Archive of Our Own

December 31, 2014

Zayn stares outside the huge floor to ceiling window as the snow softly – quite strange for London weather – falls down. He’s not even sure what he’s doing in the second floor of the mansion when the party is downstairs. Clearly, this is not his house; he is embarrassingly intruding the owner’s privacy. What disrespect to the host.

He just can’t help it. Not when he’s so curious about the interior of this manor and panels that make up the foundation. This is a house only those born with a silver spoon in the mouth can afford, a house that Zayn can only dream of.

But he never really wants a big home. He’s lazy more often than not so he prefers it if things are within reach of his bed.

The design though is a different story. As an architect and interior designer, Zayn is always at awe of such places and structures. He’s sort of surprise not to find the same absurdity as the over-the-top Christmas décor outside. The interior is simple with modern and old clashing perfectly.

There are antique looking chandeliers that hang low from the tall ceiling. There’s a huge mirror with brass curlicue framing it by the end wall, a plush black chair tucked in the corner near the mirror – accompanied by a small wooden table and a white ottoman. Contrasting the ancientness of it is the polished wooden floors that Zayn thinks more likely to belong to sunny LA houses with their glass walls and massive space. It all looks good though.

Except, maybe, for the fact that the decoration outside is an ugly façade (if ever it is one) for all the beauty that a lot is missing. It’s like what his Mum would always tell him about people, ‘Sometimes there is more to them than appearance, sunshine.’

Zayn should have listened to his Mum. He should not judge people so hastily. As he sips his wine – it tastes like his favourite Riesling – he remembers green eyes and dimpled smiles.

Zayn really does wish he listened to his Mum.

~*~

December 22, 2014

Zayn is picking up wine. His Uncle has a massive collection at home but he doesn’t want to abuse his Uncle’s goodness. Besides, he prefers buying his own wine, it’s always nice to buy things with your own money – knowing that you can.

Zayn’s diet is simple: cheese, bread, and chicken. He’s not the vegetable guy and he usually prefers fruits – his Mum worries about his health because of what he eats that’s why he compromises with fruits. With his taste of food, his best company is a Chardonnay which always does well with his three most favourite foods. The rich white wine also goes well with fish courses but he rarely eats fish.

He is about to reach out to a Domaine Weinbach but a hand blocks him. Zayn’s olive coloured fingers made contact with long and pale ones. He immediately jerks his hand back.

‘Sorry,’ he and the stranger both said at the same time.

And that’s when Zayn first made eye contact with the owner of those slender fingers with blunt fingernails. Rebellious curls peeping out of the stranger’s blue beanie, huge green eyes, straight nose, and plum, plum lips that closely coloured to cherry wine. Zayn’s first thought was, fucking model.

Zayn didn’t miss the fact that the bloke is taller than him, just a few inches but still taller. And it’s intimidating, especially with his broad shoulders and biceps that begged to be flexed to show off. Zayn should be daunted but then the man’s lips perk up and give Zayn a dimpled smile. So maybe he’s not that threatening, Zayn convinces himself. No man with dimples that are deep like wells – possibly with crystal springs – will ever be scary.

‘Hi,’ the stranger says and smiles again, dimples deepening than before. And Zayn is suddenly so inspired to build an infrastructure that hollows down from the top to give praise to this man’s dimples.

Zayn looks away and prays that he isn’t blushing because it’s humiliating enough to be caught ogling over Mr. Curly. Zayn’s not voyeuristic, it’s just that he’s an artist and he tends to appreciate beauty when he sees one. Blame it on his passion.

‘Riesling, huh?’ the stranger says and wraps his long pale fingers around the neck of the bottle.

Zayn can’t help but look at the man’s long fingers. They are so long. And slender. And long. Did Zayn forget to mention that they are long?

‘For the cheese,’ Zayn replies. And once it was out of his mouth he feels stupid. Beautiful Stranger With Luscious Curls didn’t help Zayn’s depreciating self-confidence when he chuckles at Zayn.

Zayn should hate Curly. He really should. If only Curly wasn’t so lovely to look at when he’s smiling, dimples showing up again on both of his cheeks.

‘So you like cheese.’ Curly’s still amuse, the smile on his lips is proof enough. It’s a beautiful smile though, one that will probably melt snowflakes because it’s so warm and everything you would want when you’re out in the cold. ‘That’s good to know.’ He takes the bottle off the rack. ‘I’m Harry, by the way,’ he says and offers the bottle to Zayn.

Zayn has to blink once. Twice.

He should probably talk to more people because he can’t get proper words out of himself when he needs them the most.

Zayn’s usually fine with chit chats. He does small talks with his way of living but not with beautiful strangers who offer you wine, gives you a smile that you can roast mallows on, and looks at you like you’re special – not someone he just met. Zayn thinks that the world would have been a much much better place if there are more Harry in the world.

‘Zayn.’ He holds the bottle’s body with both hands, not taking his eyes off the other man because Harry’s eyes glow like sparkling wine and Zayn wants a taste of whatever Harry has to offer.

~*~

December 22, 2014

He’s walking down the same street again. The one he can map out even with his eyes closed. This night doesn’t differ from the others before because the air is still frosty and it’s still damn too cold for Zayn’s liking. But the thing is, Zayn isn’t so much bothered with the cold.

Ha! Did he become Elsa all so suddenly? Maybe he can if he sings, The cold never bothered me anyway.

But that’s not it. It’s not.

Bright smiles and green eyes is what’s keeping the frost away, it’s what warming Zayn’s heart and makes it grow three times the normal size – or so he thinks.

Suddenly, he hears a faint instrumental of All I Want for Christmas and it must be the universe serenading him. He doesn’t believe in those bullocks but he feels like it is at the moment. He knows this is what most people call A Sign and he smiles to himself because it really must be it.

Just kind of too late for The Sign though isn’t it? What he needs to do is forget everything and let it go. Yes, he should. Save him from heartaches and pain.

Of course, the song still comes from the same house, a grand 3 storey mansion that could compete – and will probably win – against his Uncle’s manor. The gigantic fortress with Victorian era touch that can simply sit next to Buckingham Palace and not lose its beauty.

Zayn finds it completely ridiculous that such beautiful architecture is full of Christmas decorations – ranges from tasteful to over-the-top to Is this even legal?—that he wonders what sort of person lives in that manor. Like who even fucking goes this far on Christmas decorations? And how in hell did that person get away with it?

There’s a complete set of Santa Claus on his sleigh with reindeers pulling it, two giant Christmas trees because apparently one tree is never enough, wreaths on top of every window, fairy lights over everything like its fucking snow which just fell unto the surface. And the Christmas carols – sounding like chipmunks singing – is the cherry on top.

The house could burn down from all the Christmas lights being lit and Zayn won’t be surprised at all.

He shakes his head slowly and shoves his hands deeper into his coat pockets as he continues his journey home. The house remains etched at the back of his mind and he smiles at how utterly, completely, unquestionably ludicrous the house is. Maybe the owner is as comical as well.

~*~

December 31, 2014

Zayn should probably head home. To his Uncle’s house that is. It’s not like he has a house he can call his own. Not even his own flat.

He sighs sadly. Maybe he should try and do something for a change for 2015.

He looks around and then stares back at the vague reflection of himself on the glass window. He can see it. The changes he never did. The changes he should have done.

Hell, he doesn’t even have anyone to kiss on midnight. And that’s probably a basic step to this life changing plans he’s listing in his head.

He should maybe stay for a while and get someone to kiss him by midnight just so he could start this change he’s been dying to leap into. It’s not hard to find a willing bird or bloke to kiss him tonight, right?

He’ll do that. Find someone and kiss them – whoever it may be – and pray that they won’t be too drunk to actually puke on him or pass out on him. He just needs his New Year’s Eve kiss.

He sips more of the wine in his hand and inks his only plan for tonight. He needs to get kissed tonight for a change. He drowns down the last amount of his wine and it’s embarrassing how desperate he is for a kiss, a kiss that could change something in his life – or he hopes it does.

He feels cold all of the sudden. Maybe that’s why he hates Christmas. It reminds him so much of being alone – a cold bed, an empty room, freezing hands, and a heavy heart. Why did he build his walls so high?

'Stop pushing people away, meri jaan. The more golden people you can find, the warmer you’ll feel,’his Mum have told him before.

And again, he should have listened to her.

~*~

December 21, 2014

The air is crisp with cold and the streets are chilly. Zayn wishes that it won’t snow just yet till he comes back home to his Uncle’s house. It’s actually not just a house since it’s more likely to be a mansion with its old columns, spacious front yard, grand staircase and whatnot. It would majestically belong with Mr. Darcy’s manor.

He should have taken a cab home. He should have. But he thought it would be great to do a little night walk from the station to his Uncle’s home. And now he regrets having that decision. He regrets it greatly when the cold wind blows and hits him in the face, the only body part he hasn’t covered. He almost pulls his beanie down to his face to shield it from the freezing breeze.

As he is walking, he hears a quiet sound of Let It Snow instrumental playing softly from afar and he smiles to himself because that’s far from what he wants at the moment. It’s just too bloody cold to be wishing for more snow. Not that he would be able to evade the white flakes to drop all over London at this time of year. He does wish it won’t be that heavy.

The Let It Snow continues to play and it gets louder every step Zayn makes. He must be closer to the house where it’s coming from. But the question is, who fucking plays Christmas song at 11 pm on such a quiet night – in a posh neighbourhood?

Of course, Zayn should have known. He should have.

The answer to his question lies before him now. It’s that mansion he’s passed by in so many times. Since the very first day of December, the owner had completely covered it with decoration. It looks like Christmas Town now, only exaggerated and a bit offensive for Zayn’s taste.

He remembers that this is the same house that had full throttled on Halloween last October. There were like hundreds of Jack-o'-lantern pumpkin outside and the house was really transformed into a haunted mansion with candles and scary monster statues. He’s not even going to be shock if on Valentine’s Day the mansion will have a chocolate fountain outside.

~*~

December 21, 2014

Zayn is drinking his second cup of Earl Grey tea and making his last attempt to review the blue prints Gwyneth mailed to him that afternoon.

He stands by the window of his room at the second floor and stares outside. From where he is standing, he can see the blur radiance that a thousand light had illuminated from the preposterous house he came across that evening. All those lights being lit up radiate faint rays that break the reign of darkness in the neighbourhood. The other huge houses keep some of their lights on as well since rich people have little regards to energy saving, but the glow coming from the comical house is too radiant for others to compete with.

He sips his tea and closes his drapes because he can’t concentrate on his prints if he keeps staring outside. He’ll probably stare too long on the different curves and edges on the houses he can view. And that won’t help anything.

It is mainly one of the perks of living in his Uncle’s mansion. He gets to look at big houses with beautiful façades and architecture. He’s surrounded by great infrastructures that he can ogle upon because as an architect that’s his drug, his rush, his vice.

His biggest dream is to build a one of the most beautiful skyscraper in London. And he’s constantly motivated every time he looks at The Shard and 30 St. Mary Axe. It’s actually what fuels him up to work at this time of year – 3 days before Christmas – when everybody’s trying to figure out what to get the people they love, when buying the perfect gift is what is important; housewives fretting over what to cook for Christmas dinner; children all excited how many presents they’ll have waiting for them under the tree and praying that Santa Claus did manage to get them a Wii.

But Zayn has no heart for it all. Maybe because he’s Muslim – but then his Uncle and family is too but then they’d still hang fairy lights all over their houses and put up a gigantic Christmas tree. So, he wonders why he’s not in Christmas spirits like the rest of the world.

He told his Mum that he can’t come down to Bradford for Christmas because he has a project that he has to finish up. He told her that he’s really sorry for not being able to make it. And he should probably feel bad about breaking his family’s Christmas tradition – which he still raises an eyebrow on because again, they are not Christian to be celebrating Christmas like others are – but he doesn’t feel so bad about it. He does misses his family but he goes home to them twice a month if he can so it’s not a huge of a difference if he won’t make it this Thursday.

As he sits down on his working chair, prints laid out across his table; he regrets having to have made his project as an excuse to his Mum because he could have lied about the weather not being good. He doesn’t want to lie to his Mum but then it seems that he’s a cruel son for spending Christmas holiday with his work rather than with his family.

Family is what is important. Everybody knows that and Zayn does, too. But Christmas family dinners aren’t just his thing. Why? Too much relative in one place, too much people to greet, too much smiling that last Christmas he swears he got stiff-cheek from all the grins he had to show, and worst of all, too many questions about what’s happening with his life and love life.

The constant question What do you want for Christmas? is just something Zayn can’t answer this year because he has come to realise that when you grow older the things you want can’t be bought.

He starts measuring the first draft and he catches himself humming Let It Snow. And he’s decided that it’s going to be a cold Christmas.

~*~

December 28, 2014

Harry loves Christmas. He loves the minced pies his Mum would cook, the applesauce he loves to eat on Christmas morning, the fairy lights that you’d see wherever you look, the trees that are draped with shiny decorations from top to bottom, the looser smiles that people wear, the rush of buying late Christmas presents, the cold air that makes you want to cuddle, the snow that falls all over the plain, and so much more.

If Harry has a say on things, he’d probably propose that it’d be Christmas all year. But then that’d make it non-special of an event anymore so Harry’s thrilled that Christmas only happens once a year. He loves to chase and savour the goodness that Christmas brings, one at which will only last for such time and be gone again till next year. And maybe that’s what makes it more enchanting.

Whatever it is none of it matters to Harry because all he knows is just he loves Christmas so much that he acts like a kid on a candy store. Good thing, Gemma – his sister – is there to rein him in whenever he gets over the top on his Christmas ideas. And with money, there’s so little you cannot do with your imaginations.

'Love, aren’t you going too much on this party?’ his mother, Anne, says to Harry. She’s roaming her eyes over her son’s spacious living room now filled with balloons and party decorations.

‘Mum, this is a year end party and it has to go down with a bang,’ Harry replies, going through his phone and checking what else did he miss on his list of party stuff.

‘I know, love.’ Anne puts an arm around her son’s waist and embraced him. She’s smaller than him now so her attempt to do a shoulder hug would be in vain. ‘What I’m trying to say is that most of these decorations are kind of silly.’ Harry looks away from his phone and stares at her with a petulant pout. She laughs. ‘You’re not a very good party planner, love. I think you should seek professional help.’

Harry looks around his living room once more and can see that his Mum has a point. Ballooned zebras and banana certainly doesn’t go well in this party. But he promises to keep the orange party danglers because they smell like oranges. And it’s never taboo to have oranges on parties, right?

‘Fine,’ he says stubbornly to which his Mum only laughs at. He dials a number at his phone and hits CALL. It rings and he waits, glancing again at his living room and he’d probably have to say goodbye to the pink feathered pompoms he’d hang on the windows, and the polka dot carpet he’d laid out under the table where the foods and drinks will be.

~*~

Harry, firstly, wanted a Christmas party in his house but he knew that his Mum won’t like the idea since she had always said that Christmases should be spent with families. She sees parties as another branch of Harry’s work so hell would freeze first before she’ll allow Harry to host a Christmas party. Thus, it gave birth to a year end party instead. Harry’s last party for 2014.

And Harry has invited everyone he knew at that party. He’s making sure for it to be grand because his name and reputation is on the line. This party is just another door of opportunity to polish his name in London fashion world. He’s opening his 6th shop in Northumberland Avenue after his first one in Selfridge and the other ones in the all over London, so this party is to launch that project and make people know him more.

It’s hard to look for a party planner with so little days before a huge party but then again when money’s not a problem, it’s not that hard. He’ll do anything to make this party a blast.

~*~

December 29, 2014

‘Leave it to me, Haz,’ Amanda says and taps the screen of her phone, clearly typing a memo or whatever she calls it as an event organiser slash interior decorator. Harry can’t grasp why she’s working her ass off on both jobs. Why can’t she just keep one? It’s not like she’s in need for money or wants more money for that matter.

‘The orange danglers have to stay though,’ he says and the olive skinned woman looks up from her phone and raises an eyebrow at him. ‘What?’ He shrugs. ‘They smell amazing.’

Amanda rolls her eyes at him and moves back into more tapping. She’s one of Harry’s close acquaintances. Her curly raven hair is pulled into a messy bun that sits atop of her head. Her sense of fashion is bold – the last time Harry saw her, she was on a denim maxi dress and a denim jacket which screamed Britney Spears VMAs failure to him but Amanda pulls it off, Harry bet it’s because of her long, long legs and model-esque figure.

She’s Rita Ora looking, only with elongated slim legs that could probably belong to Alessandra Ambrosio. But what pulls Harry to her is her witty personality and sass.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to model for my Spring collection?’ Harry asks her, leaning both arms on her glass desk.

She looks up from her phone again and stares at Harry amusedly as if he just told another Knock Knock joke – and Harry’s Knock Knock jokes are less funny and more of the Are You for Real? in a bad way. ‘Styles, I have no plan on being part of your circus of freaks,’ she informs and types something on her computer this time.

Harry pouts. This is not the first that she has rejected his offer, and he hasn’t taken her refusal by heart because she loves her job too much to want to do anything else. It’s a more likely to be unfortunate for beauty like her to go to waste. She should be walking on runways, wearing silk and cashmere, getting flashed by cameras, pictures printed on huge billboards, etc. Yet here she is, sitting down on her grey swivel chair that looks greyer by the minute, and figuring out the correct cabinet colour for someone’s kitchen or the correct shade of pastel for someone’s bedroom closet.

‘You know, you’d get more money as a model,’ he mutters, not being able to keep hands to himself as he plays with Amanda’s moleskin, which Harry believes to be her planner. “You’d get Giselle Bunchen a run for her money. Or even Miranda Kerr.’

‘Even if you flatter me, I still won’t give you 10 percent discount,’ she says as she continues typing and clicking her mouse. She had a smile on her face as she listens to Harry’s rumbling.

‘I still don’t get why you have two jobs,’ Harry says, flipping over the pages of her planner in an uninterested manner, just for the sake that his hand is doing something.

‘My boss in Interior Design Department is fit,’ she says to him, locks gaze with Harry and she squeals a little bit.

‘What?’ Harry’s eyes are wide with incredulity. ‘You won’t leave this company because your boss is fit?’ He completely forgets about the planner to glare at Amanda – not that it’s life threatening because let’s face it, Harry’s glare will only make puppies want to lick his face more. ‘I am very fit too, for your information.’

Amanda does a do over on Harry’s profile and grimaces a little bit. She shakes her head slowly as if trying to break a bad news to the man with Bambi eyes who lived his whole life being everyone’s favourite. ‘Not even close, Styles.’ She sounds sympathetic like someone not trying to be blunt about the reality that Harry is pathetic compared to the other man. ‘Not even close.’ She goes back to her work.

~*~

December 31, 2014

There are lots of people. Like lots. But Harry sees him anyway, catches him in his vision like his eyes were trained to exactly find him. And maybe after their short encounter his eyes have been navigated to locate Zayn immediately.

He doesn’t understand the gloom that’s written all over Zayn’s feature, not that it looks bad on Zayn. Hell no, it even gives Zayn’s godlike face an image that should only belong to magazine, photoshopped to perfection.

A thought crosses Harry’s mind: maybe Zayn should model for him.

That is enough motivation to make Harry head to where the man is, standing next to Harry’s little palm tree that had brought back from Greece last month. He tries to run a few lines in his head – cool ones that will get anyone to say YES to him, even the Queen. He should probably do that loop sided smile he had learned that can make people eat at the palm of his hands.

It sounds all cruel but Harry’s just making sure he gets a YES. A YES from Zayn; stiff Zayn who looks like he wants to burn the world with his glare – not that anyone will mind the fiery hell Zayn will rain down because he’s going to look good doing it.

‘Harry,’ someone shouts and Harry turns to the speaker. It was Micah, one of his trusted employees – manager of his Picadilly Circus branch. ‘I’ve been looking all night for you.’ She’s grinning from ear to ear, loops her arms around his.

‘Why?’ he asks but he’s no longer staring at the smaller woman but to Zayn. He needs to get to him. To make Zayn agree to model for him that is. That’s all.

‘I want you to meet the landlady of that building you’ve been eyeing on Francis Street in Victoria,’ she says, her eyes sparkling like the champagne she had been drinking all night. Harry had assigned her – she doesn’t even know why he chose her – to look for a location to open near Buckingham Palace.

She thought he was joking at first because the idea is ridiculous. The prices of flats or any rental offices near Buckingham is fucking expensive and spending another large amount of quids when they’re just trying to get to Trafalgar is not ideal. But when Harry said that he was serious, she did her job. Harry might be crazy but he knows what he’s doing.

‘And you should probably marry me because I cut you off a good deal.’ She laughs and winks at him flirtatiously.

Harry knows it means nothing because she’s happily engaged to Kevin, a photographer from Vogue. And Harry should hurry because he has learned to strike the iron while it’s hot. But then what about Zayn?

Zayn can wait, Harry thinks. Surely, he’ll have time for Zayn later. He has to settle this deal first.

~*~

Harry regrets his decision. He has lost Zayn among the crowd. He’s tall but the lighting in the party is not helpful when you’re trying to find someone. And the mass of people, dancing and moving, is making it impossible for his eyes to focus on finding Zayn.

He should probably wait for a while. Maybe Zayn will appear out of nowhere because Harry strongly believes that Zayn is some god who got bored in Olympus and decided to party among with mortals. Zayn’s face, and the way he pops into Harry’s life is not normal. Like how could someone be so inhumanly beautiful be trying to buy Harry’s favourite wine at the same time that he is? Just the idea that he and Zayn have the same taste in wine is unbelievable. Not that Harry fancies ugly wines but Harry’s thinking that of all the thousand of brands why would have he and Zayn love the same brand?

It’s not just a coincidence. It’s the universe dropping a sign to him. That or Zayn really is a god who somehow finds Harry interesting and started stalking Harry. Harry doesn’t mind being stalked, especially if it’s Zayn.

Harry sighs heavily thinking of Zayn and his little stutter as he tells Harry what the wine was for; Zayn and his big hazel eyes that could probably contest a puppy, Zayn and his long long long long lashes that should be illegal anywhere in the world – and who even needs such long lashes? What does Zayn even use them for? Dusting off the fragments that come near to his chiselled cheeks?

But what if Zayn has left?

Harry drops the drink he has in his hand. The kind maître d’ picks it up for him and cleans Harry’s mess.

Harry mutters a sad I’m sorry and a Thank you to the poor fellow whom he have troubled.

Harry needs a drink. Another one.

He heads to the table at the side where the drinks are served to those who have time to come and get it instead of waiting for any waiter or waitress who passes over with a tray of drinks in hand.

He reaches out for a glass of rum instead for a flute of champagne because he needs a strong drink right now. One that he hopes will drill his idiocy into his brain, makes him realise that he threw away 35 seconds of heading to Zayn and starting a conversation with the handsome man for a silly business deal that now he finds inane.

Harry gulps down the rum in his glass in one go as he ponders upon throwing away a jewel when he was stupidly collecting stones. And now, the joke is on him.

‘Zayn,’ someone calls and Harry turns to the woman like it was his name.

Harry’s eyes find Amanda first, the one who called out Zayn. And he follows her stare because he knows what’s at the end of the rainbow. Sure enough, there’s the glorious Zayn that he’d been wanting all night to talk to.

‘I finally found you,’ Amanda – for the life of her – squeals like a teenage fangirl. Not that Harry’s against it because sonnets, odes, and novels will never suffice to praise Zayn’s perfection.

Harry frowns at the way Amanda melds into Zayn like she’s another part of his body that got detached to him and now is back to her place. And Zayn doesn’t seem to mind their closeness to each other.

Harry never gets jealous because he often doesn’t need to compete with anyone for attention. He usually just gets it without having to do anything. His existence itself is the neon-lit-up sign that makes people stop whatever they are doing to stare at him for a second or two, for people to actually smile a little looser at him, for people to squirm under his gaze. So, Harry’s not sure he ever felt jealous in his life because he’s never been unnoticed by anyone with eyes and can see. This has to be the first.

He puts down his empty glass on the table because he thinks he might be sick seeing Amanda snuggling into Zayn like that – not even close to a PDA material but Harry finds it annoying. No one should be allowed to touch Zayn like that when it is Harry’s who has been communicated by the universe to get on with Zayn.

He’s pacing towards the two when the person in front of him pukes on his monkey printed polo shirt. And Harry thinks that maybe the universe is sending him a new message. He doesn’t like it.

~*~

Harry’s in his bathroom, showering and trying to remove the smell of vile on his chest. He’s never going to wear that shirt again and it’s very unfortunate because he fancies that animated monkey designed button-down polo.

The warm water cascades down his features as he ducks his head under the spray of the shower. He’s trying to remember if he had done something wrong for the night to be turning out like this. He was forced to leave the party to clean up. He’s not even sure – he doesn’t have the heart – if he wants to go back to the party anymore.

Maybe he shouldn’t because there wasn’t much time anyway. It’s going to be midnight soon and he’s sure that Zayn would be snogging Amanda for the New Year. It’s the way Zayn looks at Amanda that’s a tell tale of what’s about to happen.

He sighs like the rest of the world just turned their backs on him – maybe they did because it feels like that right now.

Harry then turns off the shower and wipes himself with a towel and paces to his bedroom and lies down on his bed stark naked. He’s always been fond of getting naked, never been ashamed of his body.

He stares at the ceiling and tries to endure the cold of winter even with the heater on. He’s not sure on what to do with the feelings in chest because there’s nothing to transfer it to. Some people may feel the weight of the world in their shoulders but Harry feels like it’s sitting on his chest right now.

And he knows he’s the one to blame from the start. Everything’s laid out in front of him since the night started – maybe even before then, since he had that conversation with Zayn – and he got to decide on what option to take.

He knows then as clouds of remorse hovers over him that he made the wrong choice.

He should have gotten Zayn’s number.

He should have talked to Zayn at the party.

He should have immediately went to Zayn and not gloat over his own jealousy of Amanda and Zayn.

He should have.

And there’s many of those He Should Havesthat trickles on Harry’s skin, making him feel cold that suddenly he feels like Christmas isn’t so warm as he thought it would be.

~*~

December 24, 2014

Zayn Skypes with his family. He has sent them his Christmas presents and his Mum insisted that he sees the sweater he made for him.

‘I love it, Mum,’ he tells her after she presents to him the grey knitted sweater, that is his Christmas present from her. He smiles broadly at his mother at her effort to give them all gifts for Christmas even if they don’t celebrate it in their religion. She had said once that it’s never wrong to show your love to the person you cared for and Christmas isn’t the only time for that.

‘I wish you could be here, sunshine,’ she says sadly and her voice cracks a little.

Now Zayn feels awful on having to miss their Christmas family dinner. But Zayn’s bad at keeping traditions – scared of making them because just like promises they are meant to get broken in the long run. And he can’t afford to invest into something that will eventually be snatched away.

Things change and tradition got nothing to go against it. Everything is fragile, fleeting. It’s never wise to build something that won’t last.

~*~

December 31, 2014

He loves his family. He really does. But Christmas dinners are pretentious and it’s not like he doesn’t dine with his family when he can. So why make one dinner so special just because others are saying that it should be?

Despite this truth, Zayn still feels terrible about missing that dinner. He should have just got along with it – no matter how he hates it – because it means something to his Mum, to his family. Zayn’s a horrible son, too stubborn to bend down into the norms of society.

Next Christmas, he assures himself. He’ll do better.

He will.

He’ll try.

~*~

Harry hears them counting. It’s less than a minute till midnight. And he’s done feeling depress that’s why he heads back to the party.

It’s the best decision he’s ever made, he thinks.

The hallway is empty, except for the retreating feature of a man who’s heading to the stairs in a pace that’s far to fast to be a walk but slow to be considered a sprint.

Harry must have really been bewitched because his eyes immediately know the withdrawing figure. Black leather jacket and skin tight black jeans, he’s only seen one person in the party with that attire.

Second chances are rare. Harry’s not going to waste it and let it slip from his fingers. He makes a run for it. He’s done with the He Should Have and ready to begin with the I Have.

He catches up to the man just before he can land his foot on the first step of the stairs. Harry grips him by the arm and turns him over just as he hears the people downstairs counts 5, 4, 3, 2, 1…

And Harry kisses Zayn.

He didn’t miss the shock on Zayn’s face when Harry crashes his lips to the other man. But he’s far too dizzy to care, dizzy from the heat of Zayn’s lips on his, dizzy from the way Zayn is kissing him back, dizzy at the feeling of Zayn’s hands on his hips, dizzy from pulling on the short hair at the back of Zayn’s neck.

‘Happy New Year,’ they hear the people downstairs. The sky outside springs with life from the lights of the fireworks.

Harry detaches his lips from Zayn, a smile spreading on his lips as he watches different colour from the rays of the fireworks plays on Zayn’s face. He places a hand on the side of Zayn’s neck, runs his thumb on Zayn’s sharp jaw as Harry leans his forehead to Zayn and stares. And it should be creepy but Zayn just smiles at him, probably mirroring the stupid grin on Harry’s face.

And no one should look adorable and fit at the same time because Harry’s force – all too willing – to dive in again and connect his lips to Zayn’s own. He doesn’t hear Zayn complaining but instead is kissing him back just as fiercely so he switches the intensity because he can’t help it. He’s been dreaming of this all night and now he gets to do it, might as well do it thoroughly. YOLO!

Harry feels Zayn’s other hand no longer at his hip but holding one side of Harry’s face so Zayn could anchor himself on it, to kiss the curly haired man better. Harry – without missing a beat – tilts his head to one side to give Zayn a better angle to have a proper snog. And from there it’s a mess of teeth and tongue.

It’s a miracle they both haven’t fell down the stairs with how lost they were in each others mouth.

Finally, when they were breathless and drunk with the feel of each others tongue, Harry bites down Zayn’s bottom lip – that gains him a gasp from the other man – as he pulls away.

‘Happy New Year, Zayn,’ Harry whispers between their lips and is soon lost because Zayn’s kissing him.

~*~

December 12, 2015

‘I really think we should spend Christmas dinner with your family,’ Harry says as he adds more Christmas balls to their Christmas tree – not that it needs more because Zayn’s already scared the tree will collapse any moment from the weight of the things dangling on it. ‘We could spend Boxing Day at mine.’ He adds two more blue balls and Zayn eyes the poor tree pitifully, knowing fully well that he is to be blamed for its suffering.

‘Don’t you think that’s enough decoration?’ Zayn asks, closing his The Firm by John Grisham book completely because he has a feeling that he might want to focus on Harry and saving the other man in case the tree does fall down from the weight of decorations on it.

Harry glares at Zayn and matches it with a pout. ‘Mind your own business, Malik.’ He adds another ball.

Zayn rolls his eyes at his boyfriend like he did the first time he saw Harry’s house. Apparently, Harry’s the owner of the over-the-top house that he hated last Christmas. And this year Zayn begged – over lots of blow jobs, rimming, and fucking – that they’ll keep the decoration simple, allowing Harry to only have one tree. Thus, the single tree is being overwhelmed by Harry’s ridiculous ideas.

‘I’m only concern that the poor thing won’t be able to carry everything,’ he says, nodding his head to the tree.

Harry dramatically drops the decoration in his hand back to the box and glares at Zayn that only amuses the olive skinned man because Harry is never good with being angry.

‘C’mere.’ Zayn beckons a hand to Harry from the couch and like a sad little puppy, Harry complies because he can never say NO to Zayn. He’s not going to start now or soon or in the future.

Harry knows what saying NO to Zayn would mean. It means saying NO to kisses, to warm cup of coffee, to fantastic back massage, to great sex, to everything good and worth living. Harry still believes that Zayn is a gift from the gods and that if he makes Zayn unhappy or abuses Zayn, the gods will be forced to take Zayn back. Harry needs Zayn like he needs air. Zayn is Harry’s calming space, his heaven on earth, his everything.

Yes, he’s a sap. And he’s head over heels for Zayn so don’t judge him. Nobody balances Harry Styles like Zayn does. Zayn with his petulant want for simple things, Zayn and his brilliant eye for decoration, Zayn’s calm demeanour that contrasts Harry’s fidgety one, Zayn’s great organisation of things when Harry’s overwhelmed with everything.

Harry needs Zayn in his life. Harry is in love with Zayn and Zayn having that Noble Peace Prize worthy character is just a bonus.

He sits down with Zayn on the couch and snuggles closely to the other man, smelling his perfume that makes him forget about being annoyed for not getting his way on the decorations. It’s actually quite fair because in exchange for the lay low décor Harry is rewarded with Zayn getting on his knees for Harry, Zayn bended over the kitchen counter top, Zayn tied to the bed, dinner dates with Zayn, getting Zayn all sappy (to the man’s reluctance), and a lot more whims that Harry actually have a list of because he needs to write them down.

He needs to remember them because he needs to do them all with Zayn like: kiss under the Eiffel Tower (they did last July because Harry was in Paris to look for a place for his new shop), watch the sunset in Greece while holding hands or cuddling or kissing or maybe those three, ride The Eye and kiss, take the tube and kiss, get lost in National British Museum, walk and ice skate in Hyde Park, drink high priced coffee from Barossa in Fulham, shop at Selfridge, etc. Harry’s got it all planned. Listed all the things he wants to do with Zayn. And maybe that’s a bit like counting the chicks before the eggs even hatched. But then, Harry’s a believer of happily-ever-afters.

‘Are you sure it’s okay with Anne?’ Zayn asks when Harry’s too lost into breathing everything that is Zayn. ‘Mum won’t mind if we spend the Christmas at yours.’

Harry shakes his head that’s leaning on Zayn’s chest, his warm breath constantly enveloping Zayn’s exposed collarbones. Harry doesn’t even ask how Zayn can manage to wear a tank top at such a cold weather. He’s not the one to complain though because it gives him more access to Zayn’s skin. And Harry loves to kiss every inch of Zayn – every patch of skin. Feel anything that is Zayn that could be touched and held and kissed and melt in its warmth. Because Zayn may never admit it – may not see it – but Zayn is actually Harry’s personal sun. Harry’s sunshine.

‘Yeah,’ Harry answers against Zayn’s collarbone because he can never stop himself from finding warm skin when he’s with Zayn. His lips just need to be attached to something that is Zayn when they’re this close. ‘You said you weren’t able to go down last Christmas.’ He sucks experimentally on the patch of gorgeous olive near his mouth. Zayn just groans quietly above him and Harry continues as casually as he can. ‘I want you to fulfil that wish you had last year.’

Zayn wants to role his eyes at Harry’s penchant for sentimental shit. But if you ask him honestly, he’ll say that it’s one of the things that made him fall in love with Harry – the idiot – who brings donut at work for his employees on special occasions, who serenades people at their birthdays singing an acoustic acapella of Happy Birthday, who volunteers at London Zoo every Sundays, who eats deserts first before the main course when they dine out, who wishes on falling stars with his hands on his pocket or Zayn’s pocket. And Zayn may not believe in constellations and shit but he believes that Harry’s his lucky star, his warm Christmas cup of chocolate, his favourite past time, his addicting cigarette break, his everything.

‘Besides, I want to meet your family,’ Harry whispers shyly, more ashamed of this sappy confession than the bruise he has left on Zayn’s collarbone.

Zayn just kisses the top of Harry’s hair. ‘I want you to meet them too, babe.’

December 24, 2015

Harry’s been pacing back and forth inside Zayn’s flat while the other man packs his holdalls. His brows are furrow and he keeps on rubbing his palms together. He has his beanie on and his peacoat and he’s trying to check his reflection in the mirror for what seems like the nth time as if he’s worried that the reflection he’ll see on the glass won’t be the same as it is 10 seconds ago.

A fidgety Harry that’s ready to jump at Thames any moment now is what Zayn goes out to from his bedroom upstairs. And Zayn can’t help but smile at Harry, not because the other man is panicky but because it feels like Harry belongs in his living room, like Harry should be a part of Zayn’s home.

Zayn’s flat isn’t much with art canvases and pictures of skyscraper hanging on his walls, family photos on top of cabinets and above his fire place, old couch that he got from Anne – she insisted on it as a house warming present, mismatched cushions on the couch (Danny’s idea of art), and a Persian carpet that Harry bought from a flea market just outside of Rome last April. Everything in Zayn’s flat screams random – just like how he found Harry, how he found this flat, how his life is a constant surprise because somehow everything gets spontaneous when you add a Harry Styles in it.

He always believed that he’ll never get out of his Uncle’s mansion. But he finally has. And it’s good to have his own space even if most often than not Harry’s around or he goes to Harry’s house.

And yes, Harry has asked him – a thousand times already – to move in but Zayn’s enjoying his liberation as much as he loves Harry and wants to be with the man 24/7. It’s not that his flat is faraway because he's only in Rochester Road, Camden. It’s only 30 minutes or so by car, so the distance is not really a great hindrance.

Harry, as always, asks for a reimbursement if he doesn’t get his way, thus Zayn had to let Harry design the kitchen and it’s actually the only and solid pastel coloured room in the house with its yellow that is closely related to Crayola crayons yellow. Harry said that kitchens are supposed to be buoyant and full of happiness, thus the yellow.

Zayn loves Harry so he doesn’t argue. Zayn isn’t a sap so he doesn’t tell Harry that the yellow is unnecessary because Harry is the yellow in Zayn’s life. Harry is the laughter that Zayn wants to be stored in his bone to keep him warm when nights are cold and Harry’s somewhere far.

But Zayn just says a Sure thing, babe and kisses Harry’s temple when he lets Harry corrupt his kitchen because the smile that spreads across Harry’s lips is more radiant and important than some silly argument of the proper kitchen colour.

‘Zayn,’ Harry breathes out, features immediately softening at the sight of Zayn. And whatever it is that is crowding his mind is soon lifted from him and it’s like it never existed because nothing else matters when he’s looking at Zayn and Zayn is looking at him.

And Harry – the ever bright and bigger-than-life Harry Styles – looks so small and weary as he sits down in Zayn’s couch with an expression like he lost a war. Zayn can’t stand it. Can’t stand an unhappy Harry so he goes to him quickly and envelops Harry.

Careful arms wrap around Harry and he thinks that this is what a safe haven is like. ‘I’m scared,’ he confesses like he always does because he can never keep a secret from Zayn. He can never not tell Zayn because his heart speaks for his lips before his brain can.

Zayn pulls Harry close. ‘Of what?’

He wants to take away whatever haunts Harry. He’ll even fight off the skeletons in Harry’s closets or the monsters under Harry’s bed. He’s no hero but he’s willing to protect Harry from whoever wants to harm the man.

‘Meeting your family of course,’ Harry says like it’s obvious. Zayn does chuckle at how silly Harry’s fear is. ‘This is the time where you comfort me and say nice things to me, not laugh at me,’ he says seriously. ‘Or you should have offered to blow me.’

Zayn rolls his eyes at that. ‘I don’t think that will fix anything,’ he points out. And in a more serious voice he adds, ‘They’ll love you.’

Harry pokes Zayn’s chest with a finger softly. ‘Do you hear how cliché you sound, Malik?’ Zayn smiles. ‘Not helping.’

‘Hey, you can do this.’ He kisses the top of Harry’s head. ‘You did manage to sweep me off my feet.’

‘Yeah, with sex,’ Harry says bluntly. There’s still that edge on his voice that Zayn wants to erase. ‘What if I say something stupid? Then it turns into racism.’ He pulls away from Zayn a bit as he tries to imagine it. ‘Oh my gosh! Your Dad is never going to approve me, and your grandma too. And your sisters will hate me. Your Mum will probably poison me because I’m so horrible.’

Zayn wants to tell Harry that he is overreacting and that he’s met them twice over Skype. And also, Zayn’s Mum will never in a billion years poison anyone with her cooking.

There are so many things Zayn could do to calm Harry, he knows all the tricks by now. So, he does what he knows will work faster. He leans to Harry and kisses him. Sometimes all Harry needs is an assurance that he is love because that is who Harry is – bright and bubble-of-joy Harry always needed touches and kisses and hugs to feel the ground beneath his feet when everything is crumbling around him. And Zayn’s that solid safe ground.

Harry immediately melts into the kiss, heart going more erratic than ever but it’s a good beating. His hands stop from shaking as they find their place cradling Zayn’s face. He goes calm and pliant as he lets Zayn take the lead, letting Zayn’s tongue evade his mouth and groans as Zayn licks his way around.

Just when Harry’s finding a rhythm to dance his tongue along with Zayn’s, when he’s dizzy with the kissing and the heat of Zayn’s mouth, when he wants more and to never stop touching, when he’s forgetting everything else that is not Zayn. It’s when Zayn pulls away.

Harry whimpers and Zayn smirks because Zayn can be a twat sometimes. Or that’s just Harry’s opinion.

‘Let’s go.’ Zayn stands up and offers his hand, palm open, for Harry to take.

Harry looks at Zayn’s hand then at Zayn’s eyes. He knows Zayn will never fail him even if Harry could be a useless idiot who is too innocent for his own good. Zayn even once told him that if they both lived in a thriller movie, Harry will be killed first because 99% of the time he doesn’t know what is happening.

Maybe that’s true, maybe Zayn’s exaggerating a bit – a lot. But Harry doesn’t need to worry about anything as long as he have Zayn because the rest of the world may turn their back against him, but if Zayn will still have him, love him, then the rest of the world can just fuck off.

‘I’m going to be there, babe,’ Zayn promises. And he doesn’t need to because to Harry, Zayn is the first step of the stair he will always be willing to take even without seeing the rest of the staircase.

Harry takes Zayn’s hand – the hand that holds and protects Harry’s heart.

December 24, 2014

They arrive late in the afternoon because Harry has to buy things – bottles of champagne (because it’s never polite to visit a house without bringing anything), a few more presents for Zayn’s sisters (that Harry insisted on because he wants to get to their good side), a lovely ceramic bowl that Harry saw and convinced Zayn will be his ticket into winning Tricia’s love and rank him as favourite son number 2, and a silver case for the Rolex watch that Harry had brought for Yaser 10 days ago when they were doing their Christmas shopping.

This is why Zayn doesn’t want Harry to wander off course to their plans because Harry often sees things and buys them. But what makes Zayn tolerates this bad habit of Harry is that, what Harry often – like 90% of the time – buys isn’t for himself but for the people he loves. Zayn has a cabinet full of knickknacks that Harry had bought him whenever he’s on trip.

It never ceases to warms Zayn’s heart when he hears Harry say that he thought of Zayn when he saw Los Angeles Skyline by Corporate Art Task when he was in LA. Harry would buy snapbacks in New York if he’s there because Zayn has a collection.

That’s what Harry is, he’ll see something and thinks of you, knowing that you’ll like it and he’ll buy it for you. Selfless Harry.

So, Zayn lets Harry spends a little because Harry loves to give. The smile on Harry’s face when he gives and seeing that he’s made someone happy is worth breaking Zayn’s frugal rule.

‘Mum, they’re here!’ someone shouts from the inside and Zayn can tell that it’s Waliyha’s voice. The door opens and it is Waliyha. She squeals and wraps her arms around Zayn’s neck for a hug. ‘Welcome home,’ she whispers to him.

‘Glad to be home,’ he whispers back and places a kiss on her temple. She pulls away from him and glances at Harry. Zayn notices that Waliyha is now even taller than Don. They’re growing up. He wonders if Safaa got taller since his last visit 6 months ago – he’d been so busy with a new building to interior decorate that he hasn’t come home like he used to.

‘Hello.’ Zayn hears Harry greets Waliyha.

And Zayn didn’t miss the glance over Waliyha did to Harry.

‘Hey,’ Waliyha greets back casually, eyeing Zayn with a raised eyebrow. Zayn’s been with her for years to know the message behind a simple gesture. ‘Come in,’ she says to them both. ‘It’s freezing.’

‘Wait till January for the heavy snow,’ Harry comments as he follows Zayn inside with Waliyha holding the door open for them.

Zayn almost laughs at how silly it all sounds, Harry trying to make a casual conversation and the joke is that it’s about the weather. Spontaneous Harry suddenly gets typical. Zayn didn’t see this day coming.

‘Zayn!’ someone screams excitedly and Zayn’s sure it’s his Mum. Surely enough, it’s Tricia who’s pacing hurriedly to them. And as she envelops Zayn in a hug, he realises how much he misses her, misses his family, misses his home. It’s been a long half year.

It’s good to be home, to the familiar surrounding that Zayn had grown up to. It really is good.

‘Harry!’ she literally squeals and her face breaks into a bigger smile as she lets go of Zayn to embrace her son’s boyfriend. ‘It’s so good to finally meet you,’ she whispers to him as they envelop in a hug. She pulls away to take a better look at him. ‘Zayn talks a lot about you.’

‘Really?’ Harry eyes Zayn proudly and smirks.

Zayn the-ever-so-cool Malik rolls his eyes because he’s always composed even when Harry can tell that he’s blushing.

‘He does,’ Tricia confirms. She holds on to the bottom sleeve of Harry’s coat and puts her other arm around her sons waist. ‘Maybe you two should rest for awhile before the rest of the family arrives.’ She looks at their tired faces. ‘You need your strength for all the interrogation later.’ She winks at them both and laughs.

~*~

Tricia made them both rest in Zayn’s old room, insisting that they shower and prepare even if they claimed to help with the preparation. She said that the girls will be able to help her with it and that Zileh will arrive in a few to help her.

‘Is your Dad still at his clinic?’ Harry asks, dumping his holdalls at the foot of Zayn’s bed.

‘Yeah,’ Zayn answers.

Yaser’s one of the few town dentists and he has a small clinic downtown that Zayn used to come to and feed the fish on his Dad’s clinic aquarium. Zayn wasn’t able to follow the medical footsteps of his Dad but Doniya did. She finished Medicine in Manchester and is now currently living there with her husband, who’s also a doctor at Royal Manchester Children’s Hospital.

‘I always knew those pearly white teeth of yours weren’t natural,’ Harry says with a smile.

‘They are natural, you idiot.’ Zayn smiles too and throws a towel at Harry. ‘Go and shower.’

Harry pouts, taking the towel that landed softly on his face. ‘Aren’t you going to join me?’ He sees the hesitance in Zayn’s eyes. ‘I’ll blow you, if you shampoo my hair.’

‘Jesus, Harry.’ Zayn can never grip of the things that come out of Harry’s sinful plum lips. He’ll always be startle of whatever Harry is thinking and will send out to the world.

Harry grins hugely like he’s successful to push that sort of emotion out of Zayn. ‘I like it better when you massage my scalp,’ he reasons out. ‘Plus, I’ve also wrote down on my list to blow you in your old bathroom. S’like initiation.’

Zayn runs a hand over his face, can’t decide if he’s lucky to have such a kinky boyfriend, or if he’s unfortunate to have one. But his hardening dick tells him it’s the former. So, when Harry goes to the loo, deliberately swinging his hips as-seductive-as-Harry-Styles-can, Zayn would be a fool not to follow him.

~*~

There’s a faint flush on Zayn’s cheek as he makes his way downstairs to the kitchen where he knows his Mum will be. Harry’s still trying to catch his breath on Zayn’s bed because fortunately, a blow and a handy wasn’t enough for the both of them, thus Harry forced Zayn to fuck him there in the shower. Harry, facing the wall, hot water flows down on his flushed body with Zayn opening him up really slow. One finger. Then two. Then three when Harry threatened to moan Zayn’s name loudly if the older man won’t fuck him immediately.

Zayn complies, of course. He’s not stupid. Not stupid to say no to Harry Styles wanting to be ruined, and not stupid to take Harry’s threat lightly because Harry always keep his words. And now, is not the time – there never will be a time – for Zayn’s whole family to know about him and Harry’s sexcapades. Zayn doesn’t want his family to know how filthy he and Harry can talk when they fuck. They probably won’t be able to look at Harry’s full lips the same way again like Zayn can’t.

So when Zayn pushes into Harry, the other man almost bleed his head on the marble wall, with the intensity of Zayn sliding inside Harry like it’s the first. But Zayn just spread Harry in his bed that morning before they left Zayn’s flat. And then last night it was him who’s being pounded against his padded headboard as Harry rammed into him like Harry’s trying to knock something out of him. Harry and his long, long, long fingers made Zayn come last night that he saw the nebulas in space behind his eyelids.

The whiff of his Mum’s Spaghetti Bolognese (he doesn’t even know how he can still tell, but he can) brings him back to the present. He and Harry need to behave and act properly because they are under the roof of his parents. He’s going to be surrounded by his family and thinking about Harry spread out on bed isn’t going to keep his dick from being hard and attentive.

‘Hello Mum.’ He places a kiss on her temple and takes a fork from a drawer and a plate from their counter. ‘Smells good, yeah?’ He smiles as he twirls a good amount of pasta on his fork and unto his empty plate.

Tricia chuckles. This is why their relationship with each other is so good, Zayn believes so. Tricia loves to cook and Zayn loves to eat. It’s something that is set in stone, nothing can break. It’s among the strong cable that holds their unbreakable mother and son bond.

‘Save some room for later, sunshine,’ she scolds softly, swats him in the arm that is more likely to be considered a touch with the lightweight force she puts into it.

‘I’ll eat a different dish later,’ he replies and eats up the pasta on his fork.

She smiles and wounds her arms on his. ‘There’ll be chicken biryani, samosa, chicken razala, paratha and paneer. And khandvi for dessert.’

‘That’s so much food,’ Zayn says, finishing another forkful.

‘There’ll be a lot of relatives coming,’ says Doniya, entering from the living room with her husband, Jamal, in tow. She kisses their mother and ruffles Zayn’s hair.

Zayn swats her hand away. ‘Still annoying, I see.’

Doniya smiles menacingly while Jamal kisses his mother-in-law in the cheeks and hugs her. ‘The one and only,’ Jamal adds and rolls his eyes fondly at his wife. Doniya just grins like she doesn’t careless because she may be irritating but Jamal will love her, no matter what.

And Zayn wonders, as he looks at their sickeningly sweet exchange of fond glances, if that’s how he and Harry stares at each other.

‘Hello.’ Speak of the devil.

Harry walks into the kitchen, all smile and charm like he’s a prince about to make an unknown maiden fall in love with him just by the mere sight of him. And Zayn may be just that metaphorical maiden because when Harry enters the room, his eyes is glue on the man with a knitted maroon jumper (knitted by Tricia for Harry’s birthday last February) and black skinny jeans that clings to his modelesque legs like a second skin.

‘Ew!’ Doniya says loudly with disgust and it steals Zayn’s attention. ‘Can you not?’ She grimaces and that’s when Zayn realises that he licked his lips. ‘It’s not appropriate.’

‘What is?’ Harry asks, looking at Zayn, then at Doniya and then back at Zayn. Harry’s permanently innocent on the effects he has on people when he least expects it. And it’s not fair. Not to Zayn that is.

Harry should forever know how much Zayn wants him, wants him that he might just rip off that jumper on him so Zayn can devour him and taste every patch of skin Zayn had memorised, had tattooed in his brain, had been inked into his skin so he may never forget.

‘Ugh!’ Doniya sighs, frustrated. ‘Can you two not do anything crazy before and after dinner?’

‘What is she talking about?’ Harry asks Zayn, holding the other man’s hand immediately because he just has to and he wants to.

Zayn glares at Doniya. ‘Nothing.’

Doniya rolls her eyes on Zayn and raises an eyebrow.

‘It fits you,’ Tricia exclaims at Harry, touching the hem of the jumper.

At that moment, Zayn wanted to embrace his mother for sparing them all the awkward-ity of Doniya’s not-so-subtle remarks.

‘It does,’ Harry says, detaching his hands from Zayn so he can show Tricia better how perfect the jumper she made him. He’s grinning from ear to ear like a child showing people his new clothes. And Zayn almost imagines Harry twirling for Tricia like a little girl trying to show off her fabulous skirt.

Harry does twirl, of course, because he’s Harry. And Zayn chuckles at his boyfriend because Harry’s such an idiot. His idiot.

‘I love it so much,’ Harry says, eyes shinning as if they are stars from the heavens. ‘It actually inspired me to do a jumper collection for this Winter Collection.’

Tricia, bless her, gasps a positive Really? because she’s amazed by Harry Edward Styles. Most people are.

‘Yes,’ Harry replies. ‘And I would love it, if you come to my fashion show this February in New York.’

‘But…’ She’s thinking of ticket prices, hotel room expenses, and other financial casualties. Everything is stable with their family but she can never afford such extravagance.

‘You’ll be staying in Mum’s penthouse in Sutton Place South,’ Harry says.

‘Your Mum.’ Tricia seems to choke on the words.

‘Yes.’ Harry nods. ‘She’s very excited to meet you.’ He smiles and reaches for Tricia’s free hand. ‘When I mentioned it to her, that I was inviting you, she made a lot of reservations on spa and restaurant. And some other women brand stores. She said, it’s so you both can chat and bond.’

‘Are you sure?’ She looks grim.

Harry’s smile vanishes, he looks rejected. ‘Yes,’ he answers.

Tricia lets go of Zayn as well to put her hands on Harry’s arms. ‘It’s not what you’re thinking, love.’ She gives a small smile. ‘It’s just that, it’s too extravagant. I don’t want to trouble your Mum.’

Harry – easy to please like the good person that he is – smiles back again. ‘It’s okay, Tricia.’ And yes, they have been first name basis for a long time already. ‘Yaser could join as well. Robin will be thrilled not to chaperon for you lovely ladies if he and Yaser can have their own man bonding time.’

‘You do know that that sounds silly, right?’ Doniya points out to Harry. ‘Man bonding time. Really?’ She sounds as incredulous as Zayn does when Harry suggests an idea about party decorations or any decorations for that matter.

Harry turns to her with a megawatt smile. And then he glances at Zayn. ‘I see where you got the personality.’ He nudges Zayn with his hip.

Zayn just smiles and ruffles Harry’s hair, arms immediately going to both Harry and Tricia’s shoulder. ‘I think you and Pops should go, Mum.’

Tricia smiles and so did Harry. It seems contagious because Zayn smiles as well, but for a specific reason: two of the greatest person he loves is in mutual understanding. He can see that Tricia is swept off Harry and Harry adores Tricia. And Zayn can’t ask for anything more.

Then the hell bell rings.

‘Happy Christmas!’ Zayn hears the squeal of his relatives from the ajar door.

~*~

‘Is this him?' Zileh remarks as she see Harry, her eyes were sparkling at the sight of Harry and the intertwined pinkie fingers of the two that they think no one else sees. She goes to envelop them both in a tight embrace and puts a kiss on their cheeks. ‘I want to hear the details.’

Zayn just rolls his eyes like he knows it was coming. He did. And surely, Harry’s all too willing to please people, thus he does not waste a second and tells Zileh everything she wants to know.

And there’s been a lot more of that Is this him? reaction on the couple. Most of them adore Harry. How can someone not, right? It’s an imbalance to the universe, a glitch in your synapses if you won’t like Harry Styles. Even Zayn’s little cousins love Harry, they cling to his leg and giggles at his silly jokes.

But the same rigid atmosphere descends when Yaser arrives late from work. He immediately spots Zayn, it doesn’t take long to spot him since everybody is hovering over him and Harry.

Zayn sees his father instantly as well, body going stiff as Yaser’s eyes darts to Harry, who is smiling and nodding his head on something Aarosa is telling them both. And Zayn hopes and pray that his father isn’t going to be freaked out by them. Then, Yaser smiles – huge and bright like he used to when Zayn was little and he brought home a star given to him by his teacher for being the most behave student in class, the same smile Yaser gave him when Zayn first learned how to ride his bike – the smile that Zayn translates to: I’m proud of you. And Zayn knows that everything is going to be okay.

He had wanted for so long to get his father’s approval. It’s not that Yaser started hating him or being cold to him, it’s just that deep down Zayn knows something’s off between them ever since Zayn came out as bisexual.

Yaser goes to them and pulls Zayn in a hug. ‘Hello, son.’

‘Hey, Pops.’ Zayn can feel his Dad’s hand softly patting him in the back.

Yaser pulls away. ‘Is this him?’ He looks at Harry.

‘Hello, Mr. Malik. Sir.’ Harry holds out his hand to Yaser.

Yaser looks at Harry’s pale hand, it’s slightly trembling and it makes him smile a little to know that Harry’s nervous. It seems like a good sign. ‘Yaser,’ he corrects and takes Harry’s hand.

‘I’m sorry.’ Harry beams up a little and lets out an inaudible sigh of relief. ‘Yaser.’ The man pats him in the shoulder and lets go of his hand.

‘Hello, jaan,’ Tricia greets his husband. Yaser smiles and places a kiss on Tricia’s temple, hand immediately circling around her waist. They share a short exchange of sweet-eye-conversation of what feels like the world disappearing around them.

Zayn looks away, not because he has to but because he’s not curious what it means anymore – unlike before that he keeps on wondering what their stares meant – for he knows now. He understands it now, he sees the whole world differently now because Harry opened his eyes, or maybe it’s loving Harry that made him see. He’ll never come up with the perfect answer to that but it doesn’t matter because whenever he looks at Harry – the same way his Dad is looking at his Mum – perfect answers doesn’t matter, problems doesn’t exist for Harry’s shinning brightly and that is all he needs to see, to know, to feel, to remember.

When it’s dinner time, Harry’s laughing at the tale Safaa is telling him. And as he sits there, can’t stop staring at the way Harry’s eyes crinkles when he laughs like no one is watching, Zayn wants to kiss him. And he feels someone nudges his foot from under the table. It’s Doniya.

He glares at her. She on the other hand mouths, Do not. And shakes her head slowly in a small motion as if it’s only him that is meant to see.

‘So are you two living together?’ Waliyha asks causally, looking from Zayn to Harry. She always asks the tricky questions. Well, next to Doniya that is.

And here, Zayn is hoping they could have a peaceful dinner without bringing up his and Harry’s relationship. He hasn’t prayed more, he thinks.

‘No,’ Harry answers smoothly, always the talker between them two. Did Zayn hear the sadness in Harry’s voice or is it just the amount of wine he had drunk up that’s creating false understanding?

‘Why?’ Doniya is also piqued by this news. She looks at Zayn now and raises an eyebrow of disbelief at his younger brother. It’s close to a judgemental look, to be honest.

Zayn haven’t really elaborated the details of their relationship to anyone, even to his Mum. He’s never the one to gush about sappy relationship things. He’s not like Doniya who’ll talk about the very detail on how Jamal proposed to her, the exact flowers she received, the restaurant they went to, the clothes she was wearing, what Jamal was wearing, the food they ordered and the prices of it all, etc. That’s not Zayn.

When he talks of Harry, Zayn keeps it short and simple like how happy he is with Harry, the ridiculous story Harry told him during one meal, where they went for their first date, the presents Harry gave him. No further details, just basic information. But his Mum doesn’t ask more. Maybe it’s because his tone suddenly changes into something animated and light and warm when he talks of Harry over the phone or in Skype, how his eyes sparks with glee when he says Harry’s name. Maybe that’s why Tricia doesn’t ask, doesn’t need words because she can see it, like how Zayn can see her and Yaser in a way he hasn’t before.

‘Zayn’s enjoying his liberation,’ Harry answers again, even if he knows the question is more for Zayn than for him. ‘Plus, I like missing him,’ he squeezes Zayn’s knee under the table, ‘it makes the moment we’re together more precious.’ He flashes his smile that made him getaway with every violation ticket he ever got.

There are series of awwwwws on the table from the ladies and Zayn’s trying to control himself from blushing because it’s so embarrassing. He should have prepped Harry not to go overboard with the sappiness.

‘And you know how Zayn loves his space.’ Harry looks at Zayn then, all soft edges and fondness melting into his face that Zayn wishes again to kiss him at that moment, because yes, Harry’s looking at him too like Zayn is Canaan. ‘I want to respect that.’ He smiles at Zayn, and Zayn knows he’s a goner.

‘It’s not even dessert time yet, and you two are giving us cavities,’ Maryum, Zayn’s aunt, comments. Musical laughs fill the table and the night is turning out to be good because even Yaser is laughing along.

~*~

‘That went well,’ Zayn says as they lie down on bed at pass midnight. The adults have talked after dinner, catching up with everything. But of course, the topic would always wander back into Zayn and Harry. Grilled isn’t really the perfect verb for what they did to Harry, with all the questions they bombard him.

It all scaled from How did you and Zayn meet? to Are you and Zayn getting married this year or maybe the next? and Zayn wanted the ground to swallow him whole in the middle of his family’s living room because those are ridiculous questions. He and Harry haven’t talked of anything yet, to be honest. They just love what they are at the moment and he likes to continue. Would love to continue it.

He’s not sure it their hands fit together like perfect puzzle pieces, but he likes the way their hands intertwined together because it feels right. And it still feels right as this moment as he reaches for Harry’s hand under his duvet. The electricity is still there, the one he felt when their hands touched the first time after reaching for the same bottle of white wine.

‘Are you sure?’ Harry squeezes Zayn’s hand. They’re face to face now, with their heads on one pillow, recycling each other’s air by their closeness.

‘My family loves you,’ Zayn guarantees. ‘You charm people off their pants. Do you know that?’ He smiles fondly.

Harry smiles like this is news. Ever so humble and ignorant of the holds he has on people. ‘Good cos now, I can do this.’ He shuffles and forces Zayn to lie on his back. Harry then rises up to straddle Zayn’s torso, knees on both side of Zayn’s waist.

‘What are you doing?’ Zayn asks, looking up at his idiot boyfriend who has a stupid and mischievous smile on his face that Zayn can see from the glow of his bed lamp.

‘My bucket list,’ Harry says, hands going under Zayn’s black tank top, feeling the man’s warm skin as if he’s trying to find a treasure trail. ‘It has to be done,’ he adds, biting his lower lip obscenely and at the same time pushes his ass down into Zayn’s cock and grinding slowly like he’s trying to wake it up.

Zayn groans Harry’s name that only encourages the other man. ‘You’re going to be the death of me.’ He holds Harry’s hips firmly as Harry continues creating friction for him.

‘I’ll let you taste heaven first,’ he promises and grinds down with gusto that he can feel the leak of Zayn’s growing bulge.

Zayn arches his back off the bed in surprise to Harry’s movement. Harry meets him in an immediate kiss that’s suddenly focuses on tongue fighting for dominance.

They tried to keep their moans low but when Zayn starts sucking on Harry’s jaw, the younger of the two bites his lower lip just to muffle the sounds that escapes his mouth. ‘Zayn,’ he begs. ‘Please.’

Zayn looks up for the trail of light marks he’s doing on Harry’s jaw and neck, eyes blown as hazel looks up into dark green ones. ‘What do you want, Haz?’ He kisses the side of Harry’s mouth. Harry’s too high – Zayn high – to answer coherently because he just moans again when his own hard dick rubs on Zayn’s stomach. ‘Can you ride me like the good boy that you are?’ He thrusts up to Harry’s bum just to prove his point.

‘Yes,’ Harry answers immediately, nods aggressively that Zayn’s scared it will dislocate his head off his neck.

‘Okay.’ Zayn kisses Harry’s cheek this time. ‘All clothes away,’ he orders and pats Harry’s thighs.

Harry rises up to his feet and undresses himself with his only clothing – his boxers. While Zayn removes his top firsts. Harry even helps him with his boxers because Zayn’s too slow for Harry’s liking at the moment.

When all clothes are gone, Harry kneels on the sides on Zayn’s thigh this time and brings down his face to kiss Zayn, hands holding Zayn’s face to kiss the man fully while he rubs their erection together.

Zayn swallows Harry’s moans and Harry does the same for him. Zayn’s hands goes to Harry’s arse and squeezes both of his cheeks, fingers going for Harry’s rim. He pushes the first one in and Harry bites Zayn’s lip because Harry’s vindictive sometimes.

‘Fuck, Zayn.’ Harry’s face is scrunch up in pain and pleasure. ‘Have you ever heard of lube?’

Zayn smiles devilishly. ‘This is for ruining my innocence.’ He thrusts his finger deeper.

‘Fuck you,’ Harry retorts, mouth suddenly hanging open – next words lost in a long, quiet moan – because Zayn added the second finger and crooks them at the right place inside him.

‘It’s the other way around, babe,’ Zayn points out like the fucking prick that he is sometimes.

So Harry kisses him, harsh and deep, tongue intruding Zayn’s mouth to remind the man that he can play the game as well.

‘Have I not been fucking you, right?’ Zayn asks and scissors his fingers inside Harry. ‘You’re still too tight.’

Harry just pants on his mouth, hands on Zayn’s shoulder for support because his knees are giving up on him. ‘Then just fuck me already,’ he whispers and meets Zayn’s hungry eyes.

Zayn wastes no time and removes his fingers from Harry to put it on Harry’s hips. ‘Lube it,’ he orders.

Harry spits on his hands and slicks it on Zayn’s erection. The head of Zayn’s dick is leaking and Harry’s tempted to lean down and suck on it, feel the saltiness of Zayn on his tongue, the thickness of Zayn stretching his mouth. But he can have it in another night, because right now he’s going to ride Zayn in Zayn’s childhood bed, in Zayn’s old room, with Zayn’s family in the house that may or may not hear them. And that’s enough to make Harry dizzy.

‘Harry,’ Zayn calls out, that’s when Harry realises that he’s hands stop from moving on Zayn’s cock.

Harry looks up into Zayn’s questioning and worried eyes. Zayn – the ever so kind – Malik.

‘Do you need condoms?’ Zayn asks. ‘Or maybe proper lube?’

The rough Zayn already gone and Harry wants to kiss Zayn, the one who can never stay harsh even just for pretend. So Harry kisses Zayn because he can, because he wants Zayn to know that he’s so happy with him that the heart beneath his chest is no longer beating for Harry but for Zayn.

Harry carefully lifts his ass and slowly sinks down Zayn’s dick as he kisses the I love you and the I need you from his mouth to Zayn’s.

‘Shit, Haz.’ Zayn groans as he pulls away with Harry fully seated into his cock.

Harry feels so full but satisfied. He wouldn’t trade anything in the world for this moment, feeling Zayn in him, Zayn’s warm hand on his hips anchoring him, Zayn’s short exhales on his neck, Zayn’s sturdy chest under his palms. They are connected in the most intimate way possible and it’s all so overwhelming. His head spins of Zayn Zayn Zayn Zayn.

‘Ready to move, babe?’ Zayn asks, blowing hot air in Harry’s collarbone. Harry nods and bounces up and then down. ‘Fuck.’

Harry’s curls bounces along with him, sweat glistening in his forehead; face, a perfect picture of ecstasy as he rides Zayn’s dick with lower lip between his teeth to keep himself from screaming the pleasure he’s feeling as he dives himself deep into Zayn’s cock.

Zayn meets Harry halfway as he rams up into Harry as the younger man falls back down into his dick.

‘Faster, Zayn,’ Harry moans. And of course, Zayn complies.

~*~

Zayn wakes up late because he always does. Harry stares at his boyfriend’s sleeping figure and smiles. And because he can’t help himself, he leans down and kisses Zayn in the temple. Zayn groans and stirs a little bit.

‘Merry Christmas, babe,’ he whispers into Zayn’s ear. He smiles again. It’s always been like that, Zayn elevates him, makes him smile and happy just by blessing Harry with his existence.

‘Time it is?’ Zayn asks groggily. All laws of grammar ignored at moments like this when it’s too early – Zayn’s definition of too early – and he hasn’t had any coffee in his system yet to awaken his sleeping nerve cells.

‘7 in the morning,’ Harry answers, kissing Zayn’s bare shoulder because again, he can’t help himself.

Zayn groans again. And mutters something like Too early.

Harry chuckles though. ‘Better be up early because we have a schedule to chase,’ he says, getting out of bed and starts looking for his discarded boxers from last night. He finds a pair of Zayn’s sweatpants so he settles for that. ‘Mum wants us to be there by dinner time.’

Zayn groans a response that’s too quiet for Harry to hear. Then Zayn’s snoring softly and Harry shakes his head in disbelief because there’s no waking up Zayn now except a blowjob. His dick immediately perks at the idea.

He slowly crawls back in bed, crawls under the cover to where Zayn lies naked. He hovers his mouth over Zayn’s dick, now alert due to the warm air from Harry’s breathing. He kisses the tip and watches Zayn’s dick to fully awake into attention like its owner.

‘Harry.’ Zayn almost sound scolding. And maybe he’s suppose to add a sentence but swallows it down when Harry’s mouth envelops his cock. ‘Shit.’

Harry says a response that gets muffled by his mouthful so instead in vibrates in Zayn’s dick.

‘Fuck it, Haz.’

There’s also something sweet and arousing when Zayn curses. Harry rewards Zayn by licking the underside of his cock, and moving back down to lick at Zayn’s balls. The tip of Zayn’s head is leaking when Harry moves back up to ease him back into his mouth. Pushing Zayn’s dick as far as Harry’s throat will let him and loves the burn of the stretch and the way he’s gagging for it. Always a tiny bit masochistic.

Zayn mewls and whimpers above Harry and mutters a silent and continuous chain of fucks that encourages Harry more. He works faster, wanting to be the good boy that Zayn loves. He uses his hands to rub on the length that he couldn’t take in his mouth anymore, saliva dripping on his chin. He bobs his head up and down and swirls his tongue slightly on the slit twice just to taste Zayn on his tongue.

‘M’close,’ Zayn moans, breath ragged, hands fisted into the sheets like he’s trying to squeeze strength from the duvet because Harry’s mouth is too much, that he’s sure he’ll see the whole galaxy – and whatever Gregor Mendel saw in that telescope when he first viewed space – when he comes.

Harry’s free hand snakes up Zayn’s abs to his chest and finds Zayn’s perked nipple and squeezes it just the right amount of pain and pleasure that makes Zayn come into his mouth. Harry swallows it all, milks Zayn to post-orgasm.

For better measure he kisses the head of Zayn’s dick and crawls up to see Zayn with the glorious light of day – or whatever London sky can offer them – hits Zayn’s sedated perfection.

‘Are you awake now?’ he asks, leans his head to the side to pillow one ear above Zayn’s heart while looking up at Zayn and all his afterglow majesty.

Zayn smiles with disbelief, fingers clearing the stray curls out of Harry’s face. He also wipes his remaining come that lingers in the side of Harry’s lips. Harry sucks on the thumb that Zayn used to wipe the jizz, lips glistening and red from being spent. ‘You’re really going to be the death of me.’

Harry pulls away from Zayn’s thumb when it’s clean enough. ‘And we’re both going to be dead soon if we’re late for Mum’s dinner party.’ He smiles back.

~*~

Fuck Juliet and her Parting is such a sweet sorrow shit because goodbyes are always hard for Zayn. There’s nothing to romanticise about the feeling when he leaves his family and not seeing them again for 2 weeks or maybe more. Zayn gets attached too easily, and it’s often deep so when he pulls away, it fucking hurts.

He’s going to see them soon, going to visit again soon, but soon is not now. And Zayn wants now to be always. But he can’t. So he has to leave.

‘I’ll call you, yeah?’ he tells his Mum as they hug each other, feeling like he’s never going to let go.

She nods on his shoulder. ‘Take care, meri jaan.’ She tip toes to kiss him on the temple. Zayn pulls away, while he still can. ‘Be careful.’

Zayn nods and Tricia heads to Harry, envelops him in a tight embrace.

‘It was nice meeting you, Tricia,’ he says.

‘It’s nice meeting you too, love.’ She also kisses his temple. ‘Take care of him, yeah?’ she whispers and Harry nods.

‘With all my heart,’ he vows.

‘You take care as well.’

Harry nods.

~*~

As planned, they arrived safely at Anne’s and on time. It’s Josefa, the Head Maid of the Styles household that opens the door for them. Lucas and Pedro – the gardener and the driver, according to Harry – both Hispanic, helps them with their holdalls.

Zayn’s wary to leave his rucksack with the two men because it’s silly to have someone carry out your things for you when you can do it on your own. But then Harry hands Lucas – the blonde one – his holdalls without hesitation. And Zayn follows, handing his bag to Pedro.

A tray with two glasses of cold orange juice is suddenly delivered to them by a maid in that typical black uniform with white little apron that you see on the telly. He’s reminded of those extravagant characters from that Korean drama, Boys Over Flowers, that Safaa was watching 2 years ago. It’s so surreal.

‘Harry!’ Anne squeals from their huge living room – bigger than Zayn’s flat – with two couches and high ceilings. Zayn notices how white everything is. Well, white and silver.

‘Mum.’ Harry being the affectionate person that he is, he pulls his Mum in a hug. ‘I missed you.’

Anne swats him in the arm softly as she pulls away. ‘Bollocks!’ she scolds. ‘If you did, you should have gone with me and your father to Bali.’

‘You know why I couldn’t join you lots.’

And that’s when Anne sees Zayn, who’s busy looking around and taking in the grandeur of country side English mansions because they will never be enough space in the city for Titanic-size houses in the urban area.

‘He’s a masterpiece,’ Anne tells Harry but she’s already looking at Zayn and heading to the other man. ‘Zayn,’ she calls out like they are long acquaintance. She holds him in the arms and kisses both of his cheeks, one by one. ‘It’s so good to finally meet you.’

Now Zayn knows where Harry got the too-affectionate-and-touchy manners. It’s from Anne, they both get into other people’s personal space and make you feel like they do belong their. It must be some business technique for these multi-millionaires with mega business corporations.

Zayn imagines Anne to sound like those snobby rich housewives who do nothing but gossips with fellow rich housewives about their husbands, and their husbands’ secret affairs that they pretend not to know. But Anne, actually sounds like a normal Mum, like Zayn’s Mum except for the different accent. Her tone is the same, dripping with motherly love and words strung together like a knitted warm sweater for cold winter nights.

‘Aren’t you made for museums,’ she says, still holding Zayn’s arms and stares at him like a painting to be admired. It’s sort of overwhelming and intimidating if you ask Zayn’s opinion.

‘Stop it Mum,’ Harry says and pulls Zayn away from his mother’s grasp. ‘He’s my beautiful David.’ He kisses Zayn’s cheek to prove his claim.

Why does Zayn feels like he’s a doll at the moment?

Anne rolls her eyes at her son in the same way that Zayn rolls his to Harry. It’s endearing to know that he’s not the only one who thinks Harry is a little shit with the man’s ability to make deviance into something acceptable. Like who even wears shiny golden boots – it doesn’t matter if they’re YSL – in normal days?

But Harry gets away with everything. Dimples and curls as weapon, he walks freely in the face of the Earth wearing printed skinny jeans. And not even the Fashion Police has the heart to stop him.

‘It’s also nice to meet you, Anne,’ Zayn says and gives her a polite grin that he uses on Safaa’s teacher when he gets her out of trouble in school. Teachers get swoon, parents too, his employees, and most of his bosses. So it’s not rocket science that Anne gets charmed as well.

She snatches Zayn away from Harry and hugs the man. ‘You’re the son I never had,’ she says, pulls away and theatrically wipes away invisible tears.

‘Excuse me,’ Harry calls. ‘I’m right here.’

Harry gets ignored.

‘I hope you’re ready for the party tonight,’ Anne tells Zayn, putting her arms around his. ‘There’ll be lots of people.’ That’s why the maids are all scurrying around them. ‘And I have made everything halal for you.’ She smiles sweetly at Zayn.

‘Mum,’ Harry whines.

Anne looks at her son. ‘Harry Edward Styles, why can’t you be like Zayn?’ she says. ‘He’s polite.’

‘I’m polite,’ Harry defends.

She rolls her eyes again. ‘Your politeness is debauchery that’s too wanton for people’s better judgement on you.’

Harry gasps. ‘I’m not like that.’

Zayn nods in agreement.

‘Not you, too.’ Harry pouts at Zayn.

‘You’re voyeurism gets the best of you most of the time,’ Zayn explains, smirking at his annoyed boyfriend. Angry Harry is like a kitten trying to catch the red laser light.

Anne then laughs. ‘You caught a great one, love.’ She winks at Harry.

Harry smiles back to his Mum and links his fingers with Zayn. ‘I got lucky, Mum,’ he says and he’s staring into Zayn’s deep hazel eyes, smiling like an idiot again.

‘I’m so excited for my grandkids with you,’ she announces so casually like she’s merely talking of the breakfast she’ll have tomorrow.

Harry and Zayn’s eyes go saucer wide, cutting their blissful staring game, when they hear what Anne said. It’s as if someone sprayed Awkward Gas into the air around them.

Harry looks away immediately. ‘I think we should start preparing our suit now,’ Harry says, stirring the topic.

‘Oh, yes,’ Anne agrees, not noticing the tension she spreads around them. ‘Go on then.’ She kisses Zayn’s cheek once more, then Harry’s. ‘I’ll see both of you later. I’ll go to the kitchen first to check on Fabian.’

She dashes off to the kitchen, leaving Zayn and Harry in the vast living room that looks like it could be in Home & Living. Zayn can’t stop looking at the splendour around the room: ceramic vases that must have cost thousands, massive crystal chandelier, posh couches that could have belonged to royalties – Zayn will never know, paintings that must be originals. It’s all blending into one screaming banner: luxurious.

‘I didn’t know you live in a palace,’ Zayn tells Harry, eyes the water lily painting that Zayn’s convince is an original Monet.

Harry chuckles. ‘This is nothing but a beautiful cage, to be honest.’ He reaches for Zayn’s hand. ‘I can’t wait to fuck you in my marble tub,’ he whispers low and hot in Zayn’s ears.

Zayn then forgets everything – forgets the wonderful art and design around him, forgets the grand party that is about to happen. All he can think of is Harry. Harry’s dick in him, spreading him wide and hitting that bundle of nerves that makes him writhe with pleasure. His dick is tightening in his jeans and he wants to do something about it.

‘I hope you last the night,’ Harry teases, sucks at Zayn’s jaw for a second and pulls away. A promise and a curse.

Zayn has to wait. He hopes that he’ll indeed last. He needs to see through this party without ripping Harry’s suit apart or his own in some frantic quickie that he longs at the moment. But Zayn’s patient, he’ll be strong.

~*~

But what Zayn doesn’t know is that Harry will play dirty. He says it’s punishment to Zayn for ignoring him and conniving with his Mum.

The glasses of champagne is endless, there are array of foods to choose from that it’s going to pain you to choose something over the other, guests flock like a horde of sheep, fake chats and silly talks in every corner, glistening smiles are flashing here and there. It’s a great party – but not the type Zayn will ever go for.

Zayn’s is presented to company board members, CEOs, local actors, national musicians, there are also ones from the royal circle. Zayn forgets their names immediately because he can’t – for the life of him – memorise people’s name when all they did was shake hands and pass each other forced smiles.

Harry is in his orbit as he and Zayn wanders from one person to another. Harry charms every one, from old ladies and men to the youngest lad or lass in the party. For Zayn it’s like watching Harry transform into a butterfly after seeing him as a caterpillar for so long. Harry feels like a different person, not the same one Zayn sleeps with almost every night, not the man who trips over his own feet, not the man who likes to cuddle. Harry may not be all of those at the moment but when he squeezes Zayn’s hand, Zayn knows that the Harry he knows is still there.

The game between them started after Harry nonchalantly mutters about fucking Zayn in his bath. Then it follows with them showering – Harry accidentally pumping his hand into Zayn’s dick – to them changing with Harry slowly putting his clothes on and buttoning his polo in a manner that tells Zayn, Harry’s more excited to let him unbutton them later. And it’s just too much.

A promise and a curse. Time is the curse. Excessive time between now and later. The later that Zayn just wants to be now.

And Harry’s enjoying it even more with the way his hands possessively wraps around Zayn’s waist – squeezing a little that it hurts a bit but Zayn likes the pain, it’s a reminder of what to come later. The later that is too long to come.

When Harry cups the back of Zayn’s neck and holds it like he’s trying to choke Zayn by holding there, gives Zayn goose bumps – makes Zayn’s heart beat louder and for blood to rush downward at his dick that he’s dizzy with it. He knows Harry is picking up his game and Zayn will not allow to be thwarted at this game he knows he can play as well. He’s good at this game.

So when Lady Claire of Wales dropped her handkerchief, Zayn takes the opportunity to bend – ass jutting out in the air – and get the hankie from the floor. And when Zayn straightens up, he did not miss the way Harry licks his lips – eyes a darker shade of green.

‘When are you two getting married?’ Sir Nicholas of Nottingham asks as he takes a swig of the remaining of his rum.

Zayn almost chokes on his champagne, Harry’s mouth clearly drops open like you see in cartoons. The presence they felt with Anne, creeps back out from the cabinet they have sealed it in.

‘Surely, I want to be invited in the wedding,’ adds Miss Darcy from Kensington. She’s 40 and a widow with 4 children. And Harry knows her to be very close with their family, her oldest is actually Harry’s classmate during their stay at Eaton.

Harry smiles at her. He can’t believe that these people are trying to detonate a bomb at the moment with the question they bombard him and Zayn.

‘You two look like a couple, if you ask me.’ She leans toward Zayn like they’ve known each other for a long time. ‘You can’t take your eyes off each other,’ she explains. ‘I use to look at my husband the way Harry looks at you. And you look at him like he’s the only person you see,’ she tells Zayn dreamily as if remembering a long forgotten, blissful past.

Zayn smiles politely, not quite reaching his eyes.

But Harry can see the cracks in Zayn’s smile. He knows by now how to read Zayn like the back of his hand, knows what page to open to find the line he longs for like his favourite book – which by the way is The Alchemist. That smile of hesitation that has a mix of fear suddenly churns something in Harry’s stomach. It’s a bad sign.

~*~

When Harry fucks Zayn late that night in his bath, warm water with vanilla scented liquid soap sloshing around them as they move in a perfect rhythm of push and pull, he wonders if this is all it is with them? Will there be nothing more? Is this enough for Zayn? The bigger question is: Is this enough for him?

Harry eases slowly inside Zayn, feeling the tightness of Zayn around him, savouring the moment of Zayn at his mercy, getting dazed by being allowed to wreck Zayn like this. He has access to these parts of Zayn that no one else has. He gets the honour to make Zayn come, to hear Zayn say his name in a plea that sends Harry’s heart into frenzy, to kiss Zayn’s neck and leave a bruise, to touch Zayn’s skin like he’s trying to print his fingertips on them so that others will know Zayn is his

Not only that. Harry also gets to have Zayn snuggled up behind him after they shower properly, both of them coming the second time that night. And again, Harry wonders the third time that night if this is it? If this is all they will ever be? If this is enough?

And Harry falls asleep with his questions unanswered, all forgotten because Zayn kisses the top of his head and mutters a Good night, Haz that chases away Harry’s worries.

But still.

~*~

‘Harry, why are we heading to Holland Park?’ Zayn asks on their drive home from Chesire. It’s late in the afternoon, almost sunset but one can never tell because it’s too dark already to believe that it’s only 5 in the afternoon. ‘Your house is in Notting Hill, just so you know.’

Harry just smiles and squeezes Zayn’s thigh for a moment with the hand that’s not holding the wheel. ‘I know, Zed.’ He enters a driveway and turns off the ignition. ‘Didn’t I tell you that I was talking with Peter Blond a couple of months ago?’

Zayn can’t look at Harry, just stares at the famous The Woodland House in front of him.

‘So, the Ilchester Estate has this,’ he jerks his head to the direction of the mansion, ‘in the market since January. Since Mr. Winner died at the beginning of the year.’ He unbuckled his seatbelt. ‘Let’s go inside.’ He grins and Zayn turns to him with disbelief.

~*~

The living room is as grand as a mansion could be and Zayn can’t stop looking at the ancient elegance of the place. Zayn, being an architect, heard of this mansion of course. It was built by Luke Fildes in the year Zayn can’t remember. But Zayn knows that this house is on the market for 60 million pounds. But Henry Pryor reported that it’s an exaggeration of the late Michael Winner – the previous owner. And the last price that Zayn had heard about this ostentatious fortress is 20 million, which is still too much for Zayn’s paycheck.

‘So, what do you think?’ Harry asks, not looking around in awe like Zayn is. Harry’s actually looking at his favourite masterpiece, Zayn.

Zayn looks at Harry. ‘What do you mean?’

Harry opens his arms like he’s presenting the beautiful living room with red carpet, plush couches, ornamented walls, floor to ceiling bookshelf, and there’s a Christmas tree as well. It looks like it’s ready to be lived in.

‘Harry,’ Zayn says as it dawns unto him. ‘What did you do?’ He looks at the tree, he looks at the decorations in the room, he looks back at Harry. ‘What did you do?’

Harry smiles, wide and innocent. He reaches for Zayn’s hand and gets down in one knee. He wobbles a little bit for balance.

Zayn can’t take his eyes off Harry, he’s frozen in his place. He’s taken aback by everything that’s happening around him.

Harry clears his throat and looks up at Zayn. ‘I’m not really good with this,’ he begins. ‘So bear with me, yeah?’

Zayn remains stoic.

‘I know this is so random.’ He squeezes Zayn’s hand for assurance. Assurance that he’s not doing anything drastic or stupid. There’s no reply. ‘Zayn?’

Zayn has his eyes glue on Harry but they are blank.

‘Zayn?’

Zayn pulls his hand back so swiftly that Harry almost loses his balance by the ricochet of his firm hold on Zayn’s hand that still slipped under his fingers.

‘Zayn?’ Harry looks dejected.

He runs a hand over his face. ‘I can’t do this, Haz,’ he says. ‘It’s too soon,’ he adds, pacing back and forth.

‘What do you mean?’ Harry’s panicking, voice an octave high.

Zayn looks at Harry, there’s something in his eyes that Harry can’t name. ‘I just can’t do this, yeah?’ His voice cracks. ‘This is too much to take in. I’m sorry. But you have to understand that it’s too soon.’ He kneels down in front of Harry. ‘I love you. I do. But I can’t do this.’

Harry’s tears runs down his cheeks. ‘But I need you to do this.’

Zayn’s eyes abruptly don’t seem sympathetic at all. They held anger, and pain. ‘I don’t know how to do this, yeah?’ He glares at Harry. ‘I don’t.’

~*~

‘Harry, you’re pathetic,’ Amanda says, typing on her iMac.

‘Just do your work.’ Harry’s peeking outside Amanda’s glass wall, eyes fixated on one wooden door. He hears Amanda lets out a sigh and can almost see her rolling her eyes on him. But he doesn’t care. No, he doesn’t.

‘Why don’t you just talk to him?’ Amanda suggests.

Harry leaves his spot by the door. He’s been looking out for an hour or so but still no sign or anything from Zayn’s office. ‘Why does his office have to be concealed from the rest?’ he asks, sitting down. The other offices are all glass wall and glass door but Zayn’s has to be cement and wood.

‘So, he can fuck in there with fit blokes,’ Amanda answers that Harry audibly gasps at. She laughs. ‘I’m kidding.’ She laughs still.

‘S’not funny.’ Harry glares at her.

She makes a face at him. ‘But if you really think about it, it could be the main reason.’ She winks at him and shows him a mischievous loop sided smile. ‘I would do that if I have his kind of office. It’s one of my kinks.’

‘All this maybe-fucking-in-the-office topic is not helping,’ Harry points out.

Amanda groans in frustration. ‘Then just fucking talk to him,’ she says. ‘Stalking him like this won’t do anything.’

‘But what if he doesn’t want to see me?’ Harry’s on the verge of breaking down.

‘Harry. Firstly, I’m your party planner and we may be mates but I’m not a psychiatrist,’ she says grumpily. ‘You have the quids to pay those doctors for shit like this, talking about feelings and fuck up relationships.’

Amanda does have point. But Harry doesn’t need a psychiatrist. What he need is Zayn. Yes, Zayn. The man who can make it all better, can make him feel better. His knight in shinning armour.

But Zayn’s been ignoring him since the incident yesterday. And Harry’s heart is itching for Zayn like a smoker’s hand trembling for a cigarette. He misses the Good night, Harry and the G’morning, Haz. He misses the soft kisses, the rough kisses, the wet kisses. He misses every damn kisses!

Most of all, he misses Zayn. His Zayn. The one that fits him like a glove.

If he can, he wants to take it all back. Save them, save himself. He wants to tell Zayn that he can forget everything that happened. That he’s willing to take whatever Zayn wants to give. He’ll make it enough.

~*~

Day 4 of Harry’s lack of Zayn. His eyes are red from all the crying, he concludes that he’d probably left hundreds – and it’s not exaggeration – voicemails plus text messages on Zayn’s phone. He stops going into Zayn’s firm because Amanda kicked him out, she told him to fix it outside her office because his sickening I’ve-been-a-kicked-puppy face is distracting her from her work.

Harry’s better judgement has coached him to move on. There are many lads and lasses out there who won’t break his heart, who’ll fill all the rooms in his heart that it’ll drown him but won’t kill him. That is true. But none of them will be Zayn. Zayn with his patience when Harry speaks so low and so slow that if raced with a turtle, the turtle will win.

It’s almost New Year, their first anniversary. And it’d be a lie if Harry said he hasn’t planned anything. This year though he planned to make it just the two of them because he knows how Zayn doesn’t like crowds. Zayn only went to Harry’s party last year because Amanda forced him to.

And now he’s not going to have a party, there also won’t be a Zayn. He wants to cry again. He feels so alone. He’s never been good at being by himself. So, he watches that foreign film which Alexa had suggested, That Thing Called Tadhana.

He’s done with the movie and he’s getting his coat out because fuck destiny and the whole If he’s meant for you, he’ll come back because he won’t hand over the stake of his happiness to the wind and the universe. He refuses to.

He gets his keys because he’s done waiting. He’s going to follow what Mace said, ‘If you love a person you do everything to get them back. You pull them back because you love them.’ And that’s enough reason. He’s going to beg Zayn to take him back if he must. He’s going to something – anything – for Zayn to love him back.

Firstly, Zayn did say that he loves Harry. And Harry’s going to hang on to that. Believes in it and hopes that the universe gives him another miracle.

When Harry opens his door, the first thing he sees in the dark is the headlights of a car. It’s not just any car. It’s Zayn’s car. The silver Volvo that Zayn bought last October.

Harry stops, gazes at the car. He pinches himself just to be sure he isn’t dreaming. And when Zayn climbs off of the car and walks toward him and stops right in front of Harry, he forgets to breathe.

All he can think of is the air that Zayn exhales, it washes over him, warming his cold cheeks. The smell of cigarette in Zayn’s breathe is also there and Harry misses that as well.

‘I’m sorry,’ they both mutter at the same time, eyes locking and searching each other. Harry’s searching for hope, Zayn’s searching for answers.

They both chuckle.

‘Zayn, I –’

Zayn cuts him off with a kiss. And the London sky lights up like it did the first time their lips touch, literally a year ago.

Everything they haven’t told each other for the last 3 days has been punctuated into that kiss. And it’s amazing how well they fit, like a playlist steadily morphing from one song to another. Harry knows when to tilt his head and to what side so Zayn can kiss him deeper. Zayn knows the right moment to slip his tongue in Harry to taste, to feel, to say a message words can’t hold. Kissing each other has always been a language they both learned to master, they know how to move together in a dance they’ve done for so many times. And it feels right.

‘Happy New Year, babe,’ Zayn breathes out, hands cupping Harry’s face like he’s afraid the other man will slip away from him.

Harry’s still frozen shock. He can’t believe that it really is Zayn just inches away from him, it’s Zayn’s forehead that’s connected to his own, it’s Zayn’s warm hands that he feels against his cheeks. Harry feels alive.

When Zayn leans in and kisses him, moulding the answer Harry longs to hear into his lips, Harry burst into tears because this is it. Zayn’s ready to take that step with him. They’re both going to try and get to the enough that Harry had wanted. And now, Zayn wants it too.

Harry knows how big a leap this is for Zayn, how this will really matter for the other man because Zayn doesn’t rush into things – Zayn weighs the scales carefully before he makes his next move. So this is new.

Harry’s going to try to take it slow, Zayn’s going to try to plan less. They’re both going to try if they want to make this work – if they want to make them work. They both want this – a house in Holland Park with 47 bedrooms to fill, and an indoor swimming pool. It sounds like a huge responsibility. But they’ll make it because Harry’s ready to meet Zayn halfway like Zayn’s ready to let Harry inside his walls.

And that’s enough.