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Five stories below his window, Harry can see people wandering up and down Broadway, all bundled up in their jackets and scarves. It’s not a bad view, looking out his bedroom window; it could have been worse. There are worse views in New York City, for sure. Or he could have been posed on his head, or in a yoga pose, or something. He would have agreed to that still, he’s almost sure, done whatever Zayn asked, but at least this way it’s easy to sit, with his fingers resting on his keyboard keys and his head turned out the window.
He should be thinking about classes, about the his music theory test in a week or his composition final that’s coming up, using this time productively even as he’s keeping still, but he can’t. Not when Zayn’s eyes are on his bare back. It feels heavy, somehow, that gaze, like it’s taking up all the space in the room even though Harry can’t even see it. Just knowing Zayn’s looking at him, wondering what he’s seeing…that’s enough to fill Harry’s mind. He’s seen Zayn look at him, long and hard, but he’s an artist, that’s what he does. Still, Harry can sit there and wonder. Wonder if he’s seeing him as the sort-of-friend modeling for him, as lines and color, as a potential grade, or maybe—maybe—as something worse looking at in himself.
“Sorry, do you want a break?” Zayn asks. Harry nearly jumps, but he thinks he manages to hold the pose. He needs to be braced against the sound of Zayn’s voice sometimes.
“What?”
“You shivered,” Zayn informs him. “We can break in like a minute, I just need to get an outline done.”
“If you need to go longer…” Harry offers. He would like to move, it’s true, and more than that he’d like to look at Zayn, because he never gets enough of that, but Zayn asked him to model and so model he will.
“No, you need a break. Just give me a sec.” Zayn hums, and Harry goes back to staring down at the street outside.
Just there, he thinks, just right there on that piece of sidewalk, on the corner of Broadway and 68th, he’d seen Zayn for the first time. Harry’s not the sort of person who remembers moments often, and definitely not sights, but he can’t forget that moment. How he’d tumbled out of the dorm, arguing with Niall and Liam about the head scarf he knew looked dapper and would definitely impress Niall’s new Pratt friends, and Zayn had turned around from where he’d been leaning against the wall, waiting with Louis.
Harry doesn’t often get the urge to paint, but he had then, to capture that moment when it felt like the world rushed away from him until all he saw was Zayn. Zayn, with the moonlight (or maybe streetlight, or maybe headlights, but in Harry’s mind it was moonlight) caught in his eyelashes and hair and skin, like a statue there in the New York night, like some nature spirit caught in a moment of mortality, where a sudden movement could frighten him away. It hadn’t surprised him to learn Zayn was an artist, to learn he was one of the Pratt kids Niall was introducing them to. He looked like the embodiment of art himself, after all.
“Okay, I’m good,” Zayn says, and Harry does jump this time, the sound of his voice echoing out of Harry’s memory of that first sighting. He rolls out his neck, arches so his back cracks, and shakes out his arms, playing a quick jazzy run on the keyboard—then turns.
Zayn still looks like a statue, Harry thinks, like he’s carved from marble. Or not marble; it’s more like he’s a painting with one of those big DO NOT TOUCH signs on them, all delicate, deliberate lines, from his narrow hips in his tight jeans to the oversized blue sweater the hangs off his shoulders to the curve of his lips, tilting downward as he frowns at the easel. Harry’s never much liked those signs, had always been the sort of kid who touched despite the risk he might break something. He’s a little worried he still is.
That doesn’t make him from look away, though. He’s never been able to, not since that first night, not any of the nights since when he and Niall and Liam have hung out with Zayn and Louis. He can’t not look at the quiet, soft-spoken boy in the corner of the booth next to Louis, murmuring jokes into Louis’s ear that makes him laugh but always a little tentative to smile at the teasing Niall throws Harry’s way about his usual flirting technique. The look on his face isn’t tentative now, as he stares at his easel, but it’s still delicate somehow, like a wrong word from Harry could turn it even worse.
“Am I not pretty enough?” he asks, to break the silence before he says something stupid. Zayn’s brow furrows a little as he looks up, over the easel.
“Hm?”
“You didn’t look happy with it,” Harry explains. He might not know Zayn well, might not be able to really read him, but he can tell that much.
“No, you’re good.” Zayn smiles at him, reassuring, and Harry resists the urge to preen. “Pretty as a picture. I just—this isn’t my medium, so I’m not confident, you know?”
“Sure,” Harry agrees. He…sort of knows. He does know what Zayn usually does, the big street art things that he’s posted on Instagram and Facebook, but only because he might have immediately internet stalked the beautiful art student within instants of getting back from their first meeting, Niall laughing at him the whole time and Liam tsking. And he knows that this isn’t it. “Is it a big part of your grade?”
“Massive,” Zayn confirms, running a hand back through his hair. Harry closes his fingers into fists to resist the urge to follow suit with his own, to grab at Zayn’s hair and press him into the mattress. He shouldn’t think that way, not about Zayn. Zayn’s better than that. “But, like, ‘s not you. You’re perfect.”
Harry freezes that sound byte, grins. “Thanks! Anything to help.”
Zayn grins back, his head ducked a little shyly. “Yeah, like. Thanks for agreeing.”
“No problem,” Harry assures him. He’d been surprised when Zayn asked him to model, because for all Louis and Niall were close, and Zayn and Liam seemed to be getting thick as thieves, they weren’t friends, not properly. Harry’d only seen Zayn a dozen times or so, when he went down to Brooklyn with Niall, lured by Louis’s promise he’d drag Zayn out. But he wasn’t going to say no, of course. Not to an opportunity to spend some time with just Zayn. Even if the shirtless thing wasn’t helping Harry’s self-control. But maybe that was good—he had to get himself under control now, learn how to hold back the too-much-ness of him, so he could work on properly wooing Zayn. “Why did you ask me?”
He regrets it almost as soon as he asks it. Zayn’s so different from most of the people Harry’s ever crushed on, quiet and withdrawn and not mysterious, exactly, but a step apart. And Harry’s been trying not to step on any toes, not to get to loud or mess him up with his clumsiness, but he can’t help it sometimes, this need to know more of Zayn. And it’s better than giving in to his baser instincts.
“You’ve got the look I want,” Zayn explains. He gets up too, wanders over to Harry’s bookshelf. It’s neat, neater than usual, mainly because of Harry’s frantic tidying before Zayn had come over. At least Niall’s half of the room is always tidy. He’s still not sure what it says, the posters on the walls, the sheet music stacked wherever he has room, the keyboard in pride of place. But he’s pretty sure it says something. “Like, I use Louis a lot—we trade off, it works—but I wanted to try something softer. Quieter.”
Harry holds back a snort. No one in his life has ever told Harry he was quiet, though he supposes if he’s being compared with Louis, that might make sense. But he’s always been too loud, too curious, too invasive; always been around musicians who spend their lives making noise. He likes it, likes the noise and the laughter and how people look at him. But maybe, if Zayn thinks otherwise—if Zayn thinks he’s quiet too, quiet and soft and gentle, maybe it’ll be enough to fool him. He can be soft and gentle for Zayn, around Zayn, because that’s what Zayn deserves, to be touched reverently if at all.
“Well, glad to help. I do always like fit boys staring at me.” He can’t see Zayn’s face, but he hears the small exhale of a laugh. Score one for Harry. It’s subtler than he usually goes, because Harry’s generally the worst at being subtle, but Zayn’s worth more than a grope on the dance floor and then a drunken hook up. Zayn’s different, and Harry will treat him as such. No matter how much it makes Harry’s fingers itch with the need to touch.
“Guess you’re in the right profession then, yeah?” Zayn replies, drawing a finger down the spine of a Mick Jagger biography. “Plenty of people looking at you on stage.”
“Yeah,” Harry agrees. Zayn’s head’s bent, to look at the title of a book, and Harry can just make out the fantail at his neck, under his hair.
“Don’t know how you do it,” Zayn goes on. It’s maybe the most Harry’s ever heard Zayn talk; when it’s the five of them out in bars, he’s always quieter, tucked into the booth next to Louis watching them all with knowing eyes, only inserting a comment or two. The comments never fail to make Harry laugh, but still. This is more of Zayn than Harry’s ever gotten. “I’d hate everyone looking at me like that.”
“Then looks like you’re in the right course too.”
Zayn chuckles, and Harry puts that in his slowly growing ‘times he made Zayn laugh’ column. “Seems so.” His fingers drum over the pages again, then he turns. “You good to start again?”
“Yeah,” he agrees, and smiles at Zayn until Zayn smiles back, a slow smile that starts small and grows until Harry’s knees are weak with it. “Yeah, let’s do this.”
---
They meet again a few days later, Harry herding Niall out even as Zayn’s coming up the stairs. Niall laughs when he sees him, slaps Harry on the back, and then heads out happily, his guitar bouncing on his back.
“He could have stayed,” Zayn offers, tugging the strap on his bag higher on his shoulder. “Like, it’s not like I need absolute quiet.”
“He’d have broken my concentration,” Harry replies immediately, and grins, stepping back so Zayn can come in. “Hi! How’ve you been?”
“Good.” Zayn glances around again, and Harry shifts a little, trying to see what he sees, what he’s thinking. The room hasn’t changed much since two days ago, and Harry was certain not to move anything around the window seat, had forbidden Niall to go anywhere near it. “You?”
“Good, yeah.” Harry swallows. Zayn looks so good still, his hair curling around his ears, a loose cardigan on over a dark shirt. It’s a little much, to just look at. “Oh, here, I can get that.”
He stumbles forward, grabs for the bag, and if his hand slides over Zayn’s and he feels fireworks, well, that’s nothing new. He’s careful not to touch more than his hand, anyway.
“Okay?” Zayn surrenders the bag, his lips twitching into a smile. It’s not very heavy, but Harry still carries it the three more feet over to where Zayn was sitting last time. He’s being chivalrous, take that, Niall and his teasing. “How was that recital thing?”
“Recital?”
“The one for your composition class?” Harry makes a face at him, because he doesn’t remember mentioning that, ever, and Zayn shrugs and ducks his head. “Niall mentioned it, I think.”
“Oh.” Harry cheers internally, because Zayn remembering things about him is always good. “Yeah, it was good! I think the professors liked it, they seemed like they were paying attention, even though there was a dog outside and it was really cute and they were looking at it during Megan’s—the girl before me—piece.”
“That’s good,” Zayn agrees. “Sounds like your piece was intriguing.”
“Yeah, guess so.” Harry nods. Zayn’s just looking at him still, his eyes big and almost sparkling in the light, and it’s a little disconcerting, like he’s seeing through Harry. Harry just wants to make him shut his eyes, make those eyes go dark and glassy with want—but not yet. Not yet, and not like this. “So, should I just take my shirt off, or…?”
“Ready to strip?” Zayn drawls, and Harry giggles, his fingers fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. “But yeah, um, whenever you’re ready? Those the same pants?”
“Yep! Like requested. Same pants, same hair. And no one’s touched the windowsill, promise. Had to bribe Niall with a lot of pizza, but it should all be the same. Do you need anything else?” Harry’s finished unbuttoning his shirt, but he hesitates in taking it off, even though Zayn’s eyes have flashed down over his skin, and Harry needs to resist the urge to just strip tease. He’s an artist, he notices these things, probably.
“Is there a place to fill up my water bottle and get some for my brushes?” he asks, and Harry nods so much he thinks his head’s going to fly off.
“Yeah! I’ll get that. You can set up?”
“Sounds good.” He smiles at Harry, and Harry grabs his water bottle and goes before he’s overwhelmed by that smile, does something stupid and forward like just kiss him right there, with his pink lips curved into a smile and his eyes crinkled at the corner.
He fills the water bottle and a cup up at the sink in the hall bathroom, then heads back to the room. Zayn’s just finishing setting up the easel, seems to be fussing with the angle of it, and he spins when Harry comes in, smiles like a welcome home.
He murmurs his thanks for the water bottle, their fingers brushing again as he takes it back, sets it on the floor next to the stool. “So, like, sit down like you think you should be, and I’ll correct you?” he suggests.
“Yep!” Harry bounces once, does a quick all over shake to get out any lingering jitters, sheds his t-shirt, and settles down at the keyboard, trying to remember how he felt day before last, with Zayn’s eyes on him. He thinks he gets it mostly right, waits for instructions.
They don’t come. Instead, there’s a gentle touch on Harry’s neck, and Harry almost jumps out of his skin.
“Fuck!” Zayn swears, stumbling backwards, and Harry knows he’s bright red.
“Sorry!” He sputters. Wow, Styles, smooth, so smooth. He’s already too big and clumsy for Zayn, pushing him away. “I didn’t expect you to touch me!”
“Clearly.” Zayn wrinkles his nose at him, and Harry shrugs and laughs back for lack of any other response.
“I’m a klutz, sorry. You’re lucky I haven’t knocked you over yet.”
“I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.”
Harry glances at Zayn, at his thin legs and narrow hips, how his sweater falls off his shoulders. Harry’s just big, always has been, fills up a space with limbs and hair and parts of him he doesn’t know how to control, and Zayn’s contained, like everything in him is in his skin. It makes Harry want to dig, to get under his skin and find the depths there, but it also makes him want to run away, before he breaks Zayn open and leaves him there by mistake. But he can do this. He can do this right, and no one will break.
Zayn’s still looking at him, one eyebrow raised, his lips pressed together and almost smiling. “Probably,” Harry agrees.
“Your faith is overwhelming, Styles,” Zayn shoots back. “Okay, you ready this time?”
Harry makes a show of bracing himself, and gets a laugh in return. “I’m good.”
He isn’t. He isn’t good, because he wasn’t prepared for Zayn’s hands trailing over his skin, his touch feather-light but all the worse for that, how it feels like he’s skimming over Harry. He’s got callouses, Harry can feel, as his fingers hook under Harry’s chin and lift it, and Harry has to close his eyes because Zayn’s face is right there, his tongue sticking out from between his teeth as he concentrates, and he could kiss him. It would be so easy to just kiss him, right now, to tug Zayn down onto him and get a hand in his hair and another around his waist and keep him here with Harry.
But he doesn’t. His breath catches, and his hands twitch, but he stays still until Zayn moves away again, back to his easel.
“Okay, I’m gonna start,” Zayn tells him, “I’m gonna be painting mainly, like, your torso and stuff today, so if you can talk, if you want to.”
Harry would rather like to talk, because as interesting as Broadway is—probably the most interesting of streets, really—it’s not exactly scintillating. But Zayn had worked in silence, mostly, and Harry wants this to be what he wants. “I don’t have to, if you don’t want.”
“Wouldn’t have offered if I’d minded.” He can hear Zayn settling onto the easel, and maybe he’s imagining it, but he thinks he feels Zayn’s gaze fix on him.
So Harry talks. He tries not to ramble, tries to not ask much about Zayn, not to intrude and demand like he always does—but he can’t not ask some things, has to make conversation. And Zayn doesn’t seem to mind when he asks questions either, about his art or his family or his life. It’s more than he’s ever heard Zayn talk before, more than he ever imagined he would, as he tells stories about his sisters and Louis and his classes. It sucks that Harry can’t see him while he does, but he lets Zayn’s words wash over him, and it feels like no time at all until Zayn says the light’s gone, and he’s done.
“Good session?” Harry asks, shaking out his neck. He’s getting better at this sitting still thing, he thinks. Or maybe it was just that talking to Zayn made it better. He’s quickly coming to realize that Zayn existing makes things better.
“Yeah, got a lot done.” Zayn pauses, as he throws some sort of cover over the canvas, tilts it so Harry can’t see it. “Just was getting hungry, wanted to stop.”
“Makes sense,” Harry agrees. “It’s getting to dinnertime.”
“Yeah.” Zayn nods. He opens his mouth—the runs a hand back over his hair, and shrugs. “So, I guess, I’ll see you Friday, then?”
“Can’t wait!” Harry confirms, and picks up Zayn’s bag to walk him to the door.
Niall passes Zayn again on the way back up, pausing in the doorway for a quick word before he comes in.
“So, did you fuck yet?” he asks, flopping down on his bed.
“No, and don’t be crass.” Harry retorts firmly, and lies down on his own bed. He doesn’t bother hiding the fact that he’s staring at the easel still propped up in a corner. “I’m just modeling for him, Ni.”
“Uh-huh.” Niall snorts skeptically. “So you’re just wandering around shirtless in front of the guy whose bones you want to jump, and you haven’t made a move yet? Who are you, and what have you done with Harry?”
“Shut up.” Harry idly grabs a pillow to throw at Niall. He knows it’s out of character, but Zayn’s different. Zayn’s not like the other guys Harry’s liked before, who he could throw himself at until they decided to sleep with him. Zayn’s quiet and beautiful and soft and Harry just wants to be careful with him, in a way he isn’t careful with many things. It’s a thing about Zayn, he thinks, because Louis does that too, goes soft around him, lets Zayn hug him and tucks his chin into Zayn’s neck in a way Harry sometimes can’t look at for jealousy. Harry doesn’t want to go too fast, too loud, with that; doesn’t want to bruise that softness. “I’m moving slow.”
“Slow doesn’t get you laid.”
“Well, he’s worth it,” Harry replies, and rolls over to grab his music theory homework. Not even Niall can argue with that.
---
“So, how many more of these do you think we’ll need?” Harry’s careful just to move his lips; Zayn said he’d be doing his hair today, so that’s the only thing he’s allowed to move.
“Not many. It’s due in a week, and most of the touch up stuff I can do on my own.” He can hear Zayn move. “I’ll be out of your hair soon.”
“No, that’s not—I mean, I don’t mind,” Harry stammers. He swallows, composes himself. Down on the street, a girl in a red hat’s buying a hot dog from one of the street vendors, and he focuses on that until he figures out what he wants to say. Maybe she’s grabbing something to eat before going on a date; it is a Friday afternoon. Or maybe dates are just what Harry has on the brain. “It’s no problem. It’s fun, really.”
“Yeah? Really find that window exciting?” Zayn teases. That’s a new thing Harry’s found over the past few weeks; Zayn teases. Zayn teases a lot, always calling Harry on anything he says. It’s not what Harry expected, but he likes it, he thinks. Likes that Zayn laughs when he says something silly, that he snorts at Harry’s stories.
“It’s the most exciting,” Harry agrees solemnly. “Me and it are best friends now.”
“Niall’ll be jealous.”
“Nah, he’s always known he was going to be replaced one day. And my love of the window cannot be contained.”
Zayn chuckles, and Harry grins at the window. He still takes it as a personal success every time he gets Zayn to laugh, to smile at him. He wishes he could see it, but the sound of the laugh is good enough. Even if Zayn was looking so good today, his hair shaggy around his face, a rich red sweater bringing out the glow of his skin and the breadth of his shoulders. Maybe he doesn’t like this window that much, actually. If it was a little more reflective, he could maybe see Zayn in it, see Zayn looking at him. Maybe he should stop washing it.
“You know,” Zayn says, slowly. The girl’s eating the hot dog now, meandering uptown and dodging tourists. Or she could be a tourist, Harry doesn’t know. “I, like. It’s fun for me, too.”
“Painting? I hope so, ‘s your major.”
“No, like, chatting with you.” Harry can feel his muscles tense, his fingers twitching. He really wishes he could see Zayn’s face right now. “Kind of—I mean, a bit of why I asked you. Wanted to spend time with you.”
“What?” Harry can hear the hoarseness of his voice. He’d been moving slowly, been taking his time, being careful. He’d hardly even flirted, and that was hard, because if Harry was good at anything other than music it was flirting. But not with Zayn. He wasn’t going to come on too fast and ruin things. So this is good, them becoming friends.
“Well, we’d never really hung out, the two of us, yeah? And I wanted to. So, I like. Figured this’d be a good idea?” He’s talking faster, words blurring into each other, and damn it Harry wants to see him. Friends. Friends is good, friends is a start, friends is how something soft and sweet and romantic can start.
“Yeah,” Harry says, choosing his words carefully. His first instinct’s to tell Zayn everything, to come out with a ‘we could get to know each other better if we were naked’ or a ‘you could hang out in my lap.’ But he’s not going to do that. He is not cheeky Harry, he is smooth romantic Harry. “It’s been good! I needed someone who doesn’t laugh at my tattoos.”
“Oh, I laugh at your tattoos, babe,” Zayn retorts, and Harry’s breath only catches a little at the pet name.
“But you have similar ones!” he whines, and Zayn laughs again. There’s another one for Harry’s count, he thinks, and takes it as a win.
It’s another half hour before Zayn declares himself done, and Harry can turn around. Zayn’s still looking at him, his head tilted a little like he’s confused. Harry might take back all the things he’d thought about wanting to see Zayn looking at him, because it’s a little overwhelming, the way his gaze is fixed on Harry, like he sees all of him. It makes Harry burn, makes him want to kiss the look away, makes him want to babble all his secrets, all the things he’s dreamed of doing to or with Zayn.
But he doesn’t want to scare Zayn away, so, “You okay?” He asks instead. Soon. He’ll do something soon, when he’s gotten to know Zayn better, when he’s sure Zayn’s comfortable. When he’s sure he can trust himself with Zayn.
“Yeah. Um. Sure.” Zayn shakes his head, runs a hand back through his hair, then shakes his head again. “Sorry.”
“No problem!” Harry chirps. He can’t look at Zayn looking at him like that, almost like he’s hurt, like Harry should lay him out on the bed and take him apart until he’s pliant and blissful and fucked out, so he glances back down at the keyboard as he hears Zayn clean up. He just needs to get himself under control, and then he’ll be fine to go say goodbye to Zayn.
He plays a few more chords on the keyboard, then because he can’t not, keeps going with it, into the thing he’d put together for class. It’s not his best work, but it’s okay, and it’s hard enough he has to concentrate on it rather than think about how Zayn’s behind him, how when he bends over to pack up it takes a lot of effort not to look at his ass.
“Sounds good.”
Harry jumps. Zayn’s not bothering to hide his grin when he finally turns around again, to see Zayn standing behind him—right behind him. Very close behind him. Okay. Harry’s okay with this. He’s seen Zayn and Louis, he knows that personal space isn’t generally a thing between them, maybe this means Zayn’s comfortable with him. Or he wants to mess with him, because he does that too.
“Thanks.”
“That what you did for your assignment?”
“Yeah. It’s my portrait,” Harry explains. If he spun around on the stool, Zayn would be between his legs.
“Pity you don’t need anyone to pose for you, I could pay you back.”
“Isn’t your whole life you posing, though?” Harry replies, before he can think better of it.
“Hm?” Zayn hums, his lips twitching. Okay, that wasn’t too much. Harry can do this.
“I mean, you always look like you could be on a runway,” Harry elaborates. “Surprised everyone doesn’t ask you to model.”
“I do get plenty of offers,” Zayn admits easily. Harry supposes it’s a fact of life for him. “But I only accept the special ones.”
“What makes them special?”
“Oh, plenty of things.” Zayn gives Harry a quick look, his lips curved into a secret sort of smile, and Harry’s fingers hit the next notes harder than he meant to. “You know,” he goes on, like he didn’t notice what he did. Maybe he didn’t. He probably doesn’t notice what he’s doing to Harry. “Their concept, all that stuff.”
“Sure.” Harry’s mouth is dry, and Zayn’s still so close he can smell him, a mix of cigarette smoke and oil paint and a rich, warm cologne Harry thinks he can probably identify by scent at this point. With him standing, Harry could press his face right into his chest, could nibble easily on his collarbone. “Concepts. That’s important.”
“Yeah.” Zayn pauses, then, “So, I’m all packed up.”
“Heading out, then?”
“Yeah. I mean, it’s late. Almost dinnertime.”
“Really? Time flies when you’re modeling,” Harry jokes. Zayn rolls his eyes, but his lips twitch.
“Sure, ‘s got to be a blast.” He reaches back, rubs at the back of his neck. It makes the sweater ride up just enough Harry can see a bit of skin at his hip, a hint of ink lettering he doesn’t—or shouldn’t—want to look long enough at to read. He keeps his eyes fixed firmly on Zayn’s eyes. They’re lovely enough to get lost in anyway. “Friday night, though. Probably just gonna order Seamless or something.”
“Or you could cook,” Harry prompts. He’s been to Zayn and Louis’s dorm once, when Louis’d insisted that he didn’t want to go out but they should all hang out. It was a very dorm room sort of room, except for the sketchbooks and paints and some things Harry thought might be torches for Louis’s sculpting, but really all he remembers from it is how Zayn had been curled up in a windowsill when they’d come in, a book open on his lap, and he looked so comfortable and cozy and Harry had a flash of curling up there next to him with his own book, tucking them together so they’d stay warm forever.
But he also does remember that they had a kitchenette, and that Zayn had chuckled when Harry’d suggested making something there, said that they’d never used it since they moved in.
Zayn snorts the same way now. “Sure, yeah. If I want to burn the place down. Think everyone would be really happy with that.”
“They probably need the fresh air,” Harry insists. “It’d do them good.”
“Don’t think they’d agree.” Zayn gives him another long look, then takes a breath. “Okay then. I’ll head out.”
Harry casts around quickly for another conversation topic. He doesn’t want Zayn to leave. He wants to pull Zayn down next to him and play him every song he ever wrote, he wants to bundle Zayn up in blankets and feed him the food he won’t cook for himself, he wants to hang over Zayn’s back as he paints. He wants Zayn to stay.
“Is the painting coming along?” he asks, quickly. “It’s got to be almost done, right?”
“Well, it’s almost due, so guess that’s close enough.” Zayn sighs, but he’s still moving away. Okay. That’s probably better, safer, because the longer Zayn stays close to him the more likely it is that Harry gives in to temptation. There’ll be one more session, maybe two, and Harry can plan—something. Something romantic and quiet; maybe a walk in the park? Though it’s pretty cold. And those carriage rides cost more money than Harry has lying around. He’ll figure something out, though. By next time, he’ll have the perfect date to ask Zayn on.
So right now, he stands up too, to walk Zayn to the door. Zayn’s already got his bag over his shoulder, so he can’t take it, unfortunately. “It’ll be great, though,” he assures him, following Zayn towards the door. He’s never wished his room was bigger quite so much.
“Well yeah, you’re in it,” Zayn agrees, and Harry knows he’s grinning stupidly big.
“That too. But also because you painted it.”
“You haven’t seen it.”
“Don’t have to,” Harry says staunchly. He knows. Zayn looks like art himself, of course his painting’s going to be amazing. And also Louis’s said that he’s one of the really promising students, so he’s sure. “It’s amazing.”
“Your faith’s inspiring, babe.”
Harry’s almost certain it’s the book on the floor, but maybe it’s the pet name, or maybe it’s the smile Zayn shoots at him, the way his eyes crinkle into crescents and his nose wrinkles—all he knows is he trips, flailing forward into Zayn, and Zayn stumbles back a pace into the wall, Harry’s full weight falling onto him for a second.
“Fuck, sorry!” It’s the first thing Harry can think to say, because of course he’d be this clumsy, of course he’d just fall onto Zayn and maybe hurt him and he’s such a klutz.
“”s okay.” There’s a choked sound in Zayn’s voice, and Harry steels himself to look up, because he knows his elbow could have hit anything or he could have headbutted him—and fuck, Zayn’s close though, their bodies pressed together, Harry’s head basically on Zayn’s shoulder, his leg between Zayn’s thighs and Zayn’s hand closed around his forearm. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Harry lifts his head, because it’s way too close to the curve of Zayn’s neck where it’d be so easy to just taste it, to smile sheepishly. “Sorry. Bit of a klutz.” There went all his hopes of Zayn thinking he wasn’t a mess.
“No problem.” Lifting his head was a bad, bad idea, because now it just meant he was looking right at Zayn, close enough to see the freckle in his eye, to see how his tongue looked as it flicked out to wet his lips, to see the way his hair brushed against his forehead when he smiled back at Harry. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Harry’s mind is moving at half-speed, he thinks. He doesn’t know how it could move at anything else when he’s like this, with Zayn pinned between him and the wall, smiling up at him with a shy look under his eyelashes, and those pink lips right there. Harry could kiss him, could just lean in and kiss him right now, press him against the wall and taste all the things he’s been wanting.
But this is Zayn, who’s shy and quiet, and worth more than that. Harry is going to do this right. He is going to move slowly, to ask Zayn out properly, to not overwhelm him all at once. He’s going to treat Zayn like he should be treated.
So instead of listening to his cock, which is telling him quite insistently that he’s right there, Harry steps back. “Sorry,” he says again.
Zayn’s face does—something. Something not good, certainly, his brow furrowing and that smile disappearing completely. “No problem,” he replies again, straightening so he’s not leaning on the wall, and his voice clipped and short, not the lazy drawl he’s always had before. “Yeah, no problem. I’ll just go.”
“What?” It doesn’t take an idiot to know Zayn’s mad at him, but Harry runs through the past thirty seconds, and—is Zayn really that offended he fell on him? “Zayn, are you okay?”
“Fine.” Zayn’s still got that biting tone, and he’s got his shoulders set stiffly, as he turns away from Harry. “I’ll see you later.”
He’s pulling away, and all Harry can think is—no. No, Zayn can’t leave here angry. No, Zayn has to tell him what he did so he can make it right. No, he doesn’t want Zayn to look like that, tense and set. He wants to make him better.
“Wait!” Harry reaches out, and somehow his hand ends up on Zayn’s forearm, wrapping around the sweater. Zayn jerks to a stop, and Harry knows he should let go, he would, except now he’s actually touching Zayn, even if it’s through cloth, and he finds he really doesn’t want to let go. And he really doesn’t want Zayn to leave, and if Harry lets go he might. “No, what’d I do, don’t be mad.”
Zayn runs a hand back through his hair, shaking his head with his lips twisted into something that’s not quite a smile. “You didn’t do a fucking thing, Harry. Guess I was just misreading things. I’ll see you—”
“What were you misreading?” Harry demands.
“The way you look at me, maybe?” Zayn snaps back. Harry winces. He’s never heard Zayn sound like that, quick and harsh. “But if you don’t want anything, it’s fine, I’m fine, I should have known.”
“Don’t—no! I do!” Harry exclaims, because he couldn’t be more wrong, because Harry knows how he looks at Zayn even if he hadn’t realized Zayn did, because he does want something, he wants everything, and Zayn’s still looking at him half skeptically and half angrily, and he just—he doesn’t want that. He needs Zayn to know, even if it’s wrong, it’s all wrong.
He tries to kiss him gently, at least. Respectfully, so Zayn knows what he means to Harry, Harry’s hand cradling his cheek and his other hand still on his arm. He tries to keep it short and sweet and soft, all the things he wants to give to Zayn, he wants Zayn to know he can get with him, even if fuck he just wants him and he tastes so good, and his lips are the slightest bit chapped beneath Harry’s, and Harry can hear his quick intake of breath before his fingers dig into Harry’s shoulder.
That brings Harry back, and he lets go of Zayn all at once, stumbling backwards. Fuck, he hadn’t meant to do that, hadn’t meant to push himself onto Zayn. “Sorry!” he gets out again, and if his voice is hoarse that’s the least of his worries. “I’m so—fuck, I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” Zayn repeats, slowly. At least he didn’t punch Harry, or leave. “What are you sorry for?”
“For—kissing you like that. I shouldn’t have. I didn’t—I wanted—there was going to be flowers.” Harry knows he’s rambling, that he doesn’t make sense, but he doesn’t know what else to say, with Zayn looking at him like that, like he sees all of him. “There were going to be flowers, and I was going to ask. I was going to do it right.”
“And that wasn’t?”
“No! I didn’t mean to, I dunno. Not ask. Importune you.”
“Importune me,” Zayn repeats, his lips pressing together. “As you just did. With that kiss.”
“Yeah.” Harry drops his head. Now he’s ruined everything, now Zayn’ll be angry and leave, because he knows Harry can’t be trusted with him. “Like I said, sorry.”
There’s no sound for a second, then some sort of smothered sound Harry can’t interpret. He hopes it isn’t tears, it probably isn’t but what does he know? He’ll do—something, he’ll make it better, he swears, he’ll—the sound comes again, and Harry glances up.
Zayn’s got his hand over his mouth, but his eyes are curved into crescents and his nose is wrinkled and his shoulders are curved in. “You—importune?” he giggles, and Harry doesn’t know what to say because god he’s lovely but he’s laughing and Harry wasn’t prepared for that. “What the fuck, Harry, do you think I’m some sort of, I don’t know, romance heroine?” He lets the hand drop, and Harry can see how he’s grinning. “I mean, I knew the twink thing was working for you, but I didn’t—the fuck?” he repeats, shaking his head. “I’m not a delicate flower.”
“But you’re so—and I’m so—”
Zayn rolls his eyes, then he takes two steps and he’s in Harry’s space and he’s got a hand on his neck and he’s kissing Harry, now, and it’s not—it’s not sweet or soft, even if it is sort of, it’s deep and thorough and Zayn’s lips are firm against his and Harry lets out a sound that’s definitely not a yelp when there’s a hint of teeth on his lip.
Zayn draws back, his hand still on Harry’s neck, his eyes still sparkling with the remnants of his laughter. “I’m shy, Harry. I’m not going to break.”
“You could!” Harry objects. He’s reeling a little, but he knows he’s not wrong. He is clumsy and too much and he can be overwhelming. “I don’t want you to.”
“You couldn’t break me if you tried,” Zayn retorts, and then his lips are on Harry’s again, his other hand low on Harry’s back.
And really, Harry’s only human, and he’s wanted this for months, to feel Zayn’s body against his, to feel those long, careful fingers on his skin, to get his hands on Zayn, to feel the soft wool of Zayn’s sweater against his chest. Zayn licks at his lips, coaxing until Harry can’t not open his mouth, and then their tongues are sliding against each other and Harry’s giving back what he gets, because Zayn’s making him melt too.
“I didn’t—I wanted to be romantic,” Harry says, though, when they break apart again. “I want to do this right, Zayn, ‘cause I don’t always and I want to with you.”
Zayn huffs out a breath, but his lips are twitching like he’s trying not to smile. “Okay then. How about we do this, then you can be romantic after?”
“But—”
“You’re sweet, Harry, really.” Zayn sets his bag down by the door, then slides even closer, and he’s got his hands in Harry’s hair, just like Harry likes, “But I’ve been thinking about your cock for months now.”
The sound Harry lets out is almost certainly a moan. “Yeah?” Zayn purrs, and his voice is low and rough and it’s always gone right to Harry’s cock, but it’s so much worse now when he’s actually right here. “Have you been thinking about me, too?”
“Zayn,” Harry moans again, but then Zayn’s tongue flicks out to lick his ear and he’s gone. He’s been wanting this for so long and he won’t break Zayn, he’ll do his best, he’ll still be good, and Zayn’s promised he won’t break. He’ll just—Zayn’s tongue is very persuasive.
He closes the distance between their lips again, and this time he doesn’t mess around. If Zayn wants this, wants what Harry’s been thinking about, he can have it, have the hands exploring down his back, have Harry trailing his lips over the stubble at Zayn’s jaw, down his neck.
Zayn groans, his hands tightening in Harry’s hair—then they tug, and Harry goes back up willingly to kiss Zayn again, because he thinks he could kiss Zayn for ages, could spend years like this, just learning Zayn’s mouth and the sounds he’s making. “Fuck,” Zayn swears, and then he’s biting at Harry’s shoulder, his collarbone, all the skin he can find, “If you hadn’t been so stupid, we could have been doing this ages ago.”
“Why didn’t you, then?” Harry retorts, because yes, maybe he’s moved slowly, but so did Zayn.
Zayn gives him a quick look, almost uncertain, almost like the ones he shot him from behind his easel—then he squeezes Harry’s ass, and Harry forgets what he was saying.
“You can—hell,” Zayn swears, and he lets go of Harry to move Harry’s hands onto his own ass before he gets his hands back in Harry’s hair. Harry freezes for a second, but Zayn approved, and he likes his hands there, like the sounds Zayn makes when he grabs, likes the way it’s small but firm under Harry’s palms.
“Bed,” Zayn decides, hoarsely, and he’s pushing or maybe Harry’s pulling, but they’re falling back on the bed, Zayn landing over Harry with their lips still mostly connected. Harry has a brief pang for romance, for waiting, for the soft and the sweet, but it’s brief when Zayn’s on top of him, their hips rolling against each other, and Harry can, tentatively, slide his hands under the hem of Zayn’s sweater, brushing over skin.
“Not going to break,” Zayn repeats between kisses, and then sits back to strip the sweater off himself.
Harry can’t help how his breath catches. He might have been waltzing around shirtless for the past weeks, but he’s never seen Zayn like this, all skin and ink that Harry’s never seen before, that Harry wants to taste and touch and devour.
“So?” Zayn asks, and Harry realizes he’s just been staring. Zayn’s still sitting back on his heels, his eyes almost wary as he looks at Harry, and Harry blinks, shakes his head. He’s allowed, he thinks, a little incredulously. This beautiful, beautiful boy, and he’s allowed to touch, he trusts Harry won’t break him, he wants Harry’s hands on him.
“You’re beautiful,” is what Harry gets out, and that gets a smile from Zayn.
“Thought we already established that.”
“Yeah, but, like—” Harry shakes his head again. “You’re just—unreal, hell,” he swears, and pushes up to kiss him again.
Zayn sinks into the kiss, his hands roaming down Harry’s chest, circling his nipples until he moans into Zayn’s mouth. He can feel Zayn’s smile against his mouth.
“You can touch me,” he murmurs, an inch away from Harry. “You’re not importuning me.”
“Shut up,” Harry retorts, but he does, exploring the crevasses of Zayn’s abs, his rubs, his chest, tracing over his collarbone and then down again, circling his navel. “Can—”
“Stop fucking asking,” Zayn swears, and he’s undoing Harry’s belt, then fumbling Harry’s fingers out of the way to get his own. “I want you, Harry. Want whatever you want.”
“Well, I want whatever you want,” Harry shoots back, and then he cuts off because Zayn’s gotten his jeans down. “Zayn, fuck, you don’t—”
Zayn’s hand, which had been hovering over Harry’s boxers, disappears, and Zayn sits back on his heels. He looks—Harry doesn’t have words for how he looks, thinks he could write songs and odes and sonatas to it and still he couldn’t capture it, his flushed skin and messy hair and swollen lips and dark eyes, all debauched and touchable. But his face is serious, a little confused. “Do you want to do this?” he asks, simply.
Harry can feel himself flush. “Yeah.” It comes out raspy, more desperate than Harry’d like, so he clears his throat. “Yeah,” he repeats. “I do, but I don’t want you to think you have to. I don’t want to, like, push you.”
“I’m not a blushing virgin,” Zayn replies, raising an eyebrow. “And even if I was, it’s pretty clear I’m willing here. More willing than you, seems like.”
“No.” That’s not possible, it can’t be. Harry doesn’t think anyone could want someone more than he wants Zayn right now. “No, Zayn, you aren’t. You couldn’t be.”
“Then what do you want from me?” Zayn demands, and Harry only has one answer to that.
“Everything.” It’s the only answer he can give, and somehow his hands are on Zayn’s hips now, keeping him there on Harry, and it feels like they’re almost big enough to wrap around him completely. “There’s nothing I don’t want from you, but that’s too much, and I don’t want to be too much for you.”
Zayn’s face breaks out into a smile, big and relieved and Harry wants to taste it, wants to bite it from his skin and swallow it whole. “You’re not, Harry,” he assures him. “I can take you. Stop worrying.” His hands are over Harry’s boxers again, sliding underneath. “I promise, I’ll tell you if you’re doing something I don’t want.”
Harry thinks he had something to say to that, but it’s lost in Zayn closing his hand around his cock, and Harry groans and his hips arch independently of his control at the feeling of those skilled, calloused fingers wrapped around him. It’s even better than he tried not to daydream, how Zayn drags his fingers over Harry, then he gives a grin that’s almost wicked, and scoots back.
“What? Zayn—” Harry props himself up to look just in time to see Zayn leaning over, and so he sees and feels when Zayn takes him into his mouth, those pink lips wrapping around his cock and his tongue dragging over the head. “Fucking hell Zayn!”
Zayn hums, and Harry can feel it in his bones, but he can’t look away either, can’t ever look away from Zayn with his hair messy around his face and his eyelashes shadowing on his cheekbones and his cheeks hollowed around Harry. It’s so fucking good, warm and tight and his tongue and Harry’s making noises he didn’t know he could, his hands flailing a little until one of them lands on Zayn’s hair. By the time he thinks to pull it away, that he’s pushing, Zayn’s tilted his head into it, and Harry’s fingers tighten enough that Zayn purrs over his cock.
Harry’s already shaking, on edge, when Zayn pulls off, lifting his head. “Want—like, would you—do you—”
“What?” Harry’s finger runs over Zayn’s cheekbone, so he feels Zayn’s eyelashes when he blinks, a bit of the delicate shyness back. It’s a horribly alluring study of contrasts, the obscenity of Zayn’s lips just inches from his cock, and the bashfulness of his words.
“Do you want to fuck me?” Zayn suggests, and Harry’s hand clenches in Zayn’s hair enough that Zayn chuckles. “Take that as a yes, then.”
“Yes please,” Harry agrees, though his mind’s whited out with Zayn saying that, because he’s not sure he ever dared dream of Zayn saying that. “I mean, if you want.”
“I want.” Zayn gives Harry’s thigh a final kiss, then sits back up. He’s still got his own jeans on, Harry realizes, which isn’t good. He should have done this right, laid Zayn out slowly and elegantly, until he was naked and relaxed and blissful. “Do you have…”
“Yeah!” Harry twists, reaching so he doesn’t have to move but can get into the drawer. He manages, just barely—he doesn’t think he’s ever been so thankful for small dorm rooms before—then throws the lube and condom onto the bed.
By the time he’s done that, Zayn’s already shimmied off his jeans and boxers. Harry’s breathes out an oath as he sees, as Zayn’s there at the foot of his bed naked and beautiful and his cock’s as beautiful as the rest of him, thick and veined and Harry just—wants him. Wants all of him.
“Can I?” he asks, and Zayn huffs out a breath as he reaches over Harry to grab the lube.
“Kinda the point,” he retorts, but the teasing turns into a hissed out breath as Harry gets a hand around him. “Fuck, Harry—”
“Yeah,” Harry agrees, even though he’s not really agreeing to anything. He just thinks he’d say anything to stay here, with his hand on Zayn. “Give it here.”
Zayn hands him the lube, then leans back, his legs spread obscenely and Harry doesn’t know how his heart takes it, just like he doesn’t know how he survives Zayn nodding when he slides his first finger in. He groans, or maybe that’s Harry he can’t even tell.
He opens Zayn up as gently as he knows how, his fingers stretching Zayn with one finger, then two, until he finds his prostate and then it’s definitely Zayn who groans, fucking himself back on Harry’s fingers with his face screwed up in pleasure.
“Fuck, okay, that’s enough,” he says at last. Harry pauses, two fingers still in Zayn.
“You sure? We could do more.”
“I want you in me,” Zayn says certainly, and Harry can’t stand up to that.
“If you—we can go slow,” he replies, sliding his fingers out.
“I’m not going to break,” Zayn says again, then he’s on his knees and pushing Harry onto his back. “You aren’t going to break me.”
Harry knows, he does, but still, he’s not sure of it when Zayn’s lowering himself onto Harry, because he can feel Zayn’s hips and his waist and the lightness of him and he can only think of how he’s filling Zayn, how tight Zayn is around him.
“God, Harry, you’re so—feel so good,” Zayn mutters, and Harry grins.
“So do you.”
Zayn just shakes his head instead of replying, starts to fuck himself on Harry. It’s good, so good, and Zayn’s amazing and Harry can see his cock moving in and out of Zayn and Zayn’s sweat-soaked skin and how he’s biting on his lip, and that’s not okay, so Harry grabs at Zayn to kiss him instead, to bite his lip and swallow down all the sounds Zayn’s making and feel him tensing as he gets close, kiss him harder with that.
He loses himself in the kiss, in his fingers tight on Zayn’s hips and Zayn’s warmth around him, and he just—he wants more, he wants now, he wants this, and he forgets about the delicate and the sweet in Zayn’s mouth.
All at once, he rolls them, keeping Zayn close so he only slips out a little, and they don’t even fall off the bed, which Harry will take as success later. Now though, all he knows is Zayn, with his legs wrapped around Harry’s waist and Harry holding himself up over him, how Harry fucks into him and Zayn’s hips rise up to meet him.
“’m close, Harry, please,” he moans, and Harry wraps a hand around his cock, stroking as he thrusts—and then Zayn’s gone, his back arching and oaths slipping out of his mouth and his eyes squeezed shut and now, this is the moment Harry wants to capture forever, Zayn rapt in the throes of pleasure, come on his belly and Harry’s hand.
Harry knows he should stop as Zayn comes down, but he can’t, he can feel the orgasm rising in every muscle of his body, and he keeps thrusting and fucking into Zayn as he clenches around Harry.
Zayn opens his eyes again, his lips curved into a pleased smile—and that’s what pushes Harry over the edge, the orgasm crashing over him.
Zayn strokes his back as he comes down, his fingers moving lightly over Harry’s back as Harry breathes hard into his shoulder. He seems to know when Harry’s verbal again, because it’s not until then that, “Good?” he murmurs.
“Yeah.” Harry nuzzles at Zayn’s throat, kissing idly at the veins there, the curve of it. He could stay here forever, slumped in Zayn’s arms, feeling all of Zayn.
Except—fuck, no, he can’t do that, and he just—he hadn’t meant it to be like this but he can do this part at least, be a gentleman here.
He pulls out, then gets up to throw away the condom. He’d get a warm rag if he could, but the bathroom’s too far away, so instead he finds a clean washcloth and throws some water from his water bottle on it.
When he’s done with that, he goes back to the bed, where Zayn’s still splayed out on his back, a lazy smile on his face that’s probably more gorgeous than anything Harry’d ever seen.
“So, I didn’t break.” He says, his eyes half-lidded as he watches Harry clean the come off his stomach. It’s hard not to be distracted by all the skin, all the tattoos he hadn’t seen, but he manages it, then throws the washcloth in the general direction of the hamper and lies down beside Zayn.
“No,” Harry admits. He inches closer, so he can fit himself in next to Zayn. He doesn’t even need to ask for Zayn’s fingers to start carding through his hair, soft and easy and relaxing. “Or only in a good way.”
“Yeah,” Zayn agrees, with a smile in it, and Harry closes his eyes to that, so he can better focus on Zayn’s fingers, on the smell of him up close, on the memory of what happened.
“I didn’t know if you wanted this,” Zayn says, suddenly, breaking the silence. Harry blinks lazily, lifts his head to look at Zayn. Zayn’s not looking at him, though, is glancing down at his ribs where his fingers are drumming. “It’s why I didn’t say anything. I thought—I mean, Niall and everyone said that when you wanted something you went after it. And you didn’t go after me.”
Harry can feel the tightness in him, can feel his heart beating, and he presses a kiss to Zayn’s shoulder before answering. “I do,” he says, slowly. He needs to explain this. “But, like, sometimes that’s too much? I come on fast and hard, and I didn’t want—Zayn, you were all quiet and beautiful and shy—I didn’t want to overwhelm you, I guess.”
“Shy doesn’t mean easily overwhelmed,” Zayn observes, quietly. His fingers are still in Harry’s hair. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want this.”
“I know. But I wanted it to be romantic. And sweet. And all those things you deserve.”
“You are sweet,” Zayn says, and then he’s urging Harry’s face upwards so he can press a kiss to Harry’s lips, sweet as he might have expected their first kiss to be. “Thinking I need that, it’s sweet.”
“You should,” Harry insists. In fact, “So, do you want to go on a date with me?”
“This didn’t count?”
“No. I want to take you out properly,” Harry says firmly “Please?”
Zayn laughs, and he kisses Harry again, long and lingering. “Sure,” he agrees, and maybe this is actually the moment Harry wishes he could paint, Zayn beautiful and lazy and fucked out, smiling softly at him. “We can do that too.”
---
“One second!” Harry glances at the mirror one last time. He knows it’s stupid, because Zayn’s been looking at him dressed like this for weeks, and they’ve already had sex, but still. It’s the first time he’s seen him since then, because they need another modeling session before they both had time for what Harry deemed a proper date, and he wants to impress Zayn. He wants Zayn to not think better of the date.
He grins at his reflection, tweaks his hair, then hurries to the door.
There’s almost an instant when he doesn’t recognize the boy at the door. Or no, that’s an exaggeration; he’d recognize Zayn anywhere, he’s sure of it. And anyway, he’s got his usual bag. But His hair’s pulled back into a tight ponytail and he’s wearing a tank top under a plaid shit with the sleeves cut off and big black earrings, and he somehow looks worlds different from the soft, sweatered Zayn Harry’s known.
“Zayn?”
Zayn gives him a sheepish, hopeful smile, rubs at the back of his neck. “Hey, babe.”
“Hey.” All of his tattoos are on display like this, even the ones on his chest revealed by the low neckline of his tank top. And there’s another mark, one right at his collarbone, and that’s Harry’s, that’s one Harry put there two days ago, dark against Zayn’s skin. He blames that for the way it take him a second to remember to step back to let Zayn in. “Um. You look different.”
“Yeah, well.” Zayn shrugs, and sets his bag down next to the stool Harry’d set up. “I told you, I knew the twink thing was working for you, so I’ve been going with that? But, yeah. Is this okay?”
He glances at Harry, that same questioning look through his lashes, and Harry’s heart pounds. “Yeah.” He’s breathless, and he knows it sounds like it, but he’s never seen Zayn like this. “Yeah, it’s—definitely. Okay. I like it.” He swallows, remembers himself enough to sidle forward, get a hand in Zayn’s belt loops so he can drag him closer. “Can show you how much.”
Zayn laughs, and comes easily, pulling Harry in for a quick kiss before he breaks away. “Don’t want to waste the light, babe. Got to finish this assignment.”
“Fine.” Harry sighs, and doesn’t move away. “Fine, you can finish painting me, then I’ll show you how much I like this look.”
“I know, I’m so demanding,” Zayn teases, and Harry sticks his tongue out as he lets go of Zayn to head towards his windowsill—then yelps when Zayn give his ass a friendly slap to send him on his way.
“Zayn!”
“What?” Zayn shrugs, his eyes widened innocently. “You’re not the only one who likes this look.”
“Not fair,” Harry mutters, and settles down on the windowsill. But he doesn’t have to look out on Broadway yet; instead he watches Zayn unpack his bag, and dreams about that time in a few hours when he’ll get to see him break again.