Work Text:
Zayn doesn’t know where it comes from, can’t even remember when it started; in his mind it’s something he’s always done, and at some point as he grew up it became a secret. He likes to think everyone has secrets like his, things they think or do or want, that they will never tell anyone, no matter what.
He used to have a lot more secrets, before, but this one is categorically different. He can’t imagine sharing it, not around the bonfire at the bungalow, not in late night whispered talks, not ever.
Which is why when Zayn returns to his room and finds Harry kneeling on the floor, sifting through his suitcase, he promptly drops the ice bucket, sending a shower of ice cubes across the carpet.
“What’re you doing!” Zayn yells, and distantly recognizes he’s overreacting.
Harry just looks confused, at the spilled ice and at Zayn’s words, and holds his hands up to reply, “I just wanted my shirt back, mate, I thought—”
Zayn’s shaking, because he can see them right there, and surely Harry did too, saw them and maybe even touched them, the satin and lace a significant contrast to the casual cotton and denim of the rest of Zayn’s clothes. Zayn storms over and flips his suitcase shut.
“Don’t—go through my stuff,” he says sharply, trying to calm himself down, but it’s too late, he’s panicked, his ears ringing with it.
“I’m sorry,” Harry says immediately, bewildered, studying Zayn carefully. “I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry.”
Zayn bites his lip, and he can’t seem to breathe effectively anymore, like he’s just run a race and his lungs won’t work. He closes his eyes but it doesn’t help.
“Are you alright?” Harry asks.
Zayn wants to laugh. Harry is such an idiot, always asking questions that have obvious answers.
“I don’t—like people going through my stuff,” Zayn manages, avoiding eye contact.
“Right. I’m sorry.”
He looks sincere, when Zayn risks a glance at him, but also thoughtful; the line of Harry’s brow knitted together in contemplation. But instead of saying anything more, Harry just shuffles over on his knees and starts to clean up the spilled ice.
“Don’t—” Zayn says quickly, and Harry goes still, looking up at him again. “I mean. Just leave it, I’ll get it.”
“Alright,” Harry says gently, and stands up slowly. He lingers a moment before adding, “if you find my shirt…”
“Yeah, I’ll get it back to you.”
“Cheers.”
It’s only when Harry’s gone that Zayn starts to worry that he’ll say something, to the other guys or even to Lou or Paul or someone. But nothing out of the ordinary happens after that, so Harry must have kept his mouth shut about it. Zayn wants to thank him for that, but can’t figure out how.
*
It still takes Zayn a few days before he’s comfortable enough again to bolt his hotel room door and dig the items out of his suitcase—the black bikini briefs and coordinating tank top—smooth satin and lace trim and delicate thin straps that sit softly on his shoulders. He takes a long bath in the dark, and then carefully slips them on, first the underwear, then the top. At the bottom of his shaving kit there’s a lip balm with the slightest hint of shimmer to it that he bought genuinely on accident at Boots once; he leans forward into the mirror and glides it over his lips, pressing them together.
It’s an established, tired joke that Zayn is the vain one, that he’s self-obsessed and in love with his own reflection, but the truth is that he never quite likes how he looks until he’s like this. He spends the most time with the mirror in these moments, tracing the lines of his hips where the satin stretches over them, and following the hollow dips of his clavicles over to his shoulders.
He stretches out under the cool sheets of his hotel bed, exhaustion pulling at him suddenly. He tries not to sleep in his nice things, as a general rule, but indulges himself sometimes, when he’s been out of them so long.
*
Bus call is stupidly early, even as bus calls go, and Zayn is up in time but tries to do too many things at once while he packs, including call his mother, because it’s been a week or so. By the time he hangs up with her Paul is beating his door down and he leaves in a rush, juggling his hoodie and his laptop bag, winding the cord of his phone charger on the way to the elevator.
Between floors 3 and 2, Zayn suddenly remembers a crucially vital fact involving his secret undergarments and the hook on the back of the bathroom door, specifically that they’re still hanging up there on floor 10, and panic seizes him in an unprecedented way. The elevator chimes cheerfully when they reach the lobby, but Zayn feels ill, both at the prospect of having to go back to get them and also at leaving them behind forever. His mind works quickly to devise a solution as he follows Paul toward the others, but nothing seems feasible; if he goes back now Paul will insist on going with him. If he leaves them, it could be ages before he can manage to find a way to replace them. In the end, the thought of not trying seems worse, so he slips back quietly toward the elevators.
He makes it about three steps before he hears his name in Paul’s booming voice, and turns right back around. Now everyone is looking at him, and Zayn swallows tightly.
“I forgot something. I’ll be right back, I swear.”
“No, you’re not leaving. Whatever it is, we’ll get a new one, let’s go.”
Zayn doesn’t move, just stands there helplessly while he bites back the awful, stupid sting of tears. Already Liam and Louis are making their way out the door, followed by Niall, and Paul is staring at him expectantly, but Zayn can’t make his feet move.
“I’ll go with him,” Harry says, and Zayn didn’t even see him there, stood just off to the side. Harry has his shoulder bag and he’s wearing a beanie and sipping a coffee.
“Boys, we’re late already,” Paul says, exasperated. “We don’t have time, I’m not messing about, go get in the van.”
Harry hesitates, looking at Zayn, and then just shakes his head a little. “Zayn forgot something important. We’ll be right back.”
Harry slips his arm around Zayn’s shoulders and steers him toward the elevators, and already Zayn is working out excuses, something to tell Harry once they’re on their way back up, but Harry just gives him a little squeeze and hits the button for ten.
“It’s, um,” Zayn begins, trying to alleviate the silence. “Just this, like, necklace? From my mum. I can just go in and grab it really quick.”
“Sure, yeah,” Harry says, and grins at him, but it’s friendly, understanding, and it makes Zayn feel a little guilty for lying to him.
Harry even waits in the hallway, and doesn’t mention anything when Zayn returns, not even the absence of any sort of necklace, which was a detail Zayn sort of failed to think through. When Harry offers him a sip of coffee, Zayn takes it gratefully, and wonders for a moment what absolute secrets Harry has, and how he manages to keep them.