Chapter Text
When he passes him in the hallway, he’s not friendly. He scans the room but never lays an eye on anyone, like he’s not looking at them, but through them. When he walks passed, he might give you a glimpse - if you’re lucky - but otherwise he’ll settle for nothing but a cold shoulder. It’s not like he doesn’t notice there’s someone there — that’s one thing Harry noticed about him, the way he sees and notices everything — but more of the fact that he just wants to let people know that he’s the boss and he’s the one in charge. Harry couldn’t blame him, though. If he looked like him and had half the amount of power, Harry’d probably act the same way too.
The school wasn’t big, so everyone pretty much knew everyone. If you saw a face you hadn’t seen around before, you’d be hallucinating. It wasn’t a great school, it had its ups and downs, also the fact that it has been classified as one of the lower class schools in the area - but Harry didn’t mind it. As long as he was getting an education and passing all his classes and making his mother happy, then that’s all Harry could really ask for.
The heat inside the classroom was hard to get used to, seeing as Harry had just walked 20 miles in the blistering cold. He could feel his nose warm up and his toes slowly starting to regain feeling again. Once he felt the heat get to him, he took off his jacket and scarf and hung it up on the clothes rack next to all the other jackets that had been thrown on there from other classmates.
Harry sat in the front row - it wasn’t like he chose to be, he was allocated it, but again, he didn’t mind it. He didn’t mind anything, really. Not when it came to himself, not when it came to what he wants or needs or what he feels. He’d much rather do what everyone else preferred and he’d always take care of others before he took care of himself. This drove his mother insane.
First period had started, and it wasn’t unusual that one classmate was absent. He rarely comes to any of his classes, and Harry knew this because - lucky for him - he was in every single one of his classes. Even though Harry’d seen him this morning, he knew the dark-haired boy wouldn’t arrive.
But halfway into the lecture, Harry found out he was wrong.
He strolled in, so casually and cool, as if he was completely unaware that he had missed 15 minutes of class. He wore a grey hoodie underneath his black leather jacket, both fitting him perfectly. His hair was styled like it always was - Harry had never seen it any different - gelled back into a perfect quiff that suited him.
“Zayn, you’re late.” The teacher scolded him, flashing a disapproving look.
Zayn flicked a red slip of paper onto her desk - a late pass - and walked to the back of the classroom to his usual spot; the back row, second desk from the left. Harry was close to the wall, and he took the opportunity to lean back on it so he was on his side. He could still see the teacher, but from the corner of his eye he could catch Zayn.
He looked so domineering, so conceded. So bored.
His shoulders hunched over the small desk, face in his hands, eyes gazing everywhere except for the talking teacher. Harry also had noticed that whenever Zayn was drifting off into a daydream, it was like he wasn’t drifting off into another world, it was like he was just thinking. Like really thinking. And it’s hard to know what goes through his mind. Hard to know what he’s going through, since he’s always got that plastered smouldering look on his face. But Harry wonders if all those things are what make him so intriguing.
Harry always looks at Zayn, whether it’s watching him walk down the corridor every morning, or observing him from across the cafeteria. He’s always doing something interesting, like drawing in his text books or plugging in his headphones and skipping every song, it doesn’t even have to be exciting, Harry just enjoys watching him.
But Zayn never watches Harry - or so he thinks. Harry’s too bland, too irrelevant to catch Zayn’s eye. His face is too average, something that he and Zayn don’t have in common. If Harry could describe Zayn’s face in one word it would be symmetrical. Both of his eyes, so round and brown - they always shine so bright. His eyelashes, curling up and almost hitting the bottom of his eyebrow. Harry’s favourite is when Zayn laughs, when he’s so struck by something and he laughs really hard. It’s beautiful, the way his eyes and nose crinkle up like a little kid, his full set of perfect white teeth showing as his mouth stretches into a grin. It automatically makes Harry smile whenever he sees that, even when he doesn’t know what Zayn’s laughing at.
Harry wants to know him, wants to know what he gets up to on the weekend, and wants to know what sort of music he listens to, what things he sketches when he’s so intrigued with drawing - his pencil furiously yet delicately gliding across the paper in record time, as though he’s completely oblivious to what’s happening around him. He wants to know what kinds of things he enjoys doing, what makes him laugh, cry. Harry wants to know Zayn, and Harry wants Zayn to know him.