Archive of Our Own ^beta

I wasn't looking for a promise or commitment.

But it was never just fun and I thought you were different.

This is not the way you realise what you wanted.

~ Ed Sheeran, Don’t

+++

As ads go, it isn’t the most enticing – FOR SALE: THREE-SEATER SOFA £100 ONO – but it’s the only one listed on Gumtree that Zayn can afford, so here he is. Manchester’s pretty studenty because of the uni (at least compared to Bradford, which is his only other point of reference), so he isn’t surprised when a blonde guy about his age opens the door. When he sees Zayn on the doorstep, he smiles but it turns into a yawn.

‘Sorry.’ He scrubs his face with his hands. ‘What time is it? Must have fallen asleep.’

Zayn checks his phone. ‘Quarter to two. You said to come any time after noon.’

‘You here about the sofa?’ Zayn nods and he nods back. ‘I’m Max, but everyone calls me Noodle.’

At least that’s what Zayn thinks he says, the second half of the sentence swallowed by another yawn. He manages to cover his mouth this time, which Zayn is grateful for until he holds it out to him.

‘Zayn.’ He tries not to think about how warm his hand is as he shakes it.

‘Come in.’

As soon as he turns away, Zayn wipes his palm on his jeans and follows him inside. The house is not unlike the place he’s renting, a Victorian red brick with white UPVC windows and a scruffy front garden. The door even makes the same noise when Zayn closes it behind him, the same meaty thud followed by the shiver of the security chain. It used to drive him nuts when he first moved in with Danny and Ant. They rent the flat upstairs and his room’s at the front so every time someone slams the door, it makes his bones rattle. Now he likes it, knowing he isn’t alone. The funny thing is: he couldn’t wait to leave home, to be able to close his bedroom door for more than five minutes before one of his sisters barrelled in to demand he turn down his music or to complain about the smell of oil paint and turps. His first year in halls was just as anarchic, but in a different way. Water fights at midnight and couples breaking up under his window at 2 a.m. and being woken up by the fire alarm because some twat had fallen asleep while he was puffing. But now it’s just him, Ant and Danny, he misses it, the chaos of home. Don’s hairdryer and his Dad singing along to Kishore Kumar while he shaves and the dog barking at the pigeons sitting on the roof of the shed.

Now he’s a second year. Fresher’s fever has passed and the novelty of downing a yard of ale at the student union and going for McDonald’s at 2 a.m. is waning. He still goes for McDonald’s at 2 a.m. of course, but now it’s because he’s been in the studio at uni, trying to get something finished for the next day. Maybe he’s growing up. It feels that way sometimes when he leaves the pub before closing because he has to be up early the next morning. Or maybe it’s just that after a year of fucking around, his grades are starting to matter. They always have, actually, he just forgot they did. No one else on his course did, though. They lined up internships for the summer and exhibitions at local galleries while Zayn was still mastering the art of skinning up with one hand. Something that didn’t go unnoticed by his personal tutor, who gave him a royal telling off when he barely scraped through his first year. It worked, though, so now if he’s not in the studio, he’s at work selling finger paint to yummy mummies and watercolour sets to retired men who while away their afternoons painting bowls of fruit. But then he gets a much needed discount on supplies and sometimes, if he’s lucky, he gets to flirt about pointillism (yes, it’s possible to flirt about pointillism) with the cute guy on his course, the one with the paint splattered Vans and the Dali tattoo, so life ain’t too shabby.

But while he’s been flirting about pointillism and doing everything he can to make up for wasting the summer working in an art shop rather than interning at MAG, Ant and Danny have settled down, too, in a very different way. Ant’s besotted with a girl called Tessa and Danny’s threatening to drop out of uni and go back to Ibiza so he can be with a girl he met there over the summer. The three of them barely see each other anymore and when they do, it’s to divvy up the bills and bicker over who used the last tea bag.

They’re boring bastards, frankly. Happy, yes, but boring nonetheless. At least Ant and Danny are getting some. Zayn is (although not the cute guy on his course… yet) but not on the regular. He’s never been one for dating, never really been able to because while his father was unexpectedly okay about the gay thing, Zayn had no intention of pushing it. He thought that’d change when he went to uni. Yeah, he doesn’t have to sneak guys in through the kitchen door dark anymore, he sneaks them into an alleyway now, which isn’t the same thing. But it kind of is because it’s still just lust. Still clumsy and breathless and impatient, which is what he wants, right? At least he used to, until Ant and Danny got wifeyed up. And while Zayn doesn’t want that either – not yet, anyway – he often finds himself wondering what it would be like to have that one person. The one you call when you have good news or who tells you it’ll be okay when you don’t. There’s much to be said for a frantic Friday night fuck, but Zayn wouldn’t mind a slow Sunday morning shag once in a while. He’s never kissed anyone in the cinema before or had an argument in the street. In many ways, he’s still the nervous fifteen-year old kid who doesn’t know what he wants, just that he likes to be held with big hands and to feel the burn of someone else’s stubble.

That’s how he ended up here, trying to buy a sofa from someone called Noodle. Zayn had thrown a Bring and Buy Sale party in the hopes of meeting someone, the idea being: everyone brings someone they’re not interested in and leaves with someone they are. He brought his ex, Mal, but Mal brought a load of mushrooms and, well, the evening concluded with Zayn trying to flush the sofa down the toilet.

‘This is our flat,’ Noodle says, his voice just loud enough to make Zayn’s head throb as he thinks about the night before. It’s like every student place he’s ever been in, chilly and untidy with a smell of weed and dirty socks that he finds oddly comforting. As he follows Noodle down the hall, he passes a traffic cone and a glance into the kitchen confirms that they have a similar aversion to washing up as he, Danny and Ant. The counter is dotted with breadcrumbs and baked beans and there’s mound of drying tea bags by the sinkful of plates and mugs that’s leaning precariously. (One more of either and it’ll topple, he’s sure.) The living room is much the same, everything coated in a fine dusting of cigarette ash. There’s a sculpture made out of cans of Stella in the corner and through the patio doors Zayn sees a bong on the green plastic table outside. If he, Ant or Danny cut the grass in their garden they could probably get a table out there, too, but of course they can’t be arsed and settle for smoking inside instead, which is a violation of their tenancy agreement but a necessity in a city as curmudgeonly as Manchester where it rains 300% of the time.

Zayn hates the smell of smoke on his sheets, so when he’s in his room, he sticks his head out the window. Sometimes he catches the woman in the flat downstairs having a cheeky one. She always smiles and shrugs when he does, as if to say, What are you going to do? and Zayn smiles back because if he had a two-year old who cried 22.3 hours of the day, he’d need to smoke too. She seems cool, or at least she was at some point judging by her nose ring and tattoo. She’s young, too – not much older than him – and he wants to ask her if this is how she thought her life would turn out, being a single mum who’s only joy is the sneaky fags she has while her kid is asleep. But then he realises that he’s being a sanctimonious prick. He doesn’t even know her name, how does he know that she isn’t happy? That she isn’t exactly where she wants to be.

Maybe he’s the one who isn’t.

Still, they talk all the time. About dumb shit like the weather and the bin men not showing up that week and how Environmental Health shut down the kebab shop on Furness Road, and Zayn stays long after he’s finished his cigarette because whether she’s happy or not, he gets that she needs it, to have a conversation made up of whole sentences that isn’t about Peppa Pig. But when they see each other in the street or on the bus, they never acknowledge each other. Zayn might help her with the buggy or let her go first in the corner shop, but it’s never more than that, as though they’re having an affair or something.

‘Noodle, doesn’t your shift start at two?’ Another – deeper – voice says and Zayn jumps. He’s not usually so skittish but he’s tired and hungry and pissed off that he’s about to spend £100 he hasn’t got to replace a sofa they’ve only had a month because he has no willpower when it comes to Mal. (If taking ‘shrooms isn’t testament to that, the frenzied shag they had after certainly is.) He just wants to go home and lie face down on his bed until his head stops throbbing, but then a guy ambles into the living room.

Amble’s modest, it’s more of a swagger, the guy’s hips swaying as he walks towards him. Zayn can tell he’s fighting a smile then he has to as well because fuck this dude is everything Zayn usually goes for: tall and lean with hands that could hold him down with ease. He’s barefoot, his black jeans making his skin look even paler and the collar of his grey t-shirt low enough to expose the wings of the swallows tattooed under his collarbones. The cotton is just thin enough that Zayn can see the outline of his nipples and he catches himself licking his lips as he imagines leaning down and sucking one of them through his t-shirt.

‘Sorry about that,’ the guy says, forcing Zayn to look up from his chest as Noodle runs out of the living room muttering, Shit. ‘You here about the sofa?’ The guy looks up too and Zayn should look away, he knows, but he’s already looking at his eyes and noting that one is slightly greener than the other, so it’s too late. He may not be much of a dater but it’s not for want of trying. That’s the problem, though. His sister, Doniya, says that he falls in love like most people catch colds and he does, a horrible habit he developed when he was thirteen and saw Titanic for the first time. If he didn’t already know he was gay, he did then when, even in the face of Kate Winslet’s breasts, he was thinking about Leonardo DiCaprio’s floppy hair.

It’s been the same ever since, he sees a guy he likes and it’s sudden and crippling, the force of it enough to make Zayn forget about everything from his friends to his lectures. It’s not healthy, he knows. A romantic, his mother calls him, and maybe he is. Or maybe he’s just seen too many Reema Khan films because he loves the thrill of it, that first rush when he meets someone. He loves the way his heart leaps into his throat every time he gets a text because it might be him and how long it takes him to get ready in the morning in case he sees him on the bus again. He loves the promise of it more than anything, like starting a new sketchpad, loves that each guy he meets could be the one to sweep him off his feet. And yeah, okay, maybe he has seen too many Reema Khan films, but just because he’s into blokes doesn’t mean that he can’t be adored. Not fancied or even loved but adored. To be someone’s Zelda. Their Yoko. He wants to be kissed in the rain, to be fought for. His mother says that isn’t what love is, that love is about compromise and companionship and shopping for bog roll and maybe that’s why Zayn’s never had a relationship that’s lasted more than a few weeks because he doesn’t want to compromise. He wants it all or he wants nothing at all.

But that’s the trouble with falling in love so quickly: you fall back out of it just as quickly. He calls it love, but he knows it isn’t. It’s infatuation. Hunger. He wants to date, wants to be kissed in the rain, wants someone to text when he’s going to be late home, but he doesn’t want someone texting him to ask when he’s coming home or kissing him in a club so everyone knows they’re together. He knows now that’s what his mother means about the shopping for bog roll thing. As much as Zayn wants it – a husband, kids, a couple of dogs, a house somewhere where pigeons congregate on the roof of the shed – he doesn’t want that, the mundanity of every day life. Shopping for bog roll and joint accounts and a Chinese takeaway on a Saturday night. Blame the Reema Khan films or blame his parents who still look at one another sometimes like they’re the only ones in the room, but he doesn’t want every day. He wants what his parents have, to want to be near someone all the time, even if it’s just watching Coronation Street and feeding one another M&Ms.

‘You okay, man?’ the guy asks and no he isn’t okay because the asshole keeps playing with his hair, which is one of Zayn’s many – many – weaknesses. Not broad shoulders or chests, but hair (another thing he has to thank Mr DiCaprio for) and this guy has good hair. It’s dark and in desperate need of a cut but when Zayn watches him sweep it back with his fingers, he realises it’s long enough to plait and is done for. Not that the rest of him isn’t equally appealing. His mouth is like a slice of watermelon and his eyes make Zayn think of the green bottles on the windowsill in the bathroom at home, the ones his father curses every time he opens the window. ‘What’s the point of these, Trisha?’ he always says when one topples over. ‘They’re pretty,’ she tells him and Zayn gets it now, why you’d want to look at something like that every day.

‘So what do you reckon?’

Zayn blinks at him. ‘Huh?’

‘About the sofa?’

‘Yeah.’ Zayn looks down at it with a nod. It’s fine, a fake leather thing not unlike their old one.

When he looks up again the guy frowns at him. ‘So do you want it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You say yeah a lot.’

‘Yeah?’

The guy chuckles. ‘Are you high?’

‘God I wish.’

He chuckles again. ‘Do you have a name?’

‘Zayn.’

‘Harry,’ he says with a small wave and he has dimples.

Fucking dimples.

‘How come you need a sofa?’

‘I had a party and someone,’ Zayn’s gaze dips away from his as he recalls the video Ant took of him dragging their sofa into the bathroom, ‘was tripping balls and tried to flush ours down the toilet.’

He – Harry – laughs then – really laughs – and it’s enough to make Zayn laugh, too.

‘How come you’re selling yours?’

Harry tilts his head at him. ‘You mean what’s wrong with it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Nothing. The landlord’s selling up so we have to move. Our new place is furnished.’

‘Where you moving to?’ Zayn asks before he can stop himself.

‘Fallowfield Brow.’

‘That’s where I live.’

‘Yeah?’

‘I live on Mabfield Road, opposite the church.’

‘We’re moving to Albion Road.’

‘No way.’ Zayn nods, biting down on a smile. ‘We’ll share a local.’

‘Yeah?’

‘The Fox and Hounds. It’s on the corner of my road and yours. It’s pretty chill.’

Harry smiles to himself. ‘That’ll make up for being further away from the hospital.’

‘You studying to be a doctor?’

‘Nurse.’

‘Cool.’

His smile widens. ‘You’re the first person to say that.’

‘Really?’

‘Most people think it’s kind of faggy.’ Zayn tenses at the word, his jaw clenching so hard he doesn’t know how he doesn’t break a tooth, but Harry shrugs. ‘But I am a fag, so.’

He laughs and when Zayn smiles back, he feels the muscles in his shoulders relax. ‘Me too.’

Zayn doesn’t realise he’s said it out loud until he looks up to see Harry’s smile sharpen to a smirk.

‘Duly noted.’

+++

Harry tries to sell him his wardrobe as well. Zayn doesn’t need a wardrobe, but he wants to see Harry’s bedroom so he goes with it. Plus, he’s still navigating the whole Being Out thing so isn’t sure if Do you need a wardrobe? is gay code for, Can I suck your dick? and he’s not taking any chances.

His room is neater than Zayn expected, the bed made and the window open to let the October sun stretch across the stripped floorboards. He doesn’t know why he thought it would be untidy. Perhaps it’s Harry’s tattoos and long hair. It’s not very rock and roll to alphabetise your books, is it? There’s no Joy Division poster, either, no guitar propped in the corner or notice board of gig tickets. Instead the notice board is covered with photos, mainly blokes pawing him. Not in a lewd way, rather in a delighted way, hugging him and kissing his cheek while Harry sticks his tongue out to the camera. There are also a few with a girl with lavender hair and his smile. She doesn’t look nearly as endeared by him but he can tell by the way she has her arm slung around him in each photo that she loves him and he can’t help but think of Doniya.

‘Here you go,’ Harry says, gesturing at the wardrobe like it’s a prize on a game show.

Zayn’s heart sags. He really does want to sell him his wardrobe.

‘It’s made from Swedish wood.’ Harry strokes it tenderly. ‘Note the fine Cheshire craftsmanship.’

When he smiles sweetly, Zayn realises that he’s the Cheshire craftsman and rolls his eyes.

Undeterred, Harry’s smile broadens. ‘I’ll give you a good price for it.’

‘How much?’

‘Don’t open it!’ he says, but it’s too late, Zayn’s hand is already on the handle, which comes off as soon as he pulls it. ‘Just give me twenty quid,’ he says with a sigh and when Zayn shakes his head, the smirk Harry gives him lets Zayn know that it’s been a while since someone hasn’t fallen for his shit.

+++

Zayn doesn’t bother haggling for the sofa, which he should have, he knows. Especially as Harry and Noodle are moving at the weekend so need rid of it because they’ll lose their deposit if they leave it behind. Plus, if he had any sort of game, he’d have offered Harry £50 and a drink, but he has no game. Unless pining over guys who aren’t interested and giving them advice about their girlfriend is game. So they agree that Harry will drop the sofa off on Saturday when they’re moving, which saves Zayn hiring a van.

Danny and Ant are already sick of sitting on pillows so don’t understand why Zayn agreed to wait three days, especially as Danny knows someone who knows someone who has a van. But then on Saturday morning, when Harry and Noodle arrive with it, they know why and roll their eyes at him in unison. Zayn ignores them, too nervous about seeing Harry again. He does this thing when he likes someone – when he really likes someone – where he forgets what he looks like. All he remembers is the feeling, the warmth in his chest or the sting in his cheeks when they smiled at him for the first time. It’s the same with Harry. Zayn remembers pieces of him – how his eyes are the colour of the bottles in the bathroom at home and the wings of the tattooed swallows poking out from under the collar of his t-shirt – but not all of him. So when he sees him and Noodle staggering down the path towards him with the sofa, it’s like falling for him all over again.

He’s all in black, the sleeves of his t-shirt rolled up to reveal more tattoos and his hair held back with a khaki-coloured scarf. He’s out of breath, his cheeks red and the way his hair line is glistening with sweat makes Zayn think of licking the salt from the rim of a margarita glass. ‘Hey,’ he says with a loose smile when he gets to the door and Zayn says ‘Hey,’ back, which is hardly original, but it’s all he’s got given he can’t catch his breath. ‘Where do you want it?’ Harry asks then licks his lips to stop himself smiling and Zayn can only thumb over his shoulder. ‘Upstairs,’ Danny says, taking Zayn by the sleeve and tugging him out of the way so Harry and Noodle can come in. When they do, he gestures at Zayn to follow, but he refuses, still embarrassed about the ‘casual’ email he sent Harry checking what time he was coming. He had to have a shot of Jägermeister before he was brave enough to send it and only got a Should be there by 10 response, which he took as a brush off, despite Ant and Danny’s pleas for Zayn to email him back.

Danny shoves him towards the stairs, but Harry and Noodle are already on their way down, having deposited the sofa in the living room, on the clean rectangle of carpet opposite the TV.

‘See ya,’ Harry says with a curious smile, heading back towards the front door.

‘Yeah,’ Zayn manages then winces as Danny pinches him.

But it’s too late; Harry’s on the doorstep and Zayn can’t think of a single thing to say that isn’t yelling, DON’T GO. Danny steps forward and Zayn’s heart stops, but before he can say anything, Harry turns on his heels to face him again. ‘Maybe I’ll see you in the Fox and Hounds sometime,’ he says with a shrug.

Zayn shrugs back. ‘Yeah.’

+++

Zayn goes to the pub every night for the next week but doesn’t see him. Funnily enough, of all the places to bump into him again, it’s the laundrette. Not funny haha more funny fuck you, universe because it’s midnight on a Wednesday and Zayn’s wearing an old pair of jeans and a Michael Jackson t-shirt that’s smudged with orange paint. Who does their washing at midnight on a Wednesday? No one. That’s why Zayn does it then, because he has the laundrette to himself. He doesn’t have to wait for the dryer and can sprawl out on the chairs, eating M&Ms and sketching. He’s doing a series of paintings about shops – like Blockbuster – that are disappearing from the high street because of new technology. The irony of working on it in a laundrette isn’t lost on him, but that’s where he got the idea, when he realised that their flat must be the only one on their street that doesn’t have a washing machine. Plus, he likes how quiet it is. Likes the swish of the machines and the smell of washing powder that makes him think of home. But there’s Harry in a pair of skinny jeans and a black AIN’T LAURENT WITHOUT YVES t-shirt and he has no right to look so good on laundry day.

No fucking right.

‘So.’ Harry stretches the word out so it sounds about a minute long as he ambles towards Zayn. ‘I see I’m not the only who knows the laundrette at midnight trick.’ He dumps the red and white check bag he’s holding on the chair next to Zayn’s with a slow smile, which Zayn returns with just as much mischief.

‘How’s the sofa working out for you?’ Harry asks, pulling a small box of washing powder out of the bag and walking over to one of the machines.

‘It’s all right.’ Zayn shrugs and pops an M&M into his mouth.

‘All right?’ Harry feigns indignation as he opens the draw and indiscriminately tips some of the washing powder into it. ‘That sofa is legendary, I’ll have you know.’

‘Yeah?’

‘I’ve had some of my best naps on that sofa.’

‘Yeah?’

‘I bet it misses me.’

They’re flirting. Zayn’s 98.4% sure they’re flirting, but when Harry puts the box of washing powder on top of the machine and swaggers (he definitely swaggers this time) back towards where Zayn is sitting to pick up his bag of washing, Zayn’s also 98.4% sure that Harry flirts with everyone.

‘What you doing?’ he asks as he heads back to the row of machines.

Zayn closes his sketchpad. ‘Doodling.’

He doesn’t know why he said that, why he didn’t show off a little, show Harry his sketchpad and offer to draw him sometime. But why be charming when he can be monosyllabic?

‘You a painter?’

‘I’m studying art,’ Zayn qualifies and he doesn’t know why he says that, either, especially when Harry chuckles and nods at his paint bruised t-shirt.

‘Well I didn’t think you were a decorator. Unless people like orange hallways.’

Zayn looks down at the paint stains. ‘Cadmium Orange.’

‘Cadmium Orange,’ Harry repeats, lifting his chin. ‘Final year?’

‘Second. You?’

‘First.’

‘How come you’re not in halls?’

‘Left it too late,’ Harry says, crouching down next to the machine. He reaches for his laundry bag and takes out a book. As he does, a pair of Superman underpants falls out and Zayn can’t help but chuckle.

‘Not mine.’ Harry rolls his eyes and chucks them into the machine.

It takes Zayn a second, but then his heart starts to beat very, very slowly. ‘Noodle?’

Harry doesn’t look at him as he stuffs another handful of clothes into the machine. ‘My boyfriend’s.’

Of course he’s seeing someone. Of course he fucking is. He’s cute and gay and a shameless flirt so of course he isn’t single. The guys Zayn usually fancy are straight so he knew it was too good to be true.

‘What you reading?’ Zayn asks, nodding at the book. He doesn’t actually give a shit what he’s reading; he just wants to change the subject before Harry starts gushing about how wonderful his boyfriend is. He hears the words wobble in his panic to get them out, but if Harry notices, he doesn’t say anything, just looks down at the book, which is on the floor by his feet. It works because he reaches for it then holds it up so Zayn can see the cover. ‘Burning In Water, Drowning In Flame,’ he reads. ‘Any good?’

He doesn’t know why he asked because he doesn’t care; he just wants to get out of there, which is petulant, he knows, but he feels like a prat. It’s his own fault. If he’d said more than Hey like Danny told him to when Harry dropped off the sofa, he would have saved himself a week of daydreaming about matching tattoos and lazy Sunday lunches at the Fox and Hounds. But he didn’t and here he is, his cheeks burning while he watches Harry wash his boyfriend’s dirty underpants, which is pathetic, even for him.

‘I love Bukowski.’ Harry fans through the book. ‘You read any of his stuff?’

‘I’m more Batman than Bukowski.’

As soon as he says it, Zayn thinks of the Superman underwear again and his jaw clenches.

Harry must be thinking of them too, because he looks up with a grin. ‘You into comics?’

Zayn looks down at the sketchpad in his hands. ‘Yeah.’

‘Who’s your favourite?’

Not Superman, Zayn thinks, which definitely is petulant, but fuck it.

When he doesn’t answer, he hears the spine of the book crack as Harry opens it.

‘Listen to this.’ He stops to clear his throat. ‘out of the arm of one love.

and into the arms of another

I have been saved from dying on the cross

by a lady who smokes pot

writes songs and stories

and is much kinder than the last,

much much kinder,

and the sex is just as good or better.

it isn't pleasant to be put on the cross and left there,

it is much more pleasant to forget a love which didn't

work

as all love

finally

doesn't work…

it is much more pleasant to make love

along the shore in Del Mar

in room 42, and afterwards

sitting up in bed

drinking good wine, talking and touching

smoking

listening to the waves…

I have died too many times

believing and waiting, waiting

in a room

staring at a cracked ceiling

waiting for the phone, a letter, a knock, a sound…

going wild inside

while she danced with strangers in nightclubs…

out of the arms of one love

and into the arms of another

it's not pleasant to die on the cross,

it is much more pleasant to hear your name whispered in

the dark.’

Zayn doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking at his sketchpad.

‘Beautiful, huh?’ Harry says. Zayn draws a cross into the corner of the cover. ‘The way he says stuff. It is much more pleasant to forget a love which didn't work as all love finally doesn't work.’

When Harry sighs, Zayn draws another cross. ‘Do you believe that?’

‘Believe what?’

‘That love doesn’t work?’

Harry stands up and thinks about it for a moment. ‘I dunno.’ He tosses the book on top of the machine next to the box of powder. ‘Bukowski says that people are not good to each other, one on one.’

Zayn lifts his chin to look at him. ‘Yeah but what do you think?’

‘He’s right, I guess.’

‘You don’t believe in love?’

Zayn hears how small his voice sounds – how unsure – and dips his head again.

‘Of course I do,’ Harry says, holding his hair back with one hand as he bends down to shove more clothes into the washing machine with the other. ‘I just don’t think it’s supposed to last forever, you know?’

‘Not really.’ Zayn draws another cross. ‘My parents have been married for twenty-two years.’

‘Mine, too. Almost eighteen, actually.’ He closes the door of the washing machine and straightens. ‘They stayed together for me and my sister, which was pointless because they were miserable and we both knew it.’ He stops to shove his hand into the pocket of his jeans. ‘They’re like different people since they got divorced,’ he says, rooting around for change. ‘I’ve never seen my mum smile so much.’

‘Yeah, but that’s your parents, Harry. Everyone’s different.’

‘Exactly.’ He shrugs then turns to put some money in the washing machine. ‘People change.’ When it starts to make a racket, he turns back to Zayn. ‘We grow up, grow apart,’ he says, raising his voice as the machine fills with water. ‘I mean, you don’t have the same friends you had when you were eleven, do you?’

Zayn thinks of Ant and Danny and lifts his chin again. ‘Actually I do.’

He’s being contrary, he knows. Harry does, too, because he rolls his eyes.

‘Well I don’t.’ He jumps up to sit on top of the washing machine. ‘I’m not the same person I was when I was eleven. I don’t read the same books or listen to the same music and I can ride my bike further than the end of the street.’ He tilts his head at Zayn and smiles. ‘And that’s okay because that’s what growing up is about, right? Exploring the world beyond the end of your street. Everything about me has changed, my taste, my politics, the way I dress.’ He shrugs. ‘If I have nothing in common with someone I went to school with ten years ago, why do I want to spend time with them?’

It’s Zayn’s turn to roll his eyes and Harry’s smile widens.

‘It’s true! Think about it: if we don’t persist with friendships that aren’t working, why persist with love? Love isn’t supposed to last, Zayn.’ He shrugs again. ‘That’s what makes it’s so special.’

+++

The problem with Harry is that he’s a pretentious arse. The problem with Zayn is that he’s always had a thing for pretentious arses. Not that it’s a particularly attractive quality, mindlessly reciting Bukowski and questioning the limits of love just because your parents got divorced, but it is kind of endearing, like when Mal used to get drunk and lament the demise of the Labour party at the pub while Zayn got steadily drunk on Peroni. Not that Zayn doesn’t do the same. He’s gone off on one about how art doesn’t belong in galleries on more than one occasion so it’s all bravado, he knows. Harry’s probably rehearsed that speech, the one about how love isn’t supposed to last. Probably ranted about it at the pub as well. He no doubt thinks he’s so enlightened, but it’s bullshit, Zayn knows. Of course love lasts, you just have to find the right person.

Harry obviously hasn’t found the right person.

That’s another of Zayn’s problems: he loves a challenge.

+++

It becomes a regular thing after that. It’s not a date. They don’t plan it, they just end up meeting in the laundrette every Wednesday at midnight to do their washing. Whoever gets there first gets to pick what they watch on the tiny television that’s bolted to wall over the counter (which isn’t much given that it only has five channels) and they take it in turns each week to go across the road and buy McDonalds.

It’s not a date. So it’s fine that Zayn doesn’t tell Ant or Danny because what’s to tell? They haven’t even swapped numbers, which is a bit weird when he thinks about it. He hears from Noodle more than he hears from Harry. (If he had known that when he replied to the Gumtree ad about the sofa Noodle would add him to his list of ‘friends’ that he hits up with party invites and cat gifs, Zayn would have made Ant do it.) But then why would he and Harry keep in touch during the week? It’s not like they see each other. Zayn might say, I really want to see that film and Harry might say, Me too but he never says more than that, even if Zayn says, I think they’re showing it at the AMC. Harry will just nod and take a bite out of his Filet-O-Fish and that’s fine because it’s not a date. They just talk, about everything from the weather to the over-eager woman behind the counter at McDonalds who asks if you want fries, even if you just order a milkshake. Talk and wait for their clothes to finish in the dryer, which is hardly the start of a great love affair, is it? Even if Zayn wakes up with a huge smile every Wednesday. But it’s not a date. Definitely not a date, which is fine.

It’s fine.

+++

Harry never mentions him, the guy with the Superman underwear, which is also a bit weird when he thinks about it. It’s been over a month and Zayn doesn’t even know his name. But maybe Harry’s not like that. Maybe he’s not the my boyfriend this and my boyfriend that type, which is fine with Zayn. More than fine. He could happily go the rest of his life without knowing his boyfriend’s name, which isn’t just weird, it’s kind of pathetic. Doniya would say he was in denial, which is why he hasn’t told her, either. He knows then, when he catches himself wondering if perhaps they’ve broken up, that he isn’t just in denial, he’s fucking done for.

So of course that’s when they bump into each other for the first time outside of the laundrette. It’s in the men’s toilets at the Apollo. Zayn’s washing his hands in the sink when Harry stumbles in, his face attached to another bloke’s. He can only see the back of his head as he and the guy stop to kiss deeply so Zayn doesn’t even know how he knows it’s him, but the fact that he does is proof of how far gone he is.

Before he can slip past them, they peel apart, Harry breathless as he laughs then takes the guy’s bottom lip between his teeth and slaps him on the arse. Zayn’s often daydreamed about this moment, about bumping into one another like this. More than once, actually. Sometimes they laugh and point at one another and say, ‘Hello, you!’ And sometimes they hug for a second longer than is necessary. But it always – always – concludes with a fierce kiss, not unlike the one Zayn’s witnessing now.

The irony is painful.

So all he can do is look down into the sink and pray that Harry doesn’t notice him. But he does - of course he fucking does – gasping, ‘Zayn!’ and bounding over to where he’s standing. ‘What you doing here?’ he asks when Zayn straightens and turns to face him. As soon as he does, Harry pulls him into a hug that knocks the air right out of him and makes his legs feel a little weaker. Zayn doesn’t hug him back, too scared that if he puts his arms around him he might do something foolish like smell his hair. When he doesn’t, Harry takes the hint and lets go. As he steps back, Zayn can feel the guy he’s with staring at him and his stomach turns to water as he thinks, Please don’t introduce me. Please don’t introduce me. Please don’t introduce me. Mercifully, he doesn’t and the guy pouts, hooking his finger into one of Harry’s belt loops.

‘Want a beer, babe?’ he asks, but he’s looking at Zayn as he tugs Harry towards him.

Babe.

Zayn wills the sticky tiles under his feet to part and swallow him whole.

‘Yeah.’ Harry doesn’t look at him, his gaze still on Zayn as the guy heads towards the door. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asks again when he’s gone. ‘I didn’t know you liked The Black Keys.’

Zayn doesn’t reply – can’t reply, the pearl of pain in his throat making it hard to breathe – just pulls a paper towel out of the dispenser and makes a show of drying his hands so he doesn’t have to look at him.

‘Where you going?’ Harry asks, catching the sleeve of his leather jacket and holding on when Zayn tosses the paper towel in the bin and takes a step towards the bathroom door.

Zayn tries to smile. ‘Don’t want to keep you from Superman.’

‘Superman?’ It takes Harry a minute then he laughs, loud and bright, his eyes almost inhumanly green in the fluorescent light when Zayn turns to look him in the eye at last. ‘That isn’t Michael. That’s Al.’

His fingers curl into Zayn’s sleeve and his heart stops then starts again, twice as fast. He can feel the heat of him, can see the outline of the moth tattooed to his stomach through his sheer black shirt and smell the washing powder clinging to the cotton, even over the sour stench of piss and beer in the bathroom. He shouldn’t know what his washing powder smells like, but has to fight the urge to bury his face in Harry’s neck and smell the rest of him. His soap, his shampoo, the sweat silvering his neck and the curves of his collarbones. What’s left of the deodorant he put on before he left the house. But he can’t catch his breath.

‘You broke up?’

Harry shrugs. ‘We have an open relationship.’

An open relationship.

Zayn doesn’t even know what kind of Warholian bullshit that is and he doesn’t want to know.

Harry must see that because he winks and adds, ‘Monogamy is for straight people.’

+++

Zayn can’t get out of the bathroom quick enough, his head spinning as he pushes through the sweaty crowd, trying to find his way back to Danny. He asks him if he’s okay when he does then asks again when Zayn knocks his pint back in one. Luckily the band are so loud that they can’t talk but by the time they’re walking home from the bus stop, the four beers Zayn’s had on an empty stomach hit him and he’s ready to.

‘Could you have an open relationship with Charlie?’ he asks, passing the blunt they’re sharing.

Danny frowns. ‘Like see other people?’

‘Yeah.’

‘The long distance thing is bollocks,’ he admits, stopping to take a pull on the blunt and thinking about it as he exhales. ‘I suppose. If it was just sex.’

‘So you wouldn’t mind if she slept with other people?’

Danny thinks about it some more then scowls. ‘Of course I would.’

‘Have you discussed it?’

‘Why would we?’

‘Well, she’s in Ibiza and you’re here-’

Danny stops walking and turns to stare at him. ‘The fuck are you saying, Zed?’

‘Nothing.’ Zayn stops too, holding up his hands. ‘I’m just saying: how practical is monogamy? We have more than one friend so why restrict ourselves to more than one lover?’

‘What?’

‘Think about it: we get different things from different people. The relationship you have with me is different from the relationship you have with Mark-’

‘Because Mark’s my fucking dealer.’

‘Bad example,’ Zayn concedes, stopping to bite down on his lip as he considers it some more. ‘But is it unfair to expect to get everything we need from one person? Could you love Charlie and love someone else because they make you laugh in a way she doesn’t? What if there’s a guy she’s known since she was a kid and knows her better than anyone but you’re new and exciting and unexpected and she loves you too?’

Danny refuses to give him back the blunt. ‘No more of this for you. You’re freaking me out.’

+++

Zayn goes back to the laundrette that Wednesday out of curiosity more than anything. Harry obviously isn’t expecting him to because he breaks out into a smile when he sees Zayn sitting on his usual chair.

‘Hey,’ he says, stopping in the doorway.

‘Hey,’ Zayn says with practised nonchalance, but his hand shakes when he goes back to his sketch.

‘I didn’t think you’d be here.’

‘Yeah?’

‘You were so weird the other night.’

The tops of Zayn’s ears start to burn. ‘I was drunk.’

‘Okay,’ Harry says, finally walking in. He doesn’t sound convinced and Zayn doesn’t look up as he heads over to one of the machines, which doesn’t help. ‘Do we need to talk about it?’

‘About what?’

‘About the open relationship thing.’

Zayn shrugs. ‘It’s no big deal.’

‘No but you are.’

Zayn looks up then and Harry blushes.

Actually blushes.

‘Wait.’ Harry covers his face with his free hand. ‘That came out wrong.’

He’s embarrassed. Smirking, swaggering, sheer shirt wearing Harry Styles is embarrassed.

‘What did you mean, then?’ Zayn asks, his heart shivering as Harry puts the laundry bag down and walks over to sit next to him. Their knees almost touch – almost – and it’s enough to make his whole body shiver this time. Harry must feel it because his cheeks are flushed when he raises his chin to look at him.

‘We.’ Harry gestures at the space between them. ‘This.’

Zayn waits for him to finish, but when he doesn’t, he says, ‘Yeah?’

‘I should have told you about Michael.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘It’s,’ Harry stops to put his hand in his hair and exhale through his nose, ‘complicated.’

‘Complicated how?’

‘Actually it isn’t.’ He shakes his head. ‘It wasn’t. It’s the easiest relationship I’ve ever been in.’

Wasn’t.

‘Look, I don’t know how it was for you, but I’ve spent the last nineteen years pretty confused.’

Zayn softens at that, his shoulders sinking. ‘I almost got engaged two years ago,’ he admits with a tender sigh, putting his sketchpad on the empty chair on the other side of him.

‘What?’ When Zayn looks at him again, Harry’s eyes are wide. ‘How did that happen?’

Zayn shrugs, which isn’t a real response, he knows, but he doesn’t know what else to say.

‘Were you in love?’

‘I wanted to be.’

‘I get that.’ Harry nods. ‘For a long time I thought I was bi. Went out with girls, fucked boys.’

Zayn nods back. ‘It was like there were two sides to me.’ He holds his hands apart. ‘The me who liked to sit in his room reading comics and the me who liked to smoke weed and get off with girls.’

‘Yep.’ Harry nods back. ‘Except I used to sit in my room wanking over Leonardo DiCaprio.’

Zayn throws his head back and laughs. ‘Titanic?’

‘You know it.’

Harry waits for Zayn’s chuckle to fade, then asks, ‘When did you know?’

‘Remember that show Heroes?’ Harry nods. ‘When I discovered Mohinder/Sylar fan fic.’

Harry’s the one to laugh this time, but Zayn doesn’t.

‘But I couldn’t, you know?’

Harry looks confused. ‘Couldn’t what?’

‘Be you know.’

‘Gay,’ Harry says, making the word sound about an hour long. ‘It’s okay. You can say it.’

Zayn doesn’t look at him. ‘Can I?’

It takes Harry a second, but when he realises, he slaps his forehead with his hand and groans. ‘Shit. Sorry. I never thought about it. You’re Muslim, right?’

‘Our imam’s pretty liberal,’ Zayn says quietly, tugging on the tuft of hair under his bottom lip as he thinks of the day he came to the house. Zayn thought he would be furious, but he sat at the kitchen table and talked to his mother and father for ages. He wasn’t bold enough to eavesdrop, but Doniya was and told him everything he said. ‘He told my parents not to get angry, that it wouldn’t solve anything.’

‘That’s good.’

Zayn lifts his shoulder and lets it drop. ‘He also told them not to encourage it, that I can change.’

Harry doesn’t say anything and when Zayn looks down to see his hand inching towards his, he holds his breath. But Harry thinks better of it and stops, bringing his hand back into his lap.

‘It’s just this thing we don’t talk about.’ Zayn sniffs. ‘It’s easier now I don’t live at home.’

‘So they just ignore it?’

‘It’s only been a year. It’ll get easier.’

‘How do you know?’

‘My mum’s white. My dad knows that you can’t choose who you fall in love with.’

‘So they’ll be okay, if you meet someone, I mean?’

‘I dunno.’ Zayn leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees then turns his head to look at him from under his eyelashes. ‘But at least I don’t have to lie anymore.’

He’s quiet for so long that Zayn’s about to change the subject but then he asks, ‘Do you still pray?’

‘Of course.’

‘But how can you make your peace with a god that doesn’t accept you?’

‘Allah does accept me.’ He looks at him with a fierce frown. ‘Allah creates people in their best form and Allah loves his creations. I believe that. I have to believe that. It’s everyone else who has a problem.’

‘You’re so brave,’ Harry tells him and he sounds out of breath, like he’s just run up a flight of stairs.

They look at one another for a long time and if this was a film, this would be the moment they kiss.

But it’s not a film and Harry looks away. ‘I wish I was that brave.’

Zayn doesn’t feel brave when he thinks about all the girls he hurt, the girls he tried to kiss and hold and love because he thought it was easier than being who he really is.

‘It was easier for me,’ Harry concedes with a sigh. ‘My parent’s are cool with it.’

‘That’s good.’

‘I wasn’t, though. For a long time I tried to be both, you know? Only son. Family name ends here.’

‘It doesn’t have to.’ Harry smiles when Zayn says it and nudges him with his shoulder. ‘What?’

‘You want that?’

‘What?’

‘Marriage? Kids?’

‘Why not?’ Zayn says a little defensively. ‘Just ‘cos I like blokes doesn’t mean I can’t have that, too.’

‘That’s so old fashioned.’

‘Okay, Mr Open Relationship.’

Harry giggles. ‘That’s how I knew I was gay, not bi, actually, when I met Michael.’ Zayn’s stomach tenses at his name. ‘He’s done all of that – marriage, kids, two cars, two dogs – and he hated it.’

‘Wait. How old is he?’ Zayn frowns.

‘Forty-six.’

Zayn doesn’t mean to gasp, but he does.

‘He’s a Paediatric Neurologist, one of the best in the country.’

Zayn stares at him, still too stunned to speak.

‘He travels a lot. He’s based at Great Ormond Street but he also teaches a class at Columbia.’

‘Wait. Isn’t Columbia in New York?’

Harry nods.

That explains the open relationship.

‘His family live there.’

‘And you’re okay with that, Harry? With the travelling and the family in New York?’

‘I miss him, of course-’

Zayn finishes his thought. ‘But being able to shag other guys helps.’

‘Not shagging.’ Harry lifts his chin defiantly. ‘Kissing and blow jobs but no feelings.’

Zayn rolls his eyes. ‘And they say romance is dead.’

‘What? It’s practical.’

‘Ah what every young boy dreams of.’ Zayn pretends to swoon. ‘Practical.’

‘Shut up,’ he says, eyes brighter as he nudges Zayn again. ‘Michael’s brilliant. Funny and charming and brilliant. He’s going to be nominated for the Nobel Prize one day,’ he says, nose in the air. ‘I’ve never met anyone like him.’ Zayn feels it like a cricket bat to the chest and sits back with his arms crossed. ‘He’s lived this whole life, you know? He’s been around the world and has a story for everything. That’s what I want.’

He sounds out of breath again and Zayn can’t look at him.

‘Me too, Harry.’

‘Yeah but you want the marriage, kids and cars, too.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘Nothing.’ Harry shakes his head. ‘It just feels like everything we do is because we’re supposed to, because everyone else is doing it, you know? I mean, you have Facebook, right? I bet your friends do the same thing. Go to uni. TICK. Meet someone. TICK. Move in with them. TICK. Get engaged. TICK. It’s like life’s just one big checklist and there’s no room for anything else. I want more than that.’

‘What do you want Harry?’

‘I want the whole world or nothing.’

Harry smiles, slow and wicked and Zayn doesn’t think, just kisses him.

If this were a film, Harry would kiss him back.

But it’s not a film so Harry pushes him away.

+++

Zayn doesn’t go back to the laundrette. He wonders sometimes, usually at night when he can’t sleep and he doesn’t know if not swapping numbers with Harry was a good or a bad thing, if he’ll come looking for him. Stop by the art shop one afternoon, even the flat. He knows where Zayn lives. But he doesn’t and that’s okay. Actually, it isn’t, but one day it will be. One day he’ll be able to look back on this and laugh.

One day.

+++

As always seems to be the case with Harry, Zayn sees him when he’s the least prepared. Not at work where he can feign nonchalance as he serves a customer or when he’s out and drunk and brave enough not to care. No. They see each other again at the hospital, which is more glamorous than the laundrette, he supposes.

It’s Ant’s fault. That afternoon he came home with a Christmas tree, a real one, that was too big for the living room and wouldn’t fit in the plastic stand he bought from the shop at the top of the road. It was supposed to be a surprise and it certainly was that when Zayn walked into the kitchen to find Ant pissing blood everywhere. It seems he tried to trim the tree with a steak knife. It wasn’t sharp enough, but he persisted and quickly discovered that it was sharp enough to almost cut off his thumb.

So that’s why Zayn’s outside the Manchester Royal Infirmary at 10pm on a Friday night instead of at the pub snogging the barman with the lip ring who kisses well enough to make him forget about Harry for a few minutes. He’s not supposed to be smoking outside A&E, but it’s dark so if anyone tells him off he can argue that he didn’t see the NO SMOKING signs. Plus it’s pissing down and he’s been there for five hours and can’t summon the energy to go across the road like he’s supposed to. But he had to get out of the hospital, partly because Ant’s on the phone to Tessa, telling her what happened, and he can’t bear how pathetically cute he’s being, but mostly because they’re playing Christmas music, which is just creepy, frankly.

It’s like something from a horror film.

Karma is swift, though, and his grouchiness is punished when he’s walking back into Major Trauma (which makes Ant’s injury sound much worse than it is and the reason he won’t let Zayn call his mother) and feels a hand on his arm. Zayn turns and there he is – Harry – his lips parted and his eyes wide.

‘Zayn? What are you doing here?’

‘What are you doing here? I thought you were only a first year?’

He doesn’t mean to say it so sharply and kicks himself. He had an Oh hi, Harry. How’s it going? speech prepared that he’s been rehearsing since that night at the laundrette, but he’s caught him off guard.

‘I still have to do a practice placement.’

‘You’ve been at uni four months and you can treat patients?’

‘If by treat you mean wipe their arses and get their dinner, then yeah, Nurse Styles at your service.’

Usually he’d say it with a wink and cheeky smirk, but he’s still frowning.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘You just asked me that,’ Zayn says with a surly sigh, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

‘Are you okay?’

Zayn can’t speak, suddenly livid as he realises that Harry thinks he’s there for him, that he’s come to apologise for what happened at the laundrette. But then he remembers where he is and relaxes.

‘It’s not me. It’s Ant.’

‘Jesus.’ Harry puts his hand in his hair and fists it. ‘Don’t do that to me.’

Zayn can’t help but smile. ‘Sorry.’

‘Jesus fucking Christ. I almost had a heart attack.’

‘If I was dying, I wouldn’t be able to walk, would I?’

‘Trust me: it’s usually the things you don’t know about that’ll kill you.’

Well, that’s a cheery thought, Zayn thinks. Happy fucking Christmas.

He’s about to say as much when he glances at what he’s wearing, a white tunic with the University of Manchester logo embroidered on one side and a name badge on the other. It isn’t like the ones everyone else is wearing, rather a red square of card edged with tinsel and HARRY written across it in glitter pen.

Harry takes advantage of the momentary distraction to look up at him.

‘About the other night,’ he says before Zayn can get out an excuse about needing to get back to Ant.

The other night.

It’s been three weeks, he almost reminds him, but shrugs instead.

‘It’s all right.’

‘No.’ Harry shakes his head. ‘No it isn’t. I should have called.’

‘You don’t have my number.’

‘I should have done something. I should have-’

‘It’s my fault. You said kissing was okay and-’

He doesn’t let him finish. ‘But not feelings.’

Harry’s hand is still on his arm. When he squeezes it, Zayn looks up and as soon as their gaze meets he can feel himself leaning in. He doesn’t even think about it, it’s just happening, like gravity or something.

‘Harry, there you are,’ a voice says and they spring apart to find a doctor holding a blue folder standing next to them, completely oblivious to what she’s just interrupted. ‘Did you find Rosie’s bloods?’

‘No. I was-’ he stammers as she glances between them then rolls her eyes, letting Zayn know that it isn’t the first time she’s caught Harry flirting with someone.

‘I need to see them, Harry. Go check if they’ve been sent back with the ones in MT.’

‘Okay.’ He nods. ‘Doctor Mehra, this is Zayn. The one I was telling you about.’

She immediately softens. ‘Oh Zayn. The artist!’ She beams, swapping the folder from her right hand to her left and holding it out to him to shake. ‘Did Harry tell you about the mural?’

+++

The mural is the children’s A&E. It covers one wall of the waiting room, which doubles as a playroom to keep the kids occupied while they’re waiting to be seen. The mural’s pretty sad, faded and peeling and not at all like the one someone from his course worked on at the Royal Manchester Children's Hospital over the summer. So as soon as he sees it he agrees to repaint it, even though they can’t afford to pay him much and he only has a few days before he has to go home for Christmas. But he can’t leave it like that.

He starts the next morning, and he’s only there an hour before Harry walks in. He doesn’t say anything about what he said the night before and Zayn’s glad for the distraction of the mural because he’d probably tell him to fuck off and stop fucking with his head. He probably should tell him to fuck off and stop fucking with his head, but it’s Harry and he brings him a mug of tea and a Kit-Kat, which they split while he sits cross legged on the floor, watching Zayn paint over the old mural with white paint.

Zayn doesn’t say much and he hopes he’ll take the hint, but it’s Harry, so he acts like nothing’s happened, asking a hundred and one questions about what he’s doing, none of which Zayn actually answers.

But Harry’s undeterred. ‘When are you going home?’

‘Christmas Eve.’

‘Bought all your presents?’

‘I don’t celebrate Christmas,’ Zayn mutters, bending down to dip his paintbrush into the paint.

‘Shit. Sorry,’ he hears Harry mutter and feels bad because while technically that is true, his family still do presents and put up a Christmas tree and stuff so he doesn’t need to be a dick about it.

‘It’s all right,’ he relents with a shrug, turning to look Harry in the eye for the first time since he walked into the waiting room. When he does, he sees that Harry is playing with his necklace, a gold crucifix he’s never seen before. ‘That’s new,’ he says before he can stop himself.

‘It’s my grandfather’s. He gave it to me a few weeks ago, just before he died.’

That explains why he hasn’t been in touch.

It’s Zayn’s turn to apologise. ‘Shit. Sorry, man,’ he says, turning to face him with a frown.

‘It’s all right. He was old.’

Zayn must look horrified because Harry chuckles.

‘Don’t get me wrong, it’s sad,’ he explains, ‘but it’s not a tragedy, you know? My granddad was old. He had a long happy life and died with his family around him.’

‘I guess.’

Harry continues fiddling with his necklace. ‘Working here puts a lot of things into perspective. This morning a six-year old kid fell off his bunk bed and broke his neck. That’s tragic.’

Zayn has to look away, his eyes losing focus for a second as he paints over a butterfly.

‘Where Eeyore?’ a voice says and Zayn turns away from the wall to find a little boy watching him.

‘Eeyore?’

‘Eeyore.’

He points at the white wall with a betrayed frown and Zayn gulps – actually cartoon gulps – when he realises that he’s probably scarred this kid for life by painting over his favourite character.

‘Eeyore and Winnie have gone to look for honey, Sam,’ Harry explains, holding his arms out.

‘Honey?’ he says, eyes wide as he toddles over to where Harry’s sitting on the floor.

He lets Harry pull him into his lap and giggles when he kisses the top of his head. ‘Lots of honey.’

A woman runs in then.

‘Sam?’ When she sees him sitting in Harry’s lap she presses her hand to her chest and lets go of a breath. ‘There you are! You mustn’t run off like that,’ she tells him, walking over and scooping him up.

But he ignores her and lifts his chin at Zayn. ‘I help.’

It isn’t a question Zayn realises as he – Sam – holds out his hand for the paintbrush he’s holding. Zayn lets him take it, stepping aside so he can start scrubbing at the wall, flicking paint everywhere.

‘Good job, Sam!’ Harry tells him, but he isn’t listening as he slaps the paint around.

‘Careful,’ his mum tells him and he doesn’t listen to her, either. She laughs when he almost hits her in the eye with the end of the paintbrush and it’s then that Zayn realises who she is.

‘Hey, I think we’re neighbours.’ He goes to hold his hand out to her but waves instead when he sees that it’s covered in paint. ‘You live downstairs, right? Flat A?’

‘Yes!’ she says with a delighted gasp. ‘Flat B?’

‘Flat B.’ He nods. ‘Or Zayn, if you prefer.’

‘I’m Julie and this is the baby you probably hear hollering at all hours. Sorry.’ She presses her free hand to her forehead and shakes her head. ‘I keep calling him a baby but he’s two now.’

‘Hey, Sam.’

Sam ignores him.

‘It’s so nice to finally meet you, Zayn.’

‘You too, Julie.’

‘More,’ Sam says, thrusting the paintbrush at Zayn.

‘Say ta,’ Julie tells him when Zayn dips the brush in the paint and hands it back.

‘Ta,’ Sam says sweetly then resumes attacking the wall with the brush.

‘Easy, Picasso,’ Zayn tells him, tickling him in the side until he squeals.

Julie laughs, too, and when Zayn looks down at Harry, he’s watching with a loose smile.

+++

The next time he sees her is the following morning as she pokes her head out of her window for a fag.

‘Hey, Julie,’ he says and she’s so startled that she almost drops the cigarette.

‘Oh hi,’ she says, looking up at him. ‘Hi, Zayn.’

‘How’s Picasso?’

As soon as he says it, her face tightens. ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she says tightly, adjusting her dressing gown. ‘How can I smoke when my kid’s got cancer.’

Cancer.

The word is far too big for someone so small.

‘I started smoking after he was diagnosed. I didn’t smoke when I was pregnant and I never smoke in front of him.’ She stubs the cigarette out on the saucer on the windowsill. ‘Never.’

‘It’s okay,’ Zayn says gently, holding up his hand. ‘I wasn’t thinking anything.’

She obviously doesn’t believe him because she stands a little straighter.

‘He’s got leukaemia, anyway. You can’t get that from smoking.’

‘I didn’t know.’

She looks up at him then. ‘I thought Harry-’

‘He didn’t.’ Zayn shakes his head. ‘He wouldn’t.’

She doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t, either, just stubs his fag out too as he swallows back a sudden wave of nausea when he remembers all the times he bitched about Sam crying in the middle of the night.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Thanks.’ She drops her chin to look at the side of the house opposite them. ‘I’m sorry I snapped.’

That makes Zayn feel worse. ‘You didn’t.’

‘I did. I’m tired, is all. I can’t sleep at the hospital.’

‘The hospital?’

‘They kept Sam in. I just nipped back to have a shower and feed the cat.’

‘I can do that, if it helps. Feed your cat, I mean.’

She looks up at him with a small smile. ‘Really?’

‘‘Course. It’s no trouble. I love cats.’

‘Thanks, Zayn. I might take you up on that; Sam’s gonna be there a few days.’

‘Is he okay?’

As soon as he says it he wants to punch himself in the face.

Of course he’s not fucking okay.

She’s kind enough not to say anything. Or maybe she’s used to it, which is worse.

‘He’s got an infection.’ Zayn must look worried because she shrugs. ‘It’s the chemo. He gets them all the time. They’ll give him some IV antibiotics and he’ll be fine.’

‘At least he won’t be there long.’

‘Are you kidding? He loves it in hospital!’ She chuckles sourly and looks back at the side of the house. ‘I can’t compete with jam sandwiches and Eeyore, can I? This place is so boring in comparison.’

She chuckles again and lights another cigarette.

+++

When Zayn gets back to the flat that evening, Ant and Danny don’t give him a chance to take his coat off, insisting they go for a pint. He forgot they were heading home. He was supposed to go with them, but has decided to go home on Christmas Eve instead so he can finish the mural. It’s their last night together so Zayn wouldn’t usually question their motives, but he wonders if it’s some sort of Harry intervention because when they get to the Fox and Hounds they keep nodding at the barman with the lip ring and winking theatrically, which isn’t off putting at all. Not that Zayn’s paying much attention; he’s stealthily sat in the chair facing the door so it doesn’t look obvious every time he looks up when it opens. Danny catches him, though, and when he asks if Zayn is waiting for anyone, he styles it out by saying that he’s going out for a fag.

They don’t believe him, but Zayn grabs his coats and reminds Danny that it’s his round as he heads for the door. The cold hits him as soon as he opens it, like the walk in freezer in the kitchen at his primary school. His mum was a dinner lady there and when it was raining, he’d go in the kitchen and bother her until she gave him a biscuit and told him to leave her be. When Don and Waliyha realised what he was up to, they did the same, and the three of them would drive her spare until she threatened to lock them in the freezer. He did once – lock Don and Waliyha in the freezer – and it scared them so much they never went back again. Looking back on it now, it was kind of cruel, but at least he didn’t have to share the biscuits any more.

He can’t help but smile as he steps out into the garden at the front of the pub. Garden is stretching it, it used to be a small car park but after the smoking ban, Barry, the bloke who owns the Fox and Hounds, turned it into a garden because the punters were sick of people leaning on their cars when they went out for one. There are now picnic benches with green umbrellas that have been retired for winter and a few pots of geraniums that have seen better days, their white petals browning at the edges like the pages in an old book.

It’s usually pretty sad looking but at this time of year it’s anything but. For a bald man with Red Army tattoos, Barry is strangely fond of Christmas. Who’d have thought a 66-year old former (Zayn hopes) football hooligan was so adept at hanging fairy lights? But he loves it. The place looks like something from one of those Neighbours from Hell programmes they show on ITV, the roof cluttered with flashing stars and inflatable snowmen, Santa’s arse and legs hanging out the top of the chimney. Inside is no better. There are singing reindeer, dancing penguins and so much tinsel it’s almost blinding. Not that anyone would dare say shit about it to Barry; he’s a bit of a face in Manchester and would probably slit your throat.

Speaking of, as Zayn’s taking his cigarettes out of the pocket of his coat he sees the group of lads Barry chucked out earlier for being underage. They’ve since acquired a litre bottle of Strongbow and are gathered around one of the benches necking it. They don’t look much older than sixteen but when they erupt into raucous laughter and start pushing one another, Zayn shakes his head. They’re obviously fixing for a fight, being loud enough to ensure Barry hears them and drunk enough not to realise what an epically foolish idea that is. So Zayn gives them a wide birth, walking over to the other side of the garden to stand next to the SANTA STOP HERE sign. When he lights his cigarette, he realises that there’s a woman standing there as well, smoking by herself. She tenses when she sees him and it could be that it’s freezing and she’s only wearing a dress, but when she arches her eyebrow, Zayn wonders if she’s avoiding the lads as well and thinks he’s one of them, that he’s come over to say, ‘Cheer up, love,’ and invite her to join them for a drink. Or maybe she thinks that he’s going to come onto her, compliment her red dress and stand too close. So he takes a step away from her and nods politely and as soon as he does, her shoulders fall.

It’s ball achingly cold, even with his heavy wool coat on, so Zayn paces to the curb and back in an effort to keep warm. There’s a Christmas tree in the window of the house across the street, its white lights flicking on and off, on and off, and he feels another stab of homesickness as he realises that this will be the first year he won’t be there to put up the tree. It’s his job to untangle the lights, a job he never thought he’d miss, but does now as he thinks about his sisters arguing about where to hang the ornaments and his mother coming around with a plate of hot samosas that his sisters argue over, too.

‘Smile, love, it’s Christmas!’

The muscles in Zayn’s shoulders clench when he hears and his breath clouds as he sighs and turns around to see that one of the lads has broken away from the pack and is standing in front of the woman in the red dress. He lifts his hand to touch her hair and Zayn takes a step forward, but she slaps his hand away, telling him to fuck off in a broad Geordie accent. She doesn’t bother to finish her cigarette, and when she flicks it away, Zayn thinks that’s it, but as she turns towards the door to the pub, he grabs her arm.

‘What ya doin’, man?’ she hisses, and it’s enough to make Zayn flick his cigarette away as well.

‘All right, all right,’ he says, walking towards them. ‘Come on.’

The guy doesn’t acknowledge him, just tugs on the woman’s arm so hard she yelps.

‘Just let her go back inside.’

‘Ya betta!’ the woman spits, trying to pull away.

But the guy ignores her and looks at Zayn. ‘Mind your own business, okay?’

Zayn has no intention of doing anything of the sort.

‘Let go of her,’ he says more firmly this time.

‘The fuck’s it to you, pal?’ the guy says with a sneer that can only be described as feral. Zayn can smell the cider on him and it turns his stomach. He must have been drinking all day. ‘We’re just talking.’

‘Howay, man! You’re talking,’ she says. ‘I’m trying t’get mortal.’

He doesn’t let go, still sneering at Zayn. ‘Stay out of it, all right, pal?’

‘I’m just saying,’ Zayn holds his hands up. ‘If you have to grab her, she’s not interested.’

‘Exactly, yer bellend!’

The woman tries to pull away again, but when he doesn’t let go, she kicks him. As soon as she does, he raises his hand and slaps her across the face. Zayn is so stunned that he just stares, but when the woman clutches her cheek and looks up with tears in her eyes, he fucking loses it, punching the guy so hard in the jaw that he drops the bottle of Strongbow he’s holding. As soon as he recovers the guy punches Zayn back and all hell breaks loose. Zayn ends up on the ground, but before the guy can do anything else the woman jumps on his back, one hand fisted in his hair as she punches him in the side with the other. She’s yelling at him to leave Zayn alone and judging by the livid scratches on the guy’s cheek, she’s done more damage than he has. He’s about to cheer her on when he hears the other lads run over, then he’s on his feet.

Zayn doesn’t know what happens after that, it’s a blur of fists and elbows, then he’s on his arse again. He hears Ant and Danny barrel out of the pub, followed by Barry. Barry doesn’t even need to say anything, just the sight of him is enough to make the lads disperse in four different directions, until they’re the only ones left outside the pub. Them and the curious few who’ve come out to see what’s going on.

Someone helps him up and he thinks it’s the woman, but it’s Harry.

‘All right, slugger?’

Zayn blinks at him but before he can ask what he’s doing there, Danny is in front of him.

‘The fuck you doing?’ He’s furious, his hair all over the place. There’s a dot of blood on the collar of his shirt. ‘There was four of them, Zed, and one of you! You fucking mad?’

When he strides away to check if the woman in the red dress is okay, Harry sighs.

‘He doesn’t have a sister, does he?’

+++

Zayn’s escaped with no more than a split lip, which is lucky because his mum’d have an aneurysm. Not that she’ll be thrilled with his split lip, but it could have been much, much worse. It’s bleeding, he realises, when he presses his fingers to it, but not much. Still, Harry insists on walking him back to the flat, reminding Danny that he’s a nurse when Danny shakes his head and says, ‘I got it.’ Ant does the same and Zayn realises then that tonight was an intervention. It seems despite spending the last two months trying to keep a lid on his feelings for Harry and not telling them about their weekly laundrette (non)date, they know him well enough to know that he’s besotted. They also know that Harry only started his course in September so is barely qualified to apply a plaster and will be of no more use than either of them, but they let it go and head back into the pub, whispering furiously as they turn back to watch Zayn and Harry walk away.

To be fair, Zayn doesn’t put up much of a fight. He makes a show of rolling his eyes, of course, and when Harry insists that he sit at the kitchen table when they get back to the flat, Zayn tells him again that he’s fine. But he still sits down and he still parts his knees so Harry can stand between them and assess the damage. Harry hardly touches him, the tips of his fingers barely skim his cheeks and his hand is only under his chin for a second so he can lift it up towards the light, but it’s enough to make Zayn’s heart hiccup.

Harry’s fingers are cold – or maybe Zayn’s face is hot – either way, he’s sweating and shivering, all at once. It doesn’t help that Harry’s taking his time. He checks his nose, his jaw and under his chin then runs his fingers through Zayn’s hair to check his scalp. He asks how many fingers he’s holding up and Zayn says yellow, just to wind him up. It makes him smile, though, his fingers straying back into Zayn’s hair. Or maybe they don’t stray, maybe this is how you’re supposed to look over someone who’s just been in a fight. It all happened so quickly that he might have smacked his head the second time he ended up on his arse and can’t remember. What if he has a concussion or a cracked skull of something? Zayn has no idea how long it takes to check for these things, but still, he likes to think that Harry is taking his time because his eyes are on Zayn’s rather than on his face and he holds his gaze until Zayn’s scalp shivers too. Finally, he asks if it hurts anywhere else and Zayn can only shake his head, letting go of a breath as Harry wanders over to the sink. He returns with a paper towel and Zayn looks at it, then at him.

‘Kitchen towel?’

Harry holds it out to him.

‘So in your professional medical opinion, Harry, you’re prescribing kitchen towel?’

He ignores him, reaching down to press the paper towel to Zayn’s lip.

As soon as he does, Zayn winces. ‘The fuck?’

‘Oh behave. It’s just a cut.’

Zayn curses him under his breath.

‘It’ll be sore for a while but you’ll be fine.’ His gaze narrows. ‘And no smoking. It’s an open cut.’

It’s Zayn’s turn to ignore him. ‘This paper towel is working wonders, by the way.’

‘Press it until it stops bleeding.’

When Zayn reluctantly takes hold of the paper towel, Harry walks over to the fridge. Zayn turns in the chair, watching him as he wanders around the kitchen like he’s been there a hundred times before and it hurts – it actually physically hurts, somewhere deep in his chest – as he imagines making breakfast with him on a Sunday or coming in drunk and kissing sloppily while they wait for the toaster to pop. He realises then what Harry means by no feelings, why he won’t just let Zayn kiss him like Al did that night at the Apollo. Zayn doesn’t know when it happened, but they completely skipped over that point, the point when they didn’t know enough about each other to want anything more than a kiss and a hand job in the toilets at the Fox and Hounds. Now Zayn wants more. He wants blueberry pancakes on a Sunday morning and sharing slices of toast at 3 a.m.. He wants Harry to meet his family, to charm his Dad and win over Doniya, to help his mum chop onions for dinner and drive her mad asking to sniff each spice she uses. He wants to see the world, to kiss at the top of the Eiffel Tower and fall asleep on a beach in Sri Lanka.

Harry wants all of those things, too, but he wants them with Michael.

Zayn must look miserable because Harry sighs. ‘I’ve seen three-years olds who are better with pain than you are,’ he tells him, head in the fridge as he opens the freezer compartment and takes out a tray of ice. He turns it upside down and slaps it with his hand until a cube falls out onto the kitchen counter with a clatter. ‘Here,’ he says, walking back to where Zayn is sitting at the kitchen table and gesturing at him to take the paper towel away from his mouth. It must have stopped bleeding because Harry takes the paper towel from him and presses the ice cube to his swollen lip. He does it gently but it still stings. Harry calls him a baby when Zayn winces again, smiling wickedly as he slowly moves the ice cube along his bottom lip.

‘Like this,’ he says – breathes, actually – licking his own lips as the ice cube begins to melt. A drop trips off Zayn’s bottom lip and down his chin and when Harry sees it, he catches it with his thumb, then brings his hand up to lick it. It should be pornographic, but Harry doesn’t wink or smirk. He doesn’t realise he’s done it, Zayn’s sure, and that’s worse, somehow. How natural it is. How normal. And Zayn should stop him, but he can’t, because the moment feels like a soap bubble: if he moves it will pop and disappear. So he looks up at Harry as Harry looks down at him, his pupils blown black as he runs the ice cube back and forth along his lip. It’s the most intimate thing Zayn has ever done, more intimate than if he sucked him off right now. He could, Harry’s crotch is just there. But before he can consider it further, Harry steps back.

‘Better get to work,’ he says, waiting for Zayn to take the ice cube from him. ‘I’m already late.’

And with that he’s gone, but not before he stops in the doorway of the kitchen and turns back to Zayn. ‘No smoking, okay?’ he says with a smirk. ‘And no kissing the barman in the Fox and the Hounds.’

+++

Thanks to Sam, it becomes a thing. Every kid who comes into the waiting room at the hospital helps with the mural, which is kind of cool, even if they don’t always paint where Zayn tells them. Today his assistant is Melanie who is helping with the stars which involves flicking the brush at the black part of the wall so it’s speckled with tiny white dots, something she does with great glee, wriggling in his arms as he holds her up.

‘There,’ he says, pointing at a spot she’s missed, but she isn’t listening.

‘Harry, look at this!’

Zayn didn’t even know he was there and smiles clumsily when he turns to find him in the doorway.

‘I can see!’ he says, walking in and looking at the mural, clearly impressed.

‘I’m doing the stars,’ Melanie says proudly, whacking Zayn in the face as she flicks the brush.

‘It’s amazing,’ Harry says, coming to stand next to him.

‘It’s a spaceship,’ Melanie says, in case it isn’t obvious.

Zayn shrugs shyly. ‘With all the equipment ‘round here, it’s kind of like a spaceship.’

‘I love this guy.’ Harry points at an orange alien with three eyes. ‘Cadmium Orange?’

The way he smiles makes Zayn smile, too.

Sometimes he wonders if he is making too much of this, making too much of whatever the fuck is going on between them. He was sure he was when they were at the laundrette and Harry was talking about Michael and it made his chest feel like an empty car park. He keeps telling himself that it’s just another of his crushes that has him thinking about Harry all the time and making wishes at 11:11. Every song reminds Zayn of him, every film, every couple kissing on the bus like they’re the only ones on it. Every time he does something, even if it’s just buying Christmas decorations from the £1 shop, he thinks, Harry would love this.

Maybe it is a crush, but when Harry smiles at him like that it feels anything but. He has a way of saying things, even stupid things like Cadmium Orange, that make them sound like secrets, like they’re the only two people on Earth who know it. He says Zayn’s name like that too, like it’s his, like he’s the first person to say it properly. Is that love? Someone saying your name like no one else does?

Love.

Fucking hell.

Whatever it is, it’s enough to keep trying when he should have told Harry to do one because it’s quite clear that despite how grown up Harry thinks he is, with his brilliant boyfriend and open relationship, he doesn’t have a clue what he wants. There is only way all of this is ending – badly. Zayn knows that, yet there he is smiling at him like they’re that couple on the bus that have no idea anyone else is there.

Melanie must see it, too, because she interrupts, her gaze narrowing at Harry.

‘The stars are the best bit, though, right?’

‘Of course.’

She nods. ‘I thought so.’

‘It’s time for you to go in an actual spaceship, though,’ Harry says, taking the brush away from her.

‘My MMI?’

‘MRI,’ he corrects, taking her hand when Zayn puts her down.

‘Can Zayn come with us?’ she asks when Harry hands him the paintbrush.

‘He has to stay here and finish the stars. Although they won’t be as good.’

‘Of course not.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Am I really going in a spaceship?’

‘It’s kind of like a spaceship.’

‘Will there be aliens?’

‘You mean other than Doctor Phillips?’

She puts her hand over her mouth and giggles as Harry leads her towards the door.

+++

Zayn doesn’t expect to see him again so soon, but an hour later, he looks up to see Harry in the doorway.

‘Need a fag?’ he asks, nodding out into the corridor.

Harry’s never asked if he wants a cigarette before. He didn’t even know Harry knew he smoked. He doesn’t at the laundrette, reluctant to go outside for fear of losing three minutes with him. But Harry’s already stepped back into the corridor, so Zayn wipes his hands on his overalls and grabs his coat.

The one good thing about working in the children’s A&E is that he gets to chat to all the kids and parents, but now he knows so many of them, he’s too embarrassed to smoke outside the hospital with everyone else in case one of them sees him, so he’s found a spot around the back of the hospital that isn’t overlooked by any of the windows. He’s not supposed to, he knows, but he’ll only be there for another couple of days and it’s not like he’s the only who smokes there. When he found it, it was already peppered with ash and cigarette butts so he didn’t feel so bad about lighting up. He’s even made friends with one of the porters, a woman called Jo who has more tattoos than he does.

When he and Harry walk around the side of the hospital, past the maternity wing towards the portacabins where people donate blood and have glaucoma tests, he wonders if that’s where Harry’s taking him. But he takes Zayn’s hand, leading him the other way, and for the first time – well, ever – Zayn’s glad it’s raining because Harry can’t hear the way his breath catches in his throat when their palms touch. He’ll let go now, Zayn tells himself as Harry leads him towards the last portacabin in the row. He’ll let go. But he doesn’t and Zayn doesn’t know what to do, whether to let go first or go with it, thread his fingers through Harry’s and squeeze. So he does nothing, as though a butterfly has landed on his hand and he doesn’t dare move in case he scares it away, just follows Harry up the steps and through the door into the portacabin.

Harry locks it and there’s no way he doesn’t hear the way Zayn’s breath catches in his throat then. It seems to echo around the portacabin, bouncing off the walls as Harry takes a step towards him. He doesn’t turn on the light and he should because it’s nearly 4 o’clock so it’s getting dark. But he doesn’t and Zayn has no breath left to lose when he feels Harry’s hand on his hip. ‘Zayn.’ That’s all he says and all Zayn can see in the dim light of the portacabin is the wet swell of his bottom lip and he just wants to kiss him. Kiss and kiss and kiss him. Not fuck him, not wrap his hair around his fist and hold his head while he fucks his mouth, but kiss him. A long, deep kiss, Zayn’s hands around his throat so he can feel his pulse, press his thumb against it until Harry has to stop to catch his breath. He wants to bite his lips, his jaw, suck bruises into the pale, tight skin on his neck, kiss him until he’s panting, Fuck me – Fuck me – his eyes closed and his mouth open.

‘Zayn, listen,’ he breathes interrupting the thought. ‘I have to tell you something.’ But he doesn’t say anything – just looks at him – so Zayn looks at him too and for a moment all he can hear is the rain on the corrugated metal roof and his heart in his ears and it feels like he’s under water, like he’s dived into the deep end of a swimming pool and he’s waiting to feel the tiles graze the tips of his fingers.

The funny thing is: he’s always been scared of water.

‘Zayn.’ Harry puts his other hand on his hip, takes it off then puts it back again, and when he laughs as if to say, What am I doing? Zayn laughs too because he knows this is it. The last three months have been leading up to this and as painful and miserable as it’s been, as unsure as Zayn has been about Harry – about himself – he’d do it all again just for this moment. Every sleepless night. Every email he didn’t send. Every time he looked up when the door at the Fox and Hounds opened. All those times he thought this was in his head, that this was another of his hopeless crushes. He was right – he was right, he was right, he was right – there is something here. He can see it now, even in the dark. Colour – Cadmium Orange and Prussian Blue and Indian Red – like sick people see dots. Splashes that light up the inside of the portacabin like fireworks.

But when he leans in, Harry stops him. ‘Wait.’

‘What?’

‘Zayn, I thought I could do this but I can’t.’

‘Can’t what?’

‘I thought we could just-’ He closes his eyes. ‘Just once. I thought we could-’

‘Could what?’

‘Just-’

‘Just what?’

But he doesn’t say what, just shakes his head.

‘Harry.’

‘This has never happened before.’ He doesn’t look at him. ‘This is usually so easy.’

Zayn closes his eyes and shakes his head as well because he can’t wait a second longer.

This is agony.

Worse than agony.

It’s like falling but not landing.

Like the dreams he has about drowning.

‘Just say it, Harry.’

Just say it.

Say it.

Say it.

Say it.

‘I’m moving to London.’

Not that.

+++

Harry’s switching courses, which Zayn didn’t know you could do, but apparently you can if your boyfriend is a Paediatric Neurologist at the hospital you’ll be working in. Thinking about it now, he shouldn’t be surprised, but it still hits him like a fucking freight train. So Zayn does what he always does when these things happen, he paints. He stays at the hospital until 5am and finishes the mural so he never has to go back again, then goes home, has a few hours kip and heads out as soon as the shops open with the money he earned to buy more paint. When he gets back, he hears the radio as he passes the door to Julie’s flat.

‘Hi,’ she says with a frown when she opens the door to find him dripping with rain.

‘I owe your son an Eeyore.’

+++

By the time Julie returns with a mug of tea and plate of buttered toast, Zayn has gathered all the furniture in Sam’s bedroom into the centre of the room and covered it with a dustsheet.

‘Are you sure about this, Zayn?’ she asks when she hands him the plate and mug.

‘It’s fine, I told you.’

‘Yeah but I’m broke. I went mad on Christmas presents for Sam.’

Zayn shrugs and sips his tea. ‘Call this one from me, then.’

‘I don’t want to take advantage.’

‘You’re not, I promise. I need the distraction.’

‘Harry?’

Zayn exhales through his nose. ‘How did you guess?’

‘I overheard him and one of the other nurses planning his leaving do yesterday.’

‘When is it?’

‘Tonight.’

Zayn doesn’t say anything, his hands shaking a little as he puts the mug and plate on the covered chest of drawers then crouches down to open a tin of paint with a screwdriver.

‘Can’t you guys do the long distance thing?’

‘Why?’

‘It’s only London, Zayn. It’s not like he’s moving to Outer Mongolia.’

He looks up at her then with a confused grimace, then sighs when he realises what she’s saying.

‘We aren’t together, Julie,’ he tells her, stirring the paint with a wooden spoon she gave him earlier.

‘What? You broke up over this?’

She sounds disgusted and Zayn would laugh if it weren’t so fucking painful.

‘We were never together.’

‘What?’

‘We’re just friends.’

Julie laughs, then stops when he doesn’t laugh too. ‘Sorry.’

He doesn’t look up. ‘’S all right.’

It really isn’t but what else is he supposed to say?

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘There’s nothing to talk about.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yeah.’

‘’Cos it kind of sounds like there is.’

Zayn taps the spoon on edge of the paint tin. ‘We hardly know each other.’

‘Bollocks.’

When Zayn looks up, she’s arching an eyebrow at him.

‘What?’ He reaches into the plastic bag at his feet and pulls out a roller kit he got from the £1 shop.

‘Fine. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’

He stands up. ‘There’s nothing to tell, Julie. I don’t even have his number.’

‘Yeah right.’

‘It’s true.’

‘Well, the last time ‘a friend’ looked at me the way Harry looks at you, I ended up with Sam.’

Zayn fights a smile. ‘He’s got a boyfriend, Julie.’

‘So?’

‘He’s a Paediatric Neurologist.’

‘A Paediatric Neurologist? How old is he?’

‘Forty-six.’

‘Forty-six?’ She gasps in much the same way Zayn did when he told him. ‘How old is Harry?’

‘Nineteen.’

‘His parents are divorced, right?’

‘Yeah. How did you know that?’

‘How old was he when his dad left?’

‘Nine.’ Zayn reaches for the roller kit. ‘Actually, he was seven when he told him he was leaving.’

‘Makes sense.’

‘What makes sense?’

Julie doesn’t say, just sips her tea and tells him, ‘That’s not going to last.’

‘Maybe not but it’s what Harry wants.’

She rolls her eyes, but he ignores her, ripping into the roller kit so he doesn’t have to look at her.

‘Zayn, come on,’ she scoffs. ‘You can’t seriously think that he has a future with this bloke?’

‘That’s why he’s moving to London.’

‘Everyone wants to move to London.’ She stops to sip her tea. ‘This bloke’s just an excuse to.’

When he doesn’t say anything, just crouches down again and puts the plastic tray on the dustsheet on the floor, Julie laughs. ‘Zayn, come on! Between Harry’s daddy issues and commitment issues – which I’m guessing he hasn’t dealt with – I give it six months before he’s back living with his mam.’

‘I think he loves him,’ Zayn says, reaching for the paint can and pouring some into the tray.

‘He probably does. I was in love with Sam’s dad three years ago and now we never speak.’

‘That’s different.’

‘How? Things change, Zayn. People change. I thought Sam’s dad was the love of my life, until I told him I was pregnant and he turned out to be a despicable asshole.’

‘This guy’s different.’

‘How?’

‘He’s perfect.’

‘No one’s perfect, Zayn.’

‘He is.’ Zayn puts the paint can down and reaches for the roller. ‘He runs marathons and volunteers for UNICEF.’ He lifts his chin then lowers it when he sees the look she’s giving him. ‘Yes I Googled him.’

‘Even if he is perfect, that doesn’t mean he’s perfect for Harry.’

‘He saves children’s lives, Julie. Children. What do I do?’ he says, looking at the thick puddle of yellow paint in the tray. ‘At this point I’m nothing more than a glorified decorator.’

‘Exactly. At this point.’ Julie crouches down too so they’re face-to-face. ‘He has twenty-five years on you, Zayn. Why are you trying to compare yourself to him? You’re just starting your life, he’s lived his.’

Zayn looks at her from under his eyelashes. ‘If he isn’t enough for him, how am I going to be?’

‘What do you mean, he isn’t enough for him?’

‘They have an open relationship.’

Julie raises her mug and grins. ‘Get in his opening then!’

Zayn laughs and shakes his head.

‘What?’ she says. ‘Isn’t that what an open relationship is for?’

‘I don’t want that.’ He looks down and runs the roller through the tray of paint.

‘You don’t want to shag him?’

‘Yeah ‘course. But not just that, you know?’

‘What, then?’

‘I want him.’ Zayn looks up and shrugs. ‘All of him.’

+++

By the time Julie gets out of the shower, Zayn’s almost done painting the walls. ‘Your phone was ringing,’ he tells her when he hears her in the hall, the tip of his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he stretches to reach the last corner of the wall. ‘Thanks,’ she says, then shuts her bedroom door and turns the radio up when she hears the Stevie Wonder song that’s playing. He can hear her singing along through the walls and it reminds him of his sisters getting ready for school in the morning. He can’t help but chuckle to himself as he thinks about the epic fights for the bathroom and the, ‘MUUUUUUM, DONIYA WON’T GIVE ME BACK MY HAIR BRUSH.’ He can’t wait to see them tomorrow, can’t wait to tickle Safaa until she squeals and give Don and Waliyha the screen-print T-shirts he made them. And he can’t wait to be fed, for his mum’s chops and samosas and to fall asleep on the sofa while Safaa plaits his hair.

He catches himself singing along to Stevie Wonder as well as he thinks about it, then stops to look at the room as he realises that he’d better get his arse in gear if he’s going to get it finished before he goes home tomorrow. He’s glad he had the sense to buy two cans of paint because the worn wallpaper is sucking it up like a sponge and he has no intention of heading back out in this rain unless he has to. It seems to be getting heavier; it sounds like someone is throwing handfuls of gravel at the window. He’s walking over to see what’s going on when Julie runs into the room, half dressed, her trainers untied.

‘It was the hospital that rang,’ she pants, tying her wet hair into a ponytail. ‘It’s Sam.’

+++

Julie tells him that he doesn’t need to come but of course he does. The pair of them look a state – her jumper inside out and him in his paint splattered jeans and hoodie – but it’s hard to care as they bypass the reception desk and head straight through the double doors into the children’s A&E. They’re immediately met by the sound of wailing, a sound Zayn will never get used to, despite spending the last two days here. Harry says that there’s something in us, some instinct that kicks in when we hear a baby crying. Zayn thinks that must be true as he follows Julie, his stomach clenching when he hears another pained wail.

They’re ushered into the waiting room and even though he was only there a few hours ago, finishing the mural, it looks different. Strange. It’s seeing it from the other side, he realises, from a chair not a ladder, the whole tableau spread out in front of him rather than just the piece he’s working on. It’s still drying, the corner of black sky he touched up before he left a little shinier than the rest, but it looks good. When a little boy points at the orange alien – George – he’d be proud if he wasn’t so worried about Sam.

He and Julie are only in there a few minutes before a nurse comes in to get her. She insists that he go home, that she’ll be fine, but he doesn’t, because he isn’t fine, his legs shaking as he sits down again, so he can’t imagine how she must be feeling. He knows Sam is sick, but he doubts she ever gets used to this, to sitting in waiting rooms with her heart in her mouth. It’s not something you can ever get used to, to seeing your kid being poked with needles. Zayn has to put his head in his hands when he thinks about it, the smell of paint already giving him a headache as he tries to force the image of Sam strung up to a load of machines, like a puppet. But he can’t and his stomach clenches again as he thinks of his sisters and his cousin, Ulfah, who isn’t much younger than Sam, how little she is, how unfair that Sam and Julie have to go through this.

How fucking unfair.

+++

He’s so rattled by the whole thing that it takes him a while to register how busy the waiting room is. Every seat is taken and even the floor is cluttered with kids doing puzzles and racing toy cars. There’s a little black girl with neat bunches, like two black pom poms on either side of her head, scribbling in a colouring book that’s already been coloured. She’s undeterred, though, drawing over everything with a red crayon that’s the same colour as her velvet dress. It’s then that he remembers that it’s the day before Christmas Eve and looks around at the various relatives seated around the room. They already look at the end of their tether, no doubt exhausted after weeks of Christmas shopping and nativity plays, so don’t need a trip to A&E. Not that anyone needs a trip to A&E, of course, but this lot look like they could do with a break. There’s a couple in the corner whispering in Urdu. He’s too far away to catch all of it, but he hears enough to learn that their daughter has broken her leg. The woman sitting opposite them with the jingle bell earrings looks equally worried as she strokes the hair of the little boy sitting next to her clutching a grey cardboard sick bowl. ‘He swallowed a Christmas tree decoration,’ she explains with a weary sigh.

Zayn’s dog did that last year.

+++

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, but after a while it feels like he’s in one of those time-lapse films where he’s standing in the middle of Times Square while everything rushes around him. It’s been a while, he knows, because he’s aching for a cigarette, but he left his at the flat because he wasn’t going to smoke in Sam’s bedroom, was he? Eventually it gets the better of him and he goes outside to ponce one. There’s a woman in a fur-lined hooded coat by the door and before he even asks, she rolls her eyes at him. ‘He still hasn’t puked,’ she says and he realises that she’s the woman who’s kid ate the Christmas tree decoration.

In the end, he doesn’t even have to ask, she just puts her hand into the pocket of her coat and pulls out a box of Marlboro Lights and a pink plastic lighter. He thanks her, explaining that he left his at home, but she waves her hand at him before he can finish and all he can do is smile. Hospitals bring out the best in people, he thinks as he lights it. He’s never seen so many random acts of kindness. He’s seen people give up their seat, offer to watch other people’s kids while they go to the toilet. A bloke bought everyone in the waiting room tea from the vending machine yesterday – even Zayn – and he was so touched he didn’t know what to say. ‘Call him George,’ he said when Zayn managed to thank him and pointed at the orange alien.

So he did.

+++

By the time he and the woman – Shirley – are done smoking, it’s dark. Or maybe it’s always been dark, the rain still beating down as they head back inside. In the panic, he didn’t think to grab his phone when he and Julie left, so he has no idea what time it is. Not that he ever does, the weather so grim and the hospital so well lit that he can never tell if it’s night or day. Kind of like Las Vegas with less gambling and more crying.

He sees Julie as he’s heading back to the waiting room and she slaps him on the arm. ‘What are you still doing here?’ she hisses and it only occurs to him then that she didn’t know he was there, which is why he’d been sitting for so long in the waiting room. ‘Come on,’ she tells him, tugging on his sleeve. ‘I need a fag.’

Sam spiked a fever, that’s why the hospital called her, and since then he’s been puking. Zayn doesn’t ask more than that because he doesn’t want to stress her out, but he can tell by the way she keeps telling him that Sam will be fine – He’ll be fine – that it’s serious. So he watches her chain smoke then takes her to the canteen for a cup of tea and a sandwich, which she doesn’t eat.

It’s 4 o’clock according to the clock behind the till. Zayn has no idea what happened to the last four hours but then time just seems to dissolve at the hospital. He doesn’t know where it goes, but as he’s sitting there, watching Julie chew on her bottom lip, he wonders if it goes to someone else, if he loses three hours working on the mural and a bloke who needs a few more to get through bypass surgery gets them instead. He hopes that’s true. He read somewhere once that when someone dies but there’s no one who’ll miss them, the mourning is assigned to someone else, which is why we feel sad for no reason sometimes. That always sobers him when he’s having a shitty day, the thought that it’s not because he’s broke or he missed the bus or he dropped his phone down the toilet, he’s grieving for someone else, someone he’s never met, someone who needs it and suddenly he sees everything he’s pissed off about for what it is: petty bullshit he’ll forget about tomorrow. He looks at Julie and feels a pinch of guilt as he thinks it, thinks how blessed he is. She hasn’t said anything for twenty-two minutes. She just keeps looking at spot on the wall over Zayn’s shoulder and picking her sandwich to pieces, first the crust, then the rest of it, until it’s a white and yellow mound of crumbs and grated cheese, and Zayn realises that despite the agony of losing loved ones and the years of feeling alone and miserable and fucked up for liking guys in a way he thought he shouldn’t, he’d never known pain like that. Real, honest to God, snap your heart in two pain and he wants to call his mum, to hug his sisters and his dad, thank him for not kicking him out when he came out like some of his family told him to. It’s a terrible thing to find joy in someone else’s pain. Zayn wishes that life wasn’t like that sometimes.

We shouldn’t have to see someone else lose something before we realise what we’ve got.

‘The infection’s bacterial,’ Julie says at last. ‘If it goes to his heart he’s fucked.’

She doesn’t look at Zayn when she says it, just keeps playing with her sandwich.

It feels like someone’s just kneed him in the ribs. He doesn’t know what to say, but he doesn’t have to as she finally turns her face to look at him. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she says, ‘about Harry.’

‘Don’t worry about him,’ Zayn frowns, mortified that her son’s so ill and she’s thinking about him.

‘Life’s too short.’ She looks him right in the eye as she says it. He wants to look away but he can’t. ‘It’s too fucking short and you’re a great guy, Zayn. You’re sweet and kind and so talented. If Harry can’t see that then fuck him. Let him go to London. You deserve more than a guy who only wants a bit of you.’

+++

Zayn waits with Julie until they take Sam for his echo. She tells him to go home, promising to call as soon as she knows anything, but he can’t go. What’s he going to do at the flat? Smoke a blunt by himself and watch Elf? He’s about to settle in for another long wait in the waiting room when he looks up at the mural and remembers Sam’s bedroom and decides to finish it so it’s ready for him when he comes home.

In the panic of getting to the hospital Zayn didn’t think, just followed Julie out of the flat and into the taxi she’d called, so as well as leaving his phone and fags behind, he also left his coat, which means he’s in just a pair of jeans and a hoodie. He isn’t even wearing socks. Of course his wallet in his coat pocket so he can’t get the bus, so when he works out that it’s at least a half hour walk back to the flat, he’s pretty sure that he’s going to have hypothermia by the time he gets there. Just as he says it, he feels the first flake of snow on the tip of his nose, shocking as a needle prick, and groans, asking himself what he did to anger Allah so.

After fifteen minutes, it’s a full on flurry. His hoodie is pretty much useless and sticking to his hair and this is how he’s going to die, he realises, on the pavement outside Platt Fields, slain by a stray snowball. It’s the first snow of the year so everyone is hysterical, kids running around in wellies and friends stuffing handfuls of it down each other’s coats. He thinks of Harry, of course, of how loud he’d laugh and how red his cheeks would be. And he thinks of kissing him, of his hot mouth and cold nose. Then he’s sad – hopelessly, painfully sad – his limbs heavier and his feet slower as he trudges past the park, avoiding the snowballs.

Zayn’s foolish enough to think that’s as bad as it can get, but when he finally passes the Fox and Hounds and sees his flat just a few sweet feet away, he hears someone call his name. It’s Harry. Of course it’s fucking Harry. Of course he’s having his leaving do at the Fox and Hounds even though there are 8726 pubs that are closer to the hospital. At this point Zayn doesn’t know if this is fate or some sort of sick joke. It feels like the latter as he watches Harry ambling towards him like he did the afternoon they met at his flat. Zayn counts the footprints he’s leaving in the snow because he can’t look at him. He’s smiling and swaying and flushed, his mouth so red that Zayn thinks of Christmas this time, not watermelon. Ribbon and poinsettias and holly berries. Of Christmas at home, his mother’s fruitcake with the chewy glacé cherries and the red velvet tablecloth they use every year. That’s what Harry’s like, Zayn realises then, like Christmas.

A warm, bright, faintly magical feeling that he knows won’t last.

‘What you doing, wandering around in the snow?’ Harry asks with a slow smile.

The snowflakes melting into his hair look like stars on a clear night.

Zayn nods up the street towards his flat so he doesn’t stare. ‘Just heading home.’

‘I knocked for you earlier.’

‘Yeah?’

His smile tightens to a smirk. ‘Wanted to see if you fancied a pint or three.’

‘Can’t.’

‘Just one, then.’

‘I’m knackered. Gonna head home, take a shower and hit the sack.’

‘It’s not even six o’clock!’

Zayn shrugs and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. ‘Got fuck all sleep last night.’

‘I saw you finished the mural. What time did you leave?’

Zayn’s happy he has hood to hide behind because he can’t do this. He’s not like Harry. He can’t have a moment like they did in the portacabin last night and pretend that nothing has happened.

‘I’d better go.’

When he takes a step back, Harry takes one towards him. ‘But it’s my last night in Manchester.’

Zayn can see Harry’s breath – or maybe it’s his own. Either way, it’s like a ghost between then.

‘Have fun, yeah?’

When he turns to walk away, Harry reaches for his sleeve.

‘Don’t you want to say goodbye?’

Zayn shrugs him off. ‘Not really.’

He doesn’t dare look up because he doesn’t want to see the look on Harry’s face. Mercifully, someone opens the door to the pub and shouts out to him, asking what he wants to drink.

Harry doesn’t flinch. ‘I’ll be in a minute, Helen.’

When he says her name, Zayn realises that it’s one of the nurses from the hospital and looks up.

She recognises him too and asks, ‘How’s Sam?’

Harry looks over his shoulder at her then back at Zayn. ‘What’s wrong with Sam?’

Zayn nods at her and Helen takes the hint, heading back into the pub.

When they’re alone again, Zayn waits for a car to swish by on the sludgy road.

‘He’s got an infection.’

‘Oh.’ Harry nods. ‘That’s common with kids on chemo. He’ll be all right.’ Zayn must looked appalled because he adds, ‘The remission rate for kids with leukaemia is really good. Most of them survive.’

Zayn knows he’s a nurse, but it’s so blasé it makes his jaw tighten. ‘It’s a bacterial infection.’

That makes Harry frown. ‘Where?’

‘They don’t know yet. He’s having tests and stuff.’

‘What kind of tests?’

‘He was just taken for an echo.’

‘They think it’s in his heart?’

Zayn hears the breath catch in his throat and looks down at the snow caked around his trainers.

‘Is that where you’ve been? At the hospital with Julie?’

Zayn nods.

‘How come?’

‘I was with her when the hospital called.’

‘Why were you with her?’

‘I was painting Sam’s room.’

‘Why were you painting his room?’

Zayn shrugs. ‘I painted over Eeyore.’

Harry stares at him, his lips parted, and he’s quiet for so long that Zayn hears everyone in the pub cheer then start singing along to I Wish it Could be Christmas Everyday.

‘You’re such a good person,’ Harry says finally, shaking his head.

Zayn should be flattered, he should be so touched it makes him blush, but there’s something about the way he says it that makes him wonder if he’s thinking about Michael, about brilliant marathon running Michael who’s office has one wall covered in photos and cards from kids and parents and has been asked to be a god father to so many times he’s lost count. Then he wonders if that’s what he does for Harry, if he reminds him of Michael, if he looks at Zayn and thinks, Michael would say that.

‘I’d better go,’ he says again, taking another step back.

Harry looks bewildered. ‘You know I’m leaving tomorrow, right?’ Zayn nods and Harry looks even more bewildered, fisting his hand in his hair. ‘You can stay for one drink, surely?’

‘I can’t.’

Harry lets go of his hair to slip his hand into the pocket of his jeans. ‘Let’s swap numbers, then.’ When he looks up, Zayn’s shaking his head and his cheeks get redder. ‘Why not?’

Zayn lifts one shoulder and lets it drop. ‘Why?’

Harry looks at him like he’s mad. ‘So we can keep in touch when I’m in London.’

‘Why?’

‘What do you mean why? Because we’re friends.’

Zayn looks him in the eye for the first time. ‘I don’t want to be friends.’

Everything stops – the snow, the music, the cars driving carefully through the snow – and even though he sounds so calm, Zayn’s sure his heart is burning through his hoodie like a red neon sign.

‘But-’ Harry starts to say then stops when Zayn shakes his head.

‘We were never friends and you know it.’

‘But-’

Zayn waits for him to finish this time, but when he doesn’t he exhales through his nose. ‘Earlier I was with Julie and I was thinking about Sam and my first thought wasn’t what it would do to her if he died, it was how grateful I am for my family,’ Zayn admits, the back of his neck stinging with shame. ‘It was such a fucking shitty thing to think but I’m paying for it now because you’re doing the same thing, aren’t you?’

Harry frowns. ‘Doing what?’

‘You meet me and three months later you decide to move to London.’

‘So?’

‘So meeting me made you realise what you want: Michael.’

‘No.’ Harry steps forward. ‘No.’

He tries to reach for his sleeve, but Zayn won’t let him, shaking his head again.

‘Harry, don’t.’ He takes his hands out of his pockets and holds them up. ‘I can’t give you the big speech about why you should pick me because if you don’t already know there’s nothing more I can say.’

Harry calls after him as he walks away and Zayn stops and turns to face him again.

‘Just go,’ he tells him with one last shrug. ‘Go to London, be with Superman.’

Harry opens his mouth to say something and Zayn waits, but all that comes out is a sigh. The air is so cold that before he turns away again, it’s as if like Harry disappears in a puff of smoke.

+++

By the time Zayn gets back to the flat he has a missed call from Julie. He doesn’t bother to listen to the voicemail, just calls her back. She sounds so relieved that he has to sit on the arm of the sofa as she tells him that Sam’s going to be okay. The infection isn’t in his heart, which is what they were hoping to rule out. They’re still trying to find where it is, but wherever it is, it’s treatable.

The news gives Zayn a fresh surge of energy as he heads down to her flat, fumbling around for the spare key she told him she hides on top of the doorframe. The cat, Casper, pads out of her bedroom as soon as he walks in, yowling at Zayn until he refills his bowl. When he's finished, he allows Zayn to pick him up, purring contently as Zayn nuzzles his warm furry neck with his nose while he waits for the kettle to boil.

The sun’s up by the time he’s finished Sam’s room, the Eeyore over his bed not bad considering he’s had no sleep and hasn’t eaten anything since that miserable egg and cress sandwich in the hospital canteen with Julie. When he’s tidied everything up and fed Casper again, Zayn has just enough time to take a shower and throw some clothes in a bag before he has to catch his train.

It’s still snowing so he hopes the trains aren’t fucked because he needs to be at home. He needs to be in his bed with his favourite pillow that he’s too scared to take with him in case anything happened to it. And he needs his mother, his dear sweet mother who has to get on her tiptoes to hug him now and always knows what to say to make him feel better. Sure enough, as he’s leaving, he gets a text from her.

Making gulab jamun x

It’s all he can do not to run out of the house.

As he slams the front door, he’s dusted with snow from the roof over it and laughs, brushing it out of his hair then reaching into the pocket of his leather holdall. He takes out his grey knitted beanie and tugs it on as he trudges down the path towards the street, albeit two minutes too late. He must still be daydreaming about his mother’s gulab jamun, because when he turns right, he walks straight into someone.

‘I’m not going to London because of you,’ he says before Zayn can catch his breath.

Zayn can only nod, his cheeks stinging too as he feels the blood rush through him. Hope, he realises, wild, hot, magical hope, burning through his skin and his clothes until he’s sure he’s alight with it.

‘I’m not going to London because of you or him or anyone. I’m going for me.’

Zayn nods again.

‘But you’re right,’ Harry says and Zayn hears the blood rush through his ears then, a sudden swoosh that makes him dizzy. ‘Meeting you did make me realise what I want.’

Don’t, Zayn tells his heart when it shivers because it’s the perfect moment, Harry in the snow. Everything is white and clean and perfect, like the first page of a new sketchpad.

Too perfect, he tells his heart. Just wait.

‘Michael’s amazing.’

Not yet.

‘He’s like a real life superhero.’

Not yet.

Harry shrugs. ‘And that’s great, and all.’

Not yet.

‘But I don’t need to be saved.’

Now.

Zayn drops the holdall and reaches for him, their mouths colliding in a kiss that makes everything go from white to red. From Zinc White to Indian Red to Cadmium Orange and every colour in-between.

+++

Their first flat is above a chicken shop in Peckham. It isn’t quite the Shoreditch loft they’d daydreamed about, but after a year and a half of Skype sex (which Zayn didn’t even know was a thing until he met Harry) and taking it in turns to get the train back and forth between London and Manchester, the flat is perfect. It has a front door they can lock and a bed they don’t have to get out of it they don’t want to and until they can afford that loft in Shoreditch, that’s all they need.

Mind you, if Zayn had known the long distance thing was going to be such hard work he might not have told Harry to go to London. Doniya said he was mental when he told her, but marathon running neurologists or not, Great Ormond Street is still one of the best children’s hospitals in Europe and Zayn doesn’t want Harry turning around in twenty years, when they’re having an argument about who’s turn it is to renew the tax disc on the car, saying that Zayn held him back. That’s another thing he’s learned in all of this: sometimes you have to let go of someone before they realise that they want to come back.

So yeah, they’re broke 96% of the time and the estate agent described the flat as ‘close to all local amenities’ AKA next to a crack den, but it’s theirs. Harry can get the 63 bus straight to the hospital and Zayn can walk to both the gallery and Camberwell College of Arts where he somehow blagged himself a sweet weekend job teaching Cartooning Fundamentals. Plus Sam loves it. He can paint the walls when he and Julie come to visit and he loves the café at the top of their road that does peanut butter milkshakes and gives you a little egg timer to tell you when your tea is brewed. Plus, he likes Zayn’s paintings that the owner has let him hang on the walls, flashing anyone he sees looking at them a sweet, toothy smile until they buy one.

He’s five now and so over Eeyore. He’s into pirates now. Harry even got a skull and cross bones tattoo because he’s an adorable idiot like that and not at all jealous that Zayn is now Sam’s favourite after he repainted his room like a pirate ship. The truth is Julie is Sam’s favourite and he and Harry are joint second. He loves Harry because he’ll do anything to make him laugh and he loves Zayn because he never says he can’t do anything. If he wants to put jam in his peanut butter milkshake, Zayn will give him a spoon. If he wants to write his name on the back of the door in the bathroom at their flat, Zayn will give him a Sharpie.

They’re the best big brothers ever, basically, who eat pizza for breakfast and pancakes for dinner and let him sleep in their bed when the sudden screech of the tube pulling into the station across the street wakes him up. But then he does take the blame when Harry breaks another glass and when Zayn decides to paint their bedroom green while Harry’s on nightshift, so Sam’s a pretty good little brother as well.

Zayn doesn’t know if his parents are used to it, but they’re coming around. They seem more worried about the damp in the bathroom and the smell coming from their neighbour’s flat than they do about the fact that he’s shacked up with another dude, though. His mother even teases him about it, when they’re wandering around the supermarket, Harry sniffing peaches while she and Zayn push the cart. ‘Don’t forget the bog roll,’ she’ll say and he’ll smile because they were both right, in a way. And while living above a chicken shop is hardly an ending worthy of a Reema Khan film, it’ll do Zayn Malik just fine.