Archive of Our Own

Liam finds him hunched over his knees, hands over his ears, and his bottom lip drained of blood from biting down on it so hard.

“Zayn?”

Zayn jerks when he feels Liam place a hand on his shoulders, and when he glances up to make sure it is his roommate indeed and not some random stranger touching him, he relaxes, letting out a deep breath and then wincing because his bottom lip is throbbing.

“You okay there?” he hears Liam asks, and Zayn finds himself nodding, because yeah, yeah he’s fine, he thinks, but then his ears start tuning into everything around him, and he can hear the sounds of Shania Twain’s “Man! I Feel Like a Woman!” still blaring from next door. And yeah, he’s not okay, not at all. Far from it.

He feels Liam tug on his wrist, pulling his hand away from his ear, and then his roommate is dragging him up the rickety and probably rotten stairs in their apartment, and when Zayn opens his eyes, he sees that Liam has brought him into his room. He spots his computer, still on, from when he had been working on an upcoming project, and his precious violin sits close by, its bow left haphazardly on the ground, making him cringe because if he had accidentally stepped on it and broken it, there was no way he could afford a new one.

“You need to sleep, Z,” Liam says, catching his attention. “You have rehearsal in four hours, and you’ve been practicing and working on projects all day.”

Zayn nods, brushing a hand through his hair and cringing because of the oil and grime that he feels sliding onto his skin. He needs to add showering to his list of things to do, and he quickly finds himself flitting through his schedule finding free space so he can do so. He can probably squeeze it in now before he attempts to work on the short essay that is due in a few days for Music Analysis. He can’t afford to get anything less than an A.

“I got an hour in after work,” Zayn says, sheepishly smiling at Liam.

He’s lying, he knows that Liam knows, too, because Zayn never naps after his work study shift at Blanton, the university’s fine arts museum. He always uses the excuse of having too much to do, and it’s true, he does have too much to do—practice for the upcoming concert, work on coursework from one of the six classes he’s taking, practice some more. The dark circles under his eyes and shine to his hair show his lack of self-care.

Liam sighs, shooting a small glare at him. “I know they’re loud,” he says, jerking his thumb towards the window, “but is there anyway you can ignore it or put your headphones on? They work for me.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. He’s not stupid. He’s tried everything possible to distract him from the constant loud music that pours into their apartment at all hours—blasting his own music, ignoring it, banging on the wall their apartments share—nothing works. He figures if he can’t sleep because the assholes next door can’t turn their music down, the least he can do his use the extra time to practice for the upcoming recital they have. But it’s hard to play Rachmaninov’s Symphony No. 2 when Shania Twain won’t shut up.

If he doesn’t get his parts down in time for the audition, Liam might have to stop him from murdering their neighbor.

“It’s fine, Liam,” Zayn says, waving a dismissing hand at him. “I’ll push through it. Go back to sleep. I know you have that lunch with Sophia and her parents tomorrow.”

He looks over to find Liam blushing, a nervous smile stretching across his lips. Zayn shoots him a reassuring smile, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder because he knows how nervous Liam is to finally meet the girl he’s been dating for the past few months. He had confessed to Zayn that he was ready to tell her those three words that would seal and lock in their relationship, and Zayn is happy for his friend, he really is. Liam deserves someone nice in his life, someone that returns his affections.

Unlike Ben does for him, Zayn thinks bitterly before scolding himself for thinking of Ben and him as something more than the weekly fuck in the T.A. office or an empty practice room.

Zayn feels a headache approaching from thinking about Ben alongside all the work he has to do, his lack of sleep causing his headache to not only tug at the back of his head but also across his forehead. Ben and him are complicated, or, actually, there is no complication other than Zayn kind of, sort of, wants more and Ben likes to keep it just a casual thing. He figures he can pine later when he has had more rest.

“Hey,” Liam says, breaking Zayn away from his thoughts. “You’re okay, right? Like, I can go over there and get them to turn the music off if you want me to.”

Zayn quickly shakes his head, a blush creeping up his neck and across his cheeks at the thought of how awkward that would be. He doesn’t want anyone doing anything on his behalf, and he especially doesn’t want to come across a tight-ass asking a bunch of college kids to turn their music down even if they were being rude having it on at three in the fucking morning.

“Nah, just leave it.”

Liam shoots him a hesitant look before shrugging and making his way across the hall to his own room.

Zayn closes his eyes, willing himself to take a deep breath to relieve some of the pressure in his head. It’ll be okay, he chants to himself. He almost finds himself relaxed before his peace is disturbed by Brandon Flowers shouting he’s Mr. Brightside, the sound muffled by the shitty walls of his apartment, but loud nonetheless.

He opens his eyes and spots his backpack, the fabric worn down and tearing at the seams. It’s the same backpack he’s had since middle school, but he refuses to buy another and waste money when this one works perfectly fine, even with the small holes on the bottom of it.

Zayn decides that someone or another must be practicing—music majors are dedicated if anything—so he quickly shoves his violin and bow into its case and his music sheets and folders of assignments he has yet to complete into his backpack. He changes out of his sweatpants, putting on a pair of black skinny jeans and a plain white muscle shirt that is probably Louis’ from when he crashed over and drunkenly decided sleeping nude was more comfortable.

He cringes when he steps out of his apartment, the music hitting his eardrums at full capacity. He manages to glare at the neighboring apartment while locking the front door.

It’s probably a bunch of rich kids that have nothing to fear if their grades slip because their families can take care of their expenses, he thinks. The thought sends a jolt of white fury down his spine, because here he is, scraping by, hardly sleeping because he overworks himself in order to keep his grades in check and his scholarship intact, and there are people who can just buy their way into school and do nothing and still get their degree.

He scowls, pulls the hood of hoodie he slipped on at the last second over his head, and starts to make his way towards the bus stop, his eyes blurry with exhaustion and his head throbbing from frustration.

---

He’s walking half-asleep, running into people and struggling to keep a firm hold on his violin case, as he makes his way off the shuttle that takes him from main campus to west campus where his apartment is.

Zayn feels like he’s in that alternate space that exists when you’re halfway to delusional from lack of sleep and stressing over every little thing possible. He knows the stress part was unavoidable, because Zayn Malik stresses over every thing. He can’t have anything fucking up, especially on his part. One fuck up and he could lose it all, the dreams him and his parents conjured up together when he first picked up a violin at the shy age of seven during his music class.

It would be making a mockery of all the hard work and money his parents spent on him, scraping by just to make sure he got his lessons and instruments when he needed or grew out of them.

Moving to Austin was harder than he thought it would be. He’s only an hour or so away from the town he grew up in, but he still feels that missing piece in his chest that is home. Nothing—not even the bright lights of the city, the charming street art that decorated every wall, lamppost and curb, or the incredible music scene—could replace the smell of his mother frying onions for her curries, his sisters fighting over the hair straightener, and his dad’s old record player croaking out a Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan record.

His phones vibrates in his pocket, and he struggles to take it out of his pocket as he makes his way up the stairs of his apartment building.

Ben:
I finished grading those papers early. Come over.

Zayn bites his lip. He knows he shouldn’t go over, that he should make use of his free time from not having work today by catching up on rest. His fingers hover the screen, and he feels the tug in his stomach, albeit small, telling him to turn around and make his way over to the Psychology department so he could let Ben bend him over the desk he shares with another TA and fuck him, one hand on his waist, fingers digging into his hip, the other wrapped around his mouth so Zayn’s moans don’t slip and inform everyone in the Psychology department what is really going on. The thought of their last time together two days ago makes him aware of the rash Ben’s scruff left from where his face was pressed between Zayn’s shoulder blades as he fucked into him, Ben sitting on his office chair and Zayn sitting forward on his lap.

He feels a blush spread across the tops of his cheeks. Ben makes him feel like a schoolboy crushing on the hot, young teacher—which, it’s sort of true, except Ben’s not a teacher—hell, they’re in two completely different departments. If it wasn’t for Louis giving him a fake I.D. their freshman year and dragging him to some bar on 6th where Ben and him met, Zayn out-of-his-mind drunk from cheap one dollar shots, he wouldn’t have talked to Ben. He had only been his T.A. until that night. Somedays he wishes Louis had never dragged him there, or that Ben didn’t sweep him off his feet with the sweet nothings he whispered in Zayn’s ear all night that led to them stumbling back up Congress st. with their hands and lips all over each other. It might have been better because Zayn wouldn’t be pining over some older guy that had no intention of taking it further than sticking his cock in Zayn’s ass every few days.

He’s tempted by the text, but the wobbliness in his knees and the blurriness of his vision push him to lie.

Zayn:
Sorry, shift at Blanton. Tomorrow?

Ben:
I’ll meet you after your afternoon rehearsal.

Zayn:
‘kay ;)

Zayn’s beating himself up for sending Ben an emoji and digging into the front pocket of his backpack for his keys when his neighbor’s front door opens. He watches as two boys stumble out. The tall, curly haired one leans against the doorframe, tugging onto the slightly shorter boy in front of him until their lips are pressed together.

Zayn blushes, diverting his eyes and fumbling around to find his keys again. He can hear the smacking of their lips, making him cringe.

“See you later?”

“Maybe.”

Zayn finds his keys in time to look up to see curly pushing away the other boy. His lips are swollen and an obscene shade of red, matching the unbuttoned shirt he has on. Zayn can hear The Smith's "This Charming Man" blasting from inside the apartment, and it makes him roll his eyes. The boy catches Zayn staring, his green eyes widening slighting as they flicker up and down before a smile appears on his lips, his lips stretched around a mouthful of bright white teeth.

“Hey,” he says, pushing off the doorframe to stand up straight. “You must be my neighbor. I’m Harry.”

Zayn nods his head, mumbling a low, “Hey.”

Harry’s smile widens and he takes a step forward, causing Zayn to move closer to his door.

“What’s your name?” Harry asks. He stretches out his arm, bending over slightly, and Zayn hesitantly reaches over and shakes his hand, finding the boy’s hand to be too warm.

“Zayn,” he answers, dropping Harry’s hand quickly.

Harry’s smile falters. “I guess we’ll be seeing each other around a lot.”

Hell no. Zayn presses down on the urge to scowl. He wants to scream at Harry, shout how he hasn’t gotten a decent night of sleep since his tall, lanky ass moved in next door and kept him up at all hours with his horrible taste in music. Instead, he shrugs, unlocks his door and steps inside, ignoring the frown that Harry sends his way.

---

He’s able to sleep for a good six hours before he’s jolted awake.

There seems to be loud dubstep music blaring, the vibrations shaking the shitty walls, and he feels as if him his room is about to cave in on him.

Groaning, Zayn reaches for the lamp on his bedside table, flicking it on. Another loud bass drop booms through his room, and he groans loudly, wincing from the sharp pain that tugs at the front of his head.

“Fuck!” he shouts, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes.

His walls continue to shake, the vibrations now causing his vision to jump around, too.

Zayn feels himself stretched thin. He has rehearsal twice tomorrow along with a practical test in 3rd Semester Piano where he is required to perform Bach’s “Prelude No.,” which isn’t hard because he’s picked up piano fast having to learn it for his degree requirement, but the thought of him accidentally fumbling over the keys in front of everyone sends a wave of nausea over him.

The music seems to grow louder as the minutes tick away.

“Haraamzada,” Zayn hisses.

There is no way he can go another night without sleep. He’d pass out midway through practice or something, and there was no way Zayn is doing that.

You can do it, he repeats to himself. All he has to do is knock on Harry’s door, tell him to lower his goddamn music, and then he can go back to sleep.

He pushes himself out of his bed, tripping over his shoes that he haphazardly toed off before jumping into bed earlier. The hallway light is on, so he knows Liam must be inside sleeping like the dead since nothing fazes him.

Zayn makes it to Harry’s front door when he’s overcome with the familiar trickle of anxiety. He doesn’t want to seem like he’s asking for too much, because, really, he’s not, he thinks. All he wants is for Harry to lower his music so he can get some rest, that’s it, because he’s fine with the noise if it’s kept to a minimum.

Noise isn’t foreign to Zayn. He isn’t stupid enough to know that living around west campus of all places—where party throwing co-ops flourished and drunk pledges could be seen waiting for party buses—he would never get the silence he wanted. And, he was okay with that, really.

What he isn’t okay is music blaring almost directly into his ear.

He takes a deep breath, pushing down the nervous knot in his throat, and knocks on the door, hard. He has to get a couple of knocks in before he hears “I’m coming!” from the other side and the door is wide open, a sleepy Harry standing in front of him in nothing but a pair of striped boxer briefs, covered in tattoos, rubbing at his eyes with the his fist. A large pair of really expensive looking headphones sit over his ears.

And, damn, he looks really good, Zayn admits to himself, even half-asleep and bleary eyed, this Harry kid looks better than he probably does right now, sleep deprived and red-eyed, the bags under his eyes probably a prominent shade of purple.

Harry blinks at him and squints his eyes, looking confused, and Zayn tries not to grimace, because it looks like he’s just woken Harry up, and now he feels like an asshole about it. Although, he fails to understand just how Harry was asleep when the music from his apartment was pounding into Zayn’s.

“Zayn?” Harry says, eyes now completely open. “What’s up? Did you need anything?”

Zayn shifts, his socked toes curling in. He feels himself rubbing his thumb across the callous in his index finger, a habit he picked up over the years, the feel of the callous grounding him and reminding him of his goals. You can do this, he repeats.

“Erm,” he starts. “Can you turn your music down?”

Harry’s face scrunches up. “What?” he shouts.

Zayn touches his own ears, and he watches as realization takes over Harry, a blush appearing on his cheeks as he scrambles to shove his headphones off. Zayn bites down on a smile, finding it somehow endearing.

“Sorry,” Harry shouts over the music. He lifts a finger in front of Zayn. “Hold on.”

Zayn watches as Harry screams, “Nick! Nick! Turn down your fucking music, dude!” A few seconds pass before the music is turned down, now a barely there hum in the background.

Harry turns back towards him, a sheepish smile on his lips. “Sorry. My roommate’s schedule is kind of fucked up. He hosts the morning show for the university’s radio station, so he’s always blasting shit to come up with a decent setlist.” He fingers the headphones hanging from his neck. “S’why I had to get these. Blocks out the noise.”

Zayn shrugs, muttering, “It’s okay.” It’s not okay, because Zayn can’t afford headphones that cost as much as his rent—he can barely afford eating a decent meal—but this mostly naked boy in front of him that manages to look hot with a rat’s nest for hair doesn’t need to know that.

Zayn opens his mouth to say something, anything to diffuse the wasps of awkward that are starting to appear around them, but the sound of someone stumbling down the stairs interrupts him, and he looks behind Harry to see an even taller, older looking man appear, his arms crossed and a tight smile on his lips.

“What’s going on here now?” he asks, eyes flickering between Zayn and Harry. “Who’s your new friend, Harold?”

Now Zayn wishes he really didn’t get out of bed and make the music a big deal. He hates the feeling he’s getting from Harry’s roommate’s eyes assessing him. He can feel the anxious knot in his stomach that is all too familiar, and he moves his thumb against his index finger rapidly.

Harry doesn’t seem bothered, pushing Nick’s hand off his shoulder. “This is Zayn. He lives right next door. You were being an asshole with your music, again.”

Nick gasps. “Me? You never complained.” He looks over at Zayn, eyes narrowed. “You don’t find my music tasteful, Zayn?”

Zayn grits his teeth, forcing himself to keep his glare at bay. He wants to tell this Nick that just because his privileged ass can afford to miss a few classes here and there because he was too busy playing around with his music doesn’t mean that Zayn can. His rent is paid through his financial aid, and even then, it’s Liam’s parents that cover the electric and water bill, even if Zayn had desperately argued he could contribute.

“Your music is fine,” he bites out. “It’s just loud. Can’t sleep.”

Zayn watches Nick raise an eyebrow at his tone. “My bad.” He sounds like he doesn’t mean it.

Harry interjects, pushing Nick behind him. “Just keep it down, Nick. We do share a wall with them.”

“Whatever,” Nick sighs, waving a hand at them before moving back up the stairs. The hum of his music returns a few moments later.

“Sorry,” Harry repeats, biting his lip. “He can get a bit extra sometimes.” He rolls his eyes playfully.

Zayn’s eyes flicker to Harry’s torso, following the end of his butterfly-moth looking tattoo down to his happy trail. He presses his thumb against his index finger hard when he finds himself warming up from the outline of Harry’s cock under the thin-as-fuck briefs he’s wearing.

When he looks up at Harry, he catches Harry staring at him, a grin on his lips and amusement flashing in his eyes. Zayn’s blush is scorching, now, and he’s sure his cheeks are about to melt off or something.

“Um,” Zayn begins, clearing his throat. “Yeah, so...c-can you, like, make sure to keep it down? S’hard to sleep with all the—” he gestures around him, “—the noise.”

Harry’s grin falters a bit, a guilty look appearing on his face, and now, Zayn wants to kick himself. First, he wakes up the boy and it’s not even his music playing, but his asshole roommate’s, and now he has somehow made this boy feel guilty for no absolute reason.

“Yeah, of course,” Harry replies quickly. “I’m really sorry if he’s been keeping you guys up.” Zayn can feel the moment Harry’s eyes flicker over the bags under Zayn’s eyes, and he shifts his gaze, looking down at his mismatched socks.

Gathering a deep breath, Zayn pushes a small smile onto his lips and says, “It’s fine, really.”

Harry doesn’t look convinced, but Zayn doesn’t give him the chance to reply, again, and quickly shuffles over back to his apartment, trying to forget the attractive and concerned boy he left without a goodbye.

---

The next morning is a blur.

Zayn remembers going back into this room, not being able to fall asleep, and deciding to crack open his window so he could smoke and finish up his essay. He must have passed out, because his alarm goes off an hour before he has to be at rehearsal, and he goes downstairs to find Liam eating a muffin at their kitchen table, a plastic container sitting next to him full of more.

“Where did those come from?” Zayn asks, nicking one and biting into it. He moans, taking another bite, and catches Liam smiling up at him. “Fuck, they’re good.”

“Your new friend Harry dropped them by this morning. Said he was sorry,” Liam replies, his eyes crinkling from smiling. “What’s he sorry for?”

Zayn rolls his eyes, ignoring the look Liam is sending him. “He needs to stop saying sorry. He didn’t do anything. It was his dick of a roommate that kept playing his music all night. Harry felt bad.”

“So, you went and talked to them about the noise? When?”

Zayn finishes the muffin, tossing the decorative liner into the trash. “Last night.” He looks away, making himself busy with the coffee pot so Liam can’t see the blush on his cheeks at the thought of Harry in just those briefs answering the door.

“I’m proud of you,” Liam cheers, getting up and clapping him on the shoulder. “Kids these days, growing up so fast.”

“Oh, shut up,” Zayn groans, pushing Liam away from him. He smiles nonetheless.

“Well, come on then. Hurry up with the coffee. The shuttle should be here any minute.”

---

Zayn is carefully packing up his violin after afternoon practice when he hears his name called across the auditorium. He looks up to see Harry grinning at him near the music stands, wearing a university sweatshirt with his hair in a bun.

“What the hell,” Zayn mutters to himself, zipping up his case and slinging it over his shoulder.

When he walks over to Harry, he notices Niall and Louis standing beside him, their instruments set aside on their chairs. Zayn has half a mind to scold them about proper instrument care, but he bites down on his tongue, sliding up next to Louis instead.

“What’s up?” he asks.

Louis slings an arm around him, pushing his hip into his. “Nothing. Haz wanted to see how practice worked, so we invited him. He’s been sitting in the back the entire time.”

Zayn’s eyes snap to Harry who stands with a grin and his eyes focused on Zayn. “You know each other?”

“He’s in our geology class. We’re partners.”

Zayn hums, nodding his head. “That’s cool. I guess.”

Harry is quick to nod, digging his fingers into the front pocket of his sweatshirt. “They’re great. Been helping me find places since it’s my first year.” Harry bites his lips, and Zayn presses down on the urge to lean over and snap it from under his two front teeth. “So, did you get the muffins this morning?”

Louis and Niall snap their eyes at Zayn and then back at Harry. “Muffins? You gave Zayn muffins?”

“Yeah, they were great. Didn’t need to say sorry, again though,” he mumbles.

Harry’s smile is too bright and he brings a hand up to rub the backside of his neck. “Not a problem. Felt bad ‘cause of Nick and all.”

“Wait a minute,” Louis interrupts. “Harry brought you muffins but brought Niall and I shit this morning? This is some bullshit.”

“Oh, shut up, Louis,” Zayn laughs, pinching his friend’s side. “Come over and I’ll share my muffins with yah.”

“Share your muffins, eh?” Louis chuckles, smirking.

Zayn’s about to reply when his phone begins to vibrate against his thigh. He pulls it out to see an impatient text from Ben reminding him of their arrangement.

“Who’s that?” Louis asks, leaning over to see, but Zayn exits out of the message, pulling away from Louis in the process.

“Gotta run. See you guys later,” he says, fixing the strap of his case.

“You’re leaving?” Harry asks, frowning. “We were gonna go get some food if you wanted to come.”

“Maybe next time,” Zayn mumbles, looking away from where Harry stands, his shoulders falling a bit.

“Hey, you going to the mixer tonight?” Niall asks, stepping in front of Zayn. “I texted you about it last weekend.”

“Your frat’s mixer, yeah? The one with the 80s theme? Unoriginal, dude,” Zayn laughs.

Niall leans over to punch him in the arm. “You promised you’d come.” The blonde smirks, his eyes flitting to Harry who is listening in. “Harry said he’d be there too, right?”

Zayn narrows his eyes at Niall, catching on to the game he’s playing.

Harry nods, replying enthusiastically. “Wouldn’t miss it!”

“Great,” Zayn cuts in, smiling over at Harry and then more tightly at Niall. “Later then.”

He quickly pushes himself up the auditorium aisle, focusing on his boots. He makes it into the hallway which is mostly empty and then he’s turning right and hooking a sharp left towards the practice hall tucked into the corner.

He doesn’t make it two steps into the room before he’s being pushed up against the door, lips colliding with his. He hisses as Ben bites down on his lips, running his tongue over it a second later to soothe it.

“You’re late,” he whispers into Zayn’s mouth, moving his lips to the corner of his mouth and then over his jaw.

“Practice ran late,” Zayn breathes, relaxing himself and slipping his arms around Ben’s neck. “Sorry.”

Ben hums, pulling Zayn further into the room and sliding the case off his shoulders. “You can make up for it,” he mutters, reaching for Zayn again.

Zayn smirks, fingers pulling on the lapels of Ben’s shirt. “Yeah? How?”

It’s Ben turn to smirk as his hands press down on Zayn’s shoulder. “I think you could think of a way.”

Zayn get the hint, grins, and gets down on his knees, reaching for the zipper of Ben’s jeans before he can finish his sentence.

---

Niall’s party is halfway over by the time Zayn arrives.

His time with Ben ran later than it usually did, and then he had to do some paperwork at Blanton before heading home.

He doesn’t put much effort into his costume, throwing on a flannel and leather jacket with some docs before making the trek to frat row. If anyone asks, he figures he can pass as Bender from the The Breakfast Club.

He runs into a few people he knows from class and from the symphony, stopping to chat with them and nicking a can of Coors from a friend and downing the last half.

Inside, the house is packed from wall to wall. He pushes through the bodies blocking the hallway and makes his way into the kitchen where he sees Niall taking a shot with Louis, a random girl clutching onto his arm. His eyes immediately draw to Harry who is dressed up as an 80s dance instructor—short, electric blue shorts, yellow crop top and matching headband included. A laugh tumbles out from his mouth, catching everyone’s attention, and when Harry’s eyes snap up to his, Zayn smirks, causing the younger boy to smirk, too.

Harry is like an annoying pop song—catchy, upbeat, and everywhere. Unable to shake off. Zayn hasn’t stopped thinking about him, and he wants to pinch himself for it, he really does. Even when Ben was whispering how good Zayn’s lips looked wrapped around him, Harry’s obnoxiously pink lips flashed in Zayn’s mind, and how good they would look on Zayn. And, fuck, he really shouldn’t be thinking thoughts like these about some freshman he just met.

Zayn’s rubbing his fingers together again as he steps forward, sliding in next to Harry who is beaming up at him.

“Hey!” he says, voice deep but excited. “You made it.”

Harry is on the verge of too-many-mixed-drinks drunk. The kind of drunk that’s sloppy but not enough to tire you down, leaving you with the loose nerves and the bounce in your step you need. His voice wobbles, but it’s clear and loud in Zayn’s ear. He feels Harry’s fingers wrap around his waist, making Zayn press down on the urge to lean into his touch. The kid’s known him for barely a day and he is this comfortable with him.

The thought makes Zayn squirm a little.

“Yeah, I did.”

“Where were you?” Harry asks, his breath hitting Zayn’s jaw. “Was looking for you.”

“Yeah?” Zayn asks, his eyes looking up Harry.

He wants to know why Harry was looking for him when they’ve hardly talked to each other. Or why does he have this look in his eyes whenever he is talking to Zayn, like he is amused by him. The thought of Harry finding him amusing doesn’t settle with Zayn, and he pulls away from Harry, reaching for a can of beer in front of him.

“Yeah, wanted to get to actually know you,” Harry says and moves to press a hand against Zayn’s back, not getting the message that Zayn doesn’t want him touching him.

Zayn’s eyes cut to Harry. “Why?” he demands.

Harry shrugs then giggles, like the answer is obvious. He pushes forward until his chest firmly presses against Zayn’s side. “Because you’re hot.”

Because he’s hot, Zayn thinks. Of course. There was only one reason Harry would want to speak to him, and it’s so he could fuck him, just like Ben does. This rich and pretty boy would never want to actually talk to him. Well, he doesn’t need another Ben or anyone, really.

Zayn swallows a mouthful of beer, and it’s the cheap kind, the kind that comes in case of thirty for less than twenty. He hates this beer, and he hates the way Harry is repeating his name from beside him, and he thinks that maybe he should have asked Ben if he could come over, even if they don’t really make trips to each other’s places to fuck. But, fuck, anywhere would be better than here.

“Hey! Where are you going?”

Zayn’s pushing his way out of the house before he knows it, the can of beer still in his hand.

---

Zayn wakes up to a series of knocks.

He groans, flipping over onto his stomach, hoping he can just fall back asleep, but the knocks continue, coming one after another and—shit, he thinks the person on the other side is trying to make a legitimate beat on his door with how well timed the knocks are.

He rips the duvet off his head and stumbles down the stairs, wondering who could be ruining his Saturday morning. Didn’t they know how precious Saturdays were to college students? It was a day dedicated to catching up on sleep.

When he opens the door he finds Harry standing on the other side, his hair half up and half down, a mini bun poking above his head.

“What?” Zayn growls, squinting because of the sun.

Harry doesn’t say anything. Instead, he pushes his way past Zayn and makes his way to the sofa, picking up the Playstation controller Liam must have left on the coffee table. He props his feet up, and Zayn’s eyes widen, because the kid’s feet are bare, and when he looks over at Harry, he notices he’s wearing a pair of loose athletic shorts and a muscle tee that exposes his sides.

“What the hell are you doing?” Zayn asks, shutting the door and making his way over to Harry.

Harry’s too focused on the screen, flicking through Liam’s Netflix account.

“Harry,” Zayn sighs.

“Your instant queue sucks. Twin Peaks? Really? We all know who killed Laura Palmer. The answer was in her diary the entire time.”

“I don’t care about Laura Palmer. Harry, what are you doing here?”

Harry shrugs. “I was bored and by myself, so I figured we could marathon some show all day and order takeout or somethin’.”

“Harry—what? I—we’re not even friends.”

The kid doesn’t seem fazed by Zayn’s words. He merely shucks the controller onto the sofa and scoots over, patting the space beside him.

“C’mon, let’s get to know each other now. S’the perfect time.”

“Harry, not to be rude or anything, but I don’t have any desire to know you.”

It’s a partial lie, mostly fueled from Harry’s drunk answer the night before. Zayn tells himself to not twitch with guilt from the look on Harry’s face, hurt and confusion mixed with a bit of anger.

“What?”

Zayn cringes from the tone of Harry’s voice, but he pushes through it, pursuing his lips and crossing his arms to fix a mild glare at him.

“Look, if you’re only interested in me because you want to fuck me then you need to leave, now.”

Partial lie, again.

Harry’s lips part, his brows knitting together in confusion,

Zayn sighs. “Last night. You, erm, said you wanted to get to know me ‘cause you think I’m hot.”

He’s blushing when he finishes. He watches as realization comes across Harry’s face, his cheeks also warming up.

“Zayn, fuck. I—I’m sorry,” he quickly says. “I didn’t mean that. I mean I did! Because you are hot, but, I was drunk, like...shit, this is coming out wrong,” Harry groans, running his hands down his face.

“Fuck, okay,” Harry exhales. “I do want to get to know you, and yeah, you are hot—don’t deny that, okay—but that’s not the only reason, y’know? You’re like really cool—”

“M’not really,” Zayn interjects.

Harry rolls his eyes and continues.

“You are cool, really cool. Louis and Niall talk you up all the time. And, when I found out you were my neighbor, I thought, this is too perfect. Like, what are the chances of us living right next door to each other?” Zayn thinks Harry notices the exasperated look on his face because he’s sighing deeply, rubbing his palm against his thigh. “Look, I—yeah, I think you’re attractive, but that’s not why I want to be friends. You seem like a decent person, and God knows I probably need more friends like that.”

Zayn releases a breath before rolling his neck. The kid is stuttering over his words, and if that’s not enough reason to shut him up, the genuine look on his face is. So, he gives in. It would help if they were friends since this Harry kid looked like he was sticking around thanks to Louis and Niall.

He pushes himself forward and flops down on the couch beside Harry, propping his foot up against the coffee table, too.

“So, you going to pick something good or not?”

When he peeks at Harry from the corner of his eye, he notices the kid grinning from ear, white teeth blinding.

Harry clears his throat, picking up the controller from where he tosses it.

“Action or comedy?”

“Neither. Let’s do horror.”

“Really?”

Zayn shrugs, watching Harry flicking from genre to genre. “Sure. That fine with you?”

Harry snorts. “Yeah, ‘course it is.”

Zayn raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“I’m game if you are.”

Zayn laughs at the determined look on Harry’s face.

“Okay, kid.”

They end up marathoning Parks and Recreation after Harry jumps ten minutes into the movie and causes Zayn to spill coffee over both of them.

---

Harry’s eighteen, from New York City studying at UT because his mother and step-father are both alumni, has a guilty pleasure for donuts, can play the drums and sing, and he collects sounds.

“I want to work with movies one day. You know, like, in soundtracks? I want to come up with the perfect score. Music makes the scene. It sets the tone.”

Zayn learns this as they walk back to his apartment, eating breakfast tacos—they’re both too hungry and impatient—and dodging traffic after he convinced Harry to pause their marathon so they could walk a few blocks over to one of Zayn’s favorite food trucks.

Harry admits that he was at practice because he thought he could get a clip or two of them playing and add it to his collection. Also, Louis and Niall mentioned Zayn would be there and wanted to see if it was the same Zayn that was his neighbor. Zayn pushes his shoulder into Harry’s when he confesses, chuckling as Harry manages to trip over his feet and almost smack himself into a bus stop sign.

It seems like Harry is everywhere after that.

Zayn runs into him on campus. Their schedules seem to match up, so they end up on the shuttle together most days. Louis and Niall invite him over to hangout, presenting Harry with his very own fake I.D., Louis squawking it’s tradition. And, Zayn learns to not jump when he walks down the stairs and finds Harry on his couch, Netflix up, coffee pot full, ready to start from wherever they stopped in their marathon.

Harry is easy to talk to, conversation flowing easily between them because of their similarities. At least when he isn’t pestering Zayn to play him something for “my collection, Zayn please!” He comes across wiser for his age, but then he’ll go ahead and do something like whine about how he’s hungry and drag Zayn at two in the morning to Ken’s Donuts—because of course the kid found the only twenty-four hour donut shop in all of Austin. He’s endearing, and it’s slowly gnawing away at Zayn because he’s beginning to feel some sort of attachment towards this kid he scolded himself into thinking of only as a friend.

Zayn finds himself brushing the callouses on his fingers all too often whenever Harry smiles his way these days.

He hates it.

---

“Your shirt.”

“Thanks,” Zayn mumbles, reaching for his shirt and slipping it over his head. When he looks over at Ben, he finds the older man dressed, not a single hair out of place. The only indication of them fucking mere minutes ago is the light redness around his mouth that runs down his neck, the rest hidden by the collar of his shirt.

They haven’t met up as often as they usually do, their schedules becoming hectic with Zayn’s upcoming audition for the solo in their winter concert and his constant practicing and Ben’s thesis taking up all his time.

“Hey,” Zayn begins, smiling shyly as his hand reaches for the back of his neck. “I, uh, I was thinking we could go grab a bite if you were up for it or somethin’?”

Ben doesn’t bother looking at him, a loud sigh escaping him. “Wish I could. Too much work.”

Zayn bites his tongue. Ben doesn’t have that much work that he couldn’t leave for thirty minutes to eat with him. He perches himself on the edge of Ben’s desk, careful not to sit on anything.

“I was just thinking it’d be nice to grab something together, y’know? Like we could be quick? Or, I could even go grab something for us? Pita Pit is right near by—”

“Zayn.”

There’s a knot in Zayn’s throat, and he swallows, willing it to go down. To just go the fuck down because he will not, could not, cry in front of Ben who is looking at him with pity. Zayn isn’t someone to be pitied. He isn’t a charity case. He isn’t invalid in the way he feels and thinks. He just wants something more for once. Something more with someone he thought might want something back with him. He wants someone to obsess over him like he’d been obsessing over Ben. He wants his feelings reciprocated.

“I thought we agreed to keep it casual between us. Right?”

Ben’s voice is deep, husky as it rumbles into Zayn’s ear, his hand placed on Zayn’s thigh as he sits on the office chair in front of him. He can feel Ben’s fingers rubbing the inside of his thighs, and for once he squirms, his throat clenching as that disgusting, crawling feeling takes over. He feels like a child being reprimanded for something he has no control over. He feels sick, unwanted, and frustrated, at himself mostly, and he just wants to get away. Get away and scold himself for reacting this way.

“Grabbing a shawarma is casual, yeah?” Zayn laughs, hollow and self-depreciating.

“Look, Zayn–”

“You know what, never mind. Just—just forget it.”

“Zayn–”

“It’s fine,” Zayn interjects, hopping off the desk. “I—I gotta go. Practice and all.”

He bends down to grab his backpack from the floor, quickly sliding the straps over his shoulders. He can feel the heat inside the office suffocating him, his own body flushed from embarrassment. He’s pissed—at himself, at this situation, at fucking Ben, at his inability to squash down his feelings. Fuck, he is so stupid.

Zayn’s reaching for his violin case when there’s a knock on the door. He quickly stumbles to secure the strap of his case on his shoulder before he’s moving toward the door. Before he can open it, Ben places a hand on his shoulder, stopping him and turning him around.

“Hey,” Ben whispers, reaching for Zayn and cupping his face. “We’re okay, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘course.”

Ben moves in closer just as there’s another knock. His breath hits Zayn’s jaw, and Zayn flexes his hand, focusing on the buttons of Ben’s shirt instead of his lips.

“What we have is good. Don’t wanna mess that up, yeah?”

“No,” Zayn breathes, looking up at Ben.

“So, I’ll see you in a few days?” Ben asks, pushing his hips into Zayn’s, his lips grazing the corner of his mouth now. “Want to feel that mouth of yours next time.”

Zayn manages to nod, ducking out from underneath Ben. He resists outwardly cringing when Ben’s hand brushes down the slope of his shoulder and to the curve of his ass. He moves away and reaches for the door’s handle, straightening up and opening the door.

“Zayn?”

His eyes snap up and widen.

“Harry?”

Harry is standing there, all lanky limbed, bright-eyed, mouth twisting up in surprise. Zayn watches his eyes gaze over his body, and he begins to flush, his own mouth tightening in response as he feels Ben hover behind his shoulder.

Fuck.

Ben speaks up before Zayn can even form words, his hand snaking around Zayn’s body to nudge him out the door. “Hello Mr. Styles. Is that your paper for Dr. Lowry?”

Zayn then notices the paper in Harry’s hand. The younger boy takes a step back, letting Zayn through, and he quickly steps into the hallway, assessing himself to see if anything looks out of order. If Harry could pick up that they’d been having sex minutes before.

“Um, yeah. It is.”

“Thank you. You can come inside to discuss any questions you might have. Zayn was just leaving.”

Harry looks over at him, still confused, but there’s a hesitating smile now on his lips.

“You have Intro to Psych, too, Z?”

Zayn opens his mouth to answer, but Ben cuts him off, again. “He was just picking up his seminar paper from last semester. Thank you, Mr. Malik. Hope you have a nice rest of the semester.”

And just like that he’s dismissed.

Ben’s not even looking at him, his voice cold and indifferent, and Zayn pushes down on that hurt feeling he always seems to get around Ben. He pushes it down enough that it doesn’t surface at that moment, because he could not have Ben knowing just how deeply he was into this, and he couldn’t have Harry knowing for reasons he wasn’t yet willing to admit to himself.

“Yeah, see you,” Zayn mumbles, and then he’s flying down the hallway, white hot anger and embarrassment propelling him forward towards the exit.

“Zayn wait!” Harry calls after.

Zayn ignores him, struggling to carry his backpack and violin on his shoulders.

Ignoring Harry’s calls for him seems to becoming a habit.

---

It’s 8:42 p.m. and Zayn’s fingers ache from the new blisters he’s forming on his fingers.

He spent the entire day at Blanton, avoiding texts and calls and slinking around the exhibits, avoiding any guest that might have had approached him for a question. After, he took to finding an empty practice room to work in. He wanted the lead in that Rachmaninov piece. He wanted first chair, right in front of the stage, right before the conductor. He wanted to be the best, and so he spent hours playing the same notes over and over until he could play them in his sleep, fingers gripping tightly to his bow and pressing too hard on the strings. He could even feel his chin ache from where it had been plastered against the chin rest, probably creating an indention under his jaw now.

But, practice had just left him frustrated enough to cry, a loose bow, and new blisters.

Zayn could not get past the allegro molto. His fingers slipped off the strings each time, his bow sliding too little to the left and hitting the wrong placement and emitting the wrong note. He spent hours on it, finally giving up in anger and moving begrudgingly to the adagio ma non troppo.

Zayn was a failure. He couldn’t do this. He would never get the right notes. His audition for first chair would be a huge catastrophe, and he would be kicked out of the symphony, his hopes and dreams for maybe someday joining a internationally renowned philharmonic dying with it.

He just couldn’t do anything right these days, it seems.

His love life is a joke. The man he wants to commit to only sees him as someone only worthy to mess around with. His grades could be better; that B+ he received in Musical Analysis is still a shock to his system, because he didn’t get anything less than an A, ever. He couldn’t. And, he hasn’t spoken to his family in days, the ache of wanting the comfort of his mother’s warm hugs and his father’s encouraging words a dim burn in his chest.

Zayn carefully packs his violin, making sure the scroll didn’t scratch the top of the case and that the bow was snug in its placeholder. He tucks the box of rosin in an attached pocket, making a note to buy more. His fingers run over the deep red-brown varnish, slowly brushing the tailpiece before going over the f-holes. He glances at the bow, the perfect swan-bill head bow with actual horse hair he had searched and saved painstakingly for that reminded him of the great 18th century violinists, hoping to become as just good as them one day. The violin is his pride and joy.

It’s all for nothing now.

He quickly finishes packing, carefully tucking his sheet music back into the correct folder and looking into the small pocket of his backpack for a bandaid to wrap around his blister so it will not burst.

Zayn decides to walk the entire way back to west campus. A sort of punishment for himself for making himself go through what he did with Ben today and for not getting the second movement down.

By the time he walks into his apartment, tired and worn out, thinking of how he could probably fit a nap and shower in before he starts practicing again, it’s close to ten. His thoughts are interrupted by the cheers of his name.

His friends are sitting in his living room looking as if they’re ready to go out for the night. Even Harry is with them, tucked into the arm of the couch, leather boots and half-buttoned down shirt on. He grins at Zayn, a cup of what looks like Jack and Coke in his hands.

“Zayn! Finally! Where the hell have you been?” Louis shouts, getting up from his seat to stumble over to him.

“What’s going on?” Zayn asks, dropping his backpack onto the foot of the stairs before setting down his violin case next to it.

“We’re supposed to go out t’night” Niall jumps in. “C’mon, we made these plans days ago. To break in Harry’s new I.D., remember?”

Zayn does remember. He remembers Louis and Niall shouting out that they had to take Harry out right after his fake I.D. finished printing, but that was the extent of the conversation. He doesn’t remember ever setting a precise date for when it was supposed to happen.

“What?”

“For God’s sake, Zayn! Get your ass upstairs and get ready so we can go out,” Louis shouts, clapping him hard on his shoulder.

Zayn starts shaking his head, wanting no part in going out and getting drunk when he has so much work to do.

“No, no. I’m good. Y’all go, and I’ll be fine here. By myself,” he says, emphasizing the last part.

“Fuck that shit,” Louis retorts, glaring at him. “Your ass is getting drunk tonight. You’re gonna go upstairs, shower because frankly you stink—did you walk all the way here? And, you’re gonna flash that pretty little I.D. of yours that I slaved over, and you’re gonna be happy tonight. Okay?”

“But—”

“No excuses. Now, get your nonexistent ass upstairs or else.”

Zayn glares at Louis, scowling further when Louis grins at him all-knowing. He groans before throwing his arms up and twisting on his heel to climb the stairs to his room. Fucking Louis.
---

Fucking Louis.

It’s Friday night, and Zayn is exhausted from work, school, practice, and emotionally drained. But, he’s stuck in a touristy bar on 6th—because of fucking course they have to go to 6th street since it’s Harry’s first time out—and all he wants is his bed, a nap or two, some time for more self-depreciation, and then to practice some more.

He swirls the remains of the whiskey in his glass, picking it up with his thumb and forefinger and tossing the rest back.

Zayn looks over to see Louis and Niall chatting up some girls from Los Angeles visiting their friend or something, and Liam is whispering to Sophia who joined them at sometime. When he looks for Harry, he finds the kid chatting to some boys, the typical frat type, unlike Niall, dressed in pressed pastel shirts that are tucked into fitted khaki shorts.

He’s thinking about leaving, flicking through texts he needs to answer back to, thinking it’s pointless to be here when he feels a hand come down on his shoulder. Flinching from the sudden touch, he finds Harry standing next to him, the front of his chest pressing into the back of Zayn’s arm. He’s bright-eyed tipsy, his mouth an obscene shade of red that makes Zayn lick his own and then again when he catches Harry’s eyes flicker down to the movement.

“What’re you doing here by all by yourself?” Harry shouts, leaning in until his lips brush the lobe of Zayn’s ear, causing him to shiver.

Zayn shrugs, spinning his empty glass with his finger.

“Wanna another drink?”

“Nah. I think i’m done for the night?”

Harry pulls back, eyes furrowing in confusion. “What?”

Zayn places a few dollars as tip money, inwardly cringing at having to spend money on drinks tonight when he could be saving up for something else. He pulls his jeans up a little and then stands up, shuffling against Harry until they are a few steps apart.

“Tell ‘em I’ll seem ‘em later, alright?” Zayn shouts, nodding his head towards their friends.

“Wait, Zayn.”

Harry grabs his wrist, large fingers that could probably wrap around twice around his bone. He pulls Zayn in close, close enough for his breath to hit the top of Zayn’s cheek and redden them from the warmth.

“Stay.”

“Harry—”

“Please. Please stay, Zayn.”

“Look, Harry, I’m just not feeling it tonight, yeah?”

“What if we get out of here?”

“What?”

Then Harry’s pulling Zayn out of the bar, fingers still tight around his wrist as they struggle through the large crowd before they’re outside in the humid Texas night. Zayn blinks, the bright lights and signs that decorate the street hitting his eyes harshly after being in the dimly lit bar for an hour.

“C’mon, let’s go do something else,” Harry says, shouting over the horns of the car and the loud chatter and music that spill into the street.

Zayn wants to say no. That he would rather prefer going home to wallow by himself. But, Harry’s become a staple part of his life these days, always walking into his apartment unannounced or dragging Zayn to go try a new food truck with him that he saw a great review for on Yelp. And because Zayn can’t say no to this kid, this grinning, bright-eyed boy next to him that is always radiating positivity and has woven his way into his Zayn’s life with determination to stay, he nods his head.

Harry guides them through the drunken crowd, past tattoo parlors and pizza shops that are tucked in between the bars, past the amateur musicians with their worn down guitars that have both of them tossing a few bills into their cases because musicians support other musicians, a belief they both share. Zayn doesn’t notice that Harry manages to interweave their fingers together until they’re at the corner of 4th and Congress, waiting to cross the street.

He finds he doesn’t really mind it.

“Where are we going?” Zayn asks as they begin to cross the street. He keeps his eyes focused on his shoes and how they look compared to Harry’s against the chipped painted crossway.

“It’s just a few more blocks. Promise.”

“Few more blocks. Harry, c’mon. I’m tired.”

“We’re almost there, Zayn! Stop whining.”

He sends Harry a disgruntled look which the kid returns with a large grin.

It’s quiet between them until Harry’s clearing his throat, sneaking a glance at him that he catches.

“So, earlier...you ran off before I could, like, legit say anything.”

Zayn feels his face heat up at the thought of earlier. He also feels anxious. He’s embarrassed once more. He’s feeling guilty again. He still refuses to admit the latter. His heart thrums dangerously, his stomach dropping down to his toes, he’s sure.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Wanted to ask you to dinner, but you ran off before I could.”

Zayn looks at Harry, surprised but relieved. He’s sure that his face is so flushed you could make it out even in the shitty lighting. For a different reason now.

“What?”

“Oh! Oh, I meant, like, y’know, try another food truck,” Harry quickly rushes, and there’s a matching blush on his cheeks, too. “There’s this Korean and Mexican one, some fusion type, that I read about.”

“Oh,” Zayn murmurs, casting his eyes down, too.

“Yeah. Heard they have amazing kimchi tacos.”

Zayn clears his throat, squeezing Harry’s hand.

“Next time, yeah? Gotta try those, um, kimchi tacos.”

Harry grins again, causing Zayn to mimic him.

“Yeah. Kimchi tacos. Of course.”

Zayn’s belly swoops in anticipation not anxiety now. Harry has a funny way of doing that to him.

He doesn’t want to think about it.

Harry fills the silence in with the latest sounds he’s collected, some he’s thinking of incorporating into his new project. His excitement makes Zayn smile and settle down some. Harry’s odd habit always makes Zayn smile, even if he is teasing Harry about it most days.

A few minutes later, Harry is pulling Zayn left as they near a dingy looking bar, a large green awning over the entrance. Zayn wants to question Harry when they completely pass it and swerve into the alley, nearing a back entrance that’s being manned by a bored looking bouncer.

“Where the fuck are we, Harry?”

“Trust me.”

“Are you trying to score some coke?”

“What? No, no. Just. C’mon.”

They both flash their I.D.s at the bouncer who looks like he could care less, and then Zayn’s holding onto the tops of Harry’s shoulders as they head down a flight of stairs. Who the hell keeps a staircase dimly lit? Fuck aesthetic. Zayn would rather not tumble down to his death.

“Here we are.”

The room opens up and it seems to be a lounge that Harry’s dragged him to. There’s a bar on each side of the room, and in the middle is a stage, a small monitor in front, two people belting out to Alanis Morrissette’s “You Oughta Know” very drunkenly.

“You dragged me all the way to this place to sing fucking karaoke?”

Harry pouts at him, his fingers tugging on Zayn’s.

“It’s a bar too! You can drink here! And once a week they turn the whole place into an 80s themed club.”

Zayn starts to laugh.

“And did you come here when they did that?”

“Duh. It was fun. Got to recycle my costume from Niall’s mixer.”

“You’re so fucking lame.”

“Hey!”

Friday night at a karaoke bar? Zayn can’t stop laughing, and soon, Harry’s laughing with him, his hand tightening around Zayn’s.

“This is ridiculous.”

“This is fun.”

“I need to be more drunk for this.”

“Can be easily done.”

The get drunk. Blurry-eyed, stumbling, slurring-all-the-words drunk. It’s Harry’s fault since he orders too many shots of jaeger. And, really? Jaeger? Harry must be hanging out with Niall’s frat. Zayn’s out of it after the fourth shot, his limbs nice and loose, a warmth in his belly from the alcohol, and also maybe because of Harry’s hand on his back where it has been rubbing soothing circles all night.

Harry manages to drag Zayn onto the stage when it’s their turn to sing. Zayn tries to object, waving his arms around them that he can’t sing, that he’ll embarrass not only himself but Harry, but Harry waves him off with a laugh.

They end up singing “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” by Tears for Fears, arms around each other, and giggles interjected between words. He can’t take his eyes or hands off Harry, and he doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol or the fact this is the first time in weeks he’s having so much fun. Zayn turns off his brain for a second, enjoys the moment he is in, sings his heart out, and when he looks over at Harry, his smile grows when he catches the boy staring right back at him.

And if he tightens his arm around Harry after that, so what?

---

“White cheddar popcorn or sea salt?”

“White cheddar.”

“Peanut M&Ms or regular?”

“Is that even a question?”

“You’re right. Peanut M&Ms.”

“I’m always right.”

“Shut up!”

Zayn dodges the packet of Skittles Harry throws at him, laughing when his side is hit with another. They’re in the snack and candy aisle of the corner store that is near their apartment and loading up on snacks since Harry decided that he was desperately hungry. Their stomachs were empty except for the drinks Harry had been feeding them all night, and so Zayn agreed, leading him to the shop across their apartments.

His phone is full of texts from their friends yelling about how they bailed, but as Zayn looks over at Harry’s grin, he can’t help but not care. The night’s turned for the better.

“Do you have ice cream back at yours?”

“Um, I think there’s vanilla?”

“That’s shit. Go grab some birthday cake.”

“You go grab it.”

“Zayn,” Harry whines, his arms full of snacks. “Get your lazy ass over there.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and throws an amused smile his way before heading towards the small freezer section.

They had been kicked out of the bar close to closing and managed to catch a bus over, flashing their student I.D.s and then cuddling together in a seat towards the back. Harry’s excuse was he was tired. Zayn didn’t fight him, looping his arm around Harry’s shoulder and placing his hand on the leg that was thrown over his lap. It felt good being tangled up with Harry. It felt nice when his breath hit Zayn’s clavicle, and it felt natural when Harry traced patterns into Zayn’s palm.

They disregarded the looks they were sent, instead talking about the new records that they were looking forward to coming out, Harry’s new mix he was working on, and Zayn’s upcoming concert.

“I’m gonna be there. Right in front.”

“You don’t have to do that, Haz.”

“M’gonna. Right in the front. With a bright poster board. Go Malik!”

“It’s formal.”

“Eh, well.”

There seems to be a permanent smile on Zayn’s face since they stepped off the bus. Harry hasn’t left his side all night, and he knows they’re supposed to be only friends, but he lets himself indulge in this. He lets himself feel what he feels without added guilt or anger. He doesn’t care right now, because he feels good. He feels relaxed after a shit day, and if it’s because of the boy that is a few aisles away deciding between Doritos or Cheetos, then so be it.

Zayn’s deciding between brands when he hears his name.

“Zayn?”

His head snaps up.

“Ben? What are you doing here?”

Ben smiles and moves past him, his chest brushing Zayn’s shoulder. He reaches into the open freezer and grabs a container of chocolate chip ice cream.

“Late night craving, too?” Ben asks, nodding at Zayn’s hands.

“Um. Something like that.”

Ben’s eyes wander up and down his body, and Zayn blushes. He should be angry for how he was treated earlier, but here he is blushing. He hates himself for it. He hates how he’s always so affected by Ben.

“You don’t live around here,” Zayn says, eyeing Ben’s ice cream.

Ben smiles, shrugging his shoulders.

“Visiting some friends. Got hungry.”

“For ice cream?” Zayn laughs.

Ben nods his head, chuckling.

There is that electricity between them again. The one that makes Zayn forget about how Ben actually treats him. He can feel himself falling into this trap again. A trap he created in the first place.

“I couldn’t decide, so we’re getting both.”

Harry walks up to them, arms full of junk food, and Zayn smiles at how ridiculous he looks trying to balance everything while stumbling around, still a little drunk.

“Mr. Styles,” Ben says, but he looks at Zayn, eyebrows raised. “Nice to see you here.”

“Oh! Hello, Ben,” Harry responds, grinning. He tucks a few things under his neck to reach out and shake hands. “What’re you doing here?”

Ben lifts the ice cream in his hand, all the while still looking at Zayn who has his eyes casted down, that familiar rush of panic swelling inside his chest like it did earlier in the day. Harry’s watching them, his eyes casting from him to Ben, dopey drunk grin displayed proudly. Zayn wants to simultaneously sink into the ground and reach over and hug Harry.

“Hey,” Zayn begins, reaching for Harry’s elbow. “Go and pay for these, and i’ll meet you. Just gotta put one of these back.”

Harry nods, flashing a small smile at Ben before heading towards the register, and Zayn mentally thanks Harry for downing those jaeger shots.

“So, you’re fucking him, too?”

Zayn shuts his eyes and sighs. He doesn’t realize his fists are clenched until he feels his blister from earlier throb.

“No. Just friends.”

“Zayn. It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

“What?” Zayn asks, turning around to look at Ben.

Ben shrugs, smiling. “We’re casual, remember? I don’t mind what or who you do when we’re not together.”

“But—”

“‘It’s not like we are ever going to be anything more than friends. If you want to commit yourself to Harry, then just say so. I don’t mind.”

Zayn feels his chest tighten, a dull pain that’s growing sharper by the second. He can’t will himself to meet Ben’s eyes.

“No, no. We’re just friends. I—I don’t want to stop anything between us.”

“You sure?”

Zayn nods his head, finally looking up at Ben who has a knowing look on his face. “Yeah, yeah. Of course.”

“You sure he doesn’t want anything more.”

“What? Harry? I don’t think—he’s not into me like that.”

Lie. Zayn knows it. When he looks at Ben, he can tell he knows it too. Harry has always been interested in him. Even if he claims they are just friends. Zayn notices his lingering looks, the blush he gets whenever Zayn touches him, the way he’s always around, looking to do something. Looking to be with Zayn. He can ignore it all he wants, but he can’t deny it.

“Zayn!”

Harry shouts for him near the register, and Zayn snaps out of his thoughts and the look he’s sharing with Ben.

“I gotta go. I—I, um, will see you later?”

Ben nods. “Yeah. I’ll text you later.”

Zayn quickly dumps one of the cartons into the freezer and then heads towards Harry, keeping his head ducked.

“Which one did you choose?”

“What?”

“Which brand?”

“Oh,” Zayn says, looking down in his hand. “Um, Blue Bell.”

“Hey, you okay?”

Zayn’s shaking his head. He’s not okay. He’s confused. But he pushes a smile to his lips.

“Yeah, yeah. C’mon, let’s go. This’ll start melting soon.”

---

Zayn wakes up feeling hot.

His shirt is sticking to his chest thanks to sweat, and his hair is damp. His skin feels like it’s about to melt off, and he can feel a rash forming where his boxers rest against his waist. The room feels like a sauna.

“Fuck,” he groans, ripping the sheet that rests on top of him.

The sun is pouring into his room through his sealed window, and somehow his fan is off. He can’t hear the air conditioner on, and he curses himself for not turning it on before bed. There is also a body next to him that is draped across his back, leg thrown over his own calves, and face buried in Zayn’s neck. It’s Harry. The tattoos on his arm are a giveaway. He feels his skin jump wherever Harry’s body meets his.

“Shit,” he hisses, removing himself from Harry.

Harry is a living, breathing heater. When Zayn removes himself from his body, he feels slightly cooler, but not cool enough. It’s the end of September, but that means nothing down south where the temperatures only lower towards the end of December. If that.

His head throbs, and he can’t remember why. He would have remembered if he had gotten hit by a truck.

Harry groans beside him, and Zayn watches as he swats his arm out, trying to feel for something to grab.

“Zayn,” he groans, his voice deep and rough. Zayn’s skin jumps for a different reason. “Where’d you go?”

“It’s too fucking hot,” Zayn hisses.

Harry groans beside him, his hand flopping down onto the sheet where Zayn had been. He eyes the trail of tattoos on Harry, from his wrist to the tops of his shoulders and down to his hips. Zayn sucks in his lips and tears his eyes away before he’s caught.

“My head is going to explode,” Zayn complains, looking around for the bottle of Advil he keeps in his room.

“It would be. You downed three bottles of wine on your own when we got back.”

Harry’s voice is quiet and hesitant, and Zayn gives up his search to look at the boy. He is frowning, looking at Zayn with slight concern, his lips caught between his teeth.

“What?”

Harry nods, grimacing. “We got back, and you decided you want to drink. So, you grabbed some bottles from Liam’s stash and drank them.”

“That’s it?”

“Um. You kind of had a small meltdown. Nothing big! Just...lots of angry yelling and then crying after you locked yourself in the bathroom. Took me ages to get you out of there.”

Zayn is mortified.

He knows what Harry is talking about. When he is bottling things up, lying to himself that everything is fine when it’s not, it starts to build up, stacking higher and higher until he’s drunk and it all comes out. He becomes one of those emotional drunks. The type that drinks and drinks before isolating himself to cry and scream about everything in general. The one he would make fun of when Doniya and her friends snuck home after a party and they had to calm down one of the girls. The one that was unstable.

“Fuck. I’m—I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, hey. It’s alright.”

“Seriously, Harry. Fuck. You didn’t have to deal with that.”

Harry smiles again. This time less hesitant. “We all have baggage. We all have shit to deal with. It’s fine, Zayn.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to deal with mine,” Zayn says, squeezing his eyes shut and willing for the ground to swallow him up.

“Maybe I want to,” Harry whispers.

Zayn isn’t sure if he is meant to hear it or not. He doesn’t acknowledge it either way.

He decides to fix this. He’s going to make it up to Harry. Zayn doesn’t want to be a shitty friend, and he feels like he owes Harry something now. And he hates that the most—the feeling of being indebted to someone, because his Baba had always taught him to hold his own. So, he’s going to fix this. He’ll make it better, and hopefully Harry would put his drunken episode in the past and not think less of him. Hopefully Zayn could, too, put this in the past and forget about it. God knows thinking about it only makes him more unhappy and stirs up those anxious feelings.

“Let’s do something.”

Harry’s sitting up now, the loose sheets of Zayn’s bedspread gathering in his lap. He’s looking at Zayn to see if he’s serious. Zayn looks away, again, from his bare chest, making himself busy with the sheets of music that lay haphazardly on his desk.

“Yeah. I’m gonna shower, and then, maybe, we can go to a few shops and stuff.”

“Could we try that Korean-Mexican truck?”

“We’ll try something better.”

Harry narrows his eyes. “Better than kimichi tacos? You just talking shit now?”

Zayn rolls his eyes and smiles. “Get the fuck up, kid. Go get ready.”

---

Zayn’s still feeling incredibly guilty and awkward because of last night and this morning. But, Harry being Harry, seems to be over it and spends their bus ride talking about some show of some friend’s band that’s coming up. Zayn can’t stop fidgeting though, feeling uncomfortable with being in such close proximities with Harry after how they woke up this morning, skin pressed against skin. He hasn’t just slept with someone in so long. Not since his first boyfriend in high school, and even that was just a quick nap after sex.

“Stop that,” Harry says, and he grabs Zayn’s hand where he had been rubbing over his callouses.

Harry moves his hands over the deep blisters near Zayn’s nails, his own skin smooth at the tips of his finger. He traces over the path Zayn had been going over—index finger then middle, ring and then back to index. His touch his warm, and then it’s burning when he tangles his fingers with Zayn’s, clasping their hands together and holding on tight after he places them in his lap.

“Your new blister will reopen if you don’t stop,” he says, looking down at their hands, as if that’s his excuse to hold onto Zayn’s hand.

Zayn doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have a chance to because Harry’s already moving onto a new topic, one about how he conned Niall into playing a few notes for him to record.

Harry’s hand feels good. Their hands together feels so good. And Zayn’s tired and fed up with the constant battles in his head. He’s exhausted with how Ben pulls and pushes, like Zayn’s worth is only temporary. He’s done with it. Done with thinking about it so much that it fucks with his work, his playing, and the potential of anything more. Zayn’s done making up excuses for not acting on the attraction he has for Harry. He knows that whatever he “feels” for Ben is mindfucking, and it will probably not be easy to get over, but he knows he deserves better, deserves more. So, he’s done.

He keep their hands locked and tightens his grip. And when Harry looks surprised at Zayn’s action, Zayn accepts the warmth he gets from Harry’s blinding grin, because he’s done lying to himself.

---

They end up walking up and down SoCo, Harry pulling them in and out of shops, loudly claiming how amazing all the places were. His excited smile and eagerness to explore it all makes Zayn happy, which is something new. He hasn’t gotten happy off of someone else’s high in so long. He even lets Harry drag him, begrudgingly, towards the infamous i love you so much. graffiti across the street to take pictures.

Zayn knew bring Harry to South Congress would not only brighten up Harry’s day, but also his. Zayn loves the shops that are tucked into each other, random shops for costumes or knick knacks, vintage clothes, people sitting in between open spots selling homemade jewelry, and the food truck park across the street that he knows will make Harry lose his shit.

After a few hours of Harry picking up anything and everything he could, forcing Zayn to try awkward and strange costumes in Lucy in Disguise with Diamonds with the excuse of Halloween coming up, Zayn pulls Harry across the street and thanks social media for giving him a heads up that Gourdough’s would be there.

The look on Harry’s face is priceless when he sees the menu.

“Is this—”

“A food truck that specializes in any and every kind of donut? Yes.”

“Donuts are my favorite...”

“I know,” Zayn mumbles, smiling shyly when Harry looks at him.

He then scowls when Harry nudges his hip enough for Zayn to stumble.

“You waited weeks to tell me about this?” Harry scolds, his eyes narrowing. He even has a finger threateningly in Zayn’s face that reminds him of his mother when she was trying to get them to clean their rooms.

Zayn shrugs, laughing when Harry turns on his heel and drags them towards the line. He’s excited, bouncing up and down as he keeps reading the menu, whispering loudly in Zayn’s ear about all the different types and how many he thinks he could stomach, and if Zayn had only brought him here sooner, he could have probably eaten them all.

“This is heaven,” Harry moans minutes later when they’ve managed to grab the end of a benched table. “This is everything I’ve ever wanted and more. Fried bread goes with everything, I swear. It’s the greatest gift to humans, ever.”

Zayn laughs, covering his mouth with one hand so his food doesn’t fly out. Harry’s donut is half gone, another waiting on the table near his elbow. Zayn tried to convince him that one was enough with how much was added to the donuts, toppings included, but Harry stubbornly shook his head, ordering two.

“Fuck, this is an orgasm. For sure. Grilled bananas and bacon together? Shit. Who’d a thought, huh?,” Harry moans again, and this time Zayn blushes, his fork pushing the peanut butter and jelly on his own donut around and creating a mess.

“Slow down,” Zayn mumbles, watching Harry take another bite when his mouth was already full.

They lapse into silence that’s interjected by Harry’s moans or praises. Zayn’s done halfway into his donut, and he’s resorted to tapping the toe of his boot against a leg of the bench. Last night and this morning is still on his mind, and it’s making his head spin with thoughts and worst case scenarios.

When he feels his guilt starting to tip over, he clears his throat and brings his eyes up to meet Harry’s.

“So, last night...”

Harry shrugs, wiping his hands on the tops of jeans. “No biggie, Zayn. Seriously.”

Zayn nods slowly. “I know, but still. I just...I just want to say thank you.”

“I didn’t do much, really—”

“Harry, you took care of me when I flipped out last night. I don’t know how many times I can say thank you.”

“Really though. It was fine. It is fine. If you need someone to talk to, I’m here,” Harry says, looking serious enough to make Zayn’s chest tighten.

“Thank you.”

Harry’s staring at him, bright-eyed and knowing, before his lips loosen into an easy grin.

“Just add it a list of crazy stories to tell your friends later in life. But, before that, we had fun, right? With the karaoke?” Harry asks, biting his lips. Zayn feels the need to pull it from under his teeth. Maybe with his own teeth. The thought sends heat blooming across his cheeks.

“Yeah. It was fun,” he says, ducking his head down to avoid the look on Harry’s face.

Sometimes the kid sends him the fondest looks, like Zayn is this cool, perfect older guy that has no flaw when in reality he can barely take care of himself. He often avoids the looks, because maybe it sends his mind tumbling, and maybe his heart racing, and, also, maybe it causes his palms to clam up. It turns Zayn into a cliché, and usually he hates it, but right now, peering up at Harry from the corner of his eyes, and remembering just how nice and sincere he’s been this whole time, Zayn sort of, maybe, doesn’t mind it at all.

“Maybe we can go again?” Harry asks, voice hesitant. “Just the two of us?”

“Yeah,” Zayn replies quickly with a strong nod. “We’ll stop for those tacos on the way, too.”

Harry grins at him, reaching across the table to squeeze Zayn’s wrist in appreciation. They spend the rest of their time still touching, heads ducked together, whispering random things about their families or school.

---

Zayn and Harry fall into a routine after that weekend.

They are always at Zayn’s apartment, studying in the living room with some show playing in the background. Harry doesn’t leave Zayn even when he’s moody and frustrated from practicing for the upcoming show. Harry thinks he’s sly whenever he sets his phone near Zayn, but Zayn knows he’s recording him, even when he’s just messing around, playing whatever comes to mind. Zayn ends up getting first chair in his section, and he celebrates it with Louis and Niall who throw a small party for everyone in the symphony. He can’t keep his eyes off of Harry the entire night, tipsy and happy, and when they end up cuddled on Niall’s shitty couch, he finds himself burrowing his face into Harry’s sweater without any care.

Harry sometimes shows up at Blanton and follows Zayn around the museum, reading the informative plates near the pieces with different voices that have both of them laughing so hard, receiving glares from other people.

There are nights when Zayn’s holed up in the library, his stress and frustration mounting so high that he’s ignoring everything and everyone all day just to study and do coursework. Those nights Harry shows up with a bag of fast food and large 40 oz. sodas to keep their energy up. They work quietly together, which is strange and unusual from their normally loud conversations, but Zayn likes this too. He likes working side by side with Harry, their arms touching and causing the hair on Zayn’s arm to rise. He also likes the small looks they share.

On the weekends, Zayn shows Harry around the city, taking him to his favorite spots. They use their student IDs to ride the bus, stopping every few streets. Harry drags him to odd shops and tries to convince him to go kayaking with him on the river—Zayn refuses to. Zayn takes Harry to his favorite vinyl shop on the other end of 6th, and the excitement on Harry’s face has him itching to lean over and kiss him. He doesn’t of course, but he allows himself to hold Harry’s hand, a new habit that’s becoming his favorite. When they’re done for the day and don’t have a party to go to, Harry drags Zayn into a bar or small venue, because in the City of Live Music, there is always a show to catch. They always end up tipsy and sprawled out on Zayn’s bed, talking in hushed whispers so they won’t wake up Liam' girlfriend.

Zayn’s learning to ignore the texts from Ben that litter his messages. They were frequent before, but now they’re sprinkled here and there, some more needy sounding than others. He usually deletes them without looking before shooting a text to Harry asking him to hang out.

It isn’t how Zayn thought the year would start off as. It’s somehow better.

---

Zayn’s daadi’s birthday is at the end of October.

It slips his mind, and it’s not until his mother is FaceTiming him the weekend before that he’s reminded of the small party they’re throwing for his grandmother.

His phone starts ringing during an argument with Harry over what to watch on Netflix, and he excuses himself from the living room to step outside onto the balcony.

Zayn remembers how much he misses his family when Safaa and Waliyah are fighting to fit into the frame with their mother, their high pitched voices yelling in Urdu and English until their mom is shushing them with threats to ban them out of the room if they don’t quiet down. Zayn’s always been close to his family, but listening to them talk about what he’s missed, how much Safaa is progressing in her piano lessons, Waliyah’s amazing Pre-SAT scores, and how their dad has finally taken a liking to Doniya’s new boyfriend makes Zayn’s heart ache for the familiarity of his home and the warmth only his parents could provide when they’re all sat together on the old, small couch in the living room, watching one of Zayn’s mom’s soap operas.

He’s so lost in watching his mom talk about the newest recipe she’s tried out that he doesn’t realize Harry has joined him. The kid sits across from, back against the railing. Harry is watching Zayn with one of those fond looks, and Zayn only realizes how much he’s blushing and smiling when his mother stops talking and points it out.

His family’s aware of Zayn’s likeness for girls and boys. They had sat down and talked to him, comforting him with reassurance and love when he came out to them in high school. Sometimes he forgets to thank the universe for giving him such amazing parents.

So, he doesn’t feel anything other than the usual embarrassment at being caught by a parent when his mother demands to see who Zayn’s smiling at.

Harry’s polite and enthusiastic when he shuffles over to sit next to Zayn. He’s pressed up against Zayn’s side in order to fit the frame, which causes his mom to smirk and raise her eyebrows at Zayn, causing Harry to laugh and Zayn to groan.

Harry takes over the conversation, keeping Trisha Malik engaged and laughing at his own stories of times he screwed up in the kitchen. Zayn’s mother instantly takes a liking to Harry, and Zayn can’t help but watch their interaction with a fond smile of his own, a good nervous and excited feeling in his belly. He hooks his ankle over Harry’s, shuffling closer to him when a breeze passes. For the most part, he stays quiet, interjecting with comments or snorts whenever Harry tries to praise his own baking. He’s good, but not Trisha Malik good, and that has Harry offended and pouting while Zayn’s mom watches them with an amused grin.

That’s how Zayn’s dad finds all of them, taking the spot of his sisters to greet Harry and tell Zayn how much he misses him. Zayn’s smile drops a little, because he knows he’s been ignoring going home for a weekend and half-heartedly squeezing in a short phone call here and there.

“Daadi’s birthday is coming up,” his father says. “Tum ahray ho, na?”

Zayn’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise then drop down with his frown at having forgotten his grandmother’s birthday. His entire family gathers at Zayn’s house where the women usually overcook, the men huddle around the t.v. to watch cricket, and his cousins lounge in the garage or backyard. When Yaser Malik asks Zayn if he’s coming, Zayn’s immediate answer is yes. But, when he suggests bringing Harry along with a wide smile and knowing look, Zayn’s hesitant.

He doesn’t know where Harry stands with the idea of meeting his entire family or being thrown into chaos that is a Pakistani get together. His aunties complain and talk too much, his uncles make uncomfortable comments about everything, and his cousins are quick to reveal anything and everything about Zayn, embarrassing or not. But, seeing a white boy amidst them will probably have them climbing each other to talk to him and ask him everything and anything, no shame whatsoever.

“Um,” he begins, looking over at Harry who is smiling and nodding. “Do you want to come?”

“I’d love to come,” Harry answers, looking at the screen where Zayn’s parents are smiling excitedly instead of at Zayn. Harry’s fingers come to tangle with Zayn’s though, squeezing their palms hard twice before staying latched to Zayn.

“It’s going to a shit show,” Zayn says later when they’re laying together in Zayn’s bed, the sounds of some band Harry recently discovered playing lowly from Zayn’s laptop. There always has to be music playing, Harry claims. A song for every scene and moment in life. Zayn’s gotten used to it over the weeks. Harry had followed Zayn upstairs after the call, crawling into Zayn’s bed. Zayn didn’t tell him to leave.

“I don’t mind,” Harry whispers, turning his body towards Zayn’s. Their ankles are hooked around one another again, but their hands stay apart. “Your family seems fun and interesting.”

“They’re too much sometimes,” Zayn snorts.

“All families are.”

“They’re not going to leave you alone.”

“That’s fine. I love attention.”

“They’ll ask you strange questions. Like, dumb stereotypical questions about you being white. Like, if you all take Christmas card photos, or have a ranch, or how you feel about Obama, or some shit. They have no filter, and they’re too damn curious.”

“That’s fine. I love questions.”

“They’ll overfeed you because you’re the guest. If you tell them no, they’ll feel offended.”

“I love eating.”

“Have fun nursing a stomachache all night if you don’t tell them no.”

“But they’ll feel offended.”

“And you’ll never leave the bathroom.”

“I love Indian food though.”

“Pakistani food. It’s similar. Pretty much the same, really. But, don’t say Indian. My uncles will go into the whole India versus Pakistan debate, and everyone will be in a bad mood.”

“Noted.”

“My sisters will probably attach themselves to you all weekend. They do that to all my friends.”

“We’ll take them out somewhere. I’m sure they miss hanging with you.”

“Yeah. Look,” Zayn starts, rubbing his fingers together. “You don’t have to do this. It’s fine. I can tell them you were busy with school or some shit.”

“Zayn,” Harry whispers, quiet but strong. He reaches over to grab his fingers. “Stop that. It’ll be fine. I can handle it.”

“Yeah?” Zayn breathes, moving closer to Harry until their shoulders are pushed together, their sleeves bunching up.

“I promise. If they’re anything like you, they’ll be amazing.”

Harry’s so close, too close, his breath hitting Zayn’s face, and Zayn knows he can lean in, kiss him, and Harry probably won’t mind, because the kid’s always the one reaching for Zayn, pushing at the boundary between friendship and more. He doesn’t though, choosing to remain still while Harry stares at him, eyes bright even in the dark. Harry licks his lips and swallows, and Zayn’s fixes his eyes on the way his Adam’s apple bobs, his own throat going dry.

“Zayn—”

“We should sleep. Got practice tomorrow,” Zayn interrupts, squeezing his eyes shut, as if it’ll distract him from Harry.

“Y-Yeah. Okay. Goodnight, Zayn.”

“Night, Harry.”

---

Zayn tosses his used and abused duffle bag into the trunk of his ’97 Camry. It lands amongst the trash and junk he has collecting back there, but he could care less, shutting it and trailing his hand over the dents that decorate his car until he’s at the front. He doesn’t mind driving the old thing. It’s dented in places, the paint is chipping, and the front decal is missing, but it runs fine and the stereo system and air conditioner work. So, he deals with it. He doesn’t drive much in the city anyway, and he only really uses it to commute between school and home.

He feels a small blush of embarrassment when Harry joins him, knowing how wealthy Harry’s family is, but he pushes it away when Harry treats it like it’s no deal. Harry tosses his bag into the backseat and eagerly slides into the passenger seat, reaching for the cord that connects to Zayn’s tape player and plugs his phone in.

“I made the perfect playlist!” Harry says when Zayn’s starting the car and adjusting his mirrors.

“None of that depressing shit.”

“Oh, c’mon. You like some of that stuff. Admit it.”

“If i’m going to be stuck driving with 35’s traffic with someone whining in my ears, I am going to leave you on the side of the road.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“I’m serious,” Zayn growls, tossing a look at Harry when he pulls onto the main street and heads for the highway.

Harry rolls his eyes, huffing. “Well, it’s not. Okay. I knew you’d complain, so I kept it classic. For the most part.”

“Like Chopin?” Zayn asks, surprised. Maybe Louis, Niall, and him have been rubbing off on Harry. He is always at practice or with Zayn, so maybe he is beginning to realize that maybe Morrissey isn’t exactly the greatest musician of all time.

Harry snorts. “No. I meant like rock. Classic rock.”

“Okay. That’s fine.”

“This is Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” reworked by Trent Razor and Atticus Ross. Karen O’s singing. They remixed it for the soundtrack for The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. It’s brilliant.”

The song starts of with a slow build, but then jumps right in, Karen O’s sultry voice crooning through Zayn’s speakers. It has him bobbing his head, and when he glances at Harry, he smiles softly from how proud Harry looks, excitedly bobbing his own head. The song ends quickly since it’s short, but Harry’s already playing another song.

Mick Jagger’s voice blares nice and loud, and Zayn grins, remembering that the Stones were Harry’s favorite band.

“You’re really into music, huh?” Zayn asks.

“So are you, Mr. First Chair.”

Zayn blushes. “But, that’s different.”

“Not really,” Harry points out, settling back into his seat so he can prop his legs on the dashboard. Zayn thinks he must be uncomfortable with his long legs bent, but the kid looks completely fine.

“So, you really want to be making music for movies one day, then?”

Harry grins. “More than anything. A movie is nothing without the score, y’know? Would Jaws be even a bit terrifying if there wasn’t that scary-ass burst of music that played each time something was gonna happen? Nope. Would Bender's fist pump in The Breakfast Club still be epic if "Don't You Forget About Me" by Simple Minds wasn't playing in the background? Hell no. Movies would be so boring and silent without the music. It’s what makes people feel, yeah? Music makes people feel.”

“Yeah,” Zayn whispers, his smile matching Harry’s.

He knows what music does and how much it means to people like them, and Harry being so passionate about music, about an integral part of Zayn’s life, means a lot. They’re alike more than he would have thought they’d be when he first spotted him, post-sex and too inquisitive at his front door, but Harry’s the type of person Zayn’s been waiting to meet all his life, whether he knew it or not. Someone that can so easily connect with you and be attuned to your thoughts and behavior. Someone that you see and feel that sudden rush in your blood. Someone that makes you close your eyes and recognize that calm, deep, content feeling in your chest that you feel when you’re home. Harry’s an anchor that Zayn has somehow tethered himself to. He’s been so lost in himself that he forgot how it felt to be grounded.

Harry’s become the overplayed song on the radio you pretend to hate but actually love.

---

They end up singing loudly and dancing to Harry’s music the hour and some that it takes to get to Zayn’s house.

Zayn felt nice letting go like that. There is something so natural and therapeutic about driving down the highway with your music blasting, windows rolled down, and someone screeching familiar lyrics with you. He forgets about his upcoming concert, the amount of homework waiting on his desk back at his apartment, and even the unanswered texts from Ben that are growing. It’s just Zayn and Harry in this wrinkle of time feeling so alive in only the way combination of good music and the rush of driving fast can create.

They reach Zayn’s house around nine, having left late because of classes and then getting stuck in traffic until they reached the city’s outer limits.

Zayn’s house is a two story house that sits next to similar looking houses in an ordinary and vague suburban neighborhood. He parks the car on the curb so his parents have no difficulty leaving in the morning if they need to.

They grab their bags, and Zayn leads them towards the fence instead of the front door. No one sits at the front of the house since it’s where the formal dining and living room that’s saved for guests, and if any of them are caught with shoes on that can ruin his mom’s precious carpet, they’re done for. Their house might not be extravagant, and they might have to adjust with some many people living in the house with limited bedrooms, but it’s the home Zayn’s father brought for his mother with hard earned money. If having the house clean and set the way his mother wants it makes her happy, then they’ll keep their complaints to themselves.

“Sorry. Mom throws a fit if you dirty the front,” he says, unlocking the backyard door that opens into the kitchen.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not even that big or special. But, she feels like she needs a separate place for guests. Like the houses in Pakistan. She’s always trying to impress her even now.”

Harry chuckles.

The kitchen light is on when they make it inside. He can the dramatic yells of a soap opera from the den that’s on the other side of the wall.

“Ammi?”

“Zayn? You’re home?” he hears his mother shout before she’s quickly making her way into the kitchen.

He drops his bag just in time to wrap his arms around his mother. She’s whispering how much she missed him, and how he should have told her he’d be late, and how his shirt smells so she’ll have to do laundry first thing in the morning. Zayn laughs, pulling away from his mother as his sisters scramble down the stairs to have their turn to hug him. Their voices are loud and high, and he swears they all grew in height since he last saw them. Zayn can smell the familiar scents of spices as he hears his mom reheat the food after greeting Harry with a hug, and he doesn’t remember why he put off visiting home for so long.

They sit at the kitchen table while Zayn and Harry eat the food Trisha has reheated for them. Zayn’s glad for once the questions are directed at Harry instead of him, so he can eat with limited interruption. They’re all giggling at the way Harry struggles to fold the naan to scoop up some of the curry when Zayn’s father joins them. It warms Zayn heart in a way he’s not sure he’s felt before watching Harry in his house laughing with his family. When they catch each other’s eyes, the smile Harry sends him is shy compared to his usual grin.

They’re finally making their way up to Zayn’s old room after he convinces everyone how tired they are. His room is the same as he left it. His mother is a cleaner, so the room is neater than Zayn’s apartment, but it’s organized the same it’s always been.

“You’re gonna have to sleep in here with me. We don’t have any guest rooms,” Zayn says, dropping his bag on the floor and then lying down on the bed. He sighs from how good it feels to finally be lying down after such a long day.

Harry joins him. Their legs hang off the end, but their heads are next to each other while they stare at the ceiling.

“Don’t mind,” Harry mumbles. “We share anyways.”

Zayn nods. They stay like that for some time. Harry’s breathing is slow next to him, but he knows the kid is awake because his fingers keep brushing up and down Zayn’s upturned palm.

“Um. Thanks for coming again.”

“I like your family.”

“Sorry they kept asking questions.”

“It was cute.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, and Zayn feels it on his neck. “They’re good people.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re good too, Zayn. So good.”

Zayn turns to look at him. He’s close and staring right back at him. He can smell the tea his mom made them earlier on Harry’s breath and see the cracks in his chapped lips. He wants to lean in and taste him and soothe the cracks with the swipe of his own tongue. Zayn’s never felt the urge to kiss Harry more than he does now in his childhood bedroom. He doesn’t mind the sounds of his parents’ show or Doniya’s blowdryer from the bathroom across the hall. He doesn’t mind that someone could barge in at any given moment. Laying next to Harry feels so natural and right, and he’s still feeling a natural high from their short road trip and seeing his family. So, he doesn’t think much when he leans in and brushes his lips against Harry’s.

It’s not a kiss. Not really. Just a brush of their lips, but he hears Harry’s breath hitch, and when he pulls away, Harry’s smiling at him, large and bright, and the feeling Zayn gets is so right and nice, that he knows he this is what he wants. He wants this natural high that he gets from being with Harry, and he wants someone that treats him right. He wants what his parents have—unconditional love. He wants someone that knows him inside and out and isn’t turned off from his faults. He wants someone his family is proud to see Zayn with, and he wants someone that he won’t hate himself for wanting every fiber of. He wants Harry.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” Zayn whispers back.

Harry’s biting his lip like he always does, and this time Zayn reaches forward and pulls it from under his teeth with his fingers. Harry is watching him when he traces the grooves in his lips with the curve of his own fingers. He feels a swoop of anticipation and excitement in his belly when Harry’s tongue pokes out and touches the callous of his index finger for a second before disappearing again.

Zayn’s finger leaves a wet trail when he moves it to the corner of Harry’s mouth and down to his jaw. Harry’s still watching him with hooded eyes, and he’s sure his own match him.

“Zayn.”

The sound of his name vibrates Harry’s throat where Zayn’s fingers are now, brushing back and forth against his Adam’s apple. Harry’s voice is husky and needy and Zayn swallows from the sound of it.

“Yeah?”

“Can I please kiss you?”

Zayn’s eyes snap up to Harry’s. He watches him for a few seconds as they both breathe heavily. Then he nods.

Harry’s lips are on him within a second, pushing softly yet firmly against Zayn’s. He wraps his hand around the curve of Harry’s neck and pulls them closer together, clenching his legs together when Harry’s moan falls into Zayn’s mouth when they deepen the kiss.

It’s wet and hot, and Harry’s mouth is so warm when his heavy tongue slides inside. He tastes like tea and the gum he’d been chewing earlier. Harry’s hand is on Zayn’s waist, squeezing hard, and the other is holding Zayn’s jaw, directing the kiss. He let’s Harry be in control, feeling his want for more buildup when Harry pushes forward with a groan. Zayn can feel Harry in his jeans, brushing against Zayn’s thigh and growing. It makes his own cock twitch in interest.

Zayn pulls away before he ends up pushing Harry onto his back so he can put Harry’s cock in his mouth. He can’t do that right now. Not when his sisters could walk in any minute. Not when they’ll have to hide their moans, and Zayn’ll have to restrain himself.

“Zayn—”

“Not right now,” Zayn breathes, opening his eyes to see Harry flushed and turned on.

“But—”

Zayn shakes his head. He leans forward to kiss Harry softly—a sorry and a promise of more. When he pulls away, Harry looks ready to jump him.

“Later,” Zayn mumbles, nodding his head. “Later.”

“Okay.”

They remain lying on the bed. It’s quiet aside from the noises outside his door. Harry’s hands are wrapped around Zayn’s waist, their ankles hooked around each other. Zayn is almost asleep. Harry’s weight on top of him is warm and comforting, lulling him to sleep. It’s as quiet as it can be and perfect, and Zayn feels his exhaustion catching up to him.

He’s almost out when Harry moves on top of him, shifting himself and elbowing Zayn in the process.

“Harry,” Zayn snaps.

“Sorry, sorry.”

Zayn closes his eyes again.

“It’s just so quiet.”

“Harry, please. Go to sleep.”

“It’s creepy, Zayn.”

“Shut up.”

“Does it not bother you?”

“You’re bothering me.”

“You didn’t mind me earlier when your tongue was in my mouth.”

“Fuck. Harry. Just be quiet.”

Harry shifts again, and Zayn’s groaning now, pushing Harry away from so he can curl up on his side without the threat of Harry’s elbows digging into him.

“Zayn,” Harry whines when Zayn’s back is to him. “Zayn, can I please put something on?”

“Will you shut up if you do?”

“Yeah.”

Zayn grunts, and Harry’s quick to get up and walk over to where his phone is sitting on Zayn’s old desk. He hears Stevie Nicks crooning a few minutes later, and then Harry’s climbing back into bed and wrapping himself around Zayn.

“Are you happy now?” Zayn asks when Harry settles down and buries his face into the space between Zayn’s shoulder blades.

“Mhm. I need to make another playlist tomorrow.”

“For what?”

“For when we fuck each other’s brains out.”

Zayn starts laughing, his body shaking even further when Harry joins him.

“You sure it’s going to happen?”

Harry nods against Zayn’s back. “Oh, yeah.”

Zayn just shakes his head and pushes his face into his pillow with a smile.

---

Zayn’s family loves Harry.

He’s pulled away from his side the second his aunts and uncles pour into his house. Zayn’s both amused and horrified. He watches Harry surrounded by his aunts in the kitchen after they fed everyone and sent the men and children out of the kitchen. Harry is an exception and held back. Zayn tries not to laugh when his Aunt Nisha tries to push the tray of chicken biryani in front of Harry who looks like he’s on the verge of puking up all the food he keeps accepting.

“Oh, no. No, thank you,” Harry laughs uneasily, pushing it away from him.

“You like it though?”

“It’s delicious. Amazing, really.”

“Then eat more.”

Zayn decides to step in when his daadi is pushing a ladoo into Harry’s mouth, causing the boy to almost choke as he struggles to chew and swallow the sweet.

“Okay, that’s enough,” he says, reaching for Harry. His aunts and grandmother send Zayn a look as if he’s being rude for pulling Harry away. “Mom,” Zayn groans, looking at his mother who had been through this. “Please.”

Trisha distracts them with the latest gossip she heard while picking up the kids from the mosque. Apparently, someone’s daughter or another is getting engaged. Zayn could care less, but he’s grateful for his mother when he manages to pull Harry out of the kitchen and outside. His cousins are in the corner of the backyard huddled together in a circle.

“You okay?” he asks Harry who looks like he’s pain.

“My stomach is about to burst. I’m so glad I didn’t wear a belt.”

Zayn laughs, nudging his shoulder into Harry’s.

“I told you to tell them when you were done.”

“They just forced it onto my plate anyway!” Harry shouts, exasperated.

“Desi women for you,” he mutters amusingly. “Guests are meant to be treated like royalty.”

“It’s nice but so exhausting,” Harry complains, rubbing his stomach. “I can’t feel my legs.”

It’s dark outside, the only light being the one hanging above the backyard door, and when he glances at his cousins, he notices they’re too busy to look over and tease him. He leans in and kisses Harry’s cheek.

“Thank you,” he mumbles against Harry’s skin before pulling back.

Harry’s smiling at him, and he responds with a nod and a squeeze of his arm.

They haven’t stopped smiling since they woke up this morning. Zayn’s never woken up to gentle kisses against his back, but he found himself loving it. Harry’s lips brushed up and down Zayn’s back, going over the knobs that make up his spine and whispering along to The Rolling Stone’s “Gimme Shelter” that was playing. Zayn stayed still, relishing in the feel of Harry against him and the warmth that surrounded the both of them under the covers. When he finally turned around, Harry greeted him with a kiss and whisper of his name. They ended up talking in whispers and sneaking in kisses until Waliyah was knocking on the door and telling them to come down for breakfast.

When they reach Zayn’s cousins, they find bottles of liquor being passed around. Zayn raises an eyebrow at Harry who only shrugs and grabs the bottle of whiskey, pulling from it with the cheers of Zayn’s cousins encouraging him. Drinking is an open secret in Zayn’s family. They aren’t supposed to drink, but everyone knows they do. As long as they don’t misbehave or drink in front of the family, nothing is said.

Zayn’s feeling buzzed and happy when he hears Safaa shouting from the door that everyone is leaving. He makes sure to hug his cousins who he’s missed, promising them they’d all go do something fun when he’s back for Thanksgiving. His cousins manage to drag Harry into the group hug, ruffling his curly hair and making him promise them he’d visit again because he’s a pretty chill guy. His oldest cousin winks at him, smirking and nodding her head at Harry like she knows what they really are to each other. She wiggles her eyebrows, and Zayn blushes, flipping her off.

His house is empty except for his parents who are helping his grandmother with bags of food. When Trisha spots them, she tells them Zayn’s sisters decided to spend the night at one of their aunts’ house and Doniya went to a friend’s house.

“We’re going to go drop daadi off, okay?” she says as his father grabs his car keys. “Lock up.”

Zayn’s just finished locking the door when he feels Harry press up against his back. His breath is hot and heavy in Zayn’s ear, and his fingers are quickly moving across Zayn’s hips and under his shirt.

“Harry,” Zayn groans, leaning his forehead against the door. His head is swimming from the whiskey but also from Harry’s lips sucking the side of his neck. He hisses when he feels teeth snag on his skin.

“Fuck,” Zayn hisses, feeling himself grow when Harry starts to slowly rock against Zayn’s ass. His mouth is now working on the underside of Zayn’s jaw, and Zayn feels himself struggling to stand up straight.

“Harry, Harry. Stop,” he says, batting at the hands moving up and down his sides.

“No one is here,” Harry mumbles. “Please, Zayn.”

Zayn pushes back against Harry, eliciting a moan from him that makes Zayn flush.

“My room,” Zayn groans when Harry’s cupping the front of his jeans.

They struggle to make it up the stairs. Harry’s tripping in front of Zayn, falling on every other step, and Zayn’s laughing too hard to see straight. They make it to Zayn’s room, and he manages to shut the door before Harry’s on him, capturing his lips in a rough kiss that tastes like whiskey and sugar.

“Want this,” he mutters against Zayn’s lips.

Harry’s palming Zayn’s front, and Zayn’s struggling to keep up with the kiss as he feels himself grow hard from the feel of Harry’s tongue and the whines leaving Harry’s mouth. He pushes his own hand down Harry’s jeans, feeling like he’s fourteen and doing this for the first time again. Harry hisses when Zayn’s fingers brush against him, and Zayn moans, feeling Harry’s cock pulsing and leaking when he rubs his thumb against the slit.

“Fuck! Fuck, Zayn,” Harry’s moaning, pulling his mouth away from Zayn’s and pressing his face into Zayn’s neck.

They drank earlier, but they aren’t drunk. They’re coherent enough to know what’s going on, and that pushes Zayn to drag Harry towards his bed. He pushes down on his shoulders until Harry’s sitting, and his hand slips out of his jeans. Harry’s looking up at him with confusion, but Zayn shakes his head, running a nervous hand through his own hair before taking off his shirt and dropping it onto the ground.

“Wanna blow you,” Zayn says, falling onto his knees, and he hears Harry moan, his hands already reaching for Zayn’s shoulders to pull him into a frenzied kiss. They kiss for a few minutes, Zayn leaning on Harry’s thighs for support until he thinks he’s got Harry worked up enough to pull away.

“You want this?” Zayn whispers, feeling excited and anxious at the same time as if Harry will start laughing and tell him no.

Harry’s nodding his head vigorously, hair flying off his shoulders. “God, yes. Anything. You don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” Zayn says before reaching for the zipper on Harry’s jeans.

They laugh as they struggle to get the too-tight jeans down Harry’s legs, his knee almost poking Zayn in the eye. Zayn cheers when he gets it over Harry’s thighs and knees after a few minutes. He looks up at Harry who is grinning down at him, flushed and bright-eyed. He makes sure he is watching when Zayn slowly pulls the rest of his jeans down, leaning down to tug them off of Harry’s foot. He kisses his calf, grinning when he hears Harry sigh before doing the same to the other leg.

“Zayn.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Zayn mumbles into Harry’s skin as he kisses his knees next, his hands sliding up his thighs and feeling the hairs that rise up on Harry’s skin in their wake.

His fingers curve around the waistband of Harry’s briefs, and he’s mouthing the warm bulge underneath the fabric when Harry’s batting him away with whine.

“Wait, wait.”

Zayn feels anxious as Harry pushes him away and stands up. He tries to figure out if he did something wrong. He thought they both wanted this. He thought Harry wanted him just as much as he’s been wanting him.

“What?” Zayn asks. He feels his heart pounding in his ears.

Harry’s breathing hard, trying to collect himself as he moves around the room. He comes back with his phone in his hand, music pouring from its speakers. He smiles sheepishly at Zayn and places it on the nightstand.

“I made that playlist earlier.”

Zayn feels himself grow hot with embarrassment. Of course Harry stills wants him. He just had to have his damn music. He glares at him playfully before tugging Harry back onto the bed.

“You’re so fucking dumb,” he says out loud, but it’s aimed at himself rather than Harry.

“Hey,” Harry protests.

Zayn cuts him off with a sharp kiss that he pulls away from before Harry can deepen it. Harry is panting above him as he trails his hands down his chest, scraping his fingernails against his nipples and earning a groan from Harry. Zayn feels himself growing excited from Harry’s responses, and they haven’t even done anything yet. He is mouthing at Harry’s stomach, his lips pulling at the soft flesh that is gathered around his belly button when he recognizes the song playing.

He pulls away, cocking his head to the side to make sure he hears correctly.

“The Weeknd?” he breathes, looking up from where Harry is smiling proudly at him.

“Y-Yeah. You always mention his music. I thought I’d check it out. I like it. Fits right now, yeah?”

Yeah, it does, and Zayn feels himself grin. Harry remembered, and he put it on his playlist, and yeah, it’s kind of really perfect for the moment. Zayn nips Harry’s hipbone in thanks, garnering a moan from Harry when his tongue soothes the blooming skin after.

“You don’t know what’s in store, but you know what you’re here for,” Zayn sings along, voice low and muffled against Harry’s skin as he moves lower down his body, stopping above the waistband of his briefs. He pulls down the waistband to press a kiss to Harry’s pubic bone, and he smirks when Harry’s hand is reaching for Zayn’s hair.

He pulls down the briefs more, scraping his teeth against the base of Harry’s cock before pulling away and tugging them off completely.

“I swear I’m right here. We’ll be good. I promise. We’ll be so good,” Zayn continues, reaching for the base of Harry’s cock and pulling gently.

“Zayn. Zayn, c’mon. Please,” Harry begs above him, his hands reaching for Zayn again.

He grabs one of his hand, intertwining it with his own and places it on top of Harry’s thigh. Harry’s other hand is in Zayn’s hair, fingernails scraping his scalp and causing Zayn to moan against the inside of Harry’s thigh. He finally lowers his mouth, licking the precome from the oozing head before wrapping his lips around him. He hears Harry moan loudly, and it gets Zayn off knowing he’s getting this boy, this beautiful and genuine boy off. He’s always gotten off getting others off, but the fact that it’s Harry makes Zayn almost reach for his own cock. He moans around Harry and feels Harry squeeze their joined hands tightly.

“Fuck. Zayn. Babe.”

Zayn wants to make this good for Harry. He wants him to come hard and remember it every time he hears the song play. He makes sure his tongue licks the veins and ridges of his cock, sucking hard and tightening his hand around Harry. His cock is pulsing in Zayn’s mouth, and Harry’s hips are thrusting low and slowly, but Zayn uses their joined hands to push down on Harry’s hip when he gets too excited. Zayn takes in a deep breath through his nose and lowers himself more, taking in as much as he can of Harry. He feels Harry tug on his hair sharply and squeeze their fingers painfully when his cock hits the back of Zayn’s throat.

“Fuck. Holy shit, Z-Zayn. Baby, you’re so good. Feels so good,” Harry’s panting above him, and Zayn flicks his eyes up to see Harry’s chest heaving, sweat shining on his skin. He is startled to see Harry staring right back at him. Eyes blown and lips swollen from biting down on them so hard.

“Your mouth. Your mouth. You’re so good at this.”

Zayn’s glad that he has had time to practice before Harry came along. He wants this to be good for him, and if he were to have met Harry when he was younger, there was no way he’d gotten this right. He continues to suck Harry, pulling away so he can slide his hand up and down Harry's cock as he licks him. He knows Harry’s about to come when he feels his thighs shake, the grip on their hands tightening enough for Zayn to wince.

“Babe, babe. I’m gonna come,” Harry whines. “Pull off.”

Zayn reaches down and fondles Harry’s balls, continuing to suck him. He hears Harry curse before he’s coming down Zayn’s throat in hot spurts. Zayn swallows it down, licking Harry’s sensitive crown before he completely pulls away and fall back on his heels.

Harry looks throughly fucked above him. He hass fallen back onto the bed, legs spread apart where Zayn just was. His chest is rising and falling quickly. Their hands are still locked together, and Zayn tries to loosen the grip, but Harry’s whining and tugging on Zayn’s hand.

The White Stripes’ “Hardest Button to Button” is playing when Zayn slides onto the bed. He noses Harry’s neck, not minding the sweat that’s gathered there.

“You okay?”

Harry cracks his eyes open. “I’m fucking great.”

Zayn laughs, blushing when Harry smirks at him.

“You were fucking amazing, Zayn,” Harry whispers, moving himself so that he’s on his side, facing Zayn.

“I think you crushed my hand.”

“Sorry about that,” Harry laughs, bring up their hands to kiss Zayn’s fingertips. Zayn grins when Harry cheekily licks his index finger.

“Better?”

“Yeah.”

“It was good, though. So good. Shit.”

Zayn’s satisfied. He sighs and puts his arm over his eyes, feeling overheated and exhausted himself. He can feel his hard cock in his jeans. He hears the front door open and the chatter of his parents. Fuck. He groans.

“Hey,” Harry whispers, leaning into Zayn’s side. “Let me take care of that, yeah?”

“It’s okay.”

“No, please. Let me.”

“Harry, you don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“But—”

“We’ll be quiet.”

Harry manages to return the favor a few minutes later, and Zayn keeps his face pressed into his pillow so his moans are drowned out.

---

Zayn and Harry are inseparable.

They were always together before, but now they’re almost impossible to separate, according to their friends. Zayn rolls his eyes when Liam teases him about Harry basically moving in with them when his own apartment is next door, but he knows Liam is only joking from the crinkle of his eyes and grin. He’s amused that Zayn went from finding Harry annoying to not being able to shut up about what Harry showed him the other day or how amazing he is. Louis and Niall only shrug when they catch Harry pinning Zayn to the wall of a practice room. They tell them they don’t care as long as they don’t have to walk into Harry about to go down on Zayn ever again. He doesn’t know what they officially are, neither one claiming or outwardly saying something, but they remain exclusive to one another, always seeking the other out.

Zayn continues to take Harry around the city, and Harry continues to sleep over. Only their sleepovers consist of the occasional blowjob or handjob, and their outings involve more romantic detours. It’s nothing pressured, and Harry willing holds his hand and kisses him in public—something Zayn hasn’t experienced in so long. It sends those nasty butterflies in his stomach fluttering.

Harry’s visits to Blanton now involve sneaking off to a dark corner or closed exhibit to make out like teenagers. Their library sessions start off with them studying and end up with Harry pinned to a stack of bookcases, Zayn’s lips wrapped around his cock. The weeks following the trip to Zayn’s house have been filled with constant touches, and Zayn feels himself opening up to Harry more, whispering to him in the middle the night in a post-sex haze about his biggest fears and wants. Harry indulges him with his own stories, brushing his hands up and down Zayn’s side until they’re both yawning from staying up and give into sleep.

Zayn’s grateful Harry puts up with him when his stress and anxiety cause him to freak out. Sometimes he forgets he has a sort-of-boyfriend who worries about him, and Zayn shuts off his phone and locks himself in a practice room, going over the Rachmaninov piece over and over until a new blister forms and he’s exhausted. He finds Harry sitting outside on the rickety staircase that leads to the second floor where their apartments are those nights. He looks worried and a bit angry when Zayn shows up in the middle of the night, but after shouting at Zayn about keeping his phone turned off, Harry is pulling Zayn into a firm hug. Zayn usually lets out a huge breathe, finding solace in burying his face into Harry’s neck before pulling him into his apartment and apologizing with a blowjob.

They haven’t had sex yet. Harry tries, always whining for Zayn to fuck him when they’re getting each other off, but Zayn doesn’t. When Harry asks about it later, Zayn just shrugs. He doesn’t want to rush into anything. He wants this for real. He wants Harry to be completely sure and not sex crazed when he asks. When he tells Harry this, he laughs and kisses Zayn, mumbling how good Zayn is to him. It makes Zayn blush and return kisses with vigor, and they usually end up trying to get off again.

Ben’s texts go from sporadic to constantly flooding his messages. Zayn doesn’t understand, but he swallows the lump in his throat whenever the name pops up on his screen, begging for Zayn to come over so he could bend him over his desk. Zayn feels disgusted when he reads one or two, and he deletes them immediately and avoids Harry, feeling guilty somehow. Harry eventually finds him on the first floor of the library, working on an essay, and they work quietly until the uneasy feeling passes over.

The hardest part is when they have to separate for Thanksgiving break.

Normal smirky, laughing Harry is pouty, moody, and glossy-eyed when Zayn drops him off at the airport. He had asked Zayn to join him in New York, but Zayn declined, feeling embarrassed and uneasy when Harry mentioned his parents wanting to buy them first class tickets. It’s not like he couldn’t buy his own ticket. He has money saved up, but spending an unnecessary amount on a ticket when he’ll just see Harry in a few days doesn’t seem worth it. He fears he’ll need it for an actual emergency. He tries not to grimace or give in when Harry whines the days leading up to him leaving. With a kiss and a promise of more later, Zayn watches Harry grudgingly check-in and disappear after security.

It feels nice to be home, but Zayn can’t help but think of Harry when he’s lying in his bed alone, rubbing his fingers. The memory of them together here the last time plays over and over, and he’s frustrated. There’s also the stress of the concert next week and finals the week after. He can feel his mind spinning with thoughts and horrible predictions, and he needs Harry. He hates how dependent he’s become when it comes to Harry, but Harry is the only one that can bring him back down and ground him when Zayn starts to freak out.

He’s reaching for his phone before he knows it.

Zayn:
You up?

Harry:
Just watching a movie. What’s up?

Zayn:
FaceTime?

Harry:
Yes!

Harry calls him a few seconds after Zayn receives his reply. When his face pops up, he’s grinning from ear to ear, face flushed and eyes bright.

“Hey,” Zayn sighs, smiling as Harry waves at him. “You alright?”

Harry nods his head. He’s walking, and Zayn sees a flash of blonde hair before Harry’s shutting a door.

“I’m good. Great really. Amazing now I see your face.” Zayn’s laughing. “How are you? I miss you!”

Harry’s smiling that fond smile, and Zayn pinches himself when he feels himself mimicking it.

“I’m alright. Have you been drinking?”

Harry giggles, nodding his head. “Gemma wanted to do a Harry Potter drinking game. The worst, really. Made it twenty minutes into Prisoner of Azkaban before we called it quits.”

Gemma? The blonde. His sister. Zayn smiles at that, remembering Harry complaining about not seeing his sister that often since he left for school.

“Glad you’re having fun,” Zayn sighs, leaning back into his bed as he watches Harry throw decorative pillows onto the ground before climbing into his own. He can hear the faint sounds of The Doors' "Touch Me" in the background, and he knows Harry must have turned on his stereo when he walked into the room.

“Would be funner if you’d come,” Harry says, pouting.

Zayn laughs uneasily, shaking his head. “C’mon, babe. You’ll see me in, like, three days.”

“So far away!”

“You can see me now,” Zayn counters, raising his eyebrows when Harry manages to pull his shirt off with one hand.

“Not the same,” Harry complains, sinking into his sheets. “Can’t touch you.”

“Harry,” Zayn groans as he sees Harry biting his lip, a smirk appearing when he sees Zayn worked up.

“Wanna have video sex?”

“Harry!”

“I’m serious!” Harry laughs before his eyes narrow. He licks his lips, and if Zayn were there, he’d have pinched him hard for pulling a move like this before licking Harry’s lips himself.

“C’mon. Zayn,” he whines. “Please.”

“No way.”

“It’ll be fun, c’mon.”

“No,” Zayn says, thinking about how awkward it’ll be if his parents walked in.

Harry’s quiet, staring at Zayn, only visible from chest up. When he hears him sigh, Zayn sits up, glaring.

“Are you really touching yourself right now?”

Harry grins, giggling as he begins to lightly pant, a blush creeping up his neck.

“Feels so good, Zayn. Wish you were here. Want your mouth.”

“Harry,” Zayn whispers harshly, lowering the volume on his phone. He is a mix of mortified and turned on as he watches Harry continue to touch himself, the noises sounding obscene over the phone.

“Do it. Feels good, babe. Promise,” Harry groans, and then Zayn’s getting a view of his cock as Harry flips the camera on the phone. His hand is wrapped tightly around himself, flushed and wet, and Zayn feels himself growing hard as he watches precome leak out of the head before Harry’s swiping at it and continuing to jack off.

“Fuck,” Zayn hisses.

He thought calling Harry would calm him down. That they’d talk and maybe flirt a little. He didn’t think his anxiety would rise because he was about to give into having sex over FaceTime and risk his parents walking in. Zayn has his hands down his pants in no time when he hears Harry moan extra loud. Fuck it.

“Harry,” Zayn grits out, his hand moving quickly over himself to catch up. “Wanna see you. All of you.”

“O-Okay.”

He watches the screen go from black to a view of the ceiling before he sees a side view of Harry. He must have propped the phone against a pillow.

“Wanna see you too,” Harry moans, looking straight into the camera as he stops for a second.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Zayn puts his on his nightstand, propping it against his lamp before he’s sitting up, legs spread so Harry has a good view. He watches Harry moan when he starts working himself again, and he bites down on his lips to keep his own moans from leaking out.

“You look so good, babe,” Harry huffs. “So good. Want to kiss you. Wish you were here.”

“Me too, Harry,” Zayn pants. “Want to fuck you.”

Harry stops, turning his body so his front is to the camera.

“Fuck. Really?”

Zayn’s feeling overwhelmed, sex crazed, and about to come. So, he moans out, “Yes. Want to feel you inside me. Or me inside you.”

“Shit,” Harry whispers, his hand moving again. “Babe, shit. Shit. Yeah. Finally.”

Zayn laughs. “Finally?”

“Been wanting it since I saw you outside your door the first time,” Harry confesses.

Zayn can feel it now, the edge of his release. He’s almost there. He wants Harry too. Wants them together for real. It’s been so long since he’s had actual sex.

“H-Harry? Can you touch yourself for me?” Zayn whispers, watching Harry closely as the boy’s eyes go wide.

“I am,” Harry groans.

“Touch your hole.”

Harry’s moaning, but he’s nodding. He spits on his fingers before trailing them down to his puckered hole, and Zayn feels a flash of heat when he watches Harry work a finger into himself. He doesn’t know when he became so bold, especially since he thought this entire thing was ridiculous when Harry suggested it. He’s quickly whispering Harry on, working himself fast and hard as Harry works himself up to two fingers. Harry’s a withering mess within a few minutes.

“I’m close,” Harry breathes out.

“Babe, you look amazing. Look at you. So hot. Come for me,” Zayn groans.

Harry comes all over himself, and Zayn follows, blocking out the loud moan with his other hand. When he manages to catch his breath, he takes off the shirt he’s wearing and wipes himself before tossing it onto the floor. He pulls his briefs up and grabs his phone before lying down.

Harry looks blissed out tucked in bed.

“Hey, you,” Harry whispers when Zayn finally shuts the lamp off and rests his head on his pillow.

“Hey, boozy.”

Harry laughs, his voice hoarse.

“That was fun.”

Zayn nods.

“It was.”

“Wish you were here for real though.”

“Me too.”

“I can’t wait to see you.”

Zayn blushes, hiding his grin when Harry smiles fondly.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“We’re going to fuck for real when I get back.”

“You’re crazy,” Zayn laughs, feeling a swoop of excitement.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Don’t act like you can’t wait for it either.”

They end up talking about Harry’s final project for a class of his. He’s been mixing a few of the sounds he’s recorded over the semester. It’s a surprise, he tells Zayn. Zayn let’s him go when Harry begins to snore over the phone. He ends the call and tucks his phone underneath his pillow. He falls asleep right after he realizes Harry had managed to calm him down after all.

---

They finally have sex the night before Zayn’s concert.

He’s wired from practice which went amazing that night. Zayn didn’t mess up, and when their instructor praised him after, he couldn’t stop grinning. He’s actually looking forward to tomorrow now.

Harry’s waiting for him outside the auditorium, having sneaked into rehearsal like usual. He grabs for Zayn the minute he spots him, pulling him into a crushing hug that he ends with a wet kiss to Zayn’s cheek.

“Babe, you were amazing!” Harry shouts in his ear, knowing firsthand how hard Zayn worked on his parts.

When they pull apart, Louis and Niall wolf whistle at them, clapping them on the back of their shoulders before heading towards the exit.

“Let’s celebrate,” Harry says, pulling Zayn into his side. His violin case awkwardly hits Harry whenever he takes a step, but the kid looks like he doesn’t mind.

“Harry—”

“No, no. C’mon, we’re going to go eat somewhere, and then I’m going to worship those very talented fingers of yours.” He wiggles his eyebrows, and Zayn snorts, pushing him away from him and earning a whine from Harry.

Zayn fixes his case, strapping it properly over his shoulders as they start walking off campus. Harry ends up dragging Zayn to a small Thai restaurant not far from campus. They end up sharing a large plate of Pad Thai, ankles hooked around each other underneath the table, Zayn’s violin case resting against their booth. It’s casual and nice, and Zayn’s spirits are high when they're walking hand in hand back from the bus stop towards their apartments.

He usually feels nervous the night before a concert. Most of time he’s locked away in his room on the verge of a breakdown and someone has to calm him down enough to sleep. His mother always made him a cup of hot milk with honey. Liam used to get him to run around the block with him to tire him out. Harry doesn’t have to do much, Zayn realizes. Just being around him has him feeling calmer.

They’re discussing what time Zayn’s family will arrive into the city tomorrow. Harry’s going to be sitting with them tomorrow. He hasn’t told his parents about what exactly Harry and him are, but he’s sure his mom figured it out when she woke them up, twinkle in her eye, the morning they left to go back to school.

“It’s formal wear,” Zayn reminds him once they’re in his apartment. He looks around for Liam, but he must be out because it’s too quiet.

“I know, I know, Zayn. You told me a billion times.”

“I just don’t want you to show up in ripped jeans and your half-buttoned shirts.”

“Hey! You don’t mind my clothes when you’re whispering how hot I look in them.”

Zayn rolls his eyes as he makes his way to his room to put his case away, Harry following.

“I’m usually taking them off then.”

Harry makes some noise at the back of his throat in protest. Zayn turns around to find him watching Zayn, shoulder pressed against the doorframe. He looks like he’s thinking about something serious. When he catches Zayn watching him, he pushes off the frame and walks over.

“You’re going to be so amazing tomorrow,” Harry murmurs, reaching for Zayn.

Zayn shrugs, sinking into Harry’s arms. He sighs, pressing his face into Harry’s chest.

“Babe, you’ll be so amazing, really. I’m going to get so worked up watching my hot boyfriend slay it on stage. You’ll have to stop me from jumping you in front of your family.”

Zayn pulls back to look up at Harry, and, fuck, that damn fond smile. They have never labeled their relationship, but Zayn feels his blood rush when Harry says boyfriend.

“Boyfriend?” Zayn asks.

Harry grins, reaching for Zayn’s face.

“Boyfriend,” he coos, lips brushing over Zayn’s. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Zayn groans, connecting their lips properly.

Harry’s laughing against his mouth, and the kiss is messy, wet and all teeth because they’re stumbling towards Zayn’s bed, but it still excites him. He’s pushed down onto the bed by Harry who is quick to climb into Zayn’s lap, long limbs on either side of his thighs. Harry’s hair is hanging around their faces. His ridiculous long hair that he refuses to cut. His boyfriend’s ridiculous hair. Zayn doesn’t mind it so much. It gives him something to grab, and he does so, fisting a large amount of it behind Harry’s head so it doesn’t interrupt their kiss.

“Babe,” Harry’s groaning against Zayn’s lips. He moving slowly in Zayn’s lap, brushing the bulge that’s growing in Zayn’s jeans. “Babe. Zayn...”

Zayn knows what he’s going to ask, because he’s been mentioning it since he stepped off his plane and walked into Zayn’s waiting arms. He mentioned it when Zayn pinned him down when they reached home that afternoon, his mouth desperate to be wrapped around Harry’s cock. Harry’s staring at him like he’s the stars and moon and everything more when he pulls back, and Zayn only has time to groan, low and deep before he’s nodding his head, reaching for Harry’s shirt.

They remove their clothes slowly, taking time to remove each item. Zayn kisses Harry’s chest, leaving a trail of spit as he works his tongue over every bump and ridge. He wants this. Wants it so badly with this incredible boy. This incredibly boy that’s his boyfriend. He doesn’t realize he’s been mumbling nonsense until Harry’s pushing off from his lap to stand.

Zayn’s used to this by now. He watches with amusement as Harry slides his phone out of his jeans. A few moments later, music is spilling from its speakers. Except it’s not anything off Harry’s playlist.

“My Rachmaninov piece?” Zayn breathes, watching Harry unbutton his jeans.

Harry smiles shyly, stepping out of his jeans. He grabs Zayn’s calves and pulls him to the edge of the bed before falling to his knees.

“I thought it’d be appropriate for now. Watching you all semester has got me worked up,” he murmurs against Zayn’s stomach, placing kisses to the trail of hair that disappears into Zayn’s waistband.

It’s not Zayn’s single playing or even his symphony. It’s actually a professionally recorded symphony playing, but his heart soars just from the thought that Harry wants to have sex, proper sex, to this piece. He runs a hand slowly up Harry’s face, tilting his head to get a good look at him. Harry smiles knowingly back, puckering his lips to kiss Zayn’s thumb before he reaches over to get the zipper of Zayn’s jeans down.

“Want you to think of this when you play tomorrow, okay? Think of this.”

Zayn groans, deep and rough, nodding his head.

Harry’s slow in getting Zayn’s jeans off, stopping every few inches to places kisses down Zayn’s legs. He nips Zayn’s ankle when he finally gets them off, tossing the jeans behind him.

“You’re so beautiful and amazing,” he whispers into Zayn’s thigh. “I’m so lucky.”

There’s that excited swoop in his belly again. The one only Harry can achieve. He feels his throat tighten, but only because there’s so much he’s feeling in that moment. He doesn’t want to cry because he’s overwhelmed in the best possible way, so Zayn bites his lips, feeling his skin jump wherever Harry kisses it.

No, Zayn’s the lucky one.

“Harry...”

“Want this. I want to blow you. Then I want you to fuck me,” Harry states boldly, pulling back to stare sternly at Zayn, as if Zayn would object. Zayn’s quick to nod his head, rubbing his palm against Harry’s cheek.

Harry brushes his hand over Zayn before he’s quickly pushing down his briefs. His mouth meets Zayn’s cock a few seconds later, and Zayn groans from the heat of it. Harry presses light kisses to the head before he’s licking the underside, his hand pumping him.

“Don’t come,” Harry says. “Want you to come in me.”

Zayn moans when Harry begins suck him, working quickly but gently and getting Zayn worked up. He’s alternating pumping the base and touching his balls, and Zayn doesn’t know if he’ll make it. Harry’s mouth is hot and wet and his lips suck aggressively, eliciting moan after moan.

“Harry, Harry,” Zayn begs when he’s close to his release. “Stop, stop.”

Harry only pulls back, licking the leaking head and then kissing it before he’s climbing into Zayn’s lap and kissing him. Zayn can taste himself on Harry’s tongue, but it only makes him moan, and he swears his cock is beginning to hurt from being so hard. He pulls away, shifting them until Harry is beneath him, spread out and slick with sweat. He looks beautiful, eyes hazy and skin flushed, and Zayn can’t help himself from leaning down to pull Harry’s bottom lip from under his front teeth.

“Zayn,” Harry breathes, his own hand moving down his chest to palm his nipples, and Zayn nods.

He gets up to get the lube and condom from the drawer in his desk. Harry’s naked and spread out, hard and leaking and tugging himself, when he turns around, his feet flexing when Zayn runs his hand up his leg when he’s back on the bed.

“You sure?”

Harry nods.

“So much, babe. So much.”

“Okay,” Zayn whispers, tossing the condom near Harry’s arm and opening the bottle of lube. “I got you, okay?”

Harry smiles, running a hand down Zayn’s arm until he manages to grab his hand. He brings Zayn’s fingers to his mouth, pressing kisses to the callouses there.

Zayn pushes Harry’s legs until his knees are standing and his legs are spread out. He keeps their eyes connected when he leans down and presses a hesitant kiss to the inside of his thigh, moving lower until his lips brush his pink and puckered hole. When Harry moans loudly, Zayn takes it as his cue and begins to lick and nip at his rim. He’s never done this with anyone. Not even close, but Harry’s not just anyone, and seeing him lose it above him sends a thrill and sense of pride down Zayn’s spine.

He continues to lick him, nudging the opening with the tip of his finger. Harry moans loudly when Zayn’s managed to get in a knuckle.

“L-Lube.”

“Yeah, yeah. One second.”

Zayn gathers a good amount of lube on his fingers, presses a kiss to Harry’s knee and then he is working his finger into Harry again. He can feel Harry’s thighs shaking around him, so he works gently but quickly, getting another finger in when Harry is ready. Harry’s clenching around his fingers, and Zayn groans, pressing his forehead against Harry's hip to calm himself down. He doesn’t want to come before he’s inside Harry.

When Zayn’s worked three fingers into Harry, Harry begins hitting his shoulder, begging him to hurry up. Zayn grabs the condom, rips it open, and puts it on. Before he can lube himself up, Harry’s sitting up, reaching for him with lube in his palm. He works Zayn up and down, tightening his grip when Zayn kisses him deeply, wet and desperate.

“Ready?”

“Y-Yeah,” Harry breathes before he’s leading Zayn to his entrance.

Zayn nudges the entrance, taking a second to collect himself before he’s pushing in. They both groan as Harry clenches around the head, their chests heaving. Slowly, Zayn works himself in until he’s fully sheathed inside Harry, pulsing and hot.

“Move, babe. Fucking move.”

Zayn can’t breathe. Everything is so hot and tight and too much, but Harry’s there to reassure him, his hand running up and down Zayn’s side as he tries to catch his breath. He nods at Harry and then he’s dipping his hips, thrusting low and deep. He quickens his pace when Harry begs him too, reaching down to jerk Harry with a similar pace. It’s hot and slow, and Harry’s leaking over both of them, but Zayn swears it’s everything and more, overwhelming enough to make him dazed as he sloppily presses kisses to Harry’s throat.

“Close,” Harry whispers, and Zayn’s quickening the pace, trying to hold himself up even though his thighs are shaking too much. Harry’s thighs are wrapped around his waist, his heels digging into Zayn’s ass, urging him on, and Zayn only has to pump Harry a few more times until he’s coming, clenching around Zayn hot and tight. Zayn follows, moaning loudly against Harry’s throat as he releases into the condom.

He hisses as he pull out of Harry, breathing heavily and blurry-eyed when he removes the condom and gets up to toss it. Zayn walks back into the room with a towel to see Harry curled up on his side, watching him.

"Hi."

“Hey,” Zayn whispers, smiling.

He wipes Harry and himself down before tossing the towel onto the floor. Harry grabs his hand and tugs him onto the bed. He curls himself into Zayn’s side, resting his face against Zayn’s cheek, and it’s still too hot to be pressed against each other, but Zayn doesn’t mind, enjoying the heat around them.

“You good?” he asks Harry.

“Perfect. So perfect.”

Zayn nods, smiling as he runs his fingers over Harry’s ribs, moving towards the middle to trace the large moth tattoo. He sighs when Harry hooks his ankle over Zayn’s and presses a light kiss to Zayn’s jaw.

The Rachmaninov symphony is still playing, and they remain still until it finishes and moves onto another, The Cure’s “Just Like Heaven.” Zayn chuckles at how appropriate the song is for how he feels right now.

“Hey.”

Harry moves until he’s hovering over Zayn, hair slicked back with sweat and lips swollen. He still looks perfect to Zayn though, so he leans in for a soft kiss. When Zayn pulls back, Harry’s smiling, teeth and all.

“You’re amazing. You know that, right?” Harry says, leaning in to whisper the words against Zayn’s cheek, rubbing his nose against Zayn’s.

Zayn blushes, swatting Harry’s side. “Stop saying that. I’m really not.”

Harry pulls back, eyes narrowed.

“You are, Zayn. You’re fucking amazing and smart and brilliant and good. So good. You don’t give yourself enough credit. You’re difficult, sure, but who isn’t? You’ve got something so special, and I...I never felt so sure about someone until I met you—”

“Harry—” Zayn interrupts, his throat tightening.

“Stop, stop. Stop putting yourself done and overworking yourself, because you’re brilliant and amazing, and you just need to accept it.”

“Harry—”

“I’m going to keep reminding you. Every damn day. For the rest of your life.”

Zayn can’t breath. His chest is too tight for his beating heart, and he’s gripping Harry’s side so tightly. Rest of his life?

“Honestly, Zayn. I think...I think I love you.”

Zayn is so overwhelmed. This amazing, beautiful boy is in love with him—him who has never been able to stay in a stable relationship and stresses out over everything. He wants to cry in relief and disbelief, and he wants to say those words back, because he knows now. He knows just how much Harry means to him. He’s his anchor keeping him grounded. He’s the support system Zayn’s always needed and could never find.

“Harry,” Zayn croaks, swallowing. His mouth is dry, and he’s so nervous and happy, he’s shaking.

Harry smiles his fond smile and leans forward to peck him.

“I know. You don’t have to say it right now. I just want you to know that I’m always here for you. I love you, Zayn.”

Zayn grabs Harry’s face and kisses him, deep and hot, pouring the words he can’t say into it. Harry kisses him back, digging his fingers into Zayn’s hip. He falls asleep with Harry’s weight on top of him, his own arms unwilling to let go of his boyfriend.

---

“Stop fidgeting. You’re making me nervous.”

“I’m fucking nervous.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know why. You did amazing last night. You’ll knock it out of the park tonight.”

Zayn shakes his head, running his fingers over his violin, making sure everything was right, strings tight and tuned. He’s about to rub rosin over his bow once more for extra measure until Louis snatches it out of his hand.

“Calm down, Zayn.”

“I can’t. I’m going to fuck it up. Right during the allegro molto. Fuck.”

Niall enters the room, beelining it their way. He’s got a note clutched in his hands. When Louis tries to intercept it, Niall throws him a look, dodging his hand and hands it to Zayn.

“From Harry.”

Zayn sighs, his fingers struggling to open the note.

Babe, I know you’re nervous and probably putting yourself down. Don’t. You’re amazing. I promise. Relax for me. Please? Deep breaths, Zayn. You’re smart and brilliant and talented. You’ve got this. I’m waiting outside with your family. We can’t wait. The Zayn Malik cheer squad. I’m sure everyone in the auditorium hates us. We’re so damn loud. Are you laughing? Good. Can’t wait to see you. I'm so proud of you. I love you.

Zayn lets out a huge breath, feeling the knot in his chest loosen. He smiles, reading the note once more before he’s sliding it into the inner pocket of his tux.

He woke up to Harry pressing kisses to his brow, whispering that his phone wouldn’t shut up, and if Zayn didn’t wake up soon, he couldn’t be held responsible for breaking it. Once Zayn returned his parents call, keeping his breathing even the entire time he recited directions to them with Harry mouthing the side of his neck, he immediately reached for Harry. They kept it nice and slow, their hands intertwined and smiles lazy as Zayn moved slowly inside Harry.

“You good?” Niall asks, reaching to squeeze Zayn’s shoulder.

Zayn nods, grinning now. He’s still nervous, but it’s more of an excited nervous now.

“Yeah. I’m good. Let’s smash it tonight.”

Niall grins, cheering. He mentions something about an after party at his frat’s house, and Zayn rolls his eyes, amused when Louis yells excitedly.

He fingers the note in his pocket before he reaches for his violin and gets into place.

---

Zayn’s on an adrenaline rush.

They do brilliantly. He doesn’t mess up on any of the notes, and when it’s over, the conductor motions him towards the front of the stage so that they can bow together. His mind is whizzing and his blood is pumping from the natural high he gets after playing for an audience. Harry was right. He didn’t freak out and mess up. He wants to thank him with a million kisses, starting from his toes and up to his hairline.

He saw Harry when he stepped onto the stage. He was sat between Doniya and his mother, his hands gripping onto theirs, looking excited and proud. It made Zayn grin. Harry getting along with his family was just the icing on top of everything. He thought of last night just like Harry had asked as he moved his bow gracefully, keeping his eyes focused on the sheet in front of him. Even if he did blush a little at the memory. It pushed him to perform the best he could, leaving him calm and happy and confidant in his playing.

Zayn’s itching to touch Harry when he’s backstage. He’s grinning and happy from tonight’s success. Louis and Niall catch up with him, pulling him into a hug, careful of their instruments. They tell Zayn how he nailed it. He had nothing to worry about. He’ll be scouted by a renowned Philharmonie in no time. He’s going to be famous, and he’ll leave Louis and Niall to drink champagne with rich people and perform for the president. Zayn tells them they’re ridiculous. He kisses their cheeks and reminds them that they’ll be friends forever.

They’re putting away their instruments in one of the smaller practice rooms they claimed as their dressing room earlier when Zayn’s family spills in. They’re loud, reaching for Zayn with their arms and pulling him into a hug. He can feel tears prick his eyes when his mother cries to him about how proud she is. Her baby, her sunshine. She continues to babble on about how they’re so lucky to have such an amazing and talented son. She kisses his cheeks over and over, their father rubbing her back as she continues to praise Zayn.

“Where’s Harry?” Zayn asks when he pulls away from her hold.

“He had to get something from my car,” Liam pipes up. Zayn hadn’t noticed him walking in, his arm wrapped around Sophia. He sends a smile his way, reaching for a one-armed hug. They both congratulate him.

They all talk some more. Louis and Niall joining them. Zayn feels so happy and proud of himself. He wishes Harry would hurry up. He wants to share this with him. He wants to repeat those words back to him, because being up on that stage, Harry watching him with pride and love, gave him the courage to do so.

“We’ll meet you at the restaurant, okay?” his father says, clapping him down on his shoulder. He invites Zayn’s friends, and Zayn excuses himself, telling them he’ll catch up once he’s finished putting away everything and Harry catches up with him.

He’s alone in the practice room, running his fingers over his violin when he hears the door open. He shuts the case, zipping it up and propping it against the wall before turning around to greet Harry.

Except it’s not Harry. It’s Ben.

Zayn hasn’t seen Ben since that night at the corner store. He’s decked out in a blazer, his beard trimmed. He looks good; Zayn’s going to be sick.

“What’re you doing here?” he asks.

Ben shrugs. He walks closer, eyes running up and down Zayn’s body. It makes Zayn feel guilty, shameful, and disgusting, like his texts did. He’s worth more than this. He has Harry. His amazing, beautiful boyfriend who loves him. Who makes sure Zayn knows he’s worth everything. He doesn’t want to see Ben and be reminded of how pathetic he was before.

“You were brilliant out there,” Ben says, taking a step closer.

“Thanks.”

“You look really good, Zayn,” Ben whispers. He’s too close now. Zayn can smell the cologne he always wears, the laughter lines around his eyes, and he wants to vomit.

“You should leave,” he whispers, refusing to look at him.

“You never answered my texts.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“I missed you, Zayn.”

He reaches for Zayn, wrapping a hand around his wrist. Zayn tries to pull away, but Ben doesn’t let go, ducking his head so that they’re a breath apart.

“I’ve been wanting you for weeks now. You never answered or came over. Zayn, what happened? We were so good. You were so good.”

The excitement and joy from earlier is gone. Zayn’s panicking. He doesn’t want this. He’s over this.

“I don’t want you, Ben.”

“Babe—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Zayn, c’mon. Let’s go back to my place. Let’s talk this out.”

“I don’t want to do anything with you,” Zayn hisses, flinching when he feels Ben’s breath on his cheek.

“Zay—”

“What the fuck?”

Zayn looks over Ben’s shoulder to see Harry standing by the door with a bouquet of flowers. His stomach drops as he watches the expression on Harry’s face go from anger to disappointment to broken. He feels something inside him too break as Harry looks close to hysterics.

“Harry,” Zayn croaks, pulling away from Ben.

He wants to explain that what he saw isn’t true. He isn’t with Ben. Not anymore. He’s over him. Harry helped him. Harry taught him to see the worth in himself. Harry loves him. He wants to reach out to him and grab him, kiss him in front of Ben, show him how much he wants him. How much he means him. How much he loves him.

“What the fuck, Zayn?” Harry cries. He’s actually crying, one hand reaching up to wipe tears, and Zayn feels everything in him shatter.

“Harry, please. Listen—”

“I can’t do this. Fuck. Fuck, Zayn,” he cries before he turns on his heel and runs out of the room.

Zayn ignores Ben and runs after Harry, shouting his name over and over until he finally catches up to him. He reaches for Harry’s arm, halting him, and when Harry shoves him away, Zayn feels the knot in his throat grow. He’s sure he’s crying now, too.

“Harry, baby, please. Listen to me. Just listen to me,” Zayn begs, trying to reach for Harry again.

“Don’t touch me! Don’t Zayn. I can’t. Fuck.”

Zayn’s crying hard now. Harry won’t even look at him. He’s shaking, and he won’t let Zayn touch him.

“Nothing happened! You have to believe me.”

“You know, I thought there was something between you two. You acted so off those first few days we met. And, then you were inside his office when I went to drop off that paper. And, I’m not stupid, Zayn. I’m not stupid, okay? I could smell the sex, could smell him on you. I-I didn’t say anything. Even then. Even back then when I wanted you, so badly wanted you, I didn’t say anything. And then the corner store. I-I thought after that you were over him. You were crying and freaking out about someone, and I knew it was him, probably. You were better after that. And...fuck. I am so stupid. So, so stupid. I thought...I thought maybe I was the only one. That I was it. I love you—fuck, I told you I love you, and now...fuck, fuck.”

Zayn’s sobbing. His vision is a mess, his entire body shaking.

“Harry, please. You are the only one. Please, babe, listen to me. I am over him. I promise.”

“You must think I’m so stupid, huh? Stupid freshman head over heels for his hot neighbor. Stupid freshman that tried so hard to get your attention. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

“Harry, no. Harry—”

“I can’t do this. I can’t. I can’t breathe, and I can’t look at you”

Zayn tries to grab his arm again, but Harry dodges him.

“Baby, please,” Zayn begs.

“Congrats on your concert. You were amazing,” Harry says bitterly before throwing the bouquet in Zayn’s direction and walking off.

Zayn’s left a crying, broken mess in the hallway on his biggest night.

---

“C’mon, Zayn. You already reviewed this. You need to sleep.”

“Liam, please. Go away.”

“It’s your last final, and it’s only a piano recital. You can play this piece by heart. You don’t need to look over it again.”

“Fuck off, Liam.”

Zayn’s miserable. It’s been a long week of no sleep, self-loathing, and dodging all of his friends. Harry won’t answer his calls or texts. When he went next door to talk to him, Nick told him he wasn’t there and promptly shut the door in his face with a scowl. He finds out from Louis that Harry’s been staying with Niall at his frat’s house. The fact that he is avoiding Zayn to this level makes Zayn want to cry all over again. He wants his boyfriend back. He wants his anchor back.

“Zayn, you’re going to end up in the hospital if you don’t sleep,” Liam says, tugging on Zayn’s arm. He traced him down to the practice room Zayn has been in all day.

“I don’t care.”

“Zayn! You’re being fucking ridiculous.”

He doesn’t answer back, goes back to reviewing the sheet in front of him. After a few minutes, he hears Liam groan and toss something onto the bench beside Zayn.

“Fine. Don’t listen to me. I’m just trying to help.”

Zayn picks up the USB, running his fingers over it, before he looks up at Liam.

Liam shrugs. “Harry told me to give it to you.”

Zayn’s chest tightens at the mention of Harry. He looks down at the USB in his hand. Harry’s USB. He bites his lips from crying.

“What’s in it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did he...did he say anything?”

“No. Just to give this to you.”

Liam leaves him, and Zayn’s left alone with Harry’s USB. He doesn’t feel ashamed when he’s crying. He feels helpless and guilty. He decides to give up for the rest of the day, and he packs up, holding onto the USB the entire way back to his apartment.

He grabs his laptop the minute he’s back in his bedroom, and when he notices the file is an .mp3, he grabs his headphones. It’s labeled Harry Styles final project.

The song starts off slow, guitar and piano. It’s dreamlike. A voice joins in, high-pitched and somber—Harry’s. Zayn’s heart stops when he notices the simple notes of a violin. His notes. The ones he always messed around with when he had nothing to do. The ones Harry was recording. He bites his lips as a sob rises in his throat, willing himself to get through the song. The song’s tempo increases, but it remains ambient, melancholy despite the fast pace of the guitar, piano, and drums, ending on a echo.

It’s that indie shit Harry likes. It’s a bit of rock. It’s a bit of electronic and classical. It’s a fucking perfect score. Harry has created something so beautiful, so heartbreaking, so unique, so utterly him.

Liam finds him listening to Harry’s song on repeat, crying and shaking, and holds him until he passes out from exhaustion.

---

Zayn finds himself on Niall’s frat’s front porch after his last final. He synched Harry’s song into his phone and has had it on repeat all day. He knows he looks a mess, his eyes puffy and red, lips chapped, face weary, but he takes a deep breath and rings the doorbell.

One of Niall’s brothers answer it, shouting for Niall when he sees Zayn. Niall comes down the stairs to see Zayn, and Zayn smiles hesitantly, stepping inside.

“What do you want?”

“Niall, I need to talk to him.”

“You can’t. He’s a mess.”

Zayn wants to cry, but he doesn’t, pressing his thumb and index finger together, finding the callouses and indents there—his temporary anchor.

“Please, Niall,” Zayn begs, taking a step forward. “I need to explain everything.”

“Explain that you were fucking around with that T.A.?”

Zayn’s shaking his head, wiping at the tears that spill now. “God, no. No, please. It wasn’t like that. I didn’t do anything with him after I got with Harry. I promise. Please, let me see him.”

Niall stares at him, assessing him, and Zayn digs his nails into his palm waiting.

“He’s in my room. Three doors down on the right. Don’t fuck this up.”

Zayn nods his head before racing up the steps. He turns right and walks down to the third door. He can hear music behind the door, and he wants to laugh, because of course his beautiful, amazing boy is listening to music. A song for every occasion.

Harry’s the wonderful tune you know by heart and carry with you everywhere that you never want to forget

Zayn knows that now.

He knocks on the door.

“I’m not hungry, Niall.”

He knocks again.

“Really. Please. Leave me alone.”

Zayn takes a deep breath and opens the door.

Harry’s sitting with his back towards Zayn, hunched over a textbook at Niall’s desk. His phone is playing a New Order song, “Ceremony.”

“Niall, please. I really need to study. I’m fine.”

“You’ll ace it. Don't worry. You’re pretty brilliant.”

Harry whips around. His eyes wide. Zayn notices the red that rims them. He looks just as worn down as Zayn does.

“What are you doing here?”

“Trying to explain,” Zayn says, shutting the door behind him.

“I don’t want an explanation.”

“Too bad you’re going to get one,” Zayn says stubbornly, walking further into the room.

He takes a seat on the bed. Harry’s quiet, avoiding him.

“Please leave,” he whispers, and Zayn bites his lips.

“Your song was really good. Amazing.”

“Zayn,” Harry croaks. “Please go.”

“I...I haven’t stopped listening to it. You’re so brilliant.”

“Zayn, please.”

Zayn takes a deep breath, focusing on his hands in his lap since Harry won’t look at him. It’s okay. He still needs to say this. He needs Harry to know the truth. Then he’ll leave.

“I met Ben freshman year. He’s a T.A. to Dr. Lowry. You know that. I didn’t really talk to him then. I was too focused on passing the class. One night Louis and I were out, and Ben was there. He kept buying me drinks, and I thought how nice it was that this hot older guy was into me. I hadn’t been with someone in so long, and this smart guy is interested in me, and so I went with it. We fucked around, a lot. I always wanted more. I thought I had fallen for him. But he never wanted anything more than hooking up. I was fucked up over it. I thought I wasn’t enough. That maybe I was only temporary. That I was so wounded tightly and erratic for anybody to commit to.”

“Zayn—”

“Hold on. Let me finish. So, Ben and I fucked around. That’s where you come in. The annoying kid next door. I was frustrated and hellbent on staying away from you. I knew you were interested. It wasn’t hard to tell, but I thought that if I tried enough with Ben, eventually he’d want me. But you were always there. And you weren’t annoying, not really. You stayed with me. You understood me. You didn’t judge me. You loved me, and I fucked it up. That night after the concert was the first time I had seen Ben in weeks. I haven’t touched him willingly since that day in the office. I ignored his texts and calls. I promise. I only wanted to be with you. Want to be with you. I love you, too, Harry.”

He finishes with a large exhale, smiling to himself because he got through his speech. He plucked up the courage and finally did something without someone telling him to. He feels the knot in his chest loosen a little, but not a lot, because Harry still hasn’t said anything.

When Zayn looks up, Harry’s looking at him, glossy-eyed and lips pressed tightly in a line.

“Harry?”

“You are worth it, you know? You are, Zayn. You’re worth everything and more. You’re so smart and talented and nice and good. You have your annoying habits, so what? Everybody has annoying faults. But, never say you aren’t worth it, because you are. You’re worth loving. You’re worth the effort. You deserve it.”

Zayn can’t breathe as Harry stares straight at him, his hands clenched tightly on his thighs.

“Harry, I—”

“Don’t ever tell me you think you’re not worth anything ever again.”

“I won’t.”

“Good. I’ll be sure to remind you every damn day.”

Zayn stands up, his lip trembling as Harry shoots him a small smile.

“What?”

Harry leans forward and grabs Zayn’s hand. He pulls him forward until Zayn’s sitting in Harry’s lap. He can smell him, and he’s touching him, and it’s the closest Zayn’s been to Harry in days. He wants to cry from relief.

“I’m going to make sure you know you’re worth it every single day. I’ll repeat it morning and night. If you’ll let me.”

Zayn makes a noise at the back of his throat before he’s grabbing Harry’s face, pulling him forward until their lips meet in a warm and firm kiss. He feels Harry smile against his lips, but Zayn wants more, so he deepens it, licking at Harry’s lips, feeling the familiar cracks because Harry never listens to Zayn and remembers to put on chapstick. Harry tastes the same—like the gum he’s always chewing, tea, and something that’s his very own.

When Harry pulls back, Zayn protests, trying to reach for him again, but Harry only laughs and kisses his chin. He’s wrapped tightly around Harry, legs on either side of him and hands in his hair. Zayn’s missed this so much.

“Hey,” Harry says, nudging Zayn’s cheek with his nose.

“Hi.”

“I’m glad you like the song. It was for you, you know? My muse.”

Zayn laughs, shaking his head as Harry grins at him. His brilliant, amazing, ridiculous boy. The kid that never backs down. He’s so damn lucky.

“It’s amazing.”

“Good. So are you,” Harry says.

“So are you,” Zayn counters.

Harry shrugs, leaning forward until they’re kissing again, just a brief peck.

Harry does tell him he’s worth it every day. Sometimes he just says it in passing. Other times he whispers it into Zayn’s skin when he’s buried deep inside him, pushing Zayn towards the edge. Most days Harry just reminds him as they’re getting ready for the day. Zayn wouldn’t have it any other way.