Archive of Our Own ^beta

'I once had a thousand desires,

But in my one desire to know you,

all else melted away.'

-Jalal al-Din Rumi

Zayn stares at his bankbook for the fourth time, just to be sure. He doesn’t trust his vision right now, especially not with a migraine on its way as the number remains the same since the first time he looked at it: £758. He’s doomed.

He needs just a few more numbers. Just enough to get him by till his next pay, enough to decrease his increasing student loan so the university doesn’t kick him out and enough to send back home.

Even he’s on scholarship the miscellaneous fees, plus books, and projects are painful for his wallet. He’s not even going to mention the transport and the expensive groceries that are necessary in his daily life.

He runs his bony fingers through his thick black hair wondering why it was never enough. Poverty is expensive. That and he needs a haircut.

It’s a good thing he doesn’t have a rent. Alberto, his classmate slash the-one-who-saved-his-arse-from-being-homeless, is letting him crash on the couch. The shabby and moth-smelling sofa had been Zayn’s bed for almost two semesters now. Alberto’s flat is small and one of the rooms from an abandoned building that someone turned into a decent – the walls are still spray-painted and dirty, and every corner smelled of piss – flat building. He’s not even going to start at how cold it gets during winter. At least it hasn’t snow in years.

He stops thinking about his shitty accommodations – he’s not suppose to complain with a roof above his head – and decide to get a fifth job to be able to make ends meet. He shouldn’t be thinking of problems but of solutions.

And what best way to be motivated than to read his notes on Edgar Allan Poe and make an essay about how Roderick Usher killed his younger sister, Madeline, to save himself from their family’s curse. It’s completely twisted how he finds comfort reading someone else’s miserable life. That’s a bit cruel but he needs inspiration to survive.

But three paragraphs into his essay his stomach growls. He hasn’t eaten anything since this morning, just two small pieces of leftover crackers from last night and it’s fifteen minutes pass 3am now. He needs to be awake by five for his 5:30am shift at Nero.

His stomach makes another desperate sound. His mind instinctively instructs him to make some coffee. That is how he’s been living himself off these days – caffeine that tricks his body into being full and poison’s his system with fake energy. Sleep is another luxury he can’t afford.

Since his brain feels like it’s about to get an aneurism, he tells himself to call it a day and get a full, good two hours of sleep. Ah, glorious sleep. And maybe he can sleep off the growing calls of his empty stomach till his shift at Nero where he can “salvage” some unwanted cinnabuns.

Although, twenty seconds upon lying down his belly just screamed louder and louder that he bets his neighbour can hear and will tell him off for. As if they’re in the quietest neighbourhood in London.

He debates himself for a good full minute on whether to drag his arse down to the nearest 7/11 and waste ten glorious minutes of sleep to buy some Korean noodles – they’re called: ramyun – or freaking punch himself in the face so he’ll get unconscious till his alarm blows off at 5:15. His options in life are fucking-bat-shit.

**

Harry Edward Styles is on his fourth club for the night and is kissing some hot Brasilian girl that works for Next Management. She’s a model, she said. Might make it on this year’s Victoria Secret end-of-the-year runway show. And Harry believes that she should because she has great tits – he felt them twice under his hand. God, he feels like fifteen again, trying to make it to second base without getting punch in the face. Not that anyone had said no to Harry. He’s not just the type people say no to.

Andrea or Pia – he forgot her name – pulls him upright and drags him to the bathroom of the club they’re at. And unlike most bars, this loo doesn’t have spray-painted walls and a pungent scent. One of the many perks of going to expensive clubs is having a good bathroom to fuck someone. The smell of cinnamon freshener hangs in the air like a perfect lullaby. He’s sleepy than he thought he was.

The walls are black – huge granite. Everything looks pristine, not a single fallen hair or dirt on the floor or any surface. The huge mirror is clear of any stain.

Ariana – he remembers her name – mechanics with his belt and pushes him inside one of the empty stalls. She crouches down as Harry helpfully locks the door. A few more seconds later and his dick is free from his pants and Ariana didn’t hesitate to swallow him. Harry inhales sharply as the warm mouth envelops him. He loves getting head.

Harry comes a few minutes later – quite quickly for Harry’s standards, but then Ariana’s really good with her mouth. And he returns the favour by fucking her to oblivion, making sure that it was one of the best orgasm of her life. He’s not the type to go down on anyone – what a narcissistic knob.

He does pay for her tab at the bar and sends her a limited edition Chanel bag the next day with a promise to call her. But he doesn’t do the latter, of fucking course. He’s Harry Styles, he doesn’t deal relationships or attachments. He’s your one night sort of guy – gone the next day. And he doesn’t look back.

‘Where are you going, Harold?’ Henry Choi slurs, holding a glass of nine pounds Pornstar Martini dangerously in his left while his right wrap around some pretty, blonde girl’s waist.

The blonde giggles despite the empty humour in Henry’s sentence.

Harry rolls his eyes at how ridiculous the people he hangs out with are. He leaves after that, not even bothering to tell Ariana he’s taking off.

No attachments. Never look back.

**

By 3am he’s puking his guts out at some unknown streets with the worst looking buildings – some abandoned, most are graffiti-ed from one end to the other. Certainly not the best place to stop when he’s driving his Porsche. Not that his car matters that much, it’s he’s safety he’s quite conscious about.

He wipes his mouth with his handkerchief and throws it at the gutter. He starts getting back to his car but another content spills from his lips down the pavement. His stomach grumbles afterward and it’s not the alcohol that’s making him sick. It must be somethng he’s eaten.

He fucking swear to find out tomorrow which of the four clubs he went to food poisoned him and get every single employee fired. After he buys the whole club, of course.

He makes another gagging noise and it hurts like he’s going to vomit his entire stomach because it has already emptied itself. He’s going to make those arseholes pay for putting him through this.

After catching his breath for a bit, Harry slowly returns to his car. His knees feel weak and his throat dry. The inside of his mouth tastes vile. He needs to drink something just to awaken his system. No need to go to the hospital, he’s had his share of sickness that he had to deal by himself while on boarding school. And a stomach flu won’t be sending him to the A&E, no matter if that’s what his grandfather would tell him to do.

‘You need to watch your health because you have to take over the company in the future,’ is what his grandfather would tell him. Because to his grandfather the company is everything. Every one or everything else – including Harry – comes second. Not that Harry wanted to be first on his grandfather’s list because Harry doesn’t give a fuck what the old bastard thinks.

He catches sight of a 7/11 from two blocks away and decided to buy some ginger ale like his mum had him drink when he’s feeling nauseous as a small kid. The thought of his mum gives him this numb ache deep in his chest. It passes away as quickly as it came. As always.

He has so many fond memories with his mother but all of them are lace with melancholy and anger. And Harry doesn’t dwell on the nostalgia because that’s wistful thinking. He knows better that life isn’t a wish granting factory and it is no fairy tale. All he has is the present and a future.

Driving the short distance towards the store, Harry shakes the thought of his mum from his mind. Past should remain where they are: buried six feet under.

He parks his car outside 7/11 and gets inside, heading straight towards the fridge where most of the beverages are stored. There’s only two other people inside the store, including the man behind the register. Not that he notices this because he doesn’t care at all.

He grabs what he’s looking for and heads for the till. The other customer is now paying. The man’s buying a huge Nescafe coffee and too much Redbull and some Korean noodles. Not the healthiest diet.

‘That’ll be twenty-six and forty-one, mate,’ the bloke says bluntly. He looks bored and ready to quit his job.

The customer – with olive-skinned – Harry notices, catching his frantic hands grasp his jean pockets in hunt for his wallet. Probably.

‘Fuck,’ the man mutters, backing away from the counter. He moves to the side, facing Harry. His hands continue to tap his body hysterically in search for his wallet. It’s obvious. He looks almost terrified as he makes eye contact with Harry as if Harry knows where his wallet went.

Harry stares at the stranger – at the man’s desperate, bloodshot eyes. The bloke clearly need at least a week worth of sleep with how deep the hollow under his eyes are. He’s an epitome of a man whom life had worn down – he’s brokenness coming to life.

‘Are you going to pay?’ the cashier asks in the same bored voice.

The guy with watermelon seed black hair turns to the cashier. He’s very close to breaking down. A few emotions passes his symmetrical feature – Harry observes that this unknown person could be beautiful once groomed. His fist clinches at his side like he’s about to punch someone in the face.

This is a waste of time, Harry thinks.

The man takes a deep breathe just when Harry’s sure he was going to cry or maybe faint.

The brown man takes another breathe and opens his eyes, face compose, looking collected than he was before.

‘Sorry, mate,’ the stranger begins with a toothy grin. His teeth are perfect. ‘It seems like I’ve left my wallet at home.’ He has a foreign accent.

Is he one of the Syrian refugee? Not that Harry cares. As a businessman, Harry sees no colour or religion, what he sees are sales and demands. All men are customers, except of course if it’s a terrorist who wants to destroy his products. Then that’s the time he’d care. But other than an act of violence, he doesn’t think ill of someone else for their religion or race.

Well, that’s something he learned from his shrewd grandfather who apparently heard a story about this Chinese businessman, Henry Sy, who used to sell soaps to both army camps during some war from a country Harry forgot the name of.

So, that’s that. Harry’s almost not racist because he base people on monetary level but it doesn’t make him less of a twat.

Another inhale and exhale from the man pulls Harry back into the present. The stranger’s lips are tight in a force smile that could pass for something genuine. But Harry knows better because this bloke’s eyes kindles an exhausted flame. And it’s like looking in the mirror.

Against all his selfish principle in life, Harry places his AmEx on the counter and tells the cashier to the charge the man’s purchase on him and to ring his drink as well.

‘Here you go,’ the guy says and gives Harry his card back.

Harry files it back to his card wallet and starts for the door just as the cashier asks the handsome stranger if he wants to bag his purchase.

‘Wait.’ The accent is there again, reminding Harry of Rancho. All those sixth form days watching Indian movies with Rajesh was torture (he’s not going to admit to anyone that he loved Every Child is Special). ‘How am I suppose to pay you back?’

He turns to the other person and almost snorts at the thought. As if he needs a few nickels. ‘You don’t have to,’ he answers with a shrug.

‘Thank you then.’ He sounded really grateful, a small smile of relief on his lips – barely noticeable but Harry spots it. It makes the guy look a few years younger, almost boyish.

He can note a lot of stuff when he wants to.

‘One day I hope I can repay you back or save someone, like you have saved me,’ he adds.

Harry doesn’t have a reply to such a weird statement. He gives a slight nod and leaves because he had wasted enough time.

**

Zayn may not be the purest person on earth but when his mum was alive she taught him of good values and kindness. And despite how life was such a bitch to him these past couple years, he’d endured and give out kindness at every opportunity that he can.

He actually didn’t think that karma remembers him. But last night – well, very early morning really – all his good deeds are starting to pay off. And he can’t stop smiling because that could be just the start of his luck. Finally, the tables are turning. His fate doesn’t look that bleak anymore.

Well, until Layla passes him a bucket and a mop and leads him to aisle four where a kid had puked all over the place. It’s all beans – guess he had beans and toasts for lunch.

Ah, yes! His fate is led for eternal damnation no matter how many cats he feeds, the number of babies he makes smile; all those elderly he had helped was all for vain. Because karma is a bitch.

But he cleans the floor nonetheless because life is fair since it’s unfair to everyone. Maybe not to those rich people who sleeps on kind size beds with carpeted floors and heated showers for baths.

Sour graping, he convinces himself that those wealthy people have their own crosses – his teita’s probably flaring at Zayn from her afterlife at the use of the Christian analogy – to carry.

He mops the floor and tries to have an optimistic outlook on his melodramatic life. Maybe he should read Shakespeare’s comedies instead of the effing tragedies he so love.

Best part of last night was the bloke who paid for his groceries. He was kinda hot too; handsome haircut – a bit short and neat – and pinkish lips. He has a deep raspy voice too that commands attention, maybe just as much the man’s very aura demands authority.

Well, that stranger definitely can turn heads with that face – all hard edges with his jaw and cheekbones and straight nose, softened up by big, green eyes. The man looked bored but Zayn saw something deeper in those emerald orbs: ambition. He can relate to that very much.

And he’s kind. Like a fucking bored prince charming with a heart of gold. He should also stop reading fairytales.

But those lips aren’t fairytales, they are real life fantasy that Zayn wants to taste. He wants to enjoy a lot of things – normal things like having a relationship and going on dates. His classmates are doing that. A great percent of the population does that.

He wets the mop again.

Only Zayn can’t afford dating and all that romance crap. He’s too busy making money to support his future and family.

He thinks of that cool stranger again who generously paid for his food without hesitation. Maybe that man was rich, but he wasn’t a snob; he didn’t turn a blind-eye when Zayn was in need.

Prince charming indeed. And right now, Zayn can only afford a crush.

No attachments. No dating. No relationships. Just pure stupid crush about a man who’s name he doesn’t know; a man he might never met again.

Life is really so unfair to him.

He sighs sadly. So much for happy thoughts eh?

‘Mate, you need sleep,’ Dexter comments, staking some bog rolls. His dreadlocks dancing along to the bob of his head at some reggae music he loves listening to.

 ‘Sleep gives me no money,’ he replies and drowns the bottom of his mop inside the bucket.

‘It provides you good dreams though,’ he argues, grinning thoughtfully. His white teeth perfect contrast to his lovely black skin.

‘Back again to how it doesn’t provide me money,’ he replies again, envying Dexter’s optimism and easy smile.

Dexter just chuckles. ‘You’re the most motivated person I know.’ He stares at Zayn. ‘D’you know that?’

Zayn just shrugs and continues his job.

‘Your family is lucky to have you,’ Dexter adds and goes back to his work as well.

Luck is a foreign word in Zayn’s life. It is as scarce as a shooting star. And he’s very tired that he could probably use a meteor shower right now.

**

It’s a Saturday night. The crowd is thicker than the previous night. And Harry’s at the VIP booth with the same people from last night. Just different flings this time around.

‘So, I’ve heard your grandfather had tied you to that uptight hotel heiress.’ Henry’s words are slowly uttered, tongue too heavy with the alcohol he’s been drinking.

Harry drinks his Jägermeister, annoyed. His grandfather sent him a very late message of his rumoured engagement to Annabeth Gregory, the only daughter of the famous Gregory clan, who happens to own myriad of hotels. They have a few in the U.K., in Paris, all over Europe and some are scattered around the world.

Like always he’s the last person to know about the big details on his life. The old bonker's just loves to shake Harry off his high horse.

His grandfather will not get away with this.

Harry had his share of marriage interviews from different daughters of moguls. But none of them had been as serious as Annabeth’s case. An engagement! The old bastard must be desperate to get his hands on the hotel business.

That’s how Harry’s grandfather see him: like property – a prospect to expand his massive empire. Their family is old money that goes back to when ships were used for traveling. Currently, they still do cargo shipping but have progressed to the airlines business. The Styles have been believed to have funded the Wright brothers’ future aeroplane endeavours after their success of that first flight.

‘What are you gonna do about it?’ Henry challenges with a devilish smile, almost reading Harry’s mind that plots revenge.

Another blonde girl hangs from Henry’s arm tonight. Well, technically, she’s almost on his lap with the way she has his whole body thrown over the Korean hospital heir. She’s on a very short leather dress that clings to all the right places. She’s sexy. And very horny, with the way she’s got her hands all over Henry’s thighs.

‘Go get a room,’ he punctuates at Henry, who only chuckles and pulls the bird for a hot kiss.

Harry just stares, not minding and at the same time not affected. He’s nonchalant. Too familiar with such happenings.

Suddenly, it hits him. He knows how to get even with his grandfather.

‘Henry,’ he calls, pulling his friend by the elbow. Removing Henry from face eating with the blonde lass. ‘Listen.’ He tugs his mate fiercer.

Henry’s eyes are glassy and Harry’s not sure if his mate is getting any of what he’s about to say but he doesn’t care because he’s just excited to tell someone.

‘See that door.’ He points at the door across them on the lower level of the club. Henry just nods, not entirely sure where Harry’s heading with his topic. ‘I’m going to hire the first person who goes into that door to pretend to be my girlfriend.’

Henry’s intoxicated mind catches up after five whole seconds. Then he chuckles. ‘Or boyfriend.’ He’s challenging Harry. Not that Harry has problems because almost every one knows he’s bi although he prefers girls.

‘Or boyfriend,’ he agrees. He loves a good challenge. And he likes his odds because women population is greater than men so the odds are in his favour.

Despite the club being crowded, people just don’t come and go because you need to be on the list to be invited inside. And every one had made their reservations for weeks before going Fita. For them rich people though, money had talked their way into the club.

The bouncer outside just don’t let people in and it seems like it’s going to be a while before someone does passes the door.

Harry glues his eyes on the door. Hands clammy with anticipation. Although he’s not the best at being patient – despite being one a very, very long time ago – he stretches his tolerance because he doesn’t want to go back on his words. Harry may be many other bad things but one good thing about him is that he’s a man of his word.

Inside his head a clock ticks by, Harry can almost hear every second of that imaginary hand. He really hates waiting.

So many dreadful memories had etched into that word: waiting. The word is almost synonyms to hope. And Harry had his share of life standing by the phone in the faith of a call that never came through. He’d had done his share of sitting at staircase footsteps in the hope of being welcomed into familiar arms.

Waiting. Harry has no patient and time for that shit.

The suspense hangs around his neck like an albatross. And Henry’s anticipation for him to fail adds up to the tension.

Six infinite seconds have passed and he wants to regret his whole idea. And here he thought he’s an amazing mastermind.

As Harry’s about to give up, a shadow slowly creeps towards the threshold. He swallows once because his throat seems dry with the suspense of the whole ordeal.

This is it. This is the moment of truth.

He silently hopes – he doesn’t pray, there are no higher being out there, because if there is, his life wouldn’t be as fucked up as it is – that whoever it is, the person’s good enough for his plan.

The first thing that Harry notices as the individual comes into view was the Pizza Hut uniform. It’s a delivery boy. Boy. B-O-Y.

Henry guffaws beside him.

‘It’s a boy,’ Henry exclaims, stating it like finding out the gender of the child at a baby shower.

From this distance – the club barely lit – Harry can feel a sense of familiarity towards the newly arrived stranger. The man looks like someone Harry had met but he can’t remember where because heaven forbid, Harry eats at Pizza Hut.

He watches the stranger entre and calls for someone. Who even orders pizza at a club?

‘Keep your word, Styles,’ Henry prompts him, smiling like a Cheshire cat.

Harry takes his time to observe because he’s not stupid to go head first without a plan. First he needs to see what sort of individual this pizza boy is, what he might like so Harry can use that as bait to lure the naïve stranger into Harry’s diabolical plan.

Two blokes approached the delivery boy and says something to him. They laugh among themselves – Harry can see that despite not hearing it. And he can tell it’s not a complimentary chuckle. They’re picking on the innocent stranger.

The boy says something back, dropping his cargo on the floor and folding his hands across his chest in a dare. Harry can see the gleam of his smug smile. It must have been some nasty comeback because the other guy – clearly drunk with the way he’s maneuvering – hastily throws a punch at the delivery guy.

He dodges the blow quickly and gracefully. Harry’s completely glue.

Harry’s had his share of fights on boarding school in which he had learned that physical prowess can help you in business that he had hired a personal Muay Thai trainer. He’ll never be weak in any aspects, let it be physical or emotional.

Having background knowledge in fighting, Harry can see that the stranger is well-trained. He’s not sure what technique he uses but it’s definitely good.

The bloke who threw the punch falls stupidly on the floor in drunken stupor. His mate avenges him by making the same attack. But just like before, delivery guy escapes the strike and pushes the bloke away from him, toppling him over his friend.

Harry’s on his feet and walks towards the stranger.

**

Zayn’s probably going to get a telling off for the chaos he’d cause. But at least those pizza won’t be deducted from his salary since the crazy fuckers handed him notes instead of a credit card. Guess they weren’t that rich if they do carry around cash. Or maybe he shouldn’t believe what Emma tells him about stereotype rich folks.

Maybe he should quit Pizza Hut and transfer to Sbarro or Nando’s.

Why can’t customer be ever nice? It’s not like it cost so much. The whole freaking ‘customer is always right’ is a business lie.

So, far the rudest customers are those older people who thinks they know better just because of their age. And usually they are the ones who would badmouth millennials like him that they’re too lazy and rude. He hears it often from Thomas when they complain that he isn't white. Zayn might as well not get near the till service lest those racist white folks start looking at him like he’s a pariah. He can almost hear the terrorist insult and how he should go back to his own country.

And you think Britain will be different from America. Well, just two levels better, maybe.

But he can’t quit his job or any of his jobs to be exact. It was hard landing these works especially with the colour of his skin and how he’s only on a student visa. Every day he’s expecting the Board of Immigration or MI6 to send someone and arrest him for some false identity accusation about how he’s a spy for the Palestine Armed Force.

He can’t even think back about the extreme adversity he had to go through to get his student visa and be allowed to study in U.K. His grades had to be spotless, he needed a backer – his English professor, the university director, and Khalid Chopra, a well-know business tycoon from his city in Palestine.

He’d survived every single hurdle that came his way. And he had yet more to encounter. But he’s going to succeed. He’s going to raise his family from poverty. Or maybe even bring his whole family in U.K. where they have better healthcares and free of war.

As he was about to swing one leg over the company’s Vespa, a hand grabs him by the shoulder and his instincts kick in.

He grabs the hand and twists the owner’s arm – must be one of those two idiots from the bar – only to be pulled swiftly in an abrupt turn with his back on his enemy. It catches him completely off guard, especially as another arm cages his torso and a solid chest immortalises against his back.

‘You are good,’ the voice says, amuse and impress.

He wants to panic but the voice didn’t belong to neither of the two blokes he had embarrassed inside the club. So, who is this new stranger with a sexy raspy voice, and smelling like green apples?

Is he being mugged?

But why would a mugger smell like apples? That just doesn’t make sense.

‘I have a preposition for you,’ the stranger whispers, breathe warm against Zayn’s ears. He can tell that his capturer is smirking.

Oh, Allah! He is being mugged after all.

**

Zayn never expected to meet Harry Styles again – at least that’s what it says his name is on the green glossy paper with his name encrypted in gold. It’s a very posh business card, he’s almost tempted to smell it because he’s a naïve little fucker. Under Harry’s name it says that he’s an Executive Officer of Styles Cargo & Shipping Corporation. Zayn frowns at that. He knows that company is huge, belonging to another mega-corporation which is The Styles Group of Companies. It’s surreal to have someone like Harry talking to Zayn, and that makes Harry far from legit.

Although Harry can’t be that bad either since he helped him that one time and he used a card to pay the small purchase. He can hear Emma’s rich folk stereotype theory again.

He’s not sure if Harry recognises him. But if the other man does, he doesn’t show it.

His heart actually sinks at the thought that Harry hasn’t remembered him at all. Those six word stories that Zayn had angsty written are all for nothing. The pain of unrequited love is such hard to swallow. Maybe this is why Ophelia hung herself.

He’s still wary but when you’re in need of money, anyone who offers you a good paying job makes you a yes man. He just has to make sure that Harry’s not about to ask him to assassinate someone, in case Harry’s really some mafia bloke who’s just looking for a scape goat.

‘What are you doing after this?’ Harry asks, smiling with a glint of excitement in his eyes.

Zayn feels like he’s missing on a joke, despite Harry’s smile being damn attractive that he can’t stop looking at the man’s pink lips. Those lips will cause eternal damnation to his heart. And there’s something dangerous about the man’s smile -- it’s as if Zayn’s about to bite a bullet.

He looks at his watch. ‘My shift ends at 2am,’ he replies. ‘And then home.’

Harry doesn’t even bother to mask his boredom upon hearing Zayn’s pragmatic answer. He stares at Zayn, thinking. ‘How about you quit?’ Harry offers like it’s the simplest solution while at the same time looking like he doesn’t care that Zayn has a life of his own too that could be affected by his suggestion.

Harry Styles is definitely not a prince, Zayn notes down – drills it deep into his mind so his irrational heart would remember because he needs to move on from his fantasy.

He must crush his infatuation and focus on important matters like: Harry’s a bit – truly – an arsehole, and money. Love will not feed him and his family.

Life really is unfair to him.

Upon hearing the other man he’s incredulous and half wants to yell at this unconfirmed-legit Harry Styles that he’s got to be effing kidding. Zayn’s only been working at Pizza Hut for four months and he went through two levels of hell to get this job.

‘You won’t need this job,’ he adds arrogantly in a confident manner. ‘Or any other job.’ Does he thinks he’s a fortuneteller? ‘What I’m offering you would probably buy you a house.’

Legit or not, the offer sounds appealing. A house! If Harry offers him a million pounds, he can pay for his university fees and would probably buy his whole family tickets to go to UK. And maybe rent some cottage in the countryside while he process their papers to make them all stay in Britain.

His mind drifts into hundreds of possibilities that makes him a bit dizzy.

Harry clears his throat to get his attention.

‘I want cash,’ he demands.

He can’t have his card be overflowing with money. The MI6 will surely sniff it and accuse him of being a spy. The colour of his skin can surely bring shit into his yard. No need for milkshakes, yeah?

‘Okay,’ Harry answers, not missing a beat and unflinching at Zayn’s demand. Maybe Harry really isn’t fake.

What in fresh hell has he got himself into? Now's probably the time to insure himself. Just in case.

‘Shall we?’ Harry prompts.

This man really has no consideration for other people’s business or needs. And he’s definitely don’t take no for an answer.

‘Can I at least get my clothes at work?’ he asks, but not really because Harry Styles’ callous attitude is slowly getting on his nerves.

Harry considers it for a moment before reluctantly nodding.

‘Does this involve crime or anything?’ he asks, putting his helmet on. ‘I really can’t get into anything illegal because I’m on a student visa.’

The older man takes the info in with his observant eyes. Zayn can’t remember the bloke to be this keen when they first met at 7/11. Harry even looked unconcerned and bored before, detached from the world. But he’s not sure why this version makes him fidget a bit. Why does this man even stare at him like he’s studying Zayn? Christ! His liver is going to be sold at the black market, innit? This is what the whole assessing is about.

Abort! Abort! Abort!

Zayn can see the red lights flashing inside his head; worse: his family crying as they receive all of his things in one small box because the police couldn’t find his body. He just disappears like a burst bubble. Poof!

‘Meet me in Mayfair after an hour,’ Harry instructs flawlessly as if he’s been doing it all his life.

He reminds himself that if Harry is indeed rich then it’s a possibility.

‘Will that be enough for you?’ He doesn’t sound generous with his given offer. He even raises an eyebrow as if to dare Zayn to bargain another time. He must be used to people bending unto his every wishes.

Zayn wants to spit, ‘spoiled brat’ but holds his tongue because he must remembers his values. In the future, he won’t be shock if he truly punches Harry Styles in the face and tell him that in the real world his words aren’t law.

‘That’s enough,’ he answers instead and gives the man a sweet smile despite the opposite feeling he has inside his chest.

Harry nods in acknowledgement.

Not a man of many words, Zayn notes that down as well. Harry’s not the only attentive one.

**

Faking an illness is easy, he’s too thin and he always look tired. So, that parts easy.

After he’s dressed in his black t-shirt, black loose jumper, a black leather jacket (his best investment so far because he effing won’t survive the cold in London), and black skinny jeans with the same coloured well-worn boots. He realises he could attend a funeral at this moment and would blend in perfectly. Oh well.

His wardrobe is all black so that no one would notice how little clothes he have.

He misses home and the warm weather where he can wear sherwani and qamis.

Straightening his back and heading for the tube, he tries not to feel the homesickness that clothes his heart with loneliness. He needs to be strong for his family.

Inside the train’s car he googles Harry Styles because there is no way in hell he’s going to let his liver be sold. And what he finds chokes him a little bit and makes him utter a not so quite: What the fuck?

Some of the commuters give him a glare but they all went back to their Kindle and phones, leaving Zayn wide eye about the facts he had uncovered online.

Harry Styles is indeed THE Hary Styles and Zayn thinks he’s going to have a fucking heart attack.

Another set of beautiful profanities leave his mouth while his eyes continue to read through all the web searches about Harry Styles.

The man was on the cover of Forbes magazine last year, naming him one of the youngest tycoon in the business world – only 26. Not counting his net worth, Harry’s staggering achievements is enough to make Zayn look like dust underneath a rug.

No one should have all the looks while at the same time graduating Suma Cum Laude at Oxford University. Zayn wants to think those professors must have been bribed or something because it’s just not fair that Harry Edward Styles is an epitome of perfection – a jack of all trades.

He refuses to read the tabloids about Styles despite The Sun’s constant printing of hard-to-believe scandals about the said man.

Zayn’s mum always told him to believe none of what he’d heard and only half of what he sees.

The further he reads the more he can’t believe that Harry’s the same specimen as he is. The bloke’s just overflowing with honours and hobbies and skills that it’s not humanly possible. Harry’s a great cook and baker, he’s good at cricket and equestrian, can play the piano and violin, can speak French and Italian fluently, can paint and draw – he minored in architecture. And the list goes on of how many more Harry Styles can sublimely do.

So, exactly what can’t Harry do? Besides being nice that is.

And to think that Harry is part of myriad of charities. Zayn’s shock about that fact the most because that is odd, for the Harry he knows is an inconsiderate twat with no beating heart.

He can hear his mum telling him to be kind and understand Styles. Maybe something made Harry that way: heartless. Maybe the tycoon’s just unhappy and masks it with indifference.

Sighing and rechecking his self-esteem, Zayn puts his phone away. So, Harry Styles is legit. Now the next question is: What in bloody hell does he need from someone like Zayn?

It bothers him. But at least his liver is safe.

**

On his way to his hotel, he calls his trusted lawyer slash mate, Rebecca, to write a contract. Everything has to be confidential so he can’t let just anyone else handle this. Of course, he’s going to get a whole telling off from his friend because of his untimely request. But he believes she’s still awake being the workaholic that she is.

As the phone rings he tries to recall all the facts he knows so far. The delivery boy’s name is Zayn Javadd Malik. A very interesting fellow with Audrey Hepburn eyes. A pretty boy – if dressed up nicely. That reminds him.

He definitely needs to check Zayn’s background. He calls his P.I., Marco, to dig everything there is about Zayn Malik from Palestine.

The next call he makes is to Mr. Pierce, his personal assistant, to book him a salon appointment at nine and Gucci’s VIP room in Oxford Street. Zayn hasn’t said yes yet but Harry’s confident the bloke won’t be able to decline his offer.

To be honest, no one has yet rejected Harry Styles since he’d become THE Harry Styles. And he’s sure that that day won’t come.

**

He didn’t realise that Zayn would look like he belonged inside the luxurious penthouse suite. Harry didn’t expect it at all. But the closer he looks at the man, the more he sees that Zayn would definitely belong anywhere. Faces like that has it’s advantage.

Zayn’s feature is symmetrical, as if someone made a perfect Maths for every angle so he’ll never have an ugly side. His natural beauty is captivating even when he’s in the simplest clothes – this time all black, plain and boring. But somehow, Zayn makes his all dark clothing like the loudest statement in mute tone. And at the same time he looks like he just stepped out of a catalogue. He’s wearing this leather jacket that he carries amazingly, makes you want to be badass and get a tattoo or two.

Despite the timid aura, Harry can see the fierceness in Zayn’s lovely hazel eyes. He likes that burning passion. It will makes this brown-skinned boy perfect.

‘Sit down,’ he instructs. He takes the seat across Zayn and studies him some more.

Zayn sits down and stares at the coffee table, not meeting Harry’s intrusive gaze.

‘Does my being half-naked bothers you?’ he asks teasingly, wanting to gauge how far he can push Zayn. He likes knowing someone’s limit – he can use that against them and at the same time use it for himself.

‘No, Mr. Styles,’ Zayn answers, looking up from the table, eyes glued to Harry’s face liberately that he’s whole body goes stiff at the gesture. He’s concentrating so much to not let his eyes wander.

Mr. Styles, eh? Zayn must have googled him if he’s extra polite like this. The whole feisty boy from the club gone. But the fire in his eyes continue to blaze.

‘I’m going to cut to the chase,’ he says and then notices the small eye roll that Zayn does unconsciously.

So, he’s categorised me after all, Harry thinks.

‘I want you to pretend to be my boyfriend,’ he announces and watches Zayn take it in.

Surprise and confusion appears across Zayn’s face but he composes his feature immediately, impressing Harry a little. But he notes those slight changes for future reference.

‘You don’t have to do much really,’ he explains nonchalantly. ‘All you have to do is stay by my side and help me win this war against my grandfather.’ It’s better that Zayn learns where they’ll be heading. He crosses his leg with an impish smile. ‘That’s not very hard now, innit?’

The compose face falls off slightly but Zayn readily puts it back on again. He might be shaken but he isn’t quitting.

Harry pats himself in the back for choosing the right candidate. If he’s going to battle and he can’t take a coward, he needs a soldier who has will to win because they have something they want to protect.

‘Why me?’ Zayn asks, out of curiosity with a hint of self-consciousness.

Harry needs to delete that emotion immediately because that’s a weakness. And he can’t afford for Zayn to have such a petty kryptonite like being self-conscious because no one would believe all the farce they will show if Zayn himself doesn’t believe it.

‘Cos you’re not bad to look at,’ he answers – half-truth. No need to give unimportant details how it only started as a bet, and now he thinks that with Zayn’s burning passion they can actually achieve more than what had Harry expected before.

Zayn doesn’t look satisfy with his answer but he doesn’t voice it out.

The guy has potential  and Harry’s about to use him to get what he wants.

Mr. Pierce appears from the kitchen with beverages and the contract that Rebecca had sent. It’s a five pages thing with enough clauses to tell Zayn what his function is and everything he needs to know.

Marco’s already gave him all the information he needs about Zayn. He’s going to take advantage of the fact that the bloke’s a foreigner and could be deported if he tries to break their confidentiality contract. Not that it’s the only thing Harry’s willing to do if Zayn betrays him. He can think of a thing or two or more to ruin Zayn.

‘This is our contract,’ he says and slides the file towards Zayn. ‘Of course you understand that it will be strictly confidential.’

Zayn picks it up and reads.

‘You can’t tell a single soul,’ he adds. ‘Not your lover, your mates, or your family.’

The bloke frowns. ‘I don’t have a lover,’ he corrects and then clears his throat, turning pink a little. Zayn looks embarrass.

Harry gives him a tiny, lip tight smile. It’s interesting how that’s the only thing he reacts to and not the general restriction.

‘Nonetheless,’ he retorts because he’s Harry Styles, he need to have the last word.

Zayn just nods and continues to read through the contract.

‘Zayn,’ he calls and waits for Zayn to look up from his reading. Green eyes meets hazel. ‘It would be lovely to see your family, no? They’re in Palestine, right?’ He observes the way the boy’s eyes widens, mouth slightly agape – completely shock. ‘I could easily get them here… And I could deliver you there as well.’

Harry doesn’t threaten. All he says are facts. And he can see that Zayn understands what he’s implying.

Zayn takes the same pen and hovers it above the empty blank when he reaches the end of the document.

‘Don’t you want to think this over?’ he can’t help asking with Zayn stopping at mid-sign. Harry knows that the man’s not that stupid to not want to weigh his option despite Harry’s threat.

‘I don’t think you’re the sort of person who gets no for an answer,’ he responds with a slight coating of snarkiness. ‘We might as well cut to the chase, yeah?’ He proceeds to sign the contract with no sliver of hesitation.

A mischievous smile creeps over Harry’s lips. Zayn’s learning fast and Harry’s proud of himself for awakening this side of the naïve boy from Palestine.

**

Zayn had attended a handful of parties before – mostly from back home: weddings of cousins in general. On those occasions he’d wear his best sherwani – technically, the only one he has that’s reserved for special events – and not some thousand pounds, handmade Italian suit.

That sales attendant from Gucci told him that the suit fits him well, as if it had been tailored for him to wear. He’s not sure about that because it comes with a price that he can’t afford even if he works five jobs a day for the next six months.

It’s an all black suit with a black turtleneck for an inside shirt. While Harry’s in the same black ensemble with a yellow choker flower from Louis Vutton. Zayn wants to laugh at the ridiculous choker but he can’t because it only adds to Harry’s appeal. Harry can literally wear anything and look good in it.

Harry’s the true embodiment of a social butterfly. Anywhere he goes people smile loosely, laughter commences, and everybody feels special. That’s Harry’s magic: he can warm people up. Except Harry can never make himself happy.

Zayn pities him but at the same time he wants to punch Harry. Punch him till Harry’s no longer fake. Punch Harry till he forgets all about this vengeance and live his life outside the shadow of his hate. Punch Harry so he makes room for love and positive things instead. Punch Harry so he can be happy.

They tread the crowd till they reach a small circle of gentlemen, they seem to be the authority in this party because everyone keeps glancing at them every few minutes and no one had bothered to join their little group while everyone in the room sashays from one guest to another.

Harry clears his throat, tugging Zayn closer – as if there’s more room for even a thread of hair between their shoulders and intertwined hands.

The men ceases their conversation and acknowledges them both. One old man in particular – must have been Styles senior since he’s got Harry’s green eyes – glares at their laced hands. The man immediately masks his disgust and anger and ignores them.

‘As I was saying…’ the older Styles begins, disregarding the elephant in the room.

‘Gentlemen,’ Harry cuts off with a poisonous smile, ‘I would like you all to meet my boyfriend, Zayn Malik.’

Zayn should have been ready. He’s been prepped for this. But those stares crawls over his skin like some awful insect. There are mix emotions in the group of those six gentlemen. Harry’s grandfather of course is glaring and looking at him in disgust, the rest look shock and two look scandalised.

He can tell their part of the room had cease from moving – almost everyone holding on to their breathe as they assess what shall happen next now that Harry’s bomb had been dropped into the Styles’ higher officials and new investor. Not to mention his tyrant grandfather.

There’s a great statistic that Zayn’s about to puke. Or maybe faint from the tension they had created. Harry on the other hand isn’t affected by the cut throat silence. But Zayn’s been observing him for more than a week now, he can tell that Harry’s nervous too.

Zayn needs to get his shit together and fulfill his duties as fake-boyfriend. Harry had given him a heads up about the old Mr. Styles, told him what button to push.

‘Nice to meet you, grandfather,’ he says sweetly, making eye contact with the older Styles. He gives him a smile. ‘Harry said you love chicken pesto. I can actually whip a wicked pesto. Maybe I should visit you one of these days in your office and bring you some. Would you like that?’

He squeezes Harry’s hand just so the other man doesn’t giggle at the look on Styles’ senior’s face. The man looks like he’s about to have a heart attack.

Mr. Keith Styles loathes scandals. Zayn can’t imagine what damnation his visitation will be for the older Styles. Gossips will surely spread like forest fire in the office if the employees themselves witness the rumour being true.

He can hear it already: The heir’s gay boyfriend bringing the CEO lunch. And from one rumour another shall be born and then another and who knows what other shit will sprout.

To Mr. Styles, the image of the company comes first. So, Zayn threatening to stain his jeweled reputation is something he can’t overlook. Another is that a person of Zayn’s standards talking to him in such friendly manner, calling him grandfather like he belonged to their expensive family.

He smiles with a tight-lip. It’s as sharp as a dagger. ‘That is very kind of you,’ Keith Styles replies with over-layered politeness. Obviously fake. ‘It would be kinder of you if you don’t.’ His eyes seethe with unleashed fury. ‘And better if we don’t meet each other like this anymore.’

There’s a pregnant pause. Zayn never dared look away from those burning green eyes.

‘Now, if you’ll excuse me gentlemen, I think President Brown just arrived and we have businesses to settle,’ Harry’s grandfather says. Zayn’s not sure if he’s lying. Although it’s clearly an excuse to get away from the eye-sore couple.

Keith’s comrades remains at their post, watching as he turns his back on his indecent grandson.

Zayn smiles at Mr. Styles’ retreat.

Suddenly, he’s being pulled by the waist, the other hand cradles his jaw – long fingers web across his right cheek. Another set of green eyes greets him, this one has a triumphant shade on them. And without warning, Harry leans in and kisses him so deep Zayn can’t help the soft gruttal sound he makes.

He can hear a few gasps here and there. But he doesn’t care. Soft lips, and touch that burns his skin, that’s all he can focus now.

They’ve done it! They have survived the Act One and now Harry’s kissing him.

His whole body feels like live wire. His heart beating fast inside his chest like a parched piece of land rejoicing the rain. Who knew a kiss can be like this? A baptism and renewed faith.

Harry smiles at him – real this time. And Zayn can’t help but smile back, his arms unconsciously hanging on each side of Harry’s shoulder.

‘We need to talk.’ Keith’s frozen in his place but he’s glaring at his grandson.

And Zayn wants to punch that expression of disgust from Mr. Styles’ face right now. He looks as if Harry had just committed murder. How can Harry’s happiness be such a burden to his grandfather?

Zayn will never understand. And refuse to do so.

**

‘You need to end this insanity or I will do something about it,’ his grandfather threatens angrily. The old man’s voice is still calm but Harry can feel it vibrate with intensity and fury. They’re at his grandfather’s study in the Styles’ mansion.

Harry hasn’t been there for a long time, he never felt at home in the vast manor. The wide luxurious rooms always makes him feel like he’s being watch and choke at the same time. No number of heater can ever warm the metaphorical coldness in the Styles’ mansion. It’s a parallel of its owners personality.

‘And how dare you bring that immigrant into such gathering.’ He says the word like it’s dirt.

Of course his arsehole of a grandfather looks at Zayn as if the boy’s a mud stain on his white, pristine carpeted floor. He curls his fingers into knuckles, white in the intensity of wanting to punch his grandfather. How can someone look down on another person just by the colour of their skin?

Harry knows he’s one of the biggest daft but at least he’s not racist. Or maybe that doesn’t make him any good at all. But Christ! His grandfather is just worst.

‘Did you know how much I spent to console your future father-in-law to pursue the wedding?’ the old man spits. ‘And all those press releases that I had to buy so there won’t be scandal.’

Harry wants to retort that he doesn’t care. That his grandfather might as well lose billions protecting his investments and Harry won’t even flinch. He wants to destroy everything the bastard had worked for. It had always been what his grandfather had cared of instead of more important matters like his family.

‘On top of it all: you’re gay. The media would have had a field day.’ He glares at Harry, eyes narrowing with contempt. ‘I can tell you’re doing this on purpose. But you should know better, grandson, that you’re no match for the power that I have.

‘As long as I am alive, you will inherit this company and marry the finest heiress in the planet,’ his grandfather continues smugly. ‘And you’re going to continue this bloodline of Styles if that’s the last thing I do.’

Harry wants to spit to the old bloke that the man can might as well die trying because he’s not going to succeed. He’s going to try with his very life as well to foil whatever plan his grandfather does.

‘This wedding will happen no matter what you do, Harry,’ he barks. ‘I will see to it. I will not let you jeopardise my company’s reputation.’

It’s always been his company. Not theirs, just his. And that very fact alone emphasises on how he means nothing to his grandfather.

The feeling is mutual.

‘Don’t make me do something you’d regret Harry,’ his grandfather threatens once again and turns his back on Harry and walks towards the vast window. ‘You’re dismiss.’

He leaves but swears that it’ll be the last time his grandfather will have the last word.

**

It’s been a week since the whole party fiasco and Zayn’s been popular overnight. Even his older sister, Doniya, had heard of the news.

The Sun newspaper: best way to come out to your family and the rest of the world.

Zayn hasn’t labeled his sexuality though. It’s all too much with his race already. People need to stop branding everything, that’s where most of these division develop from.

His motto had been: love who you love. That’s what matter more.

Being Harry’s boyfriend has its pros and cons. The fame is one of the frustrating part. Almost every one wants a piece of him. He now has a bodyguard who follows him around as if his life is in danger. But then he remembers the look on Harry’s grandfather’s face and he thinks he might need a whole platoon to defend himself from the old man’s wrath.

The change of lifestyle frustrates him the most as well. Nothing is simple anymore.

Zayn tells himself that he’s doing this for the money, for his family, and his future. He’d thought this through, if he’s one of those A-Team that Ed Sheeran keeps singing about. But then there’s no sexual happening between him and Harry. He’s just an arm piece – a weapon that Harry uses to hurt the senior Mr. Styles.

Of course, his conscience bugs him. But he needs the money and he can’t be bother to care about Harry’s grandfather. He met the old man once and the old geezer’s definitely not getting the Grandfather of the Year Award. The man doesn’t look at Harry like he matters.

It’s all about the image with these rich businessmen who strives for investors and create a trustworthy name.

It tugs something out of Zayn. He knows he’d crushed the butterflies that formed for Harry, but there’s another emotion shaping in his stomach as he pictures how frustrating it must be to have a family member sell you out like that.

‘Good morning, beautiful,’ Harry greets him, pushing himself off his black Porsche. He’s been doing this every single weekday mornings since they’d been publicly dating. He’d fetch Zayn from his flat (technically it’s Harry’s and Zayn’s only borrowing) and drive the boy to uni, where people stare at them – well, if he’s honest, at Harry really.

His classmates had been better to him, so are his professors. That’s what money can do to people. Money is power. And right now, Zayn has a connection to that gigantic power source that every one wants a piece of. Oh, if only they knew that Zayn’s not important at all.

The whole fetching thing is really unnecessary. Harry can simply order someone to do it. Or Zayn can take the tube. But Harry insists that it’s for roleplay purposes. And Harry’s the boss.

Zayn only rolls his eyes a little at Harry’s mandatory compliments. There’s a huge smile on Harry’s lips, but Zayn knows that’s also for show.

‘Did you miss me?’ Harry teases and pulls Zayn by the waist with one arm circling his torso. The man is strong, and Zayn almost forgets how long Harry’s arms can be.

He actually has a snarky remark at the tip of his tongue but Harry leans in and captures his mouth in a practise kiss that Zayn complies into.

It’s not their first kiss, they’ve been kissing when necessary and only in public. It’s in the job description. And despite it being “work-related,” Zayn can’t help but enjoy those kisses. Well, he cannot not relish their detached kisses since Harry’s a good kisser and the butterflies deep down Zayn’s gut reborns themselves and stops his rational mind from thinking logically.

Harry kisses just like his personality. Always taking and demanding – his lips moving with burning desire to chase after his own pleasure. Maybe Harry also likes kissing him. Zayn’s heart flutters at the thought.

But fuck! He should know better. Harry’s not looking for romance. Zayn’s nothing more than some insignificant chess piece in this battle of kings. He shouldn’t forget that part.

Harry pulls back and smiles at him sweetly but licks his lips in a mischievous manner that sends a shiver down Zayn’s spine.

What a tosser!

He might be red and breathless and a bit surprise about how long that kiss lasted than their normal ones, but he’s not going to tell Harry that. His feelings – this annoying “crush” is going down the gutter. Prompto!

**

It’s sad that Harry’s not taking him to uni this morning. But Rebecca is. So, at least it’s still a familiar face.

He and Rebecca had been spending a lot of time together since they live in the same building – Zayn borrowing Harry’s flat while his cottage by the countryside is being arranged. And not to mention that Rebecca’s the only one who would listen and understand Zayn’s complain about Harry’s bossiness and daft attitude.

‘What happened to Harry’s parents?’ he asks Rebecca, Harry’s lawyer mate, who’s helping Zayn get his family to UK.

 ‘His Dad died when he was really young,’ Rebecca answers, eyes glued to the road.

They’d become such great mates in such a short time, which is incredible. But then it must be because they’re both foreigners in this country. Rebecca’s from Jamaica, well her parents are. She and her brother was born in Manchester. But the colour of her skin still makes people double take her. They don’t care that she’s a lawyer who graduated from Oxford. The first thing that they see is that she’s black and their racism would focus on that.

‘And his mum?’ He’s trying to piece Harry together like a jigsaw puzzle.

What made Harry do what he’s doing right now? His grandfather might be the shittest person but Harry’s hatred with the old man runs so deep, Zayn can’t fathom it. But he wants to.

Rebecca grimaces but there’s loneliness shaping behind her eye. Zayn notes it. Harry doesn’t mention his mum. There are no pictures of her in his suite.

Why does Harry live in a penthouse suite anyway? He’s rich enough to buy three castles – the least – if he wants to. This truly bothers Zayn.

‘She took off and never came back when he was ten,’ Rebecca answers with a disappointed sigh.

He lets it all sink in. These new facts about Harry; this sad reality that Harry’s abandoned. He couldn’t imagine being discarded by his family. It would wreck him apart.

Somehow, he can sympathise with Harry because it’s one thing to lose people you love – he thinks of his mother. But it’s another to be left behind by choice. His mum loved him dearly, even when she died that love didn’t stop. Harry’s mum on the other hand chose to cease loving Harry, she made that decision when she deserted him.

Parents’ – in Zayn’s point of view – are those people who will love you unconditionally, no matter the fuck ups you make. Parents are safety net who will surely break your fall when everybody else leaves you to your death.

**

Harry’s tired but not sleepy, he has too much thoughts that slumber becomes evasive. Ever since he’d wedge this war with his grandfather, he’d been sleeping less; always thinking of ways to get the old geezer a heart attack.

He plans on bringing Zayn to another gala and maybe when he meets with that laidback investor from America who wanted to have a simple backyard barbeque. He’d probably have to hire a photographer to leak some photos online.

He wants to see the look on his grandfather’s face when he sees that Harry had yet brought his brown boyfriend to an important business gathering. He should have done this years ago. But then, he would have had to hire someone else. And he might not – never – speak of it outloud, but he thinks Zayn was perfect for the role.

Honest Zayn who can take whatever Harry throws at him.

He really should give the bloke credit for all the shit he had to put up with. But Harry doesn’t care. He’s paying Zayn enough for the job. There’s no point crossing the terms they had agreed upon.

‘Mr. Styles, do you have a charger?’ Zayn asks, entering Harry’s massive kitchen.

‘You’re still here,’ he points out bluntly. Zayn should have been gone home by now after their recap session for the week.

‘And you’re not sleeping,’ Zayn retorts, pacing towards him, perched on some breakfast stool by the marble island. ‘Or maybe you’re trying out for The Walking Dead.’

That’s another thing that Zayn had picked up on after a month. The boy had come out of his timid box and sassies Harry as if they’ve known each other all their lives.

He doesn’t mind because honesty is what’s important to him. And he needs that very much from Zayn because the rest of the world refuses to speak him the truth. They won’t because they need favours. No one’s real these days.

‘How are you getting home?’ he asks and closes the sales graphs he’s been studying for almost an hour now.

‘Rebecca’s still here,’ Zayn answers, leaning his torso on the marble.

They’d stayed up working on Zayn’s properties: a cottage and a small piece of land near Bradford; and his family’s immigration papers.

‘We’re going to take off after she finishes her drafts on some appeal,’ the boy continues and yawns in between. ‘We can show ourselves out later.’

He nods.

‘Charger?’ Zayn asks again with a smile.

‘Top drawer of the side cabinet of the couch,’ he answers. He’s so tired.

‘Thanks.’ He smiles and truts away happily.

Why does he keep such kid these days? Zayn’s such a simple person. Other people would have taken advantage of being Harry’s boyfriend – nevermind it not being true – but Zayn remained to want the same simple things in life.

This very thought makes him want to give Zayn the finest things that life can offer – that money can buy. Who cares if they’re all fleeting happiness, at least they can make lasting memories.

Zayn had been raised in a different world than his, a world where so little had been given that’s why the boy doesn’t asked for much. If only Zayn knows that he can ask whatever he wishes, aim for the stars if he can because anything is possible for we are all but under the same sky.

He heads towards the living room where papers are scattered all over his coffee table and Zayn’s on the floor writing something – he’d always prefer writing by pen even when Harry had given him a Macbook – and Rebecca’s reading and typing on her laptop just across the boy, occupying the other couch.

Zayn looks up when he entres. Rebecca remains unfaze. Normal.

‘Sleeping?’ he asks and stops writing.

Harry shakes his head. ‘I’m not tired.’ He moves closer, hovering over Zayn. ‘What are you writing?’

‘Another book review,’ he replies. ‘This one’s a Persian YA.’ He frowns.

He raises a judgemental eyebrow at him.

‘I don’t like YAs,’ he explains.

‘Pretentious.’ He smirks and occupies the empty couch behind Zayn.

Zayn chuckles, making Rebecca look up. She barely gives Harry a nod and moves back to her work.

‘This one’s about A Thousand and One Nights,’ he continues and leans towards the soft egde of the white couch. ‘The writer twisted it though.’

‘What’s the title?’ he asks, not that he’s into literature or books. He can’t help seeing the burning look in Zayn’s eyes when he talks about things he loves.

‘The Wrath and the Dawn,’ he supplies. ‘You sort of remind me of the male character actually.’

‘Why so?’ He moves his feet up. He’s really tired.

‘Ugh!’ Rebecca grunts and shuts her laptop with an unnecessary force. ‘I’m going to take a fifteen minutes power nap just to refresh my brain.’ She makes herself comfortable in the couch. ‘Wake me up, okay? I really need this rest or I’m going to lose my bloody mind.’

Zayn smiles and nods at her as she closes her eyes.

After nineteen seconds, Rebecca’s snoring softly.

‘She’s tired.’ Zayn yawns.

‘I can see,’ he says. ‘And so should you.’

‘I need to finish this,’ he insists.

‘It’s Saturday tomorrow. There are no classes.’

‘But we’re going to that party tomorrow evening and then a brunch on Sunday,’ he explains. ‘I won’t be able to finish it on time.’

‘Want me to talk to your professor?’ He’s lying on his side with his head on the couch cushion, staring at the back of Zayn’s neck. It’s a very attractive neck. Well, everything about Zayn is beautiful.

Zayn cranes his head to face Harry. ‘That’s corruption. We study that on Government.’

‘I was thinking favour is a better word to describe it.’ He smirks and Zayn gives him back a snort.

‘Go to sleep, Mr. Styles,’ Zayn tells him and attends back to his writing.

There’s a moment of silence that occupies them and it should have been Harry’s cue to sleep since he’s knackered. But again, his mind can’t seem to run out of thoughts and he might as well give up trying to fight it.

‘Why did you want to be a professor?’ he asks Zayn, the boy ceasing his writing and moves his sitting position so he can be face to face with Harry to see if the older man actually means to have a conversation.

**

Harry’s not doing a follow up question. Usually the man doesn’t prompt. Once is enough for him, Zayn knows that.

‘I want to give teenagers hope,’ he answers without missing a beat. ‘My mother used to read to me when I was little. She reads to me fairytales and adventures and happily-ever-afters.’ His favourite would still be Cinderella. Of course, there are no fairy godmothers in real life and she’s such a weak feminist; but at least despite all of life’s difficulties, she remained kind and risked herself by going into that ball even when she knows that there will be consequences.

‘Fantasies.’ He surely does not approve of it.

‘I know,’ he agrees and smiles. ‘But it was fun then and it made me courageous to take chances and follow my dreams.’

‘But you’re still not wanting much.’

‘I am dreaming enough, Mr. Styles,’ he clarifies. ‘Thanks to you, I have enough to pursue the things I want in life: good house for my family, a profession that I love, and a great adventure to tell one day.’ He gestures between them.

Harry’s eyebrows scrunches up. ‘Are you sure this is all you want?’ His face soften into something that Zayn doesn’t want to name because it makes his heart flutter. ‘I can give you so much more.’

If his heart skips a beat, no one needs to know. Harry doesn’t know what he’s offering. And Zayn knows his place to not tell Harry what other thing he really wants. He’s not selfish. He’s not like that man from Sharzhad’s story who keeps on passing through doors and ending up with nothing.

He will be satisfied with what he has.

If only he could hate Harry because really he should. Harry’s a twat. A spoiled brat in some ways. But the man also has a heart, last week he’s donated a hospital wing to St. Barts. He’d funded an orphanage down at Greenwich.

Harry’s very caring even when he doesn’t try or when he tries to come as indifferent. He’s kind to his employees despite his stoic attitude. He knows every employee’s name – he’s very, very smart in memorising things that makes Zayn jealous.

Deep down, Zayn knows that Harry has a heart. The man just don’t use it much.

It’s been more than a month and the butterflies have not died. They should have but Zayn’s an idiot for reading between the lines. He blames Harry, the man should have been a bigger arsehole if he wants Zayn to not like him.

Why did he even remember that Zayn wanted to be a teacher? He mentioned it once. Harry and his great memory is such an annoying combo.

‘What about your mum?’ he asks, seeing Harry stiffen at the mention of his mother. ‘What does she read to you?’

There’s a faraway look in Harry’s eyes. And Zayn regrets asking but he wants to know. He selfishly wants to understand Harry.

Does he tell him that he knows? Maybe he should. To come clean.

‘About your mum…’ he clears his throat and looks down on his hands, ‘I know she left.’ He peeks from under his lashes to see Harry’s reaction.

He doesn’t look shock that Zayn knows. He looks pained.

‘My mum died when I was fifteen,’ he narrates. Maybe he needs to open up first before he can open up Harry. ‘I use to read to her when she was ill. And she’s mostly ill that we almost finished an entire library.’ He fakes a smile at his own exaggeration because you can never truly be happy at the mention of a lost love. ‘And in those pages I started to believe that maybe if my grades are all aces, that if I help many people, my mum would be okay. That by some miracle, if I’ll become good or brave like in those fairytales, the universe will reward me for my good deed and endeavour.’

Harry just stares and listens, face blank with emotion.

‘But life isn’t a wish granting factory,’ he quotes sadly, chest aching at the thought of his mother. He misses her terribly. ‘She still died.’

Another moment of silence passes.

‘If you can see her again, what would you tell her?’ Harry finally speaks.

Zayn stares at Harry’s face, hazel eyes meeting green ones. At least Harry knows how to ask the right questions, proof that he cares.

‘I’d tell her thank you for reading to me and spending time with me even when she had so little,’ he answers and wipes the tears that forms at the edges of his eyes with the back of his hand.

Harry looks away. Zayn’s not sure if Harry’s allergic to tears or he’s being a gentleman and not calling out Zayn for crying.

‘What about you?’ he prompts cautiously. ‘What would you tell your mum?’

He counts the seconds. He reaches thirty-five and gives up. Maybe Harry will never let him in. Maybe no one will ever know what Harry Styles would tell his mum. Harry, who guards his secrets with his frozen heart and fake smiles.

‘I want to know why she did it,’ he answers in a whisper, not looking at Zayn. He feels so faraway right now even when he’s a foot away from Zayn. He looks so small with that hurt in his eyes that he’d refuse to let anyone else see.

Zayn knows the bloke won’t say more than he already have. And that’s enough for Zayn. He’ll peel Harry’s cover one at a time. Patience is what he needs. And he’s good at it.

‘Thanks, Harry,’ he mutters and goes back to his work.

It’s enough for now.

**

He stares at the white envelop with his name written at the middle of the back part.

‘What is this?’ he asks the boy across the table. They’re in his office, Zayn dropping by from university to give him something: the envelop.

Zayn opens his mouth and closes it. He’s perspiring with anxiousness. ‘Don’t be mad.’

‘Are you being expelled?’ he barks.

‘What?’ Zayn’s shock and frowning at the same time. ‘God, no.’ He swallows. Harry watches his Adam’s apple.

This is also a thing now, Harry notices a few of Zayn’s tics: Zayn swallows before he drops something he’s nervous about, he mutters to himself when he studies, he drinks a lot of coffee, he runs his hand through his hair when facing problems.

‘Just read and don’t be mad at me,’ Zayn tells him.

Harry suspiciously looks at the bloke and takes out the letter inside. He opens the folded paper and his hand shakes immediately at the recognistion of the handwriting.

‘Where did you get this?’ His voice cracks and he hates it. His not weak. And clearly Zayn should know that too, lest the boy pities him like he originally feel towards Harry by giving him Anne Styles’ letter.

His mum: Anne Styles.

He crumples the letter in one hand, can’t seem to stop his hand from shaking with anger. He’s seeing red and wants to punch Zayn right now. And because he can’t do that, he throws the ruined letter on the floor by Zayn’s shoes as he watches the boy’s eyes go saucer wide.

‘Who do you think you are?’ he shouts, not caring if his employees will hear. ‘Who do you think you are?’

Zayn curls into himself, shoulders sagging. ‘I just wanted to –’

‘You just wanted to what?’ he pushes. ‘To help?’ He feels hot all over, his ears ringing with fury. ‘I don’t want to be your charity case, Zayn. I’m not one of those teenagers you can save.’

The boy looks burned.

‘I don’t need you to save me,’ he spits out. ‘Stop poking around my life because you don’t have any right. After all, I only pay you to play house with me not meddle with my personal lives and feelings.’

Zayn doesn’t wait to be told to leave, he glares at Harry and exits the room.

He has to sit down to control his emotions because the whole scenario feels like he was opening up a wound. A wound that never healed. A wound he will always carry around. Because no one truly gets away from unstitched hurt.

Time moves around him and Harry remains cemented to his seat. He feels that ache again – the one he knows by heart by now, the one he sleeps at night with, the one he can’t shrug off and let go.

Mr. Pierce entres the room after a soft knock on the door. He doesn’t say anything just stands next to Harry’s table because he’s a wiseman who won’t need words to communicate his wisdom with Harry. And right now, Mr. Pierce looks disappointed with him.

Harry runs a tired hand across his face and frowns at his old secretary. He already feels shit with how he treated Zayn and the man doesn’t need to voice it out.

‘Please get that crumpled paper from the floor,’ he instructs and the old man follows. His hand shakes as he tries to straighten the ruined letter.

He always prides himself with being brave – the risk taker, game changer – but right now, holding the weightless factorised-tree in his hand, it might as well be detonator to end him. For the last seventeen years, he’d been aching to know the answers to the myriad questions about his mother, but he’s not sure he’s ready to face the music just yet. He’s scared that all this time his worst assumptions are the real ones.

Dearest Harry,

There are no words enough to string the apologies that could amend to what I’ve done to you. Believe me when I say that not a day passes by that I had not missed you. Because leaving you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But I do not regret it. I would have hated myself more if I was selfish to keep you to myself and see you suffer.

Every day I am comforted with the thought that you are well, that you’ll have enough minced pie and enough chocolate pudding for dessert. And every day knowing that you are living a good life motivates me to do well with mine, so one day I will be able to meet you again and tell you how much I’m sorry and how much I love you.

I hope you know that I never stopped loving you, I only stopped being there to show it. Although I wasn’t the perfect mother, I tried to be a good one. In your eyes I might not have been both but heaven knows I made the right choice. And I wish that in the future you can understand this sacrifice and will be able to forgive me. Or at least give me a chance to amend myself in the future days.

You have become a man of success and I am very proud of you. Please take care of yourself, my son. Or find someone to take care of you. That is my only wish.

This letter might not reach you, but nonetheless if it will, there is nothing more than I want most but for your happiness.

Be happy always, Harry.

Be very, very happy.

Love,

Mum

Harry can count all of the times he’d cried after his mum left him. The total’s three. One, the night she left him; two, the morning he was sent to boarding school to Paris; and three, the second day of school when he got bullied. After those, he vowed never to cry again. Tears are useless, they don’t solve the problem or eases your pain or bring back what you have lost. Tears are a sign of weakness and he can’t afford to be weak.

The tears doesn’t fall yet, they’re brimming the edge of his eyes. And he refuses to let them stream down the side of his face.

‘What happened to her?’ he asks Mr. Pierce, the man’s with their family even before Harry had came. The bloke definitely had heard something. ‘What happened to her?’ he half-shouts.

‘Cancer,’ Mr. Pierce replies sadly, unable to look Harry in the eyes. He’s been carrying this guilt around for years. But after he has let it go, he’s not sure if he feels a little better. The answer is not as he witnesses the pain that crosses Harry’s face.

‘Where is she?’ he demands, voice trembling. All his life he didn’t know. No one had told him. How can they have kept something this important from him? And why was he so stupid and stubborn to have not looked for her all these years?

He knows the answer to the last one: he was scared. Just how he’s afraid before reading her letter. He’d hoped for the worst and now he regretted not taking a risk and asking his mum herself all the questions that had festered him.

‘Where is she?’ he repeats, seeing Mr. Pierce’s hesitation. He can almost tell what the man’s about to reveal. He prays deep down that he’s wrong.

Mr. Pierce shakes his head softly. ‘Mr. Malik said she died two years ago. Only living that letter behind a box of personal stuff.’ He doesn’t meet Harry’s eyes, can’t bear the sorrow taking shape behind those green eyes. ‘The box had been sent to your suite.’

**

Zayn maintains an exercise of inhale and exhale lest he tries to confront Harry and literally punch him. His sensei once said that Zayn’s a very patient person. But he’s not sure his sensei was right because he craves for blood. Or just fucking something to hurt to forget another ache.

He’d never seen Harry furious before. Sure, he’d heard him yell at people a lot. But never that expression of fury with a mix of pain like he’d been kicked and wants to hurt back.

Fuck Harry Styles and all his puzzles! Fuck feelings! Fuck everything!

All he wanted was to help. He wants closure for Harry that’s why he looked for the bloke’s mother. At least he hoped that maybe Harry can heal after finally stitching up the wound he keeps on carrying around. Maybe Harry can stop with his revenge if the hurt stops.

But no, Harry’s an arsehole. A stubborn arsehole who loves his pain and wants everything negative in his life. And to think that he’d see Zayn as a comrade now since they’ve shared the same pain.

And this is why Zayn’s rebelling by not going with Harry to the art exhibit in South Bank. And he refuses to wear suits anymore. He’s back in his basic all-black ensemble.

Zayn had plane mode his mobile all the way to South Bank and just when he’s about to entre the exhibit area, he checks for any texts. Only to be shock by twenty-three missed calls and ten text messages. All from Harry Styles.

He closes it again and puts it on his pocket.

Just like the party he had went to before, this one’s full of glitzy and glamour too. Every one seems to be wearing their best dresses and suits as if trying to compete with the beauty of the masterpieces around them. He’s not sure.

‘Zayn,’ someone calls.

He turns around because it’s not Harry’s voice.

‘Avan,’ he mutters dumbly. Blinks twice to be sure it is his friend Avan from Palestine. And if Zayn had had a long time crush on him, then nows not the time to divulge into that.

Avan’s in a colourful terno silk that Zayn had probably once seen in Dolce & Gabbana. He looks  beautiful as usual. He cut his hair and seems to be growing a beard.

‘Nice seeing you here,’ Avan says with that same handsome smile that Zayn fell for when they were fifteen. He then engulfs him in a hug.

Avan smells the same like sunlight and sandalwood.

‘Nice seeing you too,’ he replies as they break away from each other. ‘Are you exhibiting tonight?’

The other man looks abash but nods.

‘Congratulations!’ He pats his shoulder softly and can’t keep the grin off of his face as well. ‘I knew you’d make it.’ He stares again. He really needs to stop staring at beautiful people. ‘This is really amazing. You’re wonderful as always.’

‘Thanks,’ Avan replies shyly. ‘What about you? What brought you to London?’

‘Me,’ a familiar voice inserts.

Zayn doesn’t want to turn but his heart made a decision first before his logical mind. Of course, lo and behold, saunters the knob people call Harry Styles.

‘Harry Styles,’ he informs with a diabolic smile. His arm circles around Zayn’s waist as if it’s that’s where it belongs. ‘Zayn’s boyfriend,' he adds.

Zayn’s eyes go wide at the same time Avan’s did.

‘I’ve been looking all over for you, babe,’ he tells Zayn in that sweet voice that would probably attract ants themselves. Zayn wants to punch him more. ‘I missed you.’ The bastard even plans a kiss at his temple.

Harry’s completely ignoring Avan’s existence. On effing purpose! Like how his grandfather had taught him. Ugh! It really must run in the blood.

**

He needs to remember what his teacher had told him about his skills, that taekwondo must never be use for selfish violence. But right now he badly wants to use his fist and land it on Harry’s face. They’re locked up inside the loo and he could probably hide Harry’s unbreathing body here.

‘Who was that?’ Harry demands softly.

‘Why do you care?’ he retorts hotly. ‘That’s my personal business. And you made it clear yesterday that we don’t have that sort of relationship.’ He curls his fist in anger. ‘Not even friends.’

‘Yes, I don’t want to be friends,’ Harry agrees, slowly moving towards Zayn where they both stand across from each other in the small bathroom.

He swallows his pain. Relieve that Harry’s looking down on the floor and not seeing Zayn’s hurt. He can’t be weak.

‘I don’t want to be friends,’ the man repeats, stabbing Zayn deeper. ‘I want more,’ he clarifies and meets Zayn’s gaze. ‘That’s why I care.’

Surely what he heard was wrong. This isn’t some fairytale where the rpince really did fall for the pauper. Those are bullshit fantasy.

‘And I’m sorry for yelling at you,’ Harry adds, the apology doesn’t slip easily from his tongue. This is a man who never apologises. This is a man who never knew of forgiveness that’s why he had not given any. But at this moment, Harry’s starting to learn of both. ‘I need you, Zayn. I didn’t know it. But I do.’

Zayn should be rejoicing. Harry’s vaguely telling him that he likes him too. But will that be enough to make a bridge between their worlds?

‘Please say something so I won’t feel like a total idiot,’ Harry begs.

That’s another thing. Harry doesn’t beg. He takes and takes and never ask for permission, let alone plead.

So, Zayn has to just pull him by the lapel of ridiculous all-white suit and kiss him. He kisses Harry like it’s the last thing his lips will do. He remotely remembers Romeo’s lines: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand; to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.

Harry licks inside his mouth and Zayn discovers a new profound religion. Christ! No wonder Shakespeare got such poetic stanza for kisses.

Zayn’s out of breath, panting against Harry’s lips while the man’s hands grip his hips tighter, seeking skin like a sailor searches for land. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Harry’s hands are big with long, long fingers that he can feel imprinted on his expose hips.

‘Since when?’ he asks, breathing raggedly as Harry moves his expert lips on his jaws – sucking and kissing and biting a little.

‘What?’ The man stops and looks up confusedly at hazel eyes.

‘The time you realised that you like me.’ He can feel his face flush.

Harry smirks, enjoying Zayn’s embarrassment. He’s not a prince that's for sure.

‘When you first called me by my first name,’ Harry replies in a heartbeat.

He wants to ask when was that but he’s lips are too busy and his mind just shuts everything else off. Maybe he can ask for an explanation after.

**

‘Where are you right now?’ Harry asks his boyfriend over the phone.

‘I’m on the way to Mayfair right now to meet with my boyfriend actually,’ the boy answers, Hary can hear the smile in his voice.

‘Your boyfriend?’ He plays along and pretended to be shocked.

‘Yep.’ Zayn chuckles.

‘Is your boyfriend hot?’

‘Hmm… A bit.’

‘A bit?’ He snorts at that and hears Zayn’s laughter.

‘Okay. A lot.’ There’s a pause. ‘But don’t tell him because it goes straight into his head and he’s vanity just won’t end.’

‘I’m not vain,’ Harry defends.

‘Right,’ Zayn says sarcastically.

‘Zayn?’

‘Yes, Mr. Styles?’

He smiles at that. It feels like a long time ago they were that: bound to a contract. It’s only been three days and he can’t wait for the next day to unfold and then the next and then the next, till they run out of calendar.

‘What if I told you that I’d lose all my money because my grandfather’s mad at me?’

‘It’s a good thing I have a cottage in the country side then,’ Zayn replies. ‘You don’t mind being boyfriend with a school teacher, right?’

He chuckles. ‘As long as you don’t mind staying with a bankrupted businessman.’

‘I think I’d prefer that,’ he says softly.

Zayn’s still simple. And maybe that’s what he actually needed. Someone to balance him. Be the good to his bad, be the simple to his lucrative life.

There’s another pause and Harry just listens to Zayn breathe. This is new for him, to care about someone else other than himself and to be genuinely cared about.

‘I’ll see you in a few, yeah?’ Zayn says.

Of course, simple Zayn is taking the tube when he can just call an Uber or take the cab.

‘Miss you already,’ he croons and smiles to himself because this is also new.

‘Ugh! Stop being cheesy,’ Zayn tells him with a chuckle.

‘You still love me,’ he retorts back unconsciously.

And there it is. The other L word that they have not spoken of.

A pregnant pause and Harry listens as his heart accelerate it’s beating. Over the phone Zayn stops breathing for one, two, three, four seconds.

‘Yes, I do,’ Zayn agrees.

And Harry’s heart skips a beat. God! Who knew he’d be such a romantic? It’s almost annoying. But he likes it.

‘Love you too.’ And he ends the call.

**

Fifteen minutes passes.

Thirty.

He calls Zayn five times, it goes straight to a voicemail. Who uses voicemail these days anyway?

Thirty-six minutes passes.

There’s something wrong, he can feel it deep within his bones. A lot of scenarios flashes in his eyes and all leads to something bad. No, it can’t be like this. He just got his heart back.

‘Mr. Pierce,’ he calls. The old secretary entres the room. ‘Call the nearest hospital and police station. Ask about Zayn.’

‘Yes, sir.’ And he exits.

Harry paces to and fro till it’s been forty-one minutes since he last talked to Zayn.

He’s not sure what to do with himself. He’d never felt this helpless before. Well, after he’d become an official Styles that is. Everything had been right under his fingers, every thread within his control. And he’s not sure he likes to recall how bad it is not to able to alter fate.

The phone rings and Harry blindly answers it.

‘Zayn,’ he sighs.

‘I believe you’re mistaken,’ his grandfather replies over the other end.

And it all falls into place. Harry sees the big picture. It’s no coincidence that his grandfather calls him the exact moment that Zayn is missing. With his grandfather there are no coincidence.

‘Where is he?’ he growls into the receiver.

‘Who?’ Keith asks innocently. Harry’s not a fool.

‘Where is he?’ he repeats, fuming with anger. He’s mad at himself for not seeing that this would have happened. His grandfather had never been the type to fight justly. ‘I swear to God if something happens to him, I’ll come after you,’ he threatens.

‘Please Harry, you’re just a kid playing grown-up,’ his grandfather points out. ‘And I must make a man out of you, so I know you’re ready to inherit the company.’

‘I’m not even a Styles,’ he barks. ‘I’m illegitimate, remember? Born out of wedlock because you did the same to my father as what you are doing to me.’

‘You are a Styles,’ Keith insists in a commanding voice. ‘And you will inherit this company and continue its legacy.’

‘I don’t care about your company,’ he screams.

There’s a moment of silence. He can’t tell if the damn geezer is getting worked up as he is. And he probably shouldn’t anger his grandfather if the old man has Zayn. But he can’t think correctly, unable to form any logical thought.

‘Well, you should,’ his grandfather says, breaking the silence. ‘Or else I’ll be forced to do something drastic, Harry.’ Another poisonous pause that makes Harry stop breathing for a second. ‘What’s another missing brown person, right?’

**

There are no other option. The only thing clear was to make Zayn safe, and away from the bad things that is Harry and his life. Zayn’s too fragile for this world, he’s too pure to be a casualty in this war for power.

Beautiful Zayn with hopeful eyes and warm soul will have to become a teacher and share his light to those who need it the most. And Harry’s not going to be the wall that hinders Zayn from all the good things he can do for the world.

‘Harry,’ Zayn calls and runs toward his boyfriend. He wraps his arms around Harry and cries. The boy’s shaking from the trauma.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he mutters to Zayn’s ears and tries to memories the boy’s body next to him. This is it. This is the last moment they will see each other. He’s not sure if they’ll see each other in the future. He wishes he can because honest people like Zayn who wears their hearts on their sleeves are very few.

Zayn shakes his head and sobs quietly.

‘It’s going to be okay now,’ he tells him and breathes him in. He smells just the same, like musk and cinnamon. He engraves it into memory as well. ‘You’re safe.’ He takes Zayn’s face in his hands and makes the boy look him the eyes. ‘You’re safe now. You’re going to be always safe. I promise.’

Zayn gives a tiny nod as the tears trek his cheeks. ‘I thought I was gonna die,’ he utters nervously, voice still shaky. ‘I tried to fight them. I was thinking of my family. Of you.’ He shakes his head. ‘I can’t die without my family being okay. They need me.’ Another sob wrecks from him.

‘Ssshhh...’ Harry soothes, wiping the boy’s tears. ‘You’re safe now.’ He kisses the top of his forehead. He's going to do everything in his power to put his words into facts.

Zayn gives another frantic nod.

‘You have to listen to me, okay?’ How does one say goodbye without breaking? Because right now, all Harry wants is for Zayn to stay between his arms and to hold the boy this close. But the tears -- the tears has to go. And it will disappear along with Harry.

He feels like ten all over again, powerless and losing. Maybe this is karma. He's been curse to be left behind or leave behind people he truly love. That's just unfair.

Zayn nods.

‘Rebecca’s going to take care all of your papers,’ he whispers as he stares into hopeful brown eyes. God! What he's willing to do to be with this lovely boy. ‘I don’t know where she’s sending you but you have to trust her, okay?’

Zayn looks anxious and broken.

Harry doesn't have a piece of his body that doesn't ache at the sight of Zayn being upset. But he has to do this. For Zayn's sake. He's not going to be selfish. He must amend his sins and face all his consequences.

‘You have to trust me too.’ He lays another kiss on Zayn’s forehead.

The hazel-eyed boy nods again.

‘I can’t know where you’re going because if I know my grandfather will know too,’ he explains. ‘You have to take your family with you and settle somewhere far and safe.’

‘Why can’t you come with us?’ the boy asks. ‘We don’t need a lot of money, Harry.’ His upper lips tremble. ‘I just need you. You’re enough.’

If hearts can break, Harry’s just did. He’s going to miss his pure Zayn who loves him genuinely. Money or no money.

Harry shakes his head. ‘My grandfather won’t stop,’ he answers. ‘Trust me, I want to be with you. I want to, so bad it hurts. But I need to keep you safe first.’

‘Should I be flattered that I’m sort of like your kryptonite?’ Zayn sounds so genuine that Harry has to laugh.

‘Sort of, I guess.’ He smiles sadly. ‘But what I really want is for you to live your dreams.’

‘You’re one of them, y’know,’ he inserts, blushing.

‘I know, babe.’ He squeezes Zayn’s hand. ‘But I’m not sure if I’m worth being a dream just yet.’

Harry can tell that Zayn wants to tell him he’s wrong. But they’ve made up enough excuses to be together. They are running out of time and to go separate ways is the only solution.

‘This really is some fairytale bullshit, eh?’ Zayn states sadly, echoing that heartbreak that's buried under Harry's chest.

‘I’ll come and find you one day,’ Harry vows. And he swears at his mother's

grave that he will because he's not going to lose someone he loves again.  ‘When all of this is over.’

And they kiss one last time.

**

Five years later...

The sun is shinning vehemently on the fields as the workers gather grapes. It’s not a huge piece of land but it’s enough for a living. They have enough cows for cheese as well, so their wine isn’t the only source of income.

The Malik’s house is very different from the one they have lived in Palestine. But it’s still made of rocks and cement, and it’s where they are all together so it’s home.

Waliyha’s in the front desk booking a newly arrived French couple who came for the view of vineyards. Zayn’s father, Yaser, is in the kitchen with two staff preparing for dinner. Doniya’s in the small ristorante of their five room bed and breakfast, also preparing for dinner.

At the moment two rooms had been booked. Third will be the French couple. Business is going well as usual.

Zayn’s just arrived picking up new books for his students at the local school where he teaches English. He’s not fluent in Italian yet, but he’s learning slowly and can tell kids stories, reading to them in their native tongue.

Some of the refugees from Syria had been relocated in Tuscany, so he helps with the kids education too, teaching them both Italian and English so they can be prepared. It’s also great hearing his native tongue. His Dad loves it the most.

He takes over Waliyha’s post at the front desk as she helps in the kitchen because heaven forbid Zayn steps into his Dad’s kitchen without causing mayhem. So, he stays behind the desk and reads a new book.

‘Do you still have rooms available?’ a voice with British accent asks. Zayn’s heart speeds up at the familiar sound.

He had buried all his hopes about meeting Harry one day. Promises are made to be broken anyway. And it’s not like Harry’s fault that they had to go separate ways. He wants to blame Keith but he has no room for hate anymore.

Zayn slowly looks up from his pages, all emotions he had long hidden oozes out of him like a Pandora’s box. But unfortunately, the hope that remains inside his box gets squished.

It’s not Harry.

‘Of course,’ he replies and fakes a smile.

He entres the guest’s written details in their computer and slaps himself for daydreaming again. Harry probably don’t even remember him by now. He sees all the rumours and news about the man. Zayn’s just an idiot to hope that they were more than just a fling, more than just a Once Upon A Time.

Harry’s Harry Styles. Zayn’s just simple Zayn. Nothing exciting.

To begin with they didn’t even know each other that long. It was just impossible.

‘I see that you’ve nicked a new habit,’ another voice says, it comes from the doorway. Zayn lets go of biting his lower lip – Doniya told him before that he should stop doing that or the whole town will fall in love with him. She’s crazy of course.

Zayn cranes his neck to see the person behind their guest. A wide grin, and vibrant green eyes greets him back.

‘Did you miss me?’ Harry asks with that same wicked smile he offered Zayn on their second meeting.

The End