Archive of Our Own

The door is already open when Zayn arrives, one overstuffed bag slung over his shoulder and another gripped tightly in hand. Peering through the doorway, he does a double-take when he spots the occupant, then checks the room number again just to be sure.

The dull brass numbers read 207. Zayn resists the urge to dig the letter with his room assignment out of his bag, in case he got it wrong, because he's been back on campus for all of five minutes and he refuses to feel inadequate already because of Harry bloody Styles.

Nudging the door open wider with his shoulder, Zayn hovers over the threshold, watching as Harry leans over the mattress to tuck his fitted sheet neatly over one corner, his thin t-shirt stretching over his shoulder blades and silver necklace dangling from his throat. Feeling irrationally annoyed, Zayn clears his throat. Harry glances over, fringe hanging in his eyes, and offers Zayn a grin as charming as it is insincere.

“What are you doing?” The words slip past his teeth, faintly accusatory. Zayn lets the question hang between them, biting back the apology sitting heavily on his tongue. His mum would be appalled at his poor manners, but he feels off-balance, like he's climbed a familiar staircase and missed a step, his landing jarred.

Frowning down at his crisp white sheets, Harry says, “Um. Making my bed?”

Zayn lets one bag drop to the floor with a muted thump, easing the strap of the other off his shoulder to set it next to the first.

“I meant, what are you doing in my room?”

The easy smile slides right off Harry's face and he squares his shoulders up, like he's gearing up for a fight. Zayn barely resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“I'm making my bed,” Harry repeats slowly, as if he's talking to a child. “It's my bed, because this is my room.” He points to the other side of the room, where a second bed is shoved up against the opposite wall. “That one is your bed. Which technically makes it our room.”

“Yes, thank you for that illuminating explanation. This isn't your room, though.”

Hands on his hips, Harry shakes his fringe out of his face to glare at Zayn. “Sorry to break it to you mate, but this is my room. I don't know how else to explain it to you.” He grins again, lips the same bruised pink as Zayn's mum's roses. Zayn wonders where he hides the thorns. “Charades, maybe? Would that help, if I acted it out for you--”

Heat flares in Zayn's cheeks, but he's not wrong, he knows he's not wrong. This time, he does stoop down to dig around his bag, pulling out the wrinkled letter with his room – and roommate – assignment.

“Look,” he starts, waving the letter under Harry's nose. “Right here, right here it says that I'm in 207, and my roommate is Grimshaw, Aiden--”

Harry snatches the letter out of his hand. “Aiden's not coming back this year. His parents are sending him to some reform school, dunno why. Must've sent this before he withdrew, 'cause I'm telling you, this is my room.”

At Zayn's stony silence, Harry huffs out an incredulous noise. “What? Do you seriously not believe me? Like, you think I'm unpacking all my shit in your room as a prank, or something?”

“Pretty shit prank,” Zayn mumbles.

Harry stares at him in disbelief. “Because it's not actually a prank. Look, I don't know what you have against me--”

“I don't have anything against you,” Zayn says quickly. He expects another verbal barb from Harry, deserves it, honestly, for acting like a complete twat, but all Harry says is, “sure.”

Smile pasted on his face, he calmly folds Zayn's letter, dropping it onto the unmade bed before turning back to his side of the room. It's the politest cold shoulder Zayn's ever received.

Still feeling off balance, Zayn nudges his bag forward with the toe of his boot, scooping up the other one to drop it unceremoniously onto the foot of his bed. The sound of the zipper opening is loud in the silence between them. Zayn manages to unpack three whole shirts, sloppily refolding them and tucking them into the drawer of his dresser, before the weight of the quiet gets to him.

“Listen,” he says, addressing the wall just to the left of Harry's head. “'M sorry if I was, like, a bit rude. You just caught me off guard, like.”

“It's, like, totally fine,” Harry replies. Zayn's fingers clench without his permission and he shoves an armful of shirts into his dresser without bothering to refold them. The drawer doesn't quite close all the way when he tries to push it shut and he swallows back a noise of frustration.

Without another word, Zayn abandons his plans to finish unpacking and slips out of the room past a seemingly amused Harry. He takes about five steps down the hallway before he realizes that he doesn't actually know which room is Louis', but then he catches the familiar sound of obnoxious laughter and breathes a sigh of relief.

Following the noise, Zayn pokes his head through an open door halfway down the hall, grinning when he sees Louis lounging across an unmade bed, flicking scrunched up balls of paper across the room at Liam's back as he tapes an Iron Man poster to the wall. There's already an impressive pile of balled up paper littering the floor.

“Zayn!” Louis crows when he sees him, sitting up and throwing his arms wide. Still grinning, Zayn throws himself onto Louis' bed, wrapping him up in a hug. Louis presses a smacking kiss to his forehead.

“Liam, stop that and come cuddle Zayn,” he orders, arms squeezing around Zayn's middle.

“I can't,” Liam argues. “You're hogging him.”

Untangling one arm from around Louis, Zayn reaches out for Liam, who edges close enough to be pulled into the cuddle, landing mostly on top of them with a grunt. After about seven seconds, Louis starts complaining loudly that he can't breathe, and tries to shove both of them away. Liam extracts himself carefully, looking pleased at Louis' huffy tone, but Zayn stays curled into Louis' side, refusing to get up.

“I'm going to live here this year,” he announces.

“And why's that, bro?”

Hiding his face in Louis' neck, Zayn mumbles, “My roommate's a twat, and he hates me already. Don't make me go back.”

Louis' hand finds its way to the back of Zayn's neck, scritching at the short hairs at the base of his skull. “You've been back at school for what, an hour? How does your roommate hate you already?”

“Ten minutes,” Zayn admits. Or five. Whatever. “And I don't know, Harry just--”

“Harry?” Liam interrupts. “Thought you were rooming with Aiden this year.”

Louis shakes his head. “No, Aiden's been shipped off to some reform school. Parents caught him with an older bloke, 's the rumor I heard. A painter, I think.”

“Oh, that's proper romantic,” Liam enthuses.

“Not, like, a painter-painter. Like a house painter. Someone who paints houses?”

Zayn closes his eyes, settling further into Louis' side, and waits for Liam and Louis to finish their winding conversation. It could be awhile, knowing them. Someone pokes his cheek a minute later, and Zayn cracks one eyelid open.

“Why does Harry hate you?” Louis asks, eyes squinted suspiciously.

“Told you. He's a twat.”

“Riiiiight.” Louis drags out the word, not sounding a bit like he believes Zayn. Disloyal, Louis is. Zayn lets his eyes slip shut again, because feinting sleep is a practical way to avoid most of life's problems.

“Harry's not that bad,” Liam contributes, twisting the knife of betrayal. Eyes still closed, Zayn can hear the squeak of Liam's mattress, like he's bouncing with too much energy. It's a tragic soundtrack to this unexpected treason. “Sort of weird, but he's always been really nice to me. Are you sure he hates you?”

“Harry's been nothing but lovely to me as well,” Louis adds. “But, you know, that's the funny thing about sexual attraction. It can manifest itself in interesting ways, can't it, Zayn?”

Zayn momentarily forgets that he's pretending to be asleep. “Shut up. It's not sexual attraction. He's just a twat.”

“Well,” a new voice cuts in. “Glad to know where we stand, then.”

There's a moment of loaded silence before Louis speaks, sounding on the edge of laughter. “Harry! To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Maybe, if Zayn keeps his eyes squeezed tightly shut, he'll actually fall asleep and when he wakes up, this will have all been a terrible nightmare.

“Was going to ask if any of you lads wanted to grab lunch, but I think maybe I'm not wanted here?”

“Nonsense!” Louis says. He's definitely holding in a laugh. “Just a bit of banter between mates, innit? Zayn, here,” he digs his fingers into Zayn's side, and Zayn squirms, pressing his hot cheek harder into Louis' neck, “has a wicked sense of humor. Doesn't he, Liam?”

“Hilarious,” Liam confirms.

Zayn thinks he can feel Harry's gaze on him, but doesn't risk opening his eyes to check. He grumbles when Louis untangles himself from Zayn's limbs, climbing to his feet and taking Liam with him. Traitors, the lot of them.

“You coming, Zayn?”

Sitting up, Zayn rubs a hand over his face. His side feels cold where Louis is no longer pressed against him. “No, I... I should really finish unpacking.”

“Of course,” Harry agrees. “Looked like you had a bit to finish up yet.” He stands just outside the doorway, forcing Zayn to brush past him on his way back to their room. Zayn's careful not to make eye contact, but the back of his neck itches the entire walk down the hall, like someone's watching him.

He turns to look when he's right outside the door to his room, but the hallway is empty, Louis' echoing laughter fading into silence. The off-balance feeling is back as Zayn shoulders his way inside, skin prickling and palms itchy with sweat. Being around Harry makes him weirdly anxious, which isn't new, exactly, but now that he's rooming with him it feels – more concentrated. Inescapable.

Sighing, Zayn collapses onto his bed, face buried in his pillow. He recoils a second later, because he still hasn't bothered to make his bed and the fabric is scratchy against his skin. He's gotten as far as thinking about digging out his pillowcase before his mobile beeps with a new text.

Zayyyynnnn ur not mad r u? we wont eat lunch with him if u dont want us toooo

Zayn smiles, feeling the ball of anxiety in his stomach loosen.

It's fine liam. I dont mind. Bring me back some chips yeah? xx

He gets a response a minute later.

of course! anything for u :)

Setting his mobile on the desk, Zayn stretches before reaching for his bag. The only thing he hates worse than packing is unpacking, but he feels like he's got something to prove. Harry's side of the room is already neatly organized, his uniform trousers and blazer hanging tidily in his closet and bed made to near-military regulations. Zayn has to exert effort to achieve tidiness, and even then he misses the mark more times than not. The competition might be only in his head, but he refuses to let Harry win.

Somewhere, over a plate of steaming chips, he thinks Louis is probably laughing at him.

It serves him right, in all honesty.

-

The first week is... fine. Annoyingly so.

Zayn's never been able to put a finger on what it is, exactly, that rubs him the wrong way about Harry in the years they've gone to school together. He has questionable taste in literature, definitely, but Liam's confessed that the only book he's actually read is half of To Kill a Mockingbird, which mostly just made Zayn feel fond. Harry has even more questionable taste in music, but he always keeps his earbuds in so Zayn can't exactly complain about that, either.

There's something in the way that Harry carries himself, the curve of his smile, like he's playing a part. Harry's good at being what people want him to be, Zayn thinks. But it's all a load of shit. It makes Zayn want to poke at the seams, pry his fingertips between the cracks and pull apart the façade until he can see the real Harry underneath.

Harry is infuriatingly unflappable, though. He keeps his shirts neatly ironed and his smile the right shade of charming, even when it's just him and Zayn. He's got everyone eating out of the palm of his hand with the tilt of his head, the guileless blink of his stupid doe eyes. The worst thing is that he makes it look easy, maintaining the act so effortlessly that Zayn starts to doubt himself, thinks maybe he's been seeing the real Harry all along.

And, well. Zayn's not like Harry, is he? He's not a people pleaser, gets exhausted when he's forced to interact with anyone outside his circle of friends for very long. Harry confuses him, and irritates him, and in his more honest moments, Zayn can admit that Harry makes him a bit jealous.

Harry hasn't shown a flicker of annoyance since that first day, like he's already cataloged Zayn and filed him away, a problem he no longer has to deal with.

So Zayn does what any logical person would do.

He pushes at Harry's pedestal, just to see if he'll fall.

-

Or, well. That's how he tries to rationalize it, anyway.

“That sounds mean,” Liam says dubiously.

“No, no, no, it's – it's invitable. In-evit-able. Inevitable. Can't put people up on pedestals, Liam. Or they fall off.”

“Okay,” Louis swoops in, prying the bottle of Jack Daniel's from Zayn's fingers. “Enough whiskey for you, I think.”

“Lou,” Zayn whines, making grabby hands. Louis, the traitorous bastard, hands the bottle to Liam and instructs him to hide it on the top shelf, out of Zayn's reach. Watching Liam sadly, Zayn lets his arm fall back to the bed, fingers flexing uselessly. Lots of things are out of Zayn's reach. There's a wrinkled jumper on the floor next to Louis' bed and Zayn stretches his hand out, just to see if he can grab it, but it's no use.

“Everything's so far away,” Zayn complains. He rolls over, onto his back, and peers up at Liam, upside down. “You're so far away.”

Liam smiles down at him. “I'm right here, Zayn. I think you're just drunk.”

“Drunk and loud,” Louis adds. “What the hell, Z? You don't usually get this pissed until after midterms.”

“'M stressed. Hey. I have an idea. What about. What about more whiskey?”

Louis collapses in a laughing heap on top of him, and Zayn thinks he's supposed to be annoyed about something, but he can feel the vibrations of Louis' chest, and it's enough to set him off, too, until he's almost wheezing. Liam keeps trying to shush them, because it's late and they'll get in so much trouble if they're caught drinking, but consequences seem so far away right now, just like everything else.

When Zayn's finally caught his breath, the room is spinning a bit, but he feels warm and tingly. Louis is still curled up by his side, and Liam's perched himself on the foot of the bed, hand wrapped around Zayn's ankle, grounding him.

“You know your hatred of Harry is completely irrational, right?” Louis' voice is soft, almost gentle.

“I don't hate him, first of all. I just, like. He's a twat sometimes. He's always, like, putting on an act, y'know? And anyway, why are you inval... invali... invalidating my feelings?”

“Christ, you are the most obnoxious drunk. Are you saying you have a valid reason to hate Harry?”

“I don't hate him!” Zayn protests. “I just, I dunno, I don't get the hype.”

“The hype,” Louis repeats flatly. “What hype, exactly, do you think there is about Harry?”

“I dunno. Everyone thinks he's – special, or summat, but he's – he's not innocent. He's doing it all on purpose, like.” Zayn hiccups, blinking up and Louis and Liam. “'M not explaining it right.”

Louis pats his cheek. “Not even close to coherent. But points for enthusiasm!”

“Don't want enthusiasm points,” Zayn mumbles. “Want to go to bed.”

“First bright idea you've had all night.”

Zayn wakes up to a terrible hangover and Louis snoring in his ear. He stumbles back to his own room, making a quick stop in the loo to sick up the entire contents of his stomach, and climbs gratefully into his own bed to sleep off the worst of his headache.

That's the plan, anyway. He's barely fallen back asleep before the sound of the mattress creaking loudly as someone shifts their weight pulls him back to consciousness. Ignoring it, he starts to drift off again when the sound comes back, making his head throb.

“Stop,” Zayn groans.

There's a pause before Harry says, “Stop what, exactly? Existing?”

“Yes.”

Harry makes a noise that could be a laugh, if it didn't sound so bitter. “That'd honestly make you happy, wouldn't it?”

“Shhh. Shush. No noise.”

The mattress creaks again as Harry climbs out of bed, but Zayn doesn't have time to complain before he's padding towards the door on quiet feet. What an excellent turn of events. Zayn makes immediate plans to nap well into the afternoon. The door swings open on near-silent hinges and Zayn snuggles further into bed, duvet pulled up to his chin.

“You know, of the two of us, I'm not the one who acts like a miserable twat most of the time.”

Zayn blinks up blearily at the words, but Harry's already closing the door quietly behind him. Typical Harry, really.

Zayn would've slammed it.

-

After sleeping through dinner and having to beg Liam to let him have a bag of crisps from the stash he keeps under his bed, Zayn vows to never drink again.

Louis just laughs and asks how the plan to shove Harry off his pedestal is going, which makes Zayn scowl around a mouthful of crisps.

“It's a metaphor, first off, and I think it's entirely unfair that you're holding my own words against me, for the record. Drunk words don't count. Liam, do drunk words count?”

Liam looks bewildered for a moment, with both Zayn and Louis' eyes on him, but he rallies quickly enough. “Erm. No? No,” he repeats, more definitively. “Drunk words do not count.” He bangs a stapler on his desk like a gavel. “Case closed.”

Louis looks like he has several opinions on how Liam is wrong, but manages to keep them to himself. Unfortunately for Zayn, that means Louis is still stuck on how Zayn is wrong.

“I know you have some... strong opinions about Harry, but seriously, mate, you are literally the only person who feels that way. I don't know why you're holding onto this grudge, but I sincerely hope you never let it go.”

“I... what?”

Louis shrugs. “It's hilarious. You always look like you're a second away from either punching him or fucking him. I feel like I need to keep popcorn handy, just in case.”

Zayn crosses his arms over his chest. “You are literally the worst.”

Louis beams.

-

As the weeks drag on, Zayn makes a point not to spend more time in his room than necessary. He sleeps there during the week, putting up with Harry's snoring with more patience than Harry deserves, and usually crashes in either Louis or Liam's bed on weekends. Harry, for his part, seems to have a similar game plan. He's friendly with Liam and Louis, but spends most of his time with Niall and the other music students.

Zayn honestly has a little trouble puzzling that one out, because Niall is one of the most open and sincere people Zayn's ever met. He's always good for a laugh, and it takes him ages to walk down the hall, because he stops to say hi to nearly everyone. There's perpetually a guitar in Niall's hands, which should be annoying, but mostly has the effect of making everyone in his vicinity smile once Niall strikes up a song.

Actually, as far as Zayn can tell, the only time that Niall isn't busy playing his guitar is during class, and sometimes even then, if the teacher lets him get away with it. Ms. Flack isn't usually so tolerant, even though she teaches Life Studies.

Life Studies is one of the notoriously few easy A courses. It's also one of two classes Zayn shares with Harry, and the only one he has with Harry and Niall both. They always sit next to each other, heads bent together, much to Flack's annoyance and Zayn's determined indifference.

In English, though, Harry never sits next to anyone in particular. He'll slide into whichever desk happens to be available, limbs sprawled out like he's claiming his territory and daring someone to challenge him. Zayn always sits near the back, not quite hunched in on himself, but not taking up more space than necessary, either. He makes a habit of pretending that Harry doesn't exist, which generally works out great for the first ten minutes of class. Until Harry opens his mouth, anyway, and then it's all Zayn can do to keep from arguing.

“I think that Holden's obsession with the duck pond is, you know, representative of him wanting to cling to the innocence of childhood, but it's also, um, it's cyclical. 'Cause the ducks leave every winter and fly south, but it isn't – it's not forever, because they come back. So, the change isn't permanent, like growing up is, it's just, it's this pattern that repeats itself, which symbolizes that change is, um... it's temporary.”

“Thank you, Styles, for that lovely summary of Sparknotes.” Mr. Grimshaw says dryly. The class titters, but Harry carries on smiling, seemingly not caring that he's been caught out. “If anyone has an original thought to offer...? Malik, surely you've got something to say on the subject.”

Tracing his finger over the worn spine of his copy of Catcher in the Rye, Zayn licks his lip, considering. “I think it's interesting how, like, Holden spends the entire novel accusing everyone else of being phony, or whatever, but he can't acknowledge his own phoniness. He lies all the time, putting on this act, but he doesn't even seem to realize it.”

“Maybe he knows exactly what he's doing.” Zayn glances up automatically, catching Harry's intense gaze by accident. “Maybe Holden's judging everyone else 'cause he's insecure,” Harry continues. “He doesn't want to face his own inadequacy, so instead he makes everyone else seem like a bad person, when really, it's him all along who's judgmental and fake.”

“It's a defense mechanism,” Zayn argues hotly. “He isolates himself as a form of self-preservation.”

“So it's okay to be a prick, in the name of self-preservation?”

“No, you're putting words in my mouth. Pushing people away, people whose intentions you don't understand or who might have ulterior motives, pushing them away is a valid way to cope.”

Harry snorts. “To cope with what, exactly?”

“I just said. People who are putting on an act, who pretend like they're better than everyone else--”

“Who's pretending to be better than everyone else?”

“All right, boys, let's reign it in, shall we?” Grimshaw sounds amused, and Zayn slumps back in his seat, fingers worrying over the aged pages of his book. The pad of his index finger catches on the edge of a page and he sucks it into his mouth against the sudden stinging pain of a paper cut.

He doesn't need to look towards the front of the room to know that Harry's smirking.

-

Later, after dinner, Zayn slips outside, contraband cigarettes shoved deep in the pockets of his blazer. It's one of the most loosely enforced rules on campus, but the staff have been known to confiscate a pack if students are blatant about it. Shoulders hunched against the autumn chill, Zayn makes his way to one of the stone benches out of eye shot from the dorm windows. He perches on the edge of his seat, digging out a cigarette and his lighter, and breathes a sigh of relief when he takes the first drag, feeling calmer already.

Sometimes Louis will come with him, bumming a smoke and sitting almost quietly next to Zayn, or as quiet as Louis ever gets, really. Mostly, though, Zayn comes out here alone to clear his head, to get away from the noise and bustle of dorm life, and buy himself a moment of quiet.

Tipping his head back, Zayn exhales a mouthful of smoke, watches it disappear into the cloudless night. He lingers, taking deep, slow drags, holding the smoke in his lungs for as long as he can before letting it out on a sigh.

It's not until he flicks the butt away, grinding it out beneath the toe of his shoe, that Zayn realizes just how cold it's gotten. Shivering in only his blazer, he heads back towards the dorms, climbing the stairs two at a time until he reaches the second floor. When he gets to his room, Harry's already there, stretched out on his bed with an open book.

Ignoring him, Zayn shrugs his blazer off, hanging it up in his closet. His fingers are reaching up to unknot his tie when Harry clears his throat, letting out a small cough.

Zayn glances over, but Harry's eyes are still on his book, so he turns back to his tie, tugging it loose and dropping it on top of his already messy dresser. He's working the buttons of his shirt loose when Harry coughs again, louder.

“Y'all right, mate? Need a cough drop?”

“Sorry,” Harry says, not sounding sorry at all. “Smoke makes my asthma act up.”

Zayn jerks on a button so hard he nearly rips it off his shirt. “Well, good thing no one is smoking in our room then, isn't it?”

Harry finally drops all pretenses, letting his book fall to his lap. “You smell like a giant cigarette, Zayn. What'd you do, roll in an ashtray?”

Grinning, Zayn eases the last button of his shirt open, sliding it off his shoulders and dropping it onto the floor on his side of the room. He has a laundry basket under his bed, but it's worth it to see the way Harry's mouth tightens, like he's biting back a complaint.

“Would you like me to crack a window? I'd hate to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

“Are you doing this on purpose? Like, is it your goal in life, just to annoy me?”

Zayn shrugs. “Is it working?”

Harry looks like he wants to bite off another retort, but instead he picks up his book again, effectively shutting Zayn out.

“Oh, get over yourself,” Zayn huffs, shoving his trousers down his legs and grabbing a pair of joggers. “I didn't get addicted to cigarettes just to piss you off. Not everything in the world actually revolves around you, y'know?”

“I didn't – I never said that. I don't think that.”

“Really? Could have fooled me.”

A flicker of annoyance crosses Harry's face, but then he smiles sweetly up at Zayn, cheek dimpling. “Sure you aren't projecting, love? It's a common sign of narcissism. Listen, why don't you spend some more time looking at yourself in the mirror, hmm? See if you can perfect that smolder of yours.”

“Fuck off, Styles.” Zayn grabs for his shower caddy and towel, shouldering his way out of the room before he does something really stupid, like punch Harry in the face.

Or worse, kiss him.

-

“All right, boys. Settle down, settle down. Yes, Horan, that means it's time to put the guitar away.”

Niall smiles sheepishly, settling his guitar back in it's case at Flack's glare. She waits until she has the class's attention before continuing. “This semester, I'm introducing a new project. It will be worth half your grade, so anyone who chooses not to participate will fail.”

An uneasy murmur ripples across the room, but the class falls silent when Flack raises a brow. “For the next month or so, we're going to be studying healthy choices and relationships, with a focus on preventing teen pregnancy. As you're all aware, this is a required course for graduation. You'll be the first class, however, to be using the new curriculum.”

Flack smiles sharply, then, and Zayn swallows, suddenly apprehensive. “We've been fortunate enough that the school board has approved a budget increase, to allow our department to purchase infant simulators. You will all be tasked with caring for an infant round the clock for the next three weeks, and graded on your ability to provide safe and responsible care.”

The murmur grows louder and Flack raises her voice over the noise. “Yes, gentleman, this includes taking your infant to all of your classes, providing care on weekends, and overnight. The headmaster has already approved of this project, so please save your complaints.”

“But, Ms. Flack – we already have coursework and sports and extra-curriculars. How are we supposed to care for a baby, on top of all that?”

“Excellent question, Mr. Devine. This is a project that is meant to test your limits, and hopefully help you all understand the difficulties involved with being a teen parent. That being said, you will be working in pairs to enable you to split up the work, and mimic a co-parenting relationship.”

At this announcement, the room erupts in noise as everyone tries to claim their partner. Zayn drops his gaze to his desk, wishing, not for the first time, that he had Louis or Liam in this class.

“Excuse me!” Flack's voice booms out. “I applaud your enthusiasm, boys, but I've already assigned partners. Trading partners is non-negotiable, and I expect you all to work together over the next three weeks to keep your infants alive and healthy.”

There's a collective groan, but Flack bulldozes on, running down the class roster and calling out names. Zayn listens closely for his name, nervously holding his breath.

“Malik, you're with Styles.”

Zayn chokes on air and has to cough to clear his throat. “What?” he says, wincing at how hoarse his voice sounds.

Luckily Harry's too far away to hear him, but his gaze has zeroed in on Zayn like a particularly menacing light house. Niall's already tipped his face close, whispering something in Harry's ear. Zayn catches Harry's gaze, refusing to look away first. Their staring contest lasts until Flack finishes assigning partners, and then everyone is rushing the front of the room, waiting to be handed a baby.

Zayn lets Harry fight the crowd, hanging back by his desk and waiting for Harry to come to him, plastic baby cradled in his arms and assignment packet tucked under one elbow. Harry drops the packet onto Zayn's desk and Zayn carries on ignoring him, grabbing for the packet to flip through. He can feel his eyes widening in horror the further he reads.

“Oh, fuck.”

“What?” Harry asks, leaning over Zayn's shoulder to see, breath tickling annoyingly against Zayn's ear. “What's it say?”

Zayn squirms in his seat until he can't feel the heat radiating off Harry's body. “That bloody thing is going to cry all night. Look, we have to feed it, burp it – christ, we have to change its nappies.”

“Well, yes, that's generally what babies need. Hey, what should we name him? We can't keep calling him it.”

“I don't care what you name it. Are you not understanding this? We're going to have to get up in the middle of the night to change a fake baby's nappies.”

“Mmm.” Harry smiles down at the plastic baby, cooing gently at it. He glances up at Zayn, eyes dancing with mirth, and says, “Look, Zayn, he's got your eyes.”

“Shut up, Harry,” Zayn replies tiredly.

“Let's name him Archibald.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

Harry pouts. “You said you didn't care what we named him. I think Archibald is a lovely name.”

“I changed my mind. I am not listening to you call that thing Archibald for the next three weeks. Pick something else.”

“You're no fun. Fine. How about Wallace? No? Boris? Hubert? Eustace, then. Eustace is a solid name.”

Zayn closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Do you keep a collection of ugly baby names in your pocket, or something? Those are all hideous.”

“Heyyyy,” Harry says, sounding vaguely offended. It's almost enough to make Zayn smile, until he remembers that he's going to be spending the next month caring for an infant. With Harry.

His life is actually the worst.

The baby suddenly starts crying, a horrible wailing noise, and Zayn looks at Harry with alarm. Grinning, Harry holds the baby closer, rocking him until the noise mercifully goes away.

“How did you know to do that?” Zayn asks, eyeing Harry with mistrust.

Harry shrugs. “Instinct?” He smiles down at the baby, still rocking it slowly and coos softly, “Whiny little thing, aren't you? Just like your daddy.” He shoots Zayn a shit-eating grin. “Think he takes after you. Maybe we'll just call him Zayn Jr.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Hilarious.”

-

“A baby.” Louis repeats.

Zayn tries to respond, but it's hard to talk with his face pressed into Louis' pillow. It's nice here, Zayn thinks. Maybe he'll just stay here forever and never face any of his responsibilities ever again.

Louis pokes at him, shoving at Zayn's shoulder until he rolls over onto his side. “You're taking care of a baby. With Harry. For a grade.”

“Yes,” Zayn sighs. “Flack said it's fifty percent of our grade, too. So if I fuck this up, I'll fail Life Studies.” He lets one of his arms flop over his eyes, blocking out the light. “Oh my god, Louis. I'm going to fail Life Studies. I won't be able to graduate, or get into uni, because I can't parent a child with Harry. My life is ruined. Everything is ruined.”

Louis pulls Zayn into a cuddle. He smells a bit like stale sweat and boy, but it's familiar and safe. Zayn lets himself cling to Louis, face tucked into his neck.

“You do realize that you're not actually a teen dad. Like, your life isn't ruined. You just have to survive the next three weeks.”

“Shut up,” Zayn orders. “It's ruined. Over. Nothing to be done for it.”

Louis sighs. “And they say I'm the dramatic one.” His words are mean, but his hand is tracing soothing patterns over Zayn's back, so Zayn generously decides to forgive him. “Where is the baby, by the way?” Louis asks a minute later, like an afterthought.

“With Harry,” Zayn mumbles. “We've got joint custody. I get the baby on even days, he gets the baby on odd days.”

“How cloyingly domestic of you.”

“Half my grade, Louis,” Zayn reminds him.

Even though Zayn should be working on his paper for Civics, Louis lets him stay curled up in bed to watch Netflix on his laptop. Louis' downloaded some sort of firewall workaround to be able to access it on the school's internet, and Zayn stays later than he should, watching old episodes of Friends.

It's close to lights out by the time he makes it back to the room, where Harry's already got the baby's cot set up between their beds. He's sat on the edge of his bed, head bent as he feeds the baby a bottle.

“Hey,” Zayn says, a little cautiously. Harry looks up and Zayn tries out a smile. “Uh. How'd it go, today?”

Shrugging, Harry pulls the bottle away, setting it onto his desk. In one smooth motion, he transfers the baby from his lap to against one shoulder, patting its back gently. “Fine,” he answers. “Pretty easy to figure out why he's crying, so.”

“Right.”

It's the most polite conversation they've had since rooming together, and probably even before that. With the baby in the cot between them, it's almost like there's a truce, of sorts. Zayn thinks maybe these next three weeks will be bearable, after all.

It only takes about two and a half hours for him to be proven horribly wrong.

He's dead asleep when the sound drags him to consciousness. He can't figure out what it is, at first, and buries his head underneath his pillow to block it out.

It only gets louder. Still half-asleep, it takes a long moment for it to click. It's the bloody baby crying.

“Harry,” Zayn groans. “The baby.”

“'S your turn,” Harry mumbles back. He sounds about as awake as Zayn.

“No, no, 's your day.”

There's the creak of the mattress as Harry rolls over. “Past midnight, Malik. Your turn.”

“Oh, f'fuck's sake.” Zayn throws back the covers, shivering a bit at the sudden cold, and stumbles out of bed, reaching for the baby.

“Watch his head,” Harry mumbles sleepily. “He'll cry louder if you handle him rough.”

“I know how to hold a bloody baby,” Zayn snaps. He's careful, though, as he scoops it up, cradling it in his arms and rocking gently. The crying doesn't stop, though. It just gets louder.

“Harry? Harry. Tell me what to do. It won't stop.”

“Nnhgg. Feed him, you idiot.”

Right. It's probably hungry. Zayn nearly trips over something in the dark, but manages to find the bottle on Harry's desk, fingers wrapping around the cool plastic with relief. He presses the nib of the bottle to the baby's mouth, and sinks back onto the bed as the crying finally stops.

The sound of wailing is still ringing in his ears, so Zayn lingers a bit, making sure the stupid thing is satisfied with its feeding. He's just leaning down to place it back in its cot when it starts up again, a low cry threatening to grow into another loud wail.

“No, no, please baby, please be quiet,” Zayn begs, rocking it more. He remembers how Harry burped it, before, and carefully places the baby over one shoulder, patting its back gently. After a minute, it makes a burping noise and quiets down. Nerves feeling raw, Zayn sets it back into the cot with cautious optimism. He waits a full thirty seconds, hovering over the cot, but the baby stays blessedly quiet.

Drained, he slumps back into bed, pulling the covers up over his head. He drops off almost immediately, hardly noticing the sounds of Harry's snores.

-

The baby wakes him up twice more during the night, and by the time Zayn stumbles down to the cafeteria for breakfast, he's as exhausted as if he's pulled an all nighter, cramming for exams. He hauls the baby along with him, strapped into its carrier, and has to feed him again as he's spooning soggy Wheetabix into his own mouth.

“How's fatherhood going then?” Louis chirps brightly. He wilts noticeably under Zayn's glare. “Right. You know what, Liam and I were actually just going to go... do... something. We'll, uh, leave you to it?”

Zayn's ready to snap by the time he makes it to Life Studies. When he gets to class and sees Harry sitting next to Niall, playing with Niall's baby, he can't keep his temper in check. Carefully, he sets down his and Harry's baby, still buckled into its carrier, before stalking across the room, stopping when he's standing over Niall and the traitor he used to call a co-parent.

Niall's laughing, guitar in hand and fingers strumming over the fretboard, and Harry's got Niall's baby in his arms, rocking him gently.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Harry looks up at him, an amused smile playing across his face. “All right there, Zayn? You look a little tired.”

“I'm fucking exhausted. I've been up taking care of our baby all night, and missing out on lessons to take care of it all day, and instead of helping, you're, what, exactly? Giving Niall a hand?”

Harry's smile doesn't dim during Zayn's little rant. “Hey, we both agreed to the custody arrangement. I'll take Junior tomorrow, and you can get your precious beauty sleep tonight.” He pats Zayn's hip. “Relax, bro. Having a baby is a joy. The miracle of life.”

“I hate you. I honestly, truly hate you,” Zayn says, but it comes out sounding more tired than cruel, lacking intent. It only makes Harry laugh, and before Zayn can think of something meaner to add, the baby starts crying. “Fuck,” Zayn mumbles under his breath, trekking back across the room to scoop the baby up, rocking it gently.

By the time English rolls around, Zayn's barely got the energy to pay attention to Grimshaw's lecture, let alone debate with Harry. He just goes through the motions, unable to concentrate on anything other than the sound of the baby crying, swooping immediately to try to quiet it before it gets too loud.

“I don't think I can do this, Lou,” he says later, after dinner. He's sat on Louis' bed, baby in his arms as Louis procrastinates on his maths homework. “It's only been one day, and I'm so fucking tired.”

“Isn't Harry meant to be helping you, though?”

“Yeah, but like, even if we split it every other day, I have to do this for three weeks. Can't slack off, either, 'cause Flack'll get a report when we're done, like how long it took us to respond to the baby's cries and if we neglected it and shit.”

Louis lets out a low whistle. “That's one high tech baby.”

Slumping back miserably, Zayn nods. “I know.”

“Well, look on the bright side!” Louis says. “At least you'll be done after three weeks. Imagine if it were a real baby. You'd have to deal with Harry for the next 18 years.”

“Yes, in an alternative universe where one of us was actually able to get pregnant.” He sighs. Louis does have a point. Only three weeks. Zayn can do this.

He can.

-

Zayn can't do this.

It's day six... or maybe seven? He's lost count.

All he knows is that it's definitely Harry's turn to get up, and the bloody baby won't stop crying.

“Harry. Harry. Harry,” Zayn pleads. “Make it stop. Please. I need to sleep.”

The only reply is a loud snore. Zayn might actually cry.

“Get up, Harry. Get the fuck up.” He has an exam at eight sharp, and he spent all day rocking the damn baby, who was extra fussy, crying nearly the whole day. He's completely unprepared for tomorrow, doesn't think he'll be able to tie his own shoelaces come morning, let alone concentrate on an exam, and Harry won't get up to feed the baby.

Tripping out of bed, Zayn scoops the baby up with practiced ease, muscle memory replacing conscious thought. The cries only get louder, which means it needs to be fed, not just rocked, and it's not fair. Dead on his feet, Zayn crashes forward until his knees hit the edge of Harry's mattress. It jostles Harry enough that he mumbles in his sleep, rolling over until his back is towards Zayn before going still again.

“Harry, you fucking wanker,” Zayn almost snarls. He climbs onto the bed, baby still cradled in his arms, and crawls forward until he can repeatedly knee Harry in the back.

“Get up, get up, get up,” he chants, punctuating each kick.

“What the – Zayn? Get off, what's wrong with you,” Harry mumbles, shoving Zayn away. “Feed the baby, he's crying.”

“Past midnight. You feed the fucking baby.”

Harry blinks up at him then, the green of his eyes an indiscernible dark color in the pale moonlight. He takes in the crying baby and Zayn still kneeling on his bed, and must see something in Zayn's expression because all he does is nod, reaching for the baby without a word.

Grabbing the bottle off his desk, he quickly starts feeding it and the crying stops almost immediately. Zayn sags with something like relief, the tension leaking out of his body and leaving him exhausted and boneless.

Harry kicks at his knee. “Go back to bed. I'm feeding him, all right?”

“You should have fed him ten minutes ago. It was your turn, Harry.”

“Shh. Stop arguing in front of the baby.”

Zayn honestly can't tell if Harry's joking or not. He doesn't know how Harry has the energy for joking; Zayn's so bloody tired he can't think straight. “Do you think you're funny? This is half our fucking grade, and you – god, I can't even trust you to take care of the baby when it's not my turn.”

He runs a hand through his hair, catching on snarls because he didn't have time to wash all the product out of it before he dropped into bed.

“Zayn. Go back to bed. I'm handling it now, all right?”

“Yeah, now that I'm awake and out of bed.” Zayn feels near-hysterical, like someone's pulled a plug in his brain and all his emotions are spilling out without his permission. “He was crying for ten minutes. Ten minutes! I tried to wake you up, but you just kept snoring.” His chest is hitching with each breath, almost like sobs catching in his throat, which is stupid, because he's not – Zayn's not crying.

“Okay,” Harry says slowly, climbing out of bed and placing the baby back into its cot gently. “I think maybe you're a bit over-tired? We both are, obviously. Can you just. Why don't you get back into bed, okay? I'll wake up next time, I promise.”

“I can't do this.” The words spill out, without Zayn meaning to say them. “I can't do it, Harry. I'm going to fail my exam tomorrow. I don't even – I don't even know what chapter it's on. I can't – I'm so tired, and its always crying, and I don't know what to do.”

He's definitely near tears now, and blinks them back furiously, because this isn't – god, of all the people to fall apart in front of, why does it have to be Harry?

“Hey,” Harry says softly, gentler than Zayn's ever heard him. He can feel the mattress shift as Harry edges closer, and then Harry's hand is on his back, touch tentative like he's afraid Zayn will startle, or shove him away. When Zayn doesn't flinch, Harry starts rubbing up and down, his palm warm through the thin material of Zayn's top. “Take some deep breaths, okay? Just focus on your breathing.”

Closing his eyes, Zayn concentrates on filling his air with lungs, holding it for a beat before releasing. He repeats the cycle a few times until the tears are no longer pricking at the corners of his eyes, and he feels like he can move without shattering into a million pieces.

Harry keeps rubbing his back until Zayn stands up abruptly, and then he lets his hand fall to the bed. “I – thanks,” Zayn says shortly. “I'm, uh. Think I'm going to go to bed, now.”

“Sure,” Harry agrees, voice neutral.

Zayn doesn't think about any of it as he crawls beneath his own comforter, facing the wall. Doesn't think about the softness in Harry's voice, the underlying note of worry, or the way his hand felt, warm against Zayn's back.

He falls asleep almost immediately to the steady sound of Harry's even breathing.

-

When Zayn stumbles out of bed in the morning, jaw cracking with a loud yawn, Harry's already up, rocking the baby in his arms almost absentmindedly. Zayn gives him a friendly sort of nod, which is about the best he can ever manage at this hour, before pulling on his uniform. He grimaces at his reflection in the mirror, his hair fucked beyond repair, and paws at his fringe hopelessly.

Harry's uncharacteristically quiet, not making a single veiled insult about Zayn being vain, which is a nice change of pace. It's too early for tired rhymes, and Zayn would hate to have to throw a book at Harry's head while he's holding the baby.

The easy quiet lasts until Zayn's about to run out to the door, book bag slung over his shoulder and plans to cram during breakfast.

“Hey, Zayn,” Harry says.

Zayn pauses, hand already on the doorknob. “Yeah?”

He can hear the mattress creak as Harry shifts his weight. “If you want, I could... I don't mind, watching the baby tonight. After midnight, I mean.”

Slowly, Zayn turns his head to look over his shoulder. Harry's still sat on his bed, plastic baby in arm, leg jiggling like he's nervous.

Zayn licks his lips. “You don't have to do that. We both agreed, didn't we? Every other day.”

Shrugging, Harry looks down at the baby, letting his fringe fall in front of his eyes so Zayn can't see his expression. “To make up for last night, then? You could kip in Louis' room, get a good night's sleep.”

Apparently all Zayn has to do to get sympathy from Harry is nearly cry all over him. The thought makes the back of his neck flush with heat, but Zayn bites his tongue against the retort burning to escape. A baby-free night is too much temptation to resist.

“Yeah, I... if you're sure?”

Harry tips his chin up, mouth curved in a slight smile Zayn's never seen before. “I'm sure. Hey, good luck on your exam.”

“Thanks,” Zayn says automatically. He's too tired to puzzle this out, to figure out what shade of sincere Harry's smile is, so he nods again before hurrying out the door, letting it click shut gently behind him.

-

By lunch, Zayn's feeling less like a sentient garbage bin and more like himself. He even finds the energy to banter with Louis and Liam, and is busy trying not to snort juice out of his nose when Harry plops down at their table, Niall sliding into the seat next to him. They each have a plastic baby strapped to their chest with a carrier, and it looks so ridiculous that Zayn does end up snorting juice out of his nose, hiding his face in his napkin as he attempts to discretely wipe away the mess.

Luckily for Zayn, Louis is as equally amused by the sight of Harry and Niall and their matching baby carriers and doesn't notice. “Cute,” Louis observes. “They're growing like weeds, aren't they?”

Niall doesn't miss a beat, leaning across the table to nick a biscuit off Louis' tray, stuffing it in his mouth before Louis can protest. “Be walkin' before you know it,” he agrees, chewing noisily.

“Oi,” Louis says, outraged. “I was planning on eating that.”

“Need 't keep up my energy, don't I?” Niall grins, unapologetic. “You can have my biscuits next semester when you're a teen dad.”

Scowling, Louis cross his arms over his chest. “It'll never happen. Me and Liam are sensible. Won't have any unplanned pregnancies, will we, Liam? We're safe, us.”

Liam nods thoughtfully. “Abstinence is the best policy, isn't it? Louis'll never have to worry about teen pregnancy, at the rate he's going.” He deflects Louis' grab for his nipple with a practiced move and Zayn scoots his chair down the table, attempting to get out of range of flying elbows as Louis retaliates. The move brings him closer to Harry, who tips his head towards where Louis is trying (and failing) to trap Liam in a headlock.

“Are they like this all the time?”

Shrugging one shoulder, Zayn grins. “Pretty much, yeah. You get used to it, after awhile.”

Niall already has, it seems. He's busy yelling out advice (“Go for his side! Yes! No, no, watch his hand, watch his hand!”) but Zayn can't figure out who he's trying to help. All three of them are laughing loudly enough that they're going to catch the attention of faculty in a minute, and Zayn doesn't want to get detention by association. Gathering up his mess, he shoves his chair back with a scrape. Liam and Louis don't notice, but Harry's eyes are still on him, head cocked like Zayn's a mystery that can only be unraveled through intense eye contact.

“Um,” Zayn says, caught like a deer in Harry's gaze. “Thanks again, for taking the baby tonight. 'S nice of you.”

Harry's smile is completely unreadable. “Sure,” he says.

Well. No one can accuse Zayn of being ungrateful, at least. He escapes the cafeteria, binning the rest of his lunch and not looking back.

-

“I don't get it,” Louis says later, stretched across his bed like an ornery cat. “I thought you didn't hate Harry anymore?”

“I never hated Harry,” Zayn explains for what feels like the hundredth time, shoving at Louis' hip until he budges over. “I tolerate him. It's fine.”

Louis finally scoots over, leaving enough room for Zayn to crawl into bed after him, tucking himself along Louis' side. Across the room, Liam's already got his duvet pulled up to his chin, smiling sleepily at them and clearly fighting back a yawn.

“If it's fine, why are you sleeping here?”

“Because,” Zayn huffs. “Harry's doing me a favor, all right? He's keeping the baby tonight so I can sleep. Which I'd like to do now, please.”

Liam obligingly reaches out to click off the light, plunging the room into darkness. Louis isn't so easy to convince.

“Ohhh,” he drawls. “Harry's doing you a favor, is he.”

“Yes. A favor that will go to waste if you don't shut up,” Zayn adds meaningfully, pinching Louis' side.

For an entire twenty seconds, Louis actually listens. Then he starts singing, quiet enough so only Zayn can hear.

“Zayn and Harry, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”

The undignified yelp he makes when Zayn punches his junk is both satisfying and hilarious. Zayn presses his smile into Louis' shoulder, angling his hips towards the bed so Louis can't retaliate.

-

When Zayn slips back into his own room come morning, he feels better rested than he has in ages. Louis is an aggressive sleeper, constantly kicking his blankets off during the night, but Zayn's been kipping in his bed since they first became mates years ago and the only cure for his homesickness was the familiar curve of Louis' arm over his shoulder. Zayn's learned a lot since that first year, including how to sleep through Louis' constant tossing and turning.

One thing he still hasn't got a clue about, though, is Harry bloody Styles.

“Ya all right?” he asks cautiously, pulling up short in the doorway.

Harry looks up, startled at the sound. The summer tan he'd arrived at school with has all but faded, and the skin beneath his eyes looks bruised and fragile. His hair is in its usual state of disarray, but Zayn would hazard a guess that for once, it's not an intentional choice on Harry's part.

“'M fine,” Harry croaks, fingers still fumbling with his tie. He can't seem to get it right, the knot lumpy and off center.

With careful steps, Zayn treads lightly into the room. A quick glance at the cot reveals the baby is lying quietly, so at least Harry's succeeded in tending to it during the night. Doesn't look like he's managed to get any sleep, though.

“You look... a bit tired,” Zayn finally settles on.

“'M fine,” Harry repeats stubbornly. He tugs on one end of his tie, but instead of pulling it tight into a neat Windsor, it falls apart, ends dangling pathetically. Head tipped back, Harry closes his eyes, his fingers still gripping the fabric hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

Harry is definitely exhausted, because he doesn't protest when Zayn steps into his space, gently pushing Harry's hands away before smoothing out the fabric of his tie. Lip caught between his teeth, Zayn concentrates on his fingers, careful to reverse the steps in a mirror-image of how he normally does this. Eyes still closed, Harry keeps his chin tipped up, throat bared to Zayn and his hands folded in his lap.

The only sound in the room is twin exhales as Zayn works, fingers brushing occasionally against Harry's skin. He pulls the knot tight when he's finished, snug around Harry's collar, and takes a quick step backward before he can do something really stupid, like run his fingertip over the delicate purple beneath Harry's lashes.

“I, uh,” he stutters out, and Harry's eyes blink open. “Just need to shower quick, and then I'll take him, yeah? The baby, I mean.”

“Sure,” Harry says, voice slow and rough, like he's still not all the way awake.

With a tight smile, Zayn grabs his shit and retreats.

-

There's only a week and a half left of this bloody assignment, but considering the last week and a half has been the longest of Zayn's life, it's not much of an accomplishment.

He's trying to finish writing a paper in Louis' room, which is never a great strategy for success in the first place, but stopping every twenty minutes to rock a crying baby isn't exactly helping.

“Zayn,” Louis says tersely after a good hour of this same pattern. “If you can't make that thing shut up, I swear to you, I will take out its batteries.”

“That's cruel, Louis. He's just an innocent baby.”

“It's an annoying piece of plastic,” Louis counters. He cocks his head, looking thoughtful. “Hey. Do you think it would bounce, if you dropped it from a high enough point?”

Wrapping his arms more protectively around the baby, Zayn gives him a dark look. “What's wrong with you? You can't go around dropping babies. That's fucked up. You're fucked up.”

“Please. I wouldn't drop a real baby. And anyway, it's in the name of science. C'mon, hand it over. I wanna see how durable that thing really is.”

“You're a menace, Tommo. Stay away from my baby.”

Louis' cackling laughter follows him out of the room, which was probably Louis' intention all along: to chase Zayn away. “Whatever,” Zayn says softly. “We don't need him anyway, do we, baby?” He realizes he's talking to a plastic infant and immediately shuts his mouth, shaking his head. He's going to lose his damn mind before this assignment is over, if he hasn't lost it already.

Baby still cradled in his arms, Zayn heads back to his own room where he can safely parent his plastic child without anyone rudely interrupting. Or take a nap. Definitely a nap.

He realizes there is a flaw in this plan as soon as he nudges the door open.

“Oh. Sorry.”

Harry and Niall both look up, Niall's mouth still open in a laugh. He's got his guitar in hand, lounging on the foot of Harry's bed, and Harry is stretched out across the rest of the mattress, feet tucked under Niall's thigh.

“Zayn!” Niall greets him cheerfully. “How are ya, mate?”

“Fine,” Zayn allows. He shifts, a bit awkward, before shaking himself out of it and walking forward to place the baby in its cot. Harry and Niall carry on like Zayn never interrupted, Niall plucking out chords and Harry giggling along.

Writing his paper now seems like an insurmountable task, so instead Zayn flops down onto his bed, reaching for his Civics book so he can at least make an attempt to read. He's gotten as far as skimming the first paragraph when Harry interrupts.

“We're not bothering you, are we?”

Glancing over, Zayn catches the upward tilt of Harry's mouth. “Nah,” he says. “'S fine. Don't mind the noise.”

Dimples bloom in Harry's cheeks and Zayn turns back to his book, but the words blur together into a string of unreadable black. It's not long before his eyes are slipping shut without his permission, head drooping back onto the pillow.

He must fall asleep, because the next thing he's aware of is the change in lighting, the late afternoon sunlight replaced with the orange glow of Harry's lamp. There's a low murmur of voices, Niall's Irish lilt and Harry's deeper rumble, and it takes Zayn's sleep confused brain a minute to pick up the words.

“...that maybe it's just in your head, mate?”

“Pretty sure it's not, though. You heard him in Life Studies, that day I had your baby.”

A snorting noise. “Yeah, I don't think he meant it. You're grasping at straws, Haz.”

“Am not. He was in a proper strop on move-in day, when he realized I was his roommate. You didn't see him, Niall.”

“No, but I've seen him since then. I'm telling ya, he doesn't hate you.”

There's a lull in the conversation and Zayn nearly drops off back to sleep, but then Harry speaks again, voice so low Zayn can barely make it out. “Even if he doesn't hate me, though, it's not like we're ever gonna be more than mates.”

“Christ, Harry, you make it sound like a national tragedy that Zayn doesn't want to touch your dick. If you're that hard up, we can go out this weekend and try to pull.”

“Niaaaall,” Harry whinges, dragging out the vowels. “Don't wanna pull anyone. I want Zayn.”

“You just want what you can't have. You're bloody impossible.”

“No,” Harry starts to argue. “'Snot that, it's--”

Zayn's managed to twist his arm beneath him and it throbs with pins and needles. He shifts a bit to take the pressure off and his mattress creaks loudly. Harry and Niall's voices abruptly cut off. Hardly daring to breathe, Zayn lets himself relax, chest rising and falling slowly.

After a minute, Harry sighs. “He could wake up any minute, or the baby could start crying. C'mon, let's go get dinner.”

There's the scuffling sound of feet on hardwood as they climb out of Harry's bed and out the door, leaving Zayn in silence.

It's another forty-five minutes before the baby cries, but Zayn lies awake the entire time, staring at the ceiling.

-

Zayn didn't think another lesson in Life Studies could top being assigned to care for a baby with Harry, but the universe continues to surprise and humble him.

“Well? What do you think?” Hands resting on his lower back, Harry shows off his rounded belly, swiveling his hips to give Zayn a full view. “Do you still love me now that I'm old and fat?”

Zayn rolls his eyes, but can't help the smile that tugs at his lips. Harry had initially tried to button his shirt over the fake pregnant stomach for purposes of “realism,” pouting when he realized the material wouldn't stretch nearly that far. Now he rubs a hand over his tummy, like he's actually pregnant and not wearing an obviously fake suit.

“You're not old or fat.”

“I am heavy with child, Zayn. Your child,” Harry insists. He settles himself back in his chair, hands placed protectively over his belly. “You're going to leave me to find some pretty young thing, and then where will I be?”

“A nut house,” Zayn suggests, ducking the pencil that Harry chucks at his head. His grin falls a second later when Harry lets out a low groan, hands gripping his fake belly and head bent like he's in pain.

“What is it? You all right?”

Peering up at Zayn through his fringe, Harry moans quietly. “I think my water broke.”

The belly slows Harry down enough that he can't quite dodge the pen Zayn flicks at him, laughing madly as he waddles around the room, Zayn giving chase. Flack is quick to scold them and Harry's the first to give in, slumping into his seat with a tired smile. There's a sheen of sweat on his forehead and he's a bit out of breath, chest heaving under the fake belly.

“Shouldn't run around like that, in your condition,” Zayn chides softly. “Could lose the baby, if you're not careful.”

Harry's smile grows wide enough to split his face in two, his cheeks dimpling with the effort. He loses the belly, but the smile stays in place, even when it's just him and Zayn in their room.

Zayn's fussing with his hair, eyebrows furrowed as he concentrates on making sure his quiff isn't lopsided. Harry's got the baby in his lap, angled towards Zayn as he keeps up a steady monologue in a ridiculous baby voice.

“Oh, look, daddy's primping again. He's so vain, Zayn Jr. He probably thinks this song is about him.”

“Shut up, Harry,” Zayn says, but it lacks his usual heat. Harry grins and makes the baby's plastic fist wave at him, which shouldn't be nearly as endearing as Zayn finds it.

“That's rich, coming from a human mop,” he adds.

“Heyyyy,” Harry protests. “Don't act like you aren't hoping the baby inherits my curls. They get the girls, you know.”

Zayn snorts. “Ah, yes. Because that's what I was really worried about. That our plastic child wouldn't grow up to be a heartthrob.”

Covering the baby's ears with his hands, Harry shoots Zayn a wounded look. “Don't use the 'p' word in front of the baby. You know it upsets him.”

Shaking his head, Zayn turns away from the mirror. He pats Harry's cheek and Harry tries to bite his fingers before Zayn can snatch them away. For once, the silence between them doesn't feel loaded. It just feels... easy.

“So,” Zayn says finally. “One more week.”

“Hmm?”

“Until we're done with the assignment,” he clarifies, nodding towards the baby still nestled in Harry's lap. “Just think,” he adds, perching on the edge of his bed to pull on his boots. “One more week, and we can sleep through the night again.”

“Oh,” Harry says, frowning down at the baby. “Yeah. Can't wait.”

“Me neither,” Zayn agrees. Climbing to his feet, he tugs on a strand of Harry's hair, just to see what he'll do. Two weeks ago, he would've guessed that Harry would have punched him in the face. Now, though, Harry just smiles up at him, shaking out his curls when Zayn releases his strand.

There's another jolt in Zayn's stomach that he'd rather not examine, so he offers Harry a quick answering smile and walks out the door, before the off-balance feeling makes him fall flat on his face.

-

A few days and too many indecipherable smiles later, Zayn finds himself on his usual bench, cigarette in hand and shoulders hunched against the unseasonable cold.

He finishes his first smoke and immediately lights a second, throat burning as much from the tobacco as the freezing air. It's too fucking cold to sit outside like this, but Zayn's got so many tangles in his brain he can't figure out where to start.

Or maybe it's not the start that's worrying. It's where everything leads. It's the curve of Harry's smile, the rosy pink of his lips that Zayn was so sure, so sure was hiding thorns, ready to draw blood at the first touch. Zayn doesn't like admitting that he was wrong, but it turns out he likes keeping Harry at arm's length even less.

As if he can sense that he's the subject of Zayn's inner turmoil, Harry materializes out of a blur of movement at the periphery of Zayn's vision. He settles himself on the bench next to Zayn, gloveless hands twisted in his sleeves.

Zayn blows out a stream of smoke and watches the way Harry's eyes track the movement.

“Where's the baby?” he asks after a moment of silence, punctuated only by the sound of Harry's breathing, loud in the late autumn air.

“Niall's watching him.”

“That's cheating, innit?”

Drawing his jacket tighter around him, Harry shrugs one shoulder. Zayn lets the silence drag on longer this time, but when it becomes obvious that Harry's got nothing else to add, he prods a little.

“Thought the smoke bothered you.”

Harry shrugs again. “I have an inhaler in my room.”

The admission makes Zayn laugh, a rusty sound from his smoke-coated throat. “Why are you out here, Harry?”

“Trying to get the appeal, I guess.” He wrinkles his nose. “Smells terrible, but I like – I like the quiet, out here. 'S nice. Peaceful.”

He shivers and Zayn laughs again, nudging his shoulder against Harry's. Harry must take it as permission, because he immediately scoots closer to Zayn, pressing together from their shoulders to hips. If he were Louis, Zayn would wrap an arm around him, draw him even closer. As it is, he just lets himself sag against Harry's side, face turned away to suck in another lungful of smoke.

“I'm glad, you know. That we got partnered to do this baby project,” Harry says suddenly.

“Yeah?”

He catches Harry's answering nod out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah. Before, we – I thought -” he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “We're mates now, right?”

A wisp of smoke escapes from between Zayn's lips in a surprised cough. “I – yeah. 'Course.” He's surprised to realize it's the truth.

It must be the answer Harry came looking for, because he stands up, stretching his arms over his head. “'M gonna head in. Gotta make sure Niall hasn't killed our child.”

“Yeah, sure. Be just bit longer,” Zayn says, holding up what's left of his cigarette. He watches Harry's retreating back until he disappears inside.

“Mates,” Zayn repeats. The word tastes bitter on his tongue.

-

His fingers are stiff with cold by the time he slinks back inside, shivering as he climbs the stairs to the second floor. Harry's already in their room, laying the baby in its cot as Zayn steps through the door.

“Niall says he was a perfect angel,” Harry informs him, lips quirked like he knows how ridiculous he is and wants to see if Zayn will play along.

Zayn's cold and tired, though, and he's sick of reading Harry's smiles and getting it wrong. “Did he? Listen, Harry, fuck being mates.”

It's almost comical, how fast Harry's face falls. “No, I didn't mean – fuck,” Zayn says hastily. “I like you, mates is fine. But I'd rather snog your face off, if I'm being honest.”

Harry's face is an open book, features twisting in a variety of emotions – shock, then happiness, before settling on something intense that Zayn can only describe as hunger.

“If you're bullshitting me, you need to tell me right now,” Harry says, sounding more serious than Zayn's ever heard him.

Zayn shakes his head, promising, “No, no, I swear 'm not,” but Harry's already stalking over to him, pinning Zayn in place with his gaze. He's got barely an inch on Zayn, but he uses his height to his advantage, pressing Zayn up against the door, hands hot against Zayn's sides, even through the material of his top.

“Last chance,” Harry warns, mouth close enough to Zayn's that he can feel Harry's breath, ghosting over his lips.

Instead of answering, Zayn reaches up, threading his fingers through Harry's hair and tugging him close enough to crash their mouths together. Harry makes a surprised sort of sound, but then he's kissing Zayn back, slanting his mouth over Zayn's, his thigh pushing between Zayn's legs.

Zayn keeps his fingers buried in Harry's hair, angling his face to kiss him deeper, but Harry's hands are everywhere, trailing up and down Zayn's chest, fumbling with the knot of tie. He pulls back for a minute, resting his forehead against Zayn's, but his fingers keep tugging insistently at the tie until it unravels, ends hanging loose around Zayn's neck. Then Harry's mouth is on his again, making Zayn dizzy with it, the slick drag of Harry's lips and tongue.

His breathing is already picking up, pulse jackrabbiting in his throat, and he can feel the tips of Harry's fingers running over his chest, pinpoints of heat scorching through his shirt. Harry starts tugging at the buttons, still kissing Zayn, swallowing the involuntary gasps Zayn makes when the cool air hits his heated skin.

Harry's managed to get half of Zayn's shirt unbuttoned, his collar tugged wide enough so he can kiss his way down Zayn's neck, scraping his teeth over tender skin just to make Zayn squirm, when the baby's piercing cry splits the room.

“Fuck,” Zayn mutters, dropping his head back against the door. Harry presses another kiss to his throat.

“Forget the baby. It's not real anyway.”

Zayn laughs, but it turns into a groan when Harry's hand slips down to palm over the front of Zayn's trousers. “Nngh. Fifty percent.”

“We'll do extra credit. Make up for it.” Harry has very clever fingers, and he hasn't even got into Zayn's pants yet. He must realize this, because he's reaching for Zayn's zipper when the baby's cries grow louder, a terrible wailing that will haunt Zayn's nightmares for years to come.

“Harry,” Zayn pleads. With a sigh, Harry lets his head drop until his forehead is resting on Zayn's shoulder, but he obediently moves his hands away from Zayn's flies. Taking a deep breath, he takes a step backward, until the only point of contact between them is Harry's fingers, gripping his hip. Giving Zayn a squeeze and a significant look, Harry informs him, “this isn't over.”

Then his hand is dropping away as he goes to scoop the baby up, rocking it gently and reaching for its bottle. Zayn takes the opportunity to catch his breath, letting himself sag against the door on surprisingly shaky knees.

The baby is unusually fussy, continuing to cry even after Harry's fed and burped it. He throws Zayn a wide-eyed look and Zayn shrugs helplessly, watching as Harry continues to rock the baby in soothing motions, cooing under his breath like it'll help.

Zayn's eyes are drooping by the time Harry finally gets the bloody thing quiet, and even though he's still mostly dressed in his school uniform, he's stretched out across his bed, head pillowed on his arm. When Harry lays the baby down in its cot and it stays mercifully silent, he looks up at Zayn with a triumphant grin. He pads across the room to flick off the overhead light, leaving the room bathed in the soft glow of his desk lamp.

Sleepily, Zayn smiles up at him as Harry unknots his own tie, throwing it across the room before crawling into Zayn's bed, nudging Zayn until he rolls over onto his back and Harry can lean down to kiss him. Zayn's fingers find their way into Harry's hair again, carding through the soft strands, and Harry sighs against his mouth.

Harry's weight is warm and heavy on top of him, his chest pressed to Zayn's as he kisses him softly, and Zayn can't fight the yawn as Harry trails his lips down to mouth along Zayn's jawline. He can feel the puff of warm air as Harry laughs against the skin of neck. “Am I boring you, then?”

“Sorry,” Zayn mumbles, turning his face to nuzzle into Harry. “”M just really ti-i-ired,” he explains around another yawn.

Pushing up onto his elbows, Harry pouts down at Zayn. “Too tired to get off?”

Zayn reaches up to tug on a loose strand of Harry's hair that's fallen in front of his eyes. “Maybe,” he admits. “What if the baby starts crying again? Won't be able to stop, next time.”

“I don't see the problem,” Harry grins, lips stretched wide.

Zayn shoves at him until he flops over, half on the mattress and half on Zayn. “If we fail this project, we're gonna have to do it again next semester. I've had more than enough of being a teen dad, ta.”

“I hate when you're practical,” Harry complains. “It's very inconvenient for my dick.”

Curling his arm around Harry's shoulders, Zayn pats at his back. “You'll live. Few more days, yeah? Then we'll be done with this project forever.”

“Fine,” Harry mumbles, pressing his face into the juncture between Zayn's neck and shoulder. “But I want to get my mouth on your cock the minute we're done, all right?”

“Jesus, Harry.”

He can feel the curve of Harry's smile against his skin, even as they both drift off to sleep.

-

“Yes, Styles? Have you got some original insight to offer, or will we be blessed with another stunning rendition of Sparknotes drivel?”

Harry flicks his fringe out of his eyes, beaming up at Grimshaw sunnily. “Well, sir, I just wanted to comment on the layers throughout Walden. Thoreau has all these brilliant observations of animals and wildlife, but the way he's able to use metaphors to relate back to human nature is brilliant, honestly.”

Zayn coughs delicately and Grimshaw raises a brow. “Got a rebuttal, Malik? Go on, then.”

“Honestly, Thoreau's a pretentious fool. He isolates himself away in the middle of the woods, preaches on and on about getting closer to nature, but he can't even look at a colony of ants without comparing it to humanity.”

“I disagree,” Harry announces, probably just to be a twat. Grimshaw lets them debate until the bell sounds, the look on his face torn between fond amusement and weary exasperation.

They're still debating (well, Zayn amends, that might be a bit too positive a reframe. Arguing heatedly might be more accurate, all told) when they get back to their room, Harry shutting the door forcefully behind him.

“You just can't admit when you're wrong,” Harry accuses him.

“You can't find your way through a novel without Sparknotes,” Zayn counters.

“Take that back.”

Zayn grins. “Make me.”

In less than ten seconds, Harry's got him pinned to his mattress, snogging him senseless. It's not until he grinds his hips down against Zayn's and Zayn lets out a noise embarrassingly close to a moan that Harry breaks the kiss, breath coming in hot pants against Zayn's cheek.

“No baby,” Harry murmurs.

“I know.” They'd turned it in this morning, along with the final packet for the project. Flack told them not to expect to get their marks back for at least a week, but Zayn couldn't care less what they get, as long as they pass.

One of Harry's hands slips lower, running down Zayn's chest and stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of his trousers where his shirt has ridden up, exposing a sliver of skin.

“I'll admit that Thoreau was extreme in his determination to be isolated if you admit that it did lead to some amazing poetry,” he offers, sucking a bruising kiss onto Zayn's jaw.

Zayn considers, hips twitching against Harry's hold. “I'll let you come on my face if you suck me off first.”

That makes Harry push up onto his elbows, pupils blown wide and fringe falling in his face as he stares down at Zayn. “Fuck, yeah,” he breathes, leaning down to kiss Zayn again.

-

They get a B+.

More importantly, they get to laugh at Liam and Louis the following semester when it's their turn for the dreaded baby project. Louis' bed loses its status as a safe haven for Zayn, as he's as liable to be exposed to a wailing plastic infant as an elbow to the gut whenever Louis gets particularly grumpy, but that's all right.

Harry turns out to be a great cuddler, even if he always insists on being the little spoon. Zayn can cope. He wraps an arm tighter around Harry's waist, nose buried in his soft curls.

He probably imagines the faint scent of roses, but smiles anyway.