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You are summer
to my winter heart.
-Gemma Troy
~*~
Age breeds wisdom, they say.
But that’s not Harry. Definitely not, because if his years are equivalent to his wit then he probably wouldn’t be living in a cramped flat full of the most useless things in history.
To an outsider, yes, Harry’s house seems normal. But he’s managed to keep every knickknack he’s ever collected, in specific rooms that measure the whole of his flat.
He has a wall cabinet full of vinyl albums he’s bought since the 50s’, boxes and boxes of cassette tapes that would make Peter Quill ogle, two walk-in closets, and five wardrobes full of clothes all the way from the 18th century to the present—he’s donated most to charity over the years, but the ones that he can’t seem to let go of are stored away.
He has an impressive collection of literature, some are dated by Charles Dickens and Edgar Allan Poe’s time. He’s sure there’s some original manuscripts of Shakespeare’s somewhere in the book piles, too.
There are so many things that scatter around his massive flat that would never makes sense for a normal person to keep, like the amassment of candelabras he owns. But then again, Harry isn’t a normal person, per se.
He’s not actually a person, either.
People don’t have stashes of animal blood in their secret fridge or a desire to drink it. No, Harry’s not a normal person alright. In fact, he’s not even human. And that’s okay, because it doesn’t matter. What matters to him is that he’s happy.
Most adults will tell you to become an engineer, a lawyer, a doctor, etc. That you need to be rich, to be successful, to be the best. But no one tells you to be happy. It’s been Harry’s goal ever since he got turned into a vampire to be happy.
In the beginning, Harry’s time in London had been mostly depressing. He’d struggled with accepting who he was. Or what he already was. He got over it after a century or so, and decided to live his life to the fullest. Well, to live his immortality to the fullest. And it had been such a breeze since then.
All the things he’d never tried when he was human, possible and impossible, he had the courage to do after becoming a vampire. He spent time traveling all over Europe in the 1800’s. He got enlisted for the war, but decided to invest most of his time learning different languages and collecting old books, instead.
That’s why, in the current century, he’s one of the most sought out book translators in America. People pay him huge amounts of money to decode ancient scripts in an abundance of different languages.
His pseudonym in the linguistic world is Edward Styles—just so he won’t attract any unwanted attention.
But he gets most of his money from his own publication house: Styles Publishing. Which century after century he turns over to himself as some sort of inheritance, so people won’t get suspicious. His CEO is an ancestor of his first business partner and a good friend of his, Matthew Rogers.
~*~
‘How has life been for you, young Harold?’ Anthony asks him, sitting across the table in a small café at Greenwich. The afternoon sun is colouring the sky with dusty pink and violet, and the street outside is packed with vehicles stuck in the afternoon rush hour.
The noise is slightly filtered by the closed space of the café, but having enhanced hearing doesn’t mute much of the racket outside. Nonetheless, Harry has years of practise to buzz out unimportant sounds. If he hadn’t, he’d probably have gone mad with overwhelming uproar of sound his surrounding creates. He lives in fucking New York city, one of the most populated cities in the world, and comes with it a lot of bustle.
‘Good, I’ve been good,’ he answers, noting all the changes in Anthony after not seeing the man for two centuries.
Anthony is Harry’s only immortal friend—the first one and the only one ever since he was turned. He’s like a father figure in Harry’s life because the older man became a vampire just before Leornardo da Vinci’s time. And Harry often teases him, calling him ‘old man’ because he was in his early forties when he became a creature of the night.
Harry studies the older vampire again. Anthony looks the same: all long lashes, and pretty, expressive hazel eyes—beautiful doe eyes, is how Harry likes to describe them.
Anthony is in a dark navy suit—he’s never not in suit, Harry had noted a long time ago. A tinted pair of glasses are clipped on his front breast pocket, another accessory that the man never goes without.
His dark hair is still the same, of course, because they’re undead, and their bodies don’t change. So, everything else has remained unchanged, especially the man’s signature goatee. But there’s something about Anthony that has not been like before.
‘And you?’ Harry asks. ‘How have you been?’ He takes his cup of coffee and sips it (a surprise he discovered decades ago, how caffeine can be a part of the vampire diet. But only coffee and blood, like Kaneki from Tokyo Ghoul.) ‘I haven’t heard you for a while.’
And by a while, Harry means two centuries almost. The last he had seen the man was during a ball back when he was in London.
Anthony smiles, almost glows actually, if Harry doesn’t know any better, which is strange to him because vampires don’t glow; they’re pale and cold- skinned, and they don’t glow like humans do when they’re blushing with excitement.
But looking at the older man, Harry thinks that it’s possible for his kind to appear human, despite how unsettling it seems to be.
Unsettling isn’t the correct word for it. There’s a new emotion licking at the pit of his stomach, as he sees how happy Anthony is. It’s not the same happiness that Harry feels whenever he jumps off the Brooklyn bridge just to feel a rush, or when he buys another antique candelabra to add to his collection, or wears a suit tailored just for him, or drinks the freshest batch of animal blood David delivers for him.
This is different.
And just when Harry’s about to ask what blood Anthony’s been sipping to get such a light, the door of the café opens and a tall, gorgeous brunet walks in.
Harry smells the new stranger as soon as the man steps into the room—another mzukwa.
Anthony is the one not facing the door, but Harry can tell that he knows about the newcomer, even if his back is to the door. The older man hasn’t tensed like he usually does—like a territorial predator—when a new bloodsucker crowds their space.
The newly arrived vampire walks to their table, glowering like the whole world offends him. But Harry would be lying if he said the whole smouldering look doesn’t make the stranger even more attractive.
In human pace, the pishaach reaches their table and turns his piercing, cold grey eyes into Harry’s direction, before moving (and completely changing the coldness in his eyes into something soft) his stare to Anthony. His hair is longer than Harry’s, tied behind his head in a bun, but a few rogue tendrils frame his face perfectly that promote his glorious jawline and cheekbones.
He knows their kinds are always more beautiful than the mortals, makes it easier to attract human prey. But this is the first time Harry has met a vampire that’s gorgeous beyond the standard beauty of a fanpaya. He’s even better looking than Anthony, whom Harry thinks should be the peak of immortality.
The way this stranger stares into the older vampire churns something in Harry’s stomach. It’s not anger or nervousness, because the softness in those grey eyes is far from threatening. It’s the same feeling he had when he noticed the unusual glow in Anthony.
‘Well, don’t just stand there,’ Anthony tells the other dadqalato in that fond, exasperated manner only he masters. “Please, do sit down.’
The newcomer obeys, rolling his eyes in affection. The coldness in his eyes is gone as he takes the chair next to Anthony and acts like Harry doesn’t exist at all; though, his stance says differently, implying that he’s ready to pounce on threat at any moment.
‘James,’ Anthony says, holding the man’s eyes, ‘this is young Harold.’ He gestures to Harry, breaking his eye contact with his mate—Harry knows that much to be fact because these two vrykólakas before him are far from being subtle with all the doting glances they give each other. ‘Harry, this is James.’
There’s that jealousy in Harry’s gut again, upon hearing how Anthony says James’ name, brimming with affection and reverence and shameless desire, all in one bottle of emotion that’s definitely not human.
Or maybe humans feel this passionate happiness, as well. He’s not sure. He can’t remember most of his time as mortal.
The two newly acquainted simply exchange polite nods.
‘How was Steven, darling?’ Anthony asks his mate, his British accent more pronounced.
‘Stubborn, as always,’ James answers, clasping his mate’s hand in his and pressing a kiss on Anthony’s knuckles.
The other mzukwa practically melts as his lover’s lips graces his skin. He reaches out and gently tucks a stray hair behind James’ ear.
Harry has to look away, feeling like an intruder as he watches the sweet interaction between the couple. That should be his cue to leave.
But it’s as if the duo suddenly remembers his presence. Anthony invites him back into the moment with a smile, and goes into a long monologue of how he and James’ met. It’s quite funny, too, because James is Romanian, not specifically from Transylvania, but from the country where Count Dracula was famous, nonetheless.
It’s an action-packed romance that happened in the middle of 20th century just after the war. Anthony was helping build weapons for America because he was bored, and James’ had enlisted himself into the war to avenge his dead best friend from the Nazis. What started as friendly bonding about immortality turned into a lifetime commitment of devotion and love.
And nothing had been the same for the both of them since then. They’ve found something worth living for. Anthony’s no longer eccentric like Harry knows him to be (the antics they’ve done together before are unimaginable) and James has moved on from his anger and vengeance (despite what his perpetual scowl implies).
They’ve given each other a home, Anthony says so. And Harry’s not going to argue with that, the truth of the statement showing on both the lover’s faces, the way they speak about one another. They look happy and content, like they’ve discovered the true secret of the universe.
Anthony inquires about Harry’s latest adventures, as well. Compared to Anthony’s life-changing romance, Harry doesn’t really have anything to share. His life has been the same ever since he met the older dadqalato—all about living for the moment and chasing after some fleeting happiness that doesn’t even warm him till the next sunrise.
But it’s okay. Not everybody’s life has to be magnificent. Sometimes all you can be in life is happy—or whatever happiness you can grasp with your lonely hands.
So, it’s okay. Harry’s happy.
Harry’s okay.
Okay is enough.
‘Harry, are you still collecting?’ Anthony inquires, shoulder now touching with James’, as if he can’t help but lean into the other man’s space, unconsciously.
He nods but doesn’t particularly meet Anthony’s eyes; looking at the pair aches something within him. It’s the jealousy again, he thinks. It’s crawling all over his skin slowly and leaving a tormenting spot on his un-beating heart.
The older pishaach frowns at that, something flickers at his eyes. Harry hates the emotion that appears on those amber eyes: pity.
And he sure didn’t like the advice that follows.
~*~
Harry walks home that afternoon, angry at Anthony for meddling with Harry’s life.
He simmers in his anger for days—two months, really. But who’s counting? He can waste days or months or years on being angry if he wants to.
On his waking hours he thinks about Anthony’s words: Harry, I don’t think you’re happy anymore.
That’s bullshit because Harry’s happy. He’s okay. He’s a vampire and he can absolutely do anything he wants. He doesn’t have to think about running out of time or getting himself killed if he does something stupid like get stabbed, shot, etc.
He’s invincible. Vampires are invincible.
He walks. He does a lot of walking these days. Angry walking, because he can’t risk staying in his flat while angry, he’s afraid he’ll tear the place to the ground.
He surrounds himself with people and crowds, as much as he hates it. This is the only way he can keep his anger at bay. He’s not stupid enough to Hulk-out in public.
And that’s what he does. At the same time, he replays his conversation with the other mzukwa. He wants to prove Anthony wrong, because Harry’s happy. Well, not right now because Harry is angry at him. But he’s still okay.
He’s okay. And that’s enough.
Sure, okay would have been fine. But that was before… We have been existing for centuries now, and okay shouldn’t be enough, he repeats Anthony’s exact words in his mind.
Why does Anthony care about him anyway? He kicks a pebble and it hits a building, leaving a small crack on the surface.
It’s not like they’re family.
The young vampire stops in his tracks.
Family.
He had family before, right? He had a mother and a sister. His father died of pneumonia when he was very young, and so he doesn’t remember much of him. But his mother and sister, he remembers them. Doesn’t he?
He searches his mind for memories. It’s been a long time since he thought about his family. Harry thinks he can’t even picture how his mother used to look.
Harry feels like his knees can’t support him anymore, which is ridiculous because he’s a vampire with super strength that can lift a car without flexing a muscle. But in this moment he doesn’t feel super. He doesn’t feel super, at all.
Not a single of his immortal abilities can lift the heaviness that sets over him: mind, body, and soul. There’s this huge void deep within his core that sucks every ounce of strength from him.
He leans on the nearest building exterior for assistance, dizzy and weak. He hasn’t felt weak in centuries, not like a human. He knows the weakness that comes from dehydration of blood, but not this.
Weak, like a human would be after a day at work, or after waking up in the morning and realising you have to go through another day with the same mundane bullshit, or that emptiness of losing a purpose—of losing yourself and who you really are.
He’s a vampire, that’s a fact. That’s a reality he accepted a long time ago, despite it not sitting right in his bones.
Hey may be a vampire, but he’s happy. He’s okay.
And that should be enough.
‘…and okay shouldn’t be enough,’ he hears Anthony’s voice again.
He clenches his hands into fist with frustration. Why can’t okay be enough? Harry was fine with okay before Anthony pointed out that he shouldn’t be.
He closes his eyes, his mind replaying his interaction with Anthony that afternoon, how the older vampire completely shone just staring at James’, as if he created everything good in the universe.
Is that love? Is that how it looks? Harry’s not sure. He hadn’t seen it up-close until that afternoon.
Sure, he’s noticed how lovers look at each other before, how parents laugh at their kids’ crazy antics, how owners pet their dogs in parks, how friends chase after each other. But he didn’t mind it then, because those are fleeting moments than meant nothing to him.
Emotions—human emotions—are not irrevocable. They change constantly, like the weather. He can’t keep up with it. He refuses to, because he can’t change himself.
If he feels anything for something or for someone, it stays with him. Not forever, but long enough than a mortal lifetime. And he can’t have that, such prolong suffering.
It took years—a whole century and more—for him to accept himself. It took almost forever to get over the deaths of his mother and sister, he remembers. That’s when he started collecting.
Your collection will never fill in the void of your loss, Anthony told him. What you need is another person, who will understand your brokenness and accept it, who will hold your hand while you grow and mend yourself, and take care of you while you do so.
If Harry could cry, he would. He’s so tired. He’s tired of being angry at Anthony, when really he’s mad at himself because he doesn’t know who he is anymore.
He has no purpose. He has immortality, but he isn’t living in it, he’s existing in it.
Will it be greedy of him to want something more from his infinite lifetime? Happiness that’s not measured in okay, but maybe in rollercoaster emotions—ones that can change and morph and twist and grow.
Harry’s not philosophically smart, but he feels a little better now that he has acknowledge his emptiness. He’ll continue to change from now on, despite how hard it’ll be. He was never fond of change and old habits do die hard.
Now, he needs to find a motivation to get at least a bit of his humanity back, because that’s something he shouldn’t forget. Sure, the past is in the past, but one should never forget it, one must remember it from time to time to be able to learn from it.
‘Hey,’ a blond guy calls from the door of the shop that Harry is stood by.
Harry looks around and back to the stranger, who’s staring at him, seeing no one in the streets at this early hour in the morning. How did he get here?
‘Yeah, you,’ the stranger says, impatiently. Harry checks the small name tag pinned to his shirt that reads Clint. ‘C’mon.’ He gestures for Harry to follow him inside the shop.
Blindly, because he has nothing better to do, Harry follows the man, wondering why this Clint is even awake so late.
It’s a bakery, small and cosy, with only three pair tables, presented by a glass case for desserts and pastry, and a wooden cabinet for bread at the back of the shop. A small counter rests between it all, with a door at the back that, Harry presumes, leads to the kitchen.
The boy—Clint—walks behind the counter.
‘Clint,’ Harry hears another man speak, scolding.
As Harry’s eyes focus on him, he’s taken aback by the face of the other stranger with brown skin. Saying this man is beautiful would be an understatement, and a general injustice to him.
Harry smells the air surreptitiously, in case he’s missed the scent of a vampire, because that’s the only logical reason as to why this man is so exaggeratedly beautiful.
But no, the air is clean. Only a human scent lingers, not that of a vampire.
Fuck. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever met a mortal this gorgeous, surpassing the most beautiful vampire Harry had ever laid eyes on, which at the moment is James. Anthony’s taking second place; the older vampire would be pissed that he’s not on top—not that Harry will ever share this Vanity List.
Why does he even have a list again? Oh, right because he tends to collect. And the Vanity List had somehow just birthed itself.
The blond—Clint—only replies an innocent, ‘What?’ as if he hasn’t brought a total stranger into their shop at 2am. ‘He’s not dangerous,’ he tells the other fellow, before looking at Harry. ‘You’re not, are you?’
Harry looks away from the beautiful mortal, not sure how long he’s been staring because if it was more than normal then that’s just creepy. But no one should blame him, right? Faces like that should be recognised and adored and stared at twenty-four, seven.
He smiles in assurance at Clint, making sure not to show his fangs and scare the two mortals.
The other stranger only shakes his head softly, possibly used to Clint’s antics. He blinks slowly, almost sleepily and Harry stares again.
Harry knows he’s staring like some creep. Though he can’t help but follow the small movements of the man’s face. It’s a very attractive face. The man’s lashes are long, curtaining gorgeous hazel doe-eyes.
Khoshgel would be poetic to describe this man. It’s perfect, with how he looks like some Persian prince, with how stunning he is.
‘Alright,’ the gorgeous man says with a nod. ‘My name’s Zayn’. The cadence of his voice is as bellissimo as his face. Like an angel, in Harry’s opinion. ‘This is Clint.’ He gestures to the blond man, who waves at Harry but he completely ignores him. He can’t stop staring at Zayn’s lips as they speak.
And his name is Zayn, which translates to beautiful in Arabic. Isn’t that fitting? The universe has done a great job on this mortal.
He sniffs the air again just to be sure that this human is indeed human, because no mortal should be this bonito.
Still only human scents mixing with his own.
Clint says something, and Zayn answers. And Harry is shamelessly staring again, because how had he not noticed how pretty Zayn’s lips are? He’s a vampire for heaven’s sake! He has super eyesight.
More words are exchanged between the two and Harry’s not following anything, just savouring the sweet tune of Zayn’s voice like a lullaby.
Bread is tossed at him, and Harry only catches it thanks to his vampire reflexes that pull him from his gaze on Zayn.
He stares at the bread in his hands, then to the two pair of eyes. It’s a weird wake up call, as he’s bombarded with the smell of flour. A realisation of being surrounded by freshly baked bread stirs something in him. Definitely not hunger; he’s a vampire.
The familiarity of this shop takes him back in time, back to his humanity, back to when he was a little boy with a heartbeat and a family who loved him, and whom he loved. Back when Harry had something worth living for.
His mother was a baker and she didn’t have the biggest shop, but her kitchen was always warm and homey. It’s the best place in the world, Harry’s young self thought so, and despite his long years of immortality he still believes it.
There’s a sudden longing deep in his gut, a want to have his family again or start a family of his own. He thinks it’s impossible, being a vampire and all, to have your own family.
But Anthony proved him wrong that afternoon in the café. It’s possible to have family, even as an immortal, or to at least have someone to share a life with. He misses having someone to care for and to be taken care of in return.
He turns to Clint first and then moves to Zayn. He gawks again, and he really needs to stop doing it because it makes him look stupid and creepy.
Zayn’s staring at him patiently. And to be honest, Harry’s not sure why the gorgeous mortal is looking at him. It makes Harry squirms and he’s sure if he could blush he would.
He has no idea what to do in these situations, where you feel cornered and flustered. His anxiety levels are over the roof right now. A vampire, with anxiety! Have you ever heard such a tragedy? It’s not normal for someone like him to be under such scrutiny. Why is he being scrutinised?
Right, something about a taste test.
The lightweight of the concoction in his hand, the smell of a familiarity he hasn’t remembered for so long. Those memories always hurt.
Clint clears his throat, but Harry’s eyes remain glued to the bread, not sure what to do with it.
He doesn’t do anything, thinking only about is his past life: the man with a family, the man who was so full of love he might burst, the man with a purpose. Harry is no longer that man. He buried that man a long time ago because it aches to dream about the person he can never be.
His eyes burn. It’s not possible for his kind to cry, is it? Nonetheless, it hurts just as much, even when no tears shed.
He sniffs, stalling, gathering himself.
He can do this.
He’s okay.
Taste test. Yes, he can do that.
He’s okay. He can do it.
He can.
But he can’t. He’s a vampire, he won’t be able to judge the bread in his hand, let alone partake it.
He’s not in the best emotional position to fake anything as of the moment. And if he gags over the pastry these two humans will think the bread is awful, and that might upset Zayn. And he won’t be able to explain to Zayn that it wasn’t the bread, it’s himself that’s not right.
It takes about six seconds for Harry’s brain to process and make a decision. And he’s not proud of the choice he took, but you can’t blame him as he runs—in human speed—out of the shop door and back out into the shadows.
~*~
Harry’s good at evading his problems. He’s managed to avoid his loneliness for a very long time, so it was a piece of cake to ignore the staling bread in his unused kitchen.
For first week, the pastry simply sat at the table, mocking Harry and reminding him of what a coward he was. But at the same time he can’t stop staring at the food, smelling it every now and then and remembering his mother and sister.
He can recall his mum, Anne, baking him and Gemma cakes for their birthdays. She used to put icing on them, which was a big deal back then, with bread being expensive in the 18th century, some used to sell stale-bread so not to waste the product, he remembers.
While he lets himself wallow in self-pity and regret, Harry writes. He scribbles down everything he can collect from his life as human, lest he forgets.
He tries to retain every memory: how his mother looked, what Gemma’s favourite flower was, how their kitchen always smelt like wheat and rye—good or bad. He wants all of it, wants to feel every ache and joy at the nostalgia they bring.
And when the bread at his table have gone stale, growing mold on the surface, Harry decides it’s time to go back to that small bakery. He’s not exactly sure why. He has this moral sense that makes him feel like he needs to apologise, or explain himself.
He also needs to stop hanging out on old fire escapes, like some weird stalker, as he watches Zayn in the early mornings, kneading dough and preparing freshly baked breads. This unhealthy habit of lurking on dark corners to observe the boy is certainly becoming more vampire-like than anything else in his life.
Harry can hear Anthony’s disapproving tsk, tsk, tsk at the back of his head at watching Zayn from afar—at first, from a tiny balcony of the building across the shop, then, like the greedy predator he is, moving to the fire escape of Zayn’s building. He grows closer than he should and drowns in the sweet and homey scent of baking bread whilst he stalks Zayn.
It’s almost human of him to give in to his urges, to get as close as possible to the warmth of Zayn’s kitchen. And he knows very much what happens to moths that get too close to the flame; to Icarus, who flew too near the sun.
But he can’t help it. He’s not sure if such craving is of his human or vampire side.
It’s enthralling to watch the human boy Zayn so passionately doing what he loves. It reminds Harry much of his mother, of his own humanity.
It’s cute, Harry chuckling to himself, when Zayn gets flour on his face and in his hair. Well, Zayn is always cute—adorable actually—when he personally gets behind the counter sometimes to greet the regulars.
The little bakery certainly reminds Harry more of his old life back then and his family, how his mum knew every name of the customers and greeted them like they were a part of the family. And maybe that’s why a lot of people from his town come to their shop, to feel at home.
Home isn’t that foreign of a word, if he thinks about it. It’s thrown and used time and time again, but a deeper meaning of the word is what’s always been the question. And observing Zayn makes the little shop feel more like home to Harry, just warming something in his cold un-beating heart.
~*~
Things are always easier said than done, another nugget of wisdom Harry needs to remember, as he circles the bakery’s corner at least fifteen times already. He’d been arguing with himself about going in. He needs to make up his mind because it’s nearly 8pm, the shop’s closing time.
He stands outside of Cosmic Bread, and smiles at the sign on the door that reads: ‘a taste that’s out of this world’ —most likely to be Clint’s idea, Harry bets, and at the same time knows that Zayn thinks it’s sick.
Harry steps back into the quaint store and basks in the smell of home. Or how home use to smell, and how he wishes his home would smell. Do they sell bread-scented candles? He needs to look that up.
‘If it isn’t the Runaway Tosser,’ Clint comments, clearing a table top.
The store is empty of other customer, except for Harry. It weakens his resolve, when Clint raises an eyebrow at him, hands on his hips.
‘What brought you back from the dead?’ Clint asks, and Harry almost laughs at the man’s use of words. Oh, if only Clint knows.
Harry clears his throat. ‘I would like to apologise for running away like that,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude.’
‘Clint, do we have another customer?’ Zayn shouts from the kitchen. ‘Tell ‘em sorry that we don’t have anymore bread.’
Harry unconsciously stares at the empty display. He’s pleased to know that Zayn’s bread is selling out, meaning the khoshgel man didn’t have to worry about wasting food.
‘It’s actually a familiar face,’ Clint tells Zayn, eyes not leaving Harry. Clint seems to be the man who is completely honest, who would call you stupid to your face and be upfront.
From the sound of it, it’s almost as if these two humans have been talking about him. At least Harry’s not the only who’s secretly ogling other people behind their backs—no matter if Harry’s method of so-called gossiping are different than normal.
Zayn glides from the kitchen, looking adorable with his red plaid apron and little powder of flour across his face.
Involuntarily, Harry turns to the beautiful man and offers him a smile. He’s definitely becoming like a sunflower that follows the sun. El sol is likely close to Zayn, in Harry’s opinion—all warm and radiant and necessary to life.
‘Hi,’ he greets boy, who looks surprised to see him. ‘Uhmm… I love your bread.’ He offers another genuine smile, because he may not have been able to eat it, but he sure does love how Zayn makes them. He’s seen them himself. So, that isn’t a lie. It’s the whole truth.
Your bread warms my heart, is what he wants to say, but knows it’s too straight-forward even for an eccentric vampire like him. And he can’t really add the rest of what he meant to say, like: It saved me from my fruitless immortality and reminded me of what’s it like to have a home. And that maybe I needed a home after all these years of feeling so empty despite all my wealth.
‘Ugh,’ Clint groans, removing Harry’s gaze from Zayn for a while to see the mock disgust in the blond’s face. ‘I don’t want this to happen at all.’ He points at Zayn and Harry like he’s offended by their existence. ‘It’s not fair,’ he whines.
Harry’s not sure what exactly is happening, but he doesn’t miss the way Zayn’s cheeks twinge slightly red.
‘You beautiful people should really give ordinary looking people a chance,’ Clint continues, wiping the table with a lot more force than usual. ‘It’s just not fair,’ he mutters under his breath and straightens up. He turns to Zayn and says, ‘And thanks to you, Nat is ten quid richer.’
Zayn only grins at that. And good Lord, his smile is krasivaya: bright and earnest. Harry wants to taste it on his lips, burn himself in the radiance of it to make himself feel alive.
Clint grumbles some more and exits behinds the kitchen door.
Harry clears his throat again, despite not needing to.
The other man turns to him, the huge grin fading from his lips. Harry will try his hardest to make sure that grin appears again and again in the future.
‘We don’t have anymore bread,’ Zayn informs with one eyebrow raised, since Harry’s obviously lost in staring at Zayn again.
This is becoming very un-vampire of him to lose focus.
He puts a hand on the back of his neck, embarrassed of himself. ‘Yes, I’ve heard,’ he replies. He looks down at his brown boots. ‘I actually came here to tell you that your bread is delicious.’
The human chuckles; it’s quiet but Harry’s super hearing catches it nonetheless. ‘You came all the way here to say that?’
And when Zayn phrases it like that it does sounds ridiculous. Harry’s never subtle, main example is how he’s blatant with his ogling. Where did all his nonchalance go? He used to be so good with talking and charming humans to like him.
But seeing the fondness in Zayn’s face, Harry thinks being honest is his best decision. As honest as he can be, that is.
‘I’ll see you around then,’ he says as casually as he can, even when he feels like his tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth.
‘Yeah.’ Zayn nods.
And that’s Harry’s cue to leave. He takes two more seconds to savour Zayn. He’s going to come back later at 4am to watch Zayn bake bread, because he loves the smell of freshly baked bread, and definitely not because he likes watching Zayn cook.
Harry turns to the door.
‘Wait!’ Zayn calls to him.
Harry twists in the human’s direction faster than he had intended. ‘Yes?’
He doesn’t know why he sounds so hopeful, feels so hopeful in his bones. Unlike him, this is only Zayn’s second time seeing him, so there’s nothing really interesting that he could offer the beautiful man. But there he goes, hoping for something he doesn’t know himself.
‘I didn’t get your name,’ Zayn says, and there’s another smile on his lips again that’s all for Harry.
He hopes that’s all for him. But that’s too much hoping, isn’t it?
‘Harry,’ he replies, smiling back in return. How could he not?
‘I’m Zayn,’ the man says, wiping a hand on his apron as he walks around the counter.
‘I know. You told me last time.’
‘Right.’ He laughs awkwardly, and extends his semi-floured hand out for Harry to shake.
He doesn’t think once about it and reaches back for Zayn’s hand in instinct. He’s usually cautious about touching humans, but there’s something about this mortal that makes him not himself—his vampire self.
It’s the most normal that Harry has ever indulged in. No second guessing or hesitation, he sees Zayn’s hand and he knows that he needs to hold it, to feel the warmth of Zayn’s skin under his own.
He can pinpoint Zayn’s pulse under the soft layers of tissue. And if Zayn thinks Harry’s hand is colder than normal, he doesn’t show it.
‘Nice to meet you,’ he says and pulls away before he caves in to his impulse of not letting go.
‘Nice to meet you, too,’ Zayn agrees.
‘Goodbye, Zayn.’ He wishes Zayn could hear how his voice caresses his name, how his hand caresses the perfect skin of Zayn’s hand; those magical hands that makes wonderful bread and give people happiness.
‘Bye, Harry.’
Harry has never heard anyone say his name like that, full of wonder, like Zayn is tasting it in his mouth for the first time. The small smile on Zayn’s lips is enough to water the blossoming hope in Harry’s gut.
~*~
The next day, Harry goes back to the small shop at 4am and leaves just when Natalie, the morning shift employee, helps Zayn with the display.
He goes back again at 1pm, when Clint is the one on shift. The blond groans when he sees Harry and glares at him with a malicious intent.
Harry orders a croissant (for take out because he can’t really eat it, and gives it to the homeless guy on the other side of he street) and black coffee. He sits at a table to do his work while trying to catch a glance at Zayn whenever the man brings out the fresh new batch of bread.
He leaves at 3pm because he knows it gets crowded by 4pm when the nearest kindergarten dismisses their pupils and mothers’ flock to the shop with their tiny toddlers to buy sweet bread and pastries before they head home, and before 6pm some people from the neighbourhood head to the shop to buy bread they’ll need for dinner.
Harry goes back at half pass seven, orders whatever bread is available and a cup of black coffee and sits in his usual spot, trying to write in his journal about his memories of the past or of the day.
He does it again the next day, and the day after that, and the next week after that.
On the ninth day, he forcefully tells himself not to go back at 4am because he doesn’t have to observe Zayn anymore since he sees the man everyday. Him and theblond exchange a few words before Clint shouts from the cashier to the kitchen at Zayn that Runaway Tosser (the nickname sticks because Clint’s an asshole like that) is here.
Eleventh day comes and he fails to stop himself from stalking Zayn at 4am. He does better the next two days, yet fails again on the fourteenth day. Nonetheless, he persists.
It’s been two weeks now; old habits die hard, they say, and Harry knows they were right.
The three of them form a slight camaraderie. But Zayn tries more to talk to Harry than Clint. Sometimes Zayn purposely waits outside the kitchen just in time to see Harry enter the shop.
The two of them have short talks about TV series they watch at the moment, their favourite Marvel films, the anime they love, and anything in between. Clint just rolls his eyes at them.
Harry hasn’t talked to anyone as much as he’s talked to Zayn in the past few days. It’s refreshing to have someone you can call your friend. Well, Anthony’s his friend too, but the other fanpaya is always out of reach for him to constantly be in touch with.
Sure, their conversations aren’t that long, but, slowly, Harry starts staying until the shop closes. They chat while Harry voluntarily cleans the table tops and arranges the chairs, and Clint mops the floor, and Zayn cleans the kitchen.
It takes another week for Harry to be allowed in the kitchen, at first just observing Zayn and asking how things function. Then he’s helping move the dirty trays and wipe the kitchen top while Zayn washes the utensils.
Harry’s progress is humanly slow, but he doesn’t mind. It’s actually grounding and satisfying to have it in this pace. It makes him appreciate every moment and savour the details of his days. He writes it down, in case he forgets them.
~*~
‘You should come with us to Romania,’ Anthony offers on their next meeting, sitting in a diner booth in Brooklyn.
‘What?’ It certainly takes him by surprise. He only agreed to meet him because it’s Sunday. And on Sunday Zayn’s shop is closed. So, he has nothing else to do or people to talk to other than them.
Harry vowed to himself that he’s never ever going to follow Zayn home. He knows he won’t be able to stop himself from coming to the man’s house on Sunday’s if he knows where he lives, even when it breaks Harry a little not being able to see Zayn till early Monday morning.
And time tends to move a little slower when Harry wants Sunday to move on to Monday. He’s grown a new outlook on time because of Sundays. And the old saying that ‘time moves faster to those who enjoy, and slower to those who wait’ has been true to him, indeed.
‘To meet some of our kind,’ Anthony explains. He’s in one of those fancy suits again that definitely don’t belong to the grimy backdrop of an old diner. ‘There’s going to be a huge ball that happens only once every century, like some sort of census for our kind.’ He puts down his cup and stares at Harry. ‘This might be an opportunity for you to mingle.’
Harry doesn’t miss the hidden implication. And his skin crawls at the idea of leaving his routine here in New York, of not seeing and talking to Zayn from Monday to Saturday.
‘I think it’s time for you to move again, Harry,’ the older vrykólakas recommends. ‘You’ve stayed in New York a little too long.’ Anthony sounds concerned. ‘You need to see the rest of the world and find your happiness… And I believe it doesn’t lie with those ornaments you collect.’ He snorts.
In another time, maybe months ago, Harry would have been mad at Anthony for not minding his own business, even when he knows the older vampire means well. But right now, all he can feel for Anthony is gratitude for always looking after him.
These days, he’s learned some wisdom here and there, and actually has the decency to follow it, like how he shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds him.
‘But there’s no Zayn in Romania,’ he responds.
‘A what?’ Anthony asks, confused.
‘He’s my friend,’ Harry replies. ‘He loves Marvel, and anime, and Riverdale like I do.’ He smiles, remembering how they made a bet on who killed Jason Blossom (Clint won, unfortunately by some sheer luck) and practically made a whole police board about it because they are dorks like that. ‘And he sends me memes.’
‘Memes?’
Harry wants to roll his eyes at Anthony’s old age and lack of knowledge of pop culture. And he makes a very bad vampire by lacking the whole I’ve-been-stuck-in-a-cave persona.
‘Yes.’ Harry sips his coffee. ‘The latest one is about Change My Mind. And he says that Mocking Spongebob was the best, which I would like to point out is a total lie because the best has to be Distracted Boyfriend or Right In Front Of My Salad.’
‘Oh my word,’ Anthony mutters thoughtfully. There’s a glint in his eyes that’s the same thing he had when he had found out that Harry was a newborn vampire, assuring Harry that he’s in good hands and how he—The Great Anthony Edward Ridley—would show him the delicious and wanton things immortality could offer.
And the old pishaach had been true to his words, submerging Harry into the wild vampire-lifestyle.
‘You’re in love with this Zayn,’ the other vampire states, matter of fact and with a huge satisfied smile on his lips.
‘What?’ He almost chokes on his drink. ‘In love? With Zayn?’ That’s just the most ridiculous thing Harry had ever heard.
Anthony nods. ‘Exactly.’ He clasps his hands together on the table, leaning more towards Harry with an excitement of a natural gossiper. ‘Of course, you are. I should have seen it when you looked more elated than you were on our last meeting.’
‘No, I’m not,’ he replies, because that’s the truth.
‘Oh, young one,’ Anthony coos teasingly. There’s that grin again, like a cat who snatched up a canary. ‘You’re adorable, aren’t you?’ He leans both elbows on the table. ‘Tell me about this young love of yours.’
Harry just stares at his father-figure with disbelief. There isn’t anything to tell because he’s not in love, especially not with Zayn. Not that there’s anything wrong with Zayn. The man’s one of the kindest people Harry had ever met, smile always genuine, eyes that sparkle with life that doesn’t dim despite how awful the world is.
Zayn is bone-deep amazing. He loves his job, talks to his mum every day, and thinks his dad is his superhero. He probably gives warm hugs—not that Harry has tested that theory yet, or will ever because he’s a vampire and they always run cold which will discomfort Zayn—and bakes wonderful bread. And it’s an extra bonus that he’s very attractive.
He feels happy thinking that he has a bond with Zayn. But that doesn’t mean that he’s in love with the man.
No, he’s not in love with Zayn.
He’s Zayn’s friend. Zayn is his friend.
Special friend maybe, since Zayn is the only human friend that he has (Clint doesn’t count because he’s an asshole).
But he’s not in love with Zayn. No, they’re friends.
Anthony laughs at him.
‘I can see how your brain is clicking right now,’ Anthony says, not even bothering to hide his giggle and ridicule. ‘It’s really adorable how naïve you are, even after all these years.’
He can feel himself pout, and makes his glare at the other vampire evident.
‘Well…’ Anthony leans back on the booth cushion. ‘I guess convincing you to come to Romania now would be a vain attempt, since you’re apparently tied to another engagement.’ He smiles, looking all happy and contented.
And Harry wants to point out again how Anthony’s wrong, but he keeps his mouth shut, as long as this will get him off the hook into leaving New York.
Anthony rise from his seat and walks out of the booth. He places a hand on Harry’s shoulder. ‘I wish you all the happiness, child,’ he bestows, squeezing Harry softly. ‘And I hope you’ll be careful. Till we meet again.’
~*~
When Monday arrives, Harry goes into his routine, Anthony’s words still fresh in his memory, and just as ridiculous as he first heard it from the other vampire’s lips. He tries not to let it bother him, but it does. He tries to poke and find fault at Anthony’s belief.
The shop is a bit busier the following day, he and Zayn barely exchange words more than a hi and hello before the man has to be back in the kitchen to take care of a cake. And Harry’s a little disappointed because he’s excited to tell Zayn about Stranger Things.
‘Of course you’re here… again,’ Clint states dryly.
‘That’s not polite,’ he says a little harsher than intended because he’s upset. ‘Sorry,’ he offers shyly.
The blond only rolls his eyes after hiding the surprise in his face. ‘Someone woke up at the wrong side of the bed.’
It’s not that, he wants to say but doesn’t, knowing he’s not sure himself why he’s snappy. He stares at the kitchen door and wishes Zayn would say more than a hurried: Hi, Harry. Sorry, I’m a little busy with a cake. Nice to see you. Because this isn’t their routine—well, Harry’s routine.
Internally, Harry groans at the vampirism in his system that makes it hard for him to be spontaneous without physically and emotionally feeling like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
It’s not Clint’s fault. Nor is it Zayn or himself. It’s simply unscheduled circumstances, and that’s normal. Such happenings are given when you’re living your life. But then again, he’s no longer living, he’s technically an undead immortal who has a massive dislike for changes or spontaneity.
Harry orders his usual and goes to his table to convince himself what his current goals in life are. For example he’s trying to be more human, and that includes dealing with sudden alteration on his schedule.
Patterns. Human likes patterns and habits, too. But, like their bodies, humans tend to cope with changes and move forward and accept modification.
Harry can’t say the same about his kind, because vampires cling to their routines and habits, much like their unchanging bodies. But he doesn’t want that life anymore. He wants to be happy, to get new routines, and be more human-like, because the living breathe and change and evolve. Harry craves that.
He needs to compose his impulses on holding everything in place, so it stays the same all day, every day, every time, forever.
~*~
He tries not to go back before the shop’s closing time because he has a feeling that Zayn’s still not done with the cake. Harry circles the bloke at least six times before failing and ending up outside Cosmic Bread just when Clint’s mopping the floor.
Harry paces from an invisible point A to point B, because his skin is crawling with want to get to the kitchen and see Zayn, to talk to the man, and simply go back to their—his—routine. But he’s not certain if he should bother Zayn right now because the man’s doing an important job, and Harry knows better than anyone how the human gets in the zone when he’s baking, especially if it’s cakes because Zayn loves doing them the most.
His hand shakes at the thought of turning the shop’s doorknob and just be in the same room as Zayn, filling it with their inane conversation and the man’s beautiful laughter. He can almost smell it—the flour, the sugar, the yeast, and a scent that’s simply Zayn.
‘Are you coming in or not?’ Clint asks, mildly amused. His voice startles Harry, eliciting a small yelp from the vampire. The blond’s smile only grows at Harry’s reaction. ‘If not then I suggest you go home because your manic pacing puts off other customers.’
Did he really look that crazy? He frowns at that. That’s not what he’s aiming for. But damn, his lack of control over his vampire impulses is something he should work on.
Against his better judgment, Harry follows Clint inside the store. And he can vividly smell the sugary fondant of Zayn’s creation. He can also smell Zayn, and the man’s sweat, and can hear the way he keeps on licking his lips.
He stares at the kitchen door, a fragile metal that separates Harry from the person he craves so badly.
‘You can go and talk to him, you know?’ Clint points out wryly. ‘Instead of staring holes into our door, because the poor thing doesn’t deserve all that sexual-frustration you’re giving it.’
Harry removes his gaze from the door and mentally slaps himself for acting stupid—and creepy—yet again. He needs to keep himself in-check if he wants to be better at this new lifestyle he’s trying.
He can hear Zayn’s breathing from the kitchen, and the soft humming from the human. Harry wants to hear all of it without the filter of the wall. He desires so much, it’s a consuming need that’s not good for him or Zayn.
Anthony’s wrong. Harry’s not in love with Zayn.
Harry craves Zayn.
Harry craves Zayn, like he’s obsessed with those inane objects he collects.
Harry craves Zayn, because Harry’s like every other vampire who fixates on habits, on patterns, on routines, on the same people.
It’s not love. It’s Harry acting like the monster that he is.
And it aches, how his effort all along has been in vain when he’s been blindly obsessed with a different compulsion. He can’t escape his desires to cling to anything.
He does what he thinks is best: he flees, leaving a confuse Clint behind.
~*~
That night he leaves New York City. He doesn’t get on a plane, or a train, or his car. He walks towards west and doesn’t stop. He refrains from looking back as well, afraid that if he turns to where he comes from, he’ll give in into his desire and run back to Zayn’s shop.
So, he walks and walks and walks.
He doesn’t go to Anthony, either, because he’s not ready to hear whatever truth the older kyūketsuki comes up with after hearing Harry’s story. He’s not ready to face the music yet.
Harry counts his every step, makes his mind think of other things other than how Zayn’s probably in his bakery right now, preparing to cook today’s first batch of bread.
He shakes his head at his line of thought. He tries to focus on his feet instead: right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right.
Zayn’s right-handed, Harry’s memory reminds him.
He stops on his track, tormented by his own mind.
He can focus again. He needs to think of something else.
The sky’s slowly turning into a soft yellow as the new dawn crawls in the horizon. It’s a new day ahead of him, and it looks like it’s going to be sunny.
Harry likes sunny days. He likes the sun because it’s everything he isn’t: full of life, full of energy, full of purpose, exactly like Zayn.
Zayn is the sun: warm and vibrant and wonderful.
And maybe it’s not bad to be obsessed with someone like Zayn, someone like the sun who gives life and brings warmth, someone who will melt the coldness in Harry’s frozen heart and remind him how to feel human again.
~*~
There’s only so far advice can take you, Harry knows that. He still has to do, like, 85% of the work to be able to achieve his goal. But he’ll give it a go because Anthony’s going to murder him if he tries to runaway from his problems again.
But, isn’t it like a human trait to runaway from difficulties? So Anthony better appreciate that Harry’s certainly on his way towards his humanity.
‘Harry,’ Zayn mutters in surprise, when he sees the vampire hanging outside the back alley of the shop. ‘What are you doing here?’
Harry wants to ask himself the same question, too because it’s 1am and this isn’t part of their scheduled meeting. And he’s waiting for his skin to crawl for not following an invisible timeline that seems to follow the immortals.
‘I’m not sure, actually,’ he says thoughtfully, meaning half of it because Anthony had given him enough reasons. He peels himself from the brick wall near the door. ‘What about you?’
Zayn looks back on the kitchen before turning to him again. ‘Haven’t finished the cake yet,’ he answers tiredly but there’s no hint of regret in him, all happy passion about what he’s doing.
He peaks inside and sees the three tier cake that’s covered in hundreds of tiny edible flowers. It’s a work of art, really. He can’t imagine humans having that patience when they’re all on borrowed time.
‘It’s beautiful,’ he comments genuinely. And he loves the flush that creeps into Zayn’s cheeks that make him feel his fangs inside his mouth, how there’s a burning sensation in his throat at the sight. He bites the inside of his lower lip, because he’s never lost control before. There’s something enthralling about the beautiful man, is all he could think as reason for his sudden vampire-desire.
‘Thanks.’ Zayn is still blushing, scratching a flour-covered finger on his cheek shyly. ‘I hope my sister likes it,’ he adds.
‘Your sister’s getting married?’ No wonder Zayn’s so keen about this cake.
‘Yeah.’ The man nods. ‘Do you want to come in?’ he asks after a long pause.
‘I might get in your way.’ He frowns, not thinking far ahead that he could be pulling Zayn from his work.
Zayn shakes his head. ‘You just might be what I need.’
And there’s really no special context in the sentence, but nonetheless Harry can’t help the happiness that grows in his chest and the smile that threatens to form on his lips.
Harry doesn’t like to hope. Hope leads to disappointments. And maybe this is one of the reasons why their kind prefers routines; that means they have something stable, reliable, constant. No room for surprises or frustrations.
‘C’mon.’ Zayn leads him inside and Harry follows in a heartbeat. ‘Do you want some coffee?’
Harry nods. ‘Don’t I always?’
Zayn makes a small smile, like this is some sort of inside joke between them, and there’s something comforting and completely warming about the idea that him and Zayn still have inside jokes to share.
‘Do you think it’s going to rain tomorrow?’ he asks because it’s one of the safest topics, according to some psychology book he’s read before. And it’s really a stupid topic: the weather. But Harry wants to fill the silence, not because the situation is tense but because he’s tense.
He tries to hold himself back from reaching over to Zayn and wiping that smudge of flour on his face because no one needs to look that adorable at 1am, when Harry is having some existential crisis.
It’s not fair.
The mortal shrugs and hands Harry’s cup to him. He occupies the high chair next to the vampire. ‘I don’t know, to be honest.’
‘The news said it might,’ he informs, leaning on the huge kitchen island where Zayn’s cake sits at the centre. Is he really going to talk about the fucking weather right now? He wants to punch himself in the face, but maybe not because he might damage his eyes and he does like using them to stare at Zayn when the other man’s so close to him. ‘Do you have an umbrella?’
‘I don’t,’ Zayn answers.
Harry watches it all, the way that Zayn’s brows furrow together, how his mouth forms a little cute pout as he frowns. No one should be this adorable when they’re trying to seem upset.
His fingers twitch, badly wanting to ease those wrinkles on the mortal’s forehead. He sips his coffee instead, to distract himself from doing something stupid, like kiss the tiny furrow in Zayn’s forehead.
‘And you?’ Zayn asks, making a conversation because Harry’s lost at his staring game again.
‘Nope,’ Harry replies, putting his cup on the kitchen table and staring again. He needs to stop doing it, but he can’t. He’s almost sure he’ll understand what Zayn’s saying just by reading the man’s lips. It’s such a lovely pair of lips, made to be studied. When he looks up, caught staring, he bursts, ‘Uhmm… so, do you believe in the afterlife?’
There aren’t a lot of things that could embarrass a vampire, but Harry may have knocked off two from the list in one go.
‘What?’ Zayn looks confused.
They used to be able to talk without him sounding— and looking—stupid. But then, that was before Harry came to the realisation that he likes Zayn, and that definitely changes things, turns the table, cracks Harry’s embedded coolness.
‘Are you secretly some sort of Jehovah Witness and this is, somehow, your pick-up line that’ll lead to the whole: do you have a minute to talk about Christ?’ Zayn eyes him curiously with a small hint of amusement.
Harry doesn’t know whether to laugh, or be even more embarrassed than he already is.
‘No,’ he answers, feeling himself go warm with humiliation. But he can’t go hot because he’s an undead. His whole body is imbalance at reading himself then.
‘Okay.’ Zayn stares at him, waiting for Harry to explain exactly what he means.
It makes Harry squirm a bit, being looked at like that, with so much patience and understanding, he’s not sure he deserves it. In his lifestyle as a vampire, he’s used to things being done rapidly.
It’s been a long time since someone truly cared for him, to wait for him to get his bearings together, to understand him when he can’t seem to find the words to explain himself, to just be there even when he’s making a fool of himself.
No one has stuck around before. And he can’t blame them really, when he’s made sure to put a wall between him and humanity. It’s the fear of losing people that has kept him alone all these years, only managing to collect material things that will never die or grow old.
He wants to say it’s self-preservation, but he hasn’t made an effort, or blinded himself from the reality that he can’t go on this road to immortality all by himself. Well, not until he met Zayn.
He’s not sure what Zayn’s thoughts about immortality will be, but he’s going to start one step at a time. He may not be able to keep Zayn for long, but he’ll have now and a future with Zayn—no matter how short it will be—if he gives this a chance.
‘Uhmm… the truth is,’ he begins, voice cracking a bit, suppressing the urge to laugh at how human it is of him, ‘I want to hold your hand while walking.’ Harry is pretty sure vampires can’t blush, but he’s also sure his body almost does.
Harry internally wishes the earth would swallow him whole. He cringes and it must be showing on his face, he knows it is.
Zayn’s eyes widen with surprise, reading Harry’s reaction like an open book. Zayn’s heart rate quickens slightly, and Harry’s not certain if it’s from excitement or nervousness or something else.
Somehow, Harry’s great skills on reading heartbeats are not resurfacing, as he counts every second till Zayn opens his mouth to respond.
There’s a lot of emotion that crosses Zayn’s beautiful face in a matter of seconds. But the human’s face settles into a fond look. Relief washes over Harry, but a tiny part of his brain tells him not to hope too much; this could be the beginning of Zayn telling him that he does not feel the same.
Zayn lets out a resolved sigh. And it doesn’t sound so positive.
Harry braces himself for a painful impact. At least he gave it a chance, he tells himself; a chance at humanity, a chance at love, a chance to move forward, a chance to change.
‘Well, you have to take me out to dinner first,’ Zayn says, a little smile forming on his lips as he winks at Harry.
And maybe Harry’s heart doesn’t work anymore, but he’s absolutely convinced, in that moment, he hears it skip a beat.
And he should probably send Anthony a customised suit to thank him.
Fin.