the look he gives strangers, the look he gives people he doesn’t trust into his gooey center. “Thanks.” A pause, more awkward than it’s ever been between them. Harry should leave, he knows, but he can’t quite bring himself to do that. So it’s Zayn who gently but firmly closes the door, with a “Bye Harry,” that doesn’t leave any room for questions.

---

Harry spends the evening with his ipod in, scrolling through his phone, trying not to think of what’s happening somewhere else. Louis joins him after dinner, lying on his own bed texting El, and very nicely not talking to him about what just happened, even though Harry suspects he knows because he doesn’t try to speculate about Zayn’s date at all.

Harry’s about to consider going to bed, or doing something to distract himself farther, when there’s a knock on the door. Louis gives Harry a pointed look, which Harry counters with his best puppy dog ‘it’s all your fault that I realized I’m in love with my best friend too late’ look. Louis huffs out an irritated breath, and gets up to open the door.

“Zayn!”

Harry sits bolt upright, ripping out his ear buds. Zayn shouldn’t be here. Zayn should be out with William, doing…things. But he’s not. He’s here, in their doorway, gazing over Louis’s shoulder at Harry with a look Harry can’t even begin to interpret.

“How as the date?” Louis asks, “I hope you’re only here to—”

“Out, Lou.” Zayn’s voice is hoarse, like he’d smoked too many cigarettes, and Harry shouldn’t be thinking about how sexy it is but god, it is. He is, all slickly put together, with his hair up in a quiff and his leather jacket on, and Harry wants to peel it all off of him, and he wants to get his hands in Zayn’s hair to mess it up until it’s his Zayn, the one only he gets, soft and warm and smiling.

“This is my room—”

“Out, Louis. Please.”

Louis sighs, long and exaggerated. “Fine. I can see where I’m not wanted. But I want the world’s best fruit basket,” he announces, grabs his backpack, and leaves, shutting the door behind him.

Then it’s just them, Harry sitting on the bed, Zayn standing all inscrutable like he gets when he’s mad, just staring at Harry. “Zayn?” Harry asks, when it doesn’t seem like Zayn’s going to talk anytime soon.

“I was just on a perfectly nice date,” Zayn says. It feels a bit like he’s starting in the middle, but Harry will take Zayn just talking to him. Will take Zayn actually looking at him, because it feels like it’s filling something up inside of him he only sort of knew was empty. “Lovely, really. Everything a date should be. And William was everything a date should be too. My date should be. We get along, he likes the same sort of stuff I like, he’s hot…”

Harry doesn’t want to hear this. Harry wants to just grab Zayn, but he still doesn’t look like touching would be welcome. “And?” Harry prompts.

“And…I’m still here.” Zayn raises his hands, palms out, almost helplessly. Almost like a surrender “And you said you hoped it would be what I wanted, and that’s—” He takes a deep breath, like he’s girding himself for an attack. “That’s you, Haz.”

“Me?” Harry squeaks. That was the last thing he ever expected Zayn to say. Him? But Zayn already turned him down!

Zayn doesn’t appear to hear him. “So I guess I am that pathetic,” he’s going on, his hand raking through his hair, “I’ll take the pity—”

“It’s not pity,” Harry cuts him off.

Zayn waves a hand. “Charity, whatever. I’ll—”

“Me?” Harry repeats. He doesn’t need to hear Zayn talk crazy talk right now. He needs to hear more about Zayn talking about how he wants Harry. How he’s choosing Harry. “You want—want it to be me.”

“Yeah.” Zayn sighs, and glances down. “I mean, if you still—if it’s still on the table, I mean, I don’t want—”

“It wasn’t pity,” Harry repeats, as quickly as he can, before Zayn can talk over him. “It wasn’t, I swear, I want to, I wouldn’t have offered otherwise.”

Zayn glances up at that, a quick look from under his eyelashes. “You want me?”

“Of course.” Harry says it pretty firmly, given he hadn’t noticed until maybe three days ago. But he’s pretty sure that’s on him, not on Zayn. Zayn hadn’t gotten any more Zayny in the past seventy-two hours. “Can—so I still, if you still…”

“Are you quoting Buffy at me?” But Zayn’s smiling, almost shyly, and his arms open, and Harry can’t hold himself back anymore. He launches himself at Zayn, makes Zayn stumble back a few feet as he wraps his arms around him, nuzzles into Zayn’s neck. Zayn’s arms close around him and he smells like cigarettes and the cologne he wears to go out and Zayn’s laughing a little in his ear as he holds him tight, and Harry doesn’t know how he lived without this for three days.

“You’re not allowed to be mad at me like that again,” he informs Zayn firmly, pulling his head back to give Zayn his best stern look. Zayn’s lips are twitching, and he opens his mouth like he’s going to retort, and that’s as good an opportunity as Harry is going to get so he interrupts him with a kiss.

Harry sort of means it to be gentle, a question, a ‘are you still sure’, a ‘me?’. But Zayn tastes like smoke and something Harry thinks is just him, and the instant Harry’s lips touch his he pushes back, his hand coming up to cup Harry’s neck to pull him closer. His lips are hot and a little rough from all the chewing on them he’s been doing and Harry’s never felt anything better, not for all the older women and eager boys. He can’t help his moan, or how his mouth falls open. Zayn takes advantage of that, his tongue sliding in.

Finally it’s all too much and Harry’s going to come just from the feeling of Zayn against him and how their mouths feel together, so he pulls away, but keeps his hands on Zayn. “You’re good at that.” It’s almost an accusation.

Zayn grins back, pleased. His lips are swollen, and Harry has to resist the urge to just bite them again, make sure they’re still there. “Just ‘cause I’m a virgin doesn’t mean I haven’t done anything.”

Harry sort of really doesn’t want to think about that. About Hannah breaking his heart, or all the other people Zayn’s kissed. Zayn is here now. Zayn is trusting Harry with this, because he trusts Harry most of anyone, because Harry is what he wants.

Just to remind them both of that, Harry kisses him again. This time he only stays on Zayn’s lips for a moment before he works his way down his neck, tasting the scruff that feels as good against his face as he’d expected, the veins on his neck. He licks at the FRIDAY, then bites at it at last. Zayn shivers as he works on sucking a bruise there, his hips twitching against Harry’s thigh, and Harry can feel him getting harder in his tight jeans. Harry wants those jeans off. Just as soon as he’s finished making this mark.

Zayn groans, and walks Harry backwards until he’s hitting his bed and falling backwards on it, Zayn falling on top of him without breaking their contact. Harry rolls them so that he has a better angle to see if he can get to the Arabic on his chest, which—oh look, he can, almost.

“Off,” Zayn growls, and it’s Harry’s turn to shiver when Zayn gets his hands on the hem of Harry’s t-shirt and starts to yank it off. Yes. He approves of off. He approves of naked. So he even stops tasting as much of Zayn’s skin as he can get to, because he’s a team player like that. Zayn has to push up against Harry to get the right leverage, and it makes their cocks rock against each other, sensitive even through their pants. “Fuck,” Zayn hisses, and rocks his hips again. “Fuck, Harry…”

The hoarse harsh sound of it makes Harry take a deep breath. Zayn’s been waiting. Zayn’s been waiting until this can be special, so Harry has to make it special.

“Pause,” he says, his shirt half over his head. He takes it the rest of the way off, then climbs off of Zayn to go to his chest, ignoring his cock, which isn’t pleased at this turn of events. He knows he has some…

“What’re you doing?” Harry glances back. Zayn’s pushed up on one elbow to look at him. He looks lovely and debauched, but his hair is still a bit too neat. Harry makes a mental note to work on that, once he finds…aha!

Harry just gives Zayn his most enigmatic smile (which isn’t all that enigmatic, especially compared to Zayn’s, but it’ll do) and goes back over to his night table. He puts two candles there, then another on the desk. They’re a mismatched bunch, a random assortment of things he’s picked up in various places, but better than nothing. He probably can’t get roses, and he doesn’t want to make Zayn get up so he can change the sheets or anything—they’re not too old, he doesn’t think—and he doesn’t know where he’d go about getting wine or any of that other stuff he pictures. But he sets the candles out, at least.

“Do you have a lighter?” he asks. Zayn digs one out of his pocket and tosses it to Harry. He’s squinting, like he’s confused, but Harry wants this to be as much of a surprise as he can. Zayn deserves this much. They deserve this much.

So he lights the candles, then reaches over Zayn to set the last one on the windowsill. That done, he goes back to the door, and turns out the lights, so the rooms lit only by candles.

“Harry?” Zayn says again. He sounds almost choked, and when Harry looks at him his eyes are bambi-big, like they were when Hannah said yes to a date. Somehow the shadows just make him look even better, painting him in lines of light and dark.

“Now it’s romantic,” Harry explains. “I want—I know you wanted this to be, like, a romantic thing, with the person you—and it’s kind of last minute so this is all I have, but—”

“Haz.” Zayn rolls out of the bed, with a grace that make Harry’s breath catch, and glides over to Harry, catching his face between his palms. Harry blinks. He’s supposed to be the experienced one here, but he’s lost. Lost with the gentleness of Zayn’s hands, the soft smile on his lips, the way Harry want and wants and wants but also just wants to touch and hold and be. “You don’t have to try.”

“I do,” Harry insists. “I want it to be perfect. I want it to be what you dreamed about.”

Zayn’s smiling again, and it’s setting something off in Harry’s heart that isn’t lust or need, but he still feels full to bursting. “All I dreamed about was you being here.”

He kisses Harry once, sweetly, then presses another kiss to his cheek, then his jaw. Harry can almost feel himself start to shake, even more as Zayn’s hands move into his hair and pull him in to kiss him on the lips again, long and slow, like he’s savoring him. Harry feels like he’s being savored, like he’s floating, like he’s adrift in some lovely dream he doesn’t know how to wake up from and doesn’t want to, in this dim room with Zayn smiling at him like he’s brilliant. With Zayn’s hands running down his back, tentative touches with calloused fingers, and he’s touched Zayn a thousand times, been touched by him a thousand times, but it’s never set off this sort of electricity against his skin.

“Naked,” Harry says at last, when he thinks he’ll burst with it. “We are wearing too many clothes.”

“You would think that.”

“It’s pretty important now,” Harry retorts. He strips Zayn’s jacket and shirt off quickly, pulling the tank top over his head, but then he gets distracted tasting the lips on Zayn’s sternum, and by Zayn’s wandering hands, which have gone from his back to his chest and then to the waistline of his sweatpants, dipping beneath.

“Can I?” he asks, and Harry’s too breathless to laugh so he just nods. Zayn pulls them down until they’re around his thighs, then they fall to the floor. Harry hadn’t been wearing anything underneath, because he finds more layers overrated, so he’s bare in front of Zayn.

It’s not anything Zayn hasn’t seen before, and he’s never had any shame about his body, and he really has zero about how their making out has gotten him hard, but he still shivers with the heat of Zayn’s gaze raking over him. With how Zayn’s tongue flicks out to lick his lips, Harry’s cock twitching at the sight of it.

“Now you,” Harry announces. He steps forward, but instead of pressing against Zayn like he wouldn’t mind doing, he crouches so he can undo Zayn’s jeans, pull them down along with his boxers. His hands stroke down Zayn’s thighs as he does, so he feels the goosebumps that trail after his hands. It gives Harry goosebumps too, the feel of Zayn beneath his hands, the fact that he’s kneeling in front of him.

But he doesn’t stay kneeling, as many nice things as he could do there, and instead he stands up and steps back to look at Zayn.

He’s beautiful. Harry had always known that, but it’s never hit quite like it’s hitting now, like that’s the only thing in the world he knows and he doesn’t care because nothing’s more important. Just Zayn, and the broad shoulders and narrow hips and golden skin and the sharp bones of his face and his hair against his forehead and the way he’s looking at Harry, like he’s anxious, like he doesn’t know he’s the best thing Harry’s ever seen.

“Yeah?” he asks. Harry can’t help his smile. It’s not trying to be condescending or anything, it’s just so stupid.

“Yeah,” He agrees, and steps forward to kiss Zayn again, slowly, with his hands wrapped around his bare hips. Zayn’s hand comes to his neck to hold him there, and his other hand roams over Harry’s skin like he’s exploring, the barest of touches that are setting Harry on fire. Zayn’s on fire too, Harry can feel against his thigh, with how his hips are starting to move, and Harry wouldn’t mind moving things along, but he also thinks he might want to kiss Zayn for another year, to spend hours exploring his mouth with his tongue.

“Bed?” Zayn asks, when Harry drags his mouth away from Zayn’s to taste his chest, his hands roaming like Zayn’s are, brushing over Zayn’s ass to pull him closer. Harry gives the feathers he was working on a final nip then stops to look at Zayn. Zayn bites on his lip again, glances away. “I mean, if that’s—”

“You want to?”

“Pretty clear I do.” Harry moves his eyes back to Zayn’s chest. When he’s looking there, it’s easier to pretend he’s everything he wants to be, here. That he knows what he’s doing, how to make this amazing. That he knows how to deal with how it’s not just his body that’s vibrating with need, but his heart is going too fast. “You okay, Haz?” Zayn asks, bringing his hands up to Harry’s shoulder, sliding one to the nape of his neck, like he always does when he’s checking in on Harry, when Harry needs to settle. “Thought I was supposed to be the blushing virgin here.”

“Yeah, but—” Harry glances down. It doesn’t really help, because down is just more Zayn, and the two of them pressed close together, and that makes the ache in his heart worse. “You matter. I don’t know how...”

“Well I’ve messed around with people I care about,” Zayn says, softly. He lets go of Harry’s neck to cradle his face. Harry thinks he’s going to kiss him again, which he thinks he might need, because Zayn’s kisses are becoming his new drug, but instead he just holds him there, so he can’t look away when Zayn looks at him, that deep, smoldering gaze that makes him feel like Zayn can see every part of him, and still isn’t moving away. “It’ll be fine.”

“I might not—”

“And I might not,” Zayn cuts him off. It doesn’t make sense, except for how it does, because it’s Zayn and Harry can feel him in his chest, can feel all his nerves disappearing with Zayn’s thumbs stroking over his cheekbones, with the heat of him so close. “You good? ‘Cause I’m, like, pretty ready to be done with this whole virgin thing.”

Harry giggles, and when Zayn’s thumbs move to trace his dimples he can feel it all through him. “I can help with that.”

He turns and pulls them back onto Harry’s bed, Zayn landing on top again. This time, Zayn sits back right away to look. Harry doesn’t mind the looking, but, “You can touch,” he points out—then immediately regrets it, because Zayn’s touch is feather light when it comes, tracing over Harry’s chest like he doesn’t believe it’s real. He traces the birds, then trails down to dislodge the cross pendant, then moves down to scrapes over the moth, his fingers spreading over Harry’s stomach. Harry fists his hands in the sheets, trying not to push, to let Zayn explore, but then the pads of Zayn’s fingers brush around his nipple and Harry can’t help the hiss that escapes him, or how his hips arch.

Zayn gives a small, thoughtful smile, and does that again, a little harder. “Good?”

“Fuck, yeah,” Harry grits out. Zayn’s grin flashes, quick and pleased, like he does when he gets a good grade, and it’s too much. Harry lets go of the sheets to pull Zayn back down to kiss him, so he can feel Zayn against his chest, can count the knobs of Zayn’s spine and the moving muscles of his back, can move them down to cup his ass again, which gets a grinding pressure against Harry.

Zayn rolls, so Harry falls on top of him, and now it’s Harry’s turn to trace each of Zayn’s tattoos, to circle Zayn’s nipples—except he uses his tongue, which makes Zayn swear, his nails scrape against Harry’s back where he was mapping that. Harry hopes it leaves marks. Marks sound like a good idea, really, so he starts to nip at Zayn’s skin, little hurts he soothes with his tongue, all down Zayn’s sternum to his navel, then down the trail of hair until he’s nosing at Zayn’s groin.

“Fuck, Harry—” It’s all Zayn can get out before Harry gives him a quick, mischievous grin and takes him in his mouth, and all of Zayn’s muscles go rigid. Harry doesn’t want it to end here, so he doesn’t spend long there, just a preview, licking at the vein, before he pulls off.

Zayn’s staring down at him, and if he was beautiful before he’s perfectly awful now, his hair properly a mess, his pupils blown, his whole face desperate. “Harry, please, I—”

“Not yet.” Harry gives Zayn a quick, reassuring kiss before he moves off of him to reach into the bedside table for the lube and condoms he keeps there. Let Louis make fun of him again for easy access. Now he barely has to move away from Zayn to get them, then he’s back. “Want you inside me when you come.”

Zayn’s back arches again at that, and he screws his eyes shut. He’s not going to last long, Harry can tell, and he doesn’t even care. He just wants him, in all the ways he can. Wants him as close as two people can get, wants him in his body and in his heart. And if that has to happen quickly, well, they’ll have time for longer later, when it’s not Zayn’s first time. Probably. He thinks.

He uncaps the lube and slicks up his fingers, then lies down on his back next to Zayn, reaches between his legs. It’s almost easier when it’s him opening himself up, because he knows exactly how much he can take, how to do it most efficiently, so he fixes his eyes on Zayn as he slides his finger in.

Zayn’s eyes open at Harry’s moan, then widen as Harry drags his finger in and out of himself. It sends heat all through Harry, that wide-eyed, burning look, how Zayn wets his lips again.

Zayn watches Harry add another finger, then, “Can I…” he asks, almost bashful.

Harry swallows down a groan at the thought. “Yeah, ‘course, please. Just, get your fingers slick. And, ‘s easier like this.” Harry rolls over, spreads his legs so Zayn can settle between them. He turns his head so he can watch. Zayn’s spreading lube over his fingers with almost fierce concentration. “That’s good,” Harry tells him. “Now, you can start with two, just, slow, like—fuck.” It shouldn’t be different than his own fingers, but it is, Zayn’s fingers inside him, deeper than he can get. “Yeah, good, now in and out, and you can sort of scissor them—”

“Like—” Zayn’s fingers curve, and one of them brushes Harry’s prostate, and Harry’s hips jerk. “Fuck, was that—”

“That was good, yeah, that was—do that again.” Zayn nods, his brow furrowed like he’s concentrating, and does, and Harry squirms, because he’s burning with it, and he needs—“Okay, yeah, another finger, please—Fuck, yeah.” Harry can’t help shifting back when Zayn does, fucking himself back on Zayn’s fingers, because he’s moving too slow.

“Harry,” Zayn says it like an oath, “Haz, can I, are you—”

He will be, Harry decides, because he can hear the desperation in Zayn’s voice, because he’s on the edge of desperate himself. “Yeah. Put on the condom, then slick it—”

“I’ve watched porn,” Zayn retorts, and Harry laughs into the pillow.

“Yeah? Thought about this?”

Zayn’s hand runs down his back, that same barely-there touch that’s somehow a thousand times worse than a heavy pressure. “Thought about you.”

“Good,” Harry says, fiercely. He wants Zayn to think about him, not anyone else he might have had sex with, not anyone else ever. He twists a bit so he can watch as Zayn opens the condom wrapper and rolls it on, so quick he’s almost fumbling with it. Harry rolls his hips into the bed, just for some relief against the pressure, for something, as Zayn rubs more lube onto his cock. “Okay, just, go slow.”

“Don’t—I won’t hurt you?” Zayn asks, and Harry reaches behind him to grab his hand, squeeze it.

“Not if you go slow. I’ll tell you.”

“Okay.” Zayn’s got that same expression of fierce concentration on, as he rests his hands on Harry’s hips. His whole breath hisses out of him when he pushes the tip in, and he bites down hard on his lip. Harry’s having his own trouble breathing, because it’s Zayn easing into him so slowly the waiting is more painful than the ache of being stretched, because Zayn’s hand is stroking over his back, so gentle he could cry from it, like Harry will break.

“Harry,” Zayn says again, when he’s fully seated, like a prayer. He’s started to move instinctively, his hips rocking, and Harry shifts around to get used to it, but he thinks he’s always been used to Zayn.

“Okay, I’m, move, Zayn, please,” Harry chokes out, and Zayn does.

Zayn’s thrusts are jerky, and a little fumbling, but the way he looks at Harry is enough to make up for it, the awe in his eyes, and the way he’s touching Harry, tender and almost tentative. It’s not the best fuck Harry’s ever had but it feels like it is, because it’s Zayn, beautiful amazing Zayn, and Harry can barely tell where his body ends and Zayn’s begins, but for the slap of their skin against each other and Zayn’s harsh breaths.

“Haz, I’m going—can I—”

“Yeah, come on, Zayn—” Harry wishes he was on his back, so he could kiss Zayn now, as he comes, his hips jerking into Harry’s, on a litany of Harry and God and something that Harry doesn’t think is English.

Zayn collapses on him after, his chest to Harry’s back. Harry tries to stay still, tries not to shift his hips as desperately as he feels, tries to give Zayn as long as he needs, but Zayn can take his time when Harry can see him properly, can see how he looks post-fuck. “Zayn.”

“What?” Zayn mouths idly at Harry’s shoulder, and Harry buries a moan in the pillow.

“You’re on top of me.”

“What—oh, sorry.” He pulls out a little too fast, but Harry can’t feel anything but need now, especially once he rolls over too, and can see Zayn, his eyes half-lidded, his smile curving in satisfaction. Harry needs to do plenty right then, but first, he thinks, he needs to kiss Zayn, so he does, tastes the languor in him, the pleasure Harry gave him, better than anyone else could.

Zayn’s fingers tangle idly in Harry’s hair, and Harry moans into his mouth, his hips moving of their own accord, desperate for some friction.

“Oh, should I…”

“You don’t have to.” Harry thinks he could get off with a stiff breeze right now, with the mere thought of Zayn touching him.

“Want to,” Zayn informs him. He’s coming back to himself, his eyes getting a little sharper in a way Harry almost regrets, but then he’s pulling off the condom and throwing it in the direction of the garbage near Harry’s bed, then settling between Harry’s legs again.

“You really don’t—”

“I want to,” Zayn repeats, “Just, tell me what I do wrong.”

“Don’t think you could do anything wro—” the last word ends in a groan, because Zayn’s wrapped his mouth around him. His fingers are cupping Harry’s balls, and his tongue swirls experimentally around him, and Harry’s using all his willpower not to fuck into Zayn’s mouth. “Fuck, Zayn, yeah, that’s perfect, you’re perfect, just…” he’s babbling, he knows, but there’s nothing else to do when he’s looking at Zayn’s lips wrapped around his cock, when Zayn keeps giving him questioning, promising looks from under his lashes, not when all Harry can feel is the warm heat of Zayn around him and the orgasm rising in him.

“Zayn, pull off, I’m going to come” he chokes out, and Zayn does, wrapping his hand around Harry’s cock, and it’s that gentle, somehow sure touch that finishes Harry off, so he’s swearing and pushing into Zayn’s hand.

Zayn coaxes him through his orgasm, until Harry goes limp. Zayn makes a face at his hand, but Harry smiles at it, at the evidence. Someday, he thinks, idly, watching Zayn get up to grab a dirty shirt from Harry’s hamper to wipe his hands off on, he’ll get his come all over Zayn’s face. Someday, he’ll do everything with Zayn. But right now, he just wants him close. He’s never really felt like that after sex, like the high isn’t as good without someone else next to him.

So it’s convenient that Zayn comes back, lies back down next to Harry so Harry can curl himself around Zayn, like they always do, with Zayn’s hand in his hair and Harry’s head on his chest, so he can hear Zayn’s heart beat and watch the candles burn down.

“So?” he asks, tracing aimless patterns on Zayn’s stomach. “What you expected?” Please, please. Let Harry have been enough.

“Yeah.”

“Even though it wasn’t…whoever you were saving yourself for?” Harry’d been trying not to think about them, because Zayn had come to him instead, but they’re still there, that person Zayn’s been in love with for forever.

He’s waiting so hard for the comfort, for Zayn to assure him he was perfect, he was better than Zayn had ever imagined that person being, that he doesn’t notice at first that Zayn is shaking from silent laughter.

“What?” he demands, pushing himself up on one hand so he can glare at Zayn. This isn’t funny.

“You really are bad at this, aren’t you?” Zayn asks, presumably rhetorically because he kisses Harry instead of letting him answer. Harry kisses back, tries to taste that laughter, even though he’s confused. How can Zayn be the most confusing person he knows and the person who he feels the least confused with?

“What does that mean?” Harry demands, when they separate.

Zayn’s still smiling, but it’s a little more rueful, a little more wary. Harry doesn’t like it. “It’s you, Haz. It’s always been you.”

“Me?” Harry repeats. Zayn had said he wanted Harry, but he hadn’t…him. “Me? You’ve been in love with me?”

Zayn bites his lip. “Yeah. I…I thought you knew. You had to know.”

“How? Me? Since when?”

“Since…Hannah, I guess. But…” Zayn’s curling in, like he gets when he’s unsure, and that’s the last thing Harry wants, so he settles down on top of Zayn again, chest to chest. “You—I thought—you told me to get over it, I thought you were saying—even this, ‘s just, like, you want me, but I know how you—that’s not, it doesn’t have to mean—it can just be one—”

“No!” Harry can’t help the panic rising in him, equal to something that feels a lot like joy, like that floaty feeling, that he can feel from his toes to his fingers. Zayn’s in love with him. Zayn’s always been in love with him. “No, no, no.” He presses a kiss to Zayn’s cheek, then keeps going, peppering kisses all over Zayn’s face, every part of him Harry can reach. “No, you shouldn’t get over me, I was the most wrong, you should never get over me.”

“Harry!” Zayn’s half laughing, but when he finally gets Harry’s face framed in his hands above him, he looks very serious. “I’m not…I know how you work, babe. And I can’t…I can’t just mess around with you.”

“I don’t want you to.” Harry swallows, hard, but Zayn’s hands are against his skin, and he can look into the amber of Zayn’s gaze, and there’s no real nerves there. There never is, when Zayn’s there. “I know I don’t really do serious, but—I could try? With you?”

“Really? We can still be friends if you don’t—”

“I think I love you.” It comes out in a rush, and Harry hadn’t known it before that moment, but the second he says it, he’s the most sure he’s ever been. “No, I love you. I know I do. You’re here.” He rubs at his chest. “Like, always. And I want you to be here, always.”

Zayn’s smiling, the soft, slow-blooming one that sets Harry’s heart thumping, that makes him feel like he could set the sun to shame with how much he feels like glowing, bathed in that smile. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Harry bites his lip, but he’s pretty sure you’re supposed to be honest, in relationships. “Though, I might not be good at it. I mean, I’ve never really done it before.”

“Well, I have. So I can help with that.”

Harry giggles, pokes gently at Zayn’s chest, right in the center of the lips. “And, you should never sleep with everyone else. Or look at everyone else.”

“Might be hard, babe,” Zayn teases, and it’s the best sight in the world, so Harry has to kiss him. Zayn kisses back eagerly.

“No one,” Harry repeats sternly. “Just me.”

“Only ever wanted it to be you anyway,” Zayn retorts, and pulls him in for another kiss.

---

“I’m just saying,” Louis announces, “I still think I deserve a fruit basket.”

“What would you do with a fruit basket?” Liam asks, which Harry is pretty sure is a good point. “You don’t like fruit.”

“It’s—that is not the point, Payno,” Louis sniffs. “The point is, this is all because of me, so I deserve recognition.”

“We recognize you,” Harry gives him. He grins, and presses a kiss to Zayn’s neck, because it’s right there and so kissable. He can feel Zayn smile, and his fingers dig tighter into his side, over the bruise he had sucked onto Harry’s hip last night.

“Can you have a beer basket?” Niall asks. He’s hanging with his head off of Louis’s bed, so he’s even more flushed than usual, and his bright grin looks like an exaggerated frown.

“I think that’s a six pack,” Zayn muses. It’s a clever thought. Harry rewards it with another kiss. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be sick of kissing Zayn, of having him close, of having him.

“Ugh.” Louis wrinkles his nose. “On second thought, can I get a reprieve for, like, a week? That would be thanks enough. Just a week of not seeing your bare asses.”

“Then you should stop walking in at the wrong moment,” Zayn retorts, and Harry giggles into his shoulder.

He’s pressed tightly enough to Zayn that he can feel the phone buzz in his pocket, and that Zayn has to rub his hand against Harry’s thigh to get it out of his pocket. Harry bites down on the whine that tries to escape at that, because he’s not that shameless. “Shit,” Zayn mutters, when he looks at his phone, “I’ve got to go, I promised William we’d work on the comic this afternoon.” He pauses a second, then, “Harry, I’ve got to get up.”

“No.” Harry is comfortable, in Zayn’s lap. He thinks Zayn moving is probably overrated. Especially when he has to go see William, who, even if he didn’t seem like he held a grudge against Zayn or Harry, is still a little too well-suited to Zayn for Harry’s taste. Not that Harry thinks Zayn would, but he can’t really forget those days when Zayn was gone. “Stay.”

“I’ve got to go, babe.” Zayn grins, and brushes his hands through Harry’s hair before he’s gently pushing Harry off of him. “I’ll see you later.” Harry lets him move him onto the bed, but before he gets up properly Harry reaches out to grab his shoulders, pulls him in for a lingering kiss. Just so Zayn remembers.

When he lets Zayn go, Zayn’s smiling, a little stupidly, a little incredulously, like he still can’t believe Harry wants to kiss him. Harry’s doing his best to stop that incredulity. It’s a hard job, kissing Zayn all the time, but someone’s got to do it, and Zayn wants it to be Harry. “See you later,” Zayn says, and gives the curl next to Harry’s face a quick tug before he gets up and leaves with a wave for everyone else.

“Fruit basket. I’m just saying.”

Harry shakes his head, to bring himself back from thinking about Zayn’s lips, then sticks his tongue out at Louis. “I would have figured it out eventually.”

“Sure. Because you were doing so well.” Louis snorts. “Honestly, how does anything happen around here without me?”

“Who knows?” Liam pats Louis’s arm placatingly.

“Right? So.?” Louis grins, mischief in his gaze. “So, my next mission—”

“No,” Liam groans, and Niall laughs delightedly, and Harry just tips over so he can curl into the spot where Zayn was sitting, and can dream of later, when Zayn will come back to him.