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Harry had already been home for about four minutes before he realized he wasn’t alone in the flat. He was busy rummaging around in the fridge when the hair on the back of his neck prickled in sudden awareness, and he jerked upright, slamming the refrigerator door and pancaking himself back against it with a pounding heart and wild eyes.
Zayn Malik was there, at the kitchen table, blinking at Harry with a depressingly familiar look of unimpressed boredom on his gorgeous face.
“Um,” Harry said, his mind racing in confusion as well as surprise.
He's here. Why is he here? Niall’s not here! It’s Thursday! Thursdays -- Did he hear me singing? He must have heard…
“Is that your lunch?” Zayn finally asked, interrupting Harry’s reeling thoughts. He jutted his chin toward Harry’s chest and quirked his eyebrows in mildly disbelieving distaste.
“Wha?” Harry mumbled, his brain still playing catch up. He flushed in embarrassment when he followed Zayn’s eyeline down to the jar of pickled herring he’d apparently grabbed out of the refrigerator and clutched onto like a mini life-preserver in the midst of his panic. “What? Oh, No… No, I was looking for horseradish, and then -- “ he shook his head and bristled, determined to get to the bottom of this. “Why are you -- Niall isn’t here."
Zayn rolled his eyes and huffed out a soft, knowing laugh at the implication, causing Harry’s flush to go a shade darker. Irritation quickly cut through his embarrassment. He was only being realistic, and Zayn must have known. They just didn’t do that, Harry and Zayn -- hang out on their own. They weren’t those kind of friends. If Zayn even considered Harry to be a friend at all.
Doubt it. I’m just someone who’s friends with his friends that he has to put up with. Harry thought darkly, narrowing his eyes.
“Yes, I’m aware Niall’s not here,” Zayn said, nodding slowly. The placating sort of patience in his tone only sent Harry’s irritation spiking higher.
I’m allowed to be annoyed! He’s the one basically breaking and entering, for all I know!
“He didn’t tell you, then?” Zayn asked.
“Tell me what?” Harry demanded, setting the pickled herring down on the work surface next to the fridge a touch too heavily due to his agitation. He turned back to Zayn and immediately crossed his arms over his chest to hide the slight tremor in his hands. Harry could maybe have pretended it was because he was still rattled from the recent shock he’d experienced, but the truth was he could never quite seem to get them to go completely steady when Zayn was around. That was almost more aggravating than the idea that Niall had apparently been an inconsiderate flatmate, and Harry frowned heavily, glaring at Zayn as he waited for an explanation.
“We’re doing a project together for Composition,” Zayn said. He scrubbed a hand over his face as he spoke, the beautiful black caterpillars of his eyebrows disappearing and reappearing from beneath it. “I’ve got class ‘til 10:30, seemed pointless to go all the way home just to come all the way back over here again when Niall’s done at 2:00...”
Harry nodded. Zayn lived with Louis clear on the other side of campus, and it was at least a forty-five minute bus ride one way. It made sense Zayn didn’t want to have to bother with the round trip. “So he gave you his key?”
“Made a copy.”
“Made you a copy!?” Harry yelped, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. “What for? Doesn’t he need to be asking me about that? And our landlord!”
“Well, I would have assumed he’d have asked you, yes, but...” Zayn shrugged, pulling a face like he thought maybe Niall thought that Harry wouldn’t have responded all that well if he’d asked him. Like maybe Harry’s reaction right now was only proving that point.
That wasn’t fair, though! Harry had been ambushed during his special Thursday Afternoon Niall-Free Flat Time! The glorious break between eleven and two when Niall had class and Harry didn’t! It was very important to Harry. He liked to make himself a large sandwich, watch shows Niall hated on the telly, talk to himself out loud, maybe have a nice wank. All of that would be stolen away from him with someone else around. Anyone would feel cranky.
It’s not just because it’s Zayn! He reassured himself, trying not to get too distracted when Zayn splayed his hands out on the table while he spoke, putting his lovely, tattooed forearms on display.
“It’s like, we’re going to be working on the project for the rest of the semester -- we have to write a few songs. He gave me the key ‘cause the plan was I’d just chill here and wait for him every Thursday," Zayn gestured loosely toward the living room, where Niall's guitar stood on a stand next to his keyboard, "and like, maybe get a little extra done before he gets here. But if -- if you don’t want...”
“No,” Harry said, suddenly feeling resigned to his fate. He slumped back against the refrigerator again, fiddling with his fingers and still not making eye contact. “No. It’s fine. That’s fine...”
And it was, mostly. If Niall had come to him and explained in advance like he should have, Harry would have definitely agreed, albeit grudgingly. He’d just have to reschedule his Thursdays so they included more shutting himself up in his room and feeling awkward about Zayn being there, and less belting along to Dusty Springfield at the top of his lungs while he tidied up the flat.
“Are you sure?” Zayn asked, skeptical. He shifted on one of the rickety wooden chairs Harry and Niall had salvaged from the side of the street at the beginning of the summer. “I mean, I could go to a coffee shop or?”
“I’m not actually that selfish as to make you go somewhere else, alright?” Harry snapped, pushing off the refrigerator and stomping off down the hall to his bedroom in a huff, his original plans for having some roast beef on the crusty french bread he’d bought that morning long forgotten.
Harry felt a sick zip of shame from being so rude, almost a thrill really, his whole body going hot with it when he heard Zayn make an scoffing sound just before he closed the door to his room.
Fuck. He thought, groaning and flopping back onto his bed. He flipped over onto his stomach and held on to one of his big fluffy pillows like a teddy bear. I’m not a brat. I’m really not.
The entire exchange had left him feeling sad and uneasy, which was nothing new came to Zayn. It felt like every time they encountered each other Harry had a new bruise on his ego, another awkward memory to think back to and cringe about. Harry wasn’t a bad person. He knew he wasn’t. He was kind and respectful and funny and people usually liked him. But Zayn had seemed to think he was flighty and inconsequential -- boring really -- from the very first time they met, and Harry was so thrown and disappointed by it that he couldn’t seem to stop playing into those assumptions. Couldn’t stop making a stroppy, sullen fool of himself in front of Zayn.
“Stupid,” He said out loud, rolling over onto his back again and staring up at the ceiling. He’d spent all summer working at his new job as a prep cook at the White Horse Inn, listening to Louis and Liam and the other employees tell story after story about Zayn, who they all clearly loved and who would be coming back in the fall. Harry had been strangely intrigued, to the point where he’d broken down and gone hunting through Louis’s instagram for pictures, getting an illicit spark in his heart every time he found one.
It seemed as though Zayn had only ever allowed himself to be captured candidly -- spray painting a concrete wall in three quarter profile, a blur of motion at the edge of the frame while midair on a skateboard, half in shadow at an open mic night with his dark hair falling into his face -- and it had only made Harry’s fascination deepen. Even with only semi-obscured images to go on, Zayn was still the most hauntingly good-looking person Harry had ever seen. And the coolest.
Harry winced and clutched his pillow tighter as memories of their disastrous first meeting at a party at Nick’s at the beginning of September came rushing back. His heart had started pounding the second he realized that Zayn was there, standing with Louis by crappy snacks table Nick had set up, and it had gone into hyperdrive when Louis waved him over to say hello.
“This is Harry!” Louis had said, winking at Harry as he nudged Zayn in the side with an elbow, teasing. “Chef’s already got him helping with the carving station, so watch out!”
Harry’d unbowed his head rather coyly, trying to subtly use his dimples to their best advantage. He’d barely managed to get out a hello and raise his right hand awkwardly for a shake, though, before Zayn had given him a cursory once over and brushed him off with a curt “nice to meet you” and turned right back to Louis.
“I’m not the one who’s rude,” he grumbled,“I don’t know what his problem is. He doesn’t even know me.” Harry buried his face in his his duvet, wishing he could just forget about Zayn forever.
He couldn’t of course. Zayn was out there, in his kitchen, weighing on Harry’s mind and blocking him from getting to his delicious, finely shaved, rare roast beef, that jerk. Harry’s stomach growled and he glanced down at his phone, making a strangled noise of frustration. It had just gone noon. There were another two hours or so until Niall got home, and Harry knew he wouldn’t be brave enough to venture out there on his own until then.
On top of everything else, Zayn and Niall’s didn’t have Composition until 6:00pm on Thursdays, so it would be even longer before Harry could corner Niall without Zayn there and yell at him about his terrible behavior as a flatmate.
“This is the woorrrst,” he muffled his words into one of his pillows, “my life is the worst.” Harry was feeling so sorry for himself at the moment that he didn’t care if he was being over dramatic and pathetic. There were 8 weeks left in the semester. He was going to have to see Zayn an awful lot.
At least we never work the same shifts… he thought, as he drifted off into what he thought was a well deserved nap.
*
Two Mondays later, after another awkward Thursday afternoon spent mostly hiding out in his room, Harry was in the middle of a shift at the White Horse. He had just finished up about ten minutes of complaining to Louis about the awkward new situation he found himself in with Zayn.
“He doesn’t hate you,” Louis said, rolling his eyes as he shoved a tray of mini-spanakopita into an oven.
Harry’s hand stilled on the little ice cream scoop of chicken salad he was holding. He was making mini-chicken salad sandwiches. They were prepping appetizers for a business party that night. Everything was mini. “Okay,” he allowed, rolling his eyes, too, “maybe he doesn’t hate me, but you know what I mean, he definitely doesn’t like me.”
“He’s just... “ Louis said, squinting and moving his head from side to side as he considered, “he’s shy.”
“Shy,” Harry whispered, turning the idea over in his head as he perfected another little sammie.
“Yeah,” Louis said, nodding and widening his eyes for emphasis as he wiped his hands on his apron, “he’d like you if he knew you. Everyone likes you! He just doesn’t really know you. He’s shy.”
Harry felt a burst of frustration, and he started to gesticulate at Louis with his chicken salad scooper. “Well maaaybe,” he said, drawing out the second word in a way he knew was probably annoying, “he just doesn’t want to get to know me? Did you ever think of that? Because -- “
He was about to point out that Zayn had never been particularly shy around Niall, whom he’d met after Harry, when Zayn himself came speeding around the corner from the back entrance of the restaurant, careening into the kitchen and looking incredibly stressed out.
“Angeline!” He called out in a decidedly un-shy manner, apologizing under his breath as he nearly sideswiped the day dishwasher, Martin, while charging his way toward the manager’s office. “Angeline!”
Harry’s confusion was mirrored back to him on Louis’s face, and they both subtly shifted their body weight, cocking an ear toward Angeline’s office so they might overhear what was going on.
They needn’t have bothered. Angeline came striding out of her office before Zayn had even reached the door, stopping him short just past the coffee machines.
“What the fuck is the matter with you?” She looked tired in a puffy-faced way and also highly irritated. Harry suspected that Zayn had interrupted one of the post-lunch rush, pre-dinner rush naps she liked to take on the couch in her office if time allowed.
“Sorry -- “ was all Zayn got out before she cut him off again.
“Is this about the schedule?” She demanded, hurriedly putting her long black hair into a bun atop her head.
“Well, I can’t work --”
“Nope!” Angeline waved a dismissive hand through the air. “Absolutely not! I’ve told you over seventeen hundred times that your change-in-availability email needs to be in by five o’clock on Sunday!”
“But I told Chef like two weeks ago!” Zayn said, the volume of his voice dropping, but his tone turning strident and a little pleading.
Harry and Louis shifted awkwardly and resumed working, pretending they weren’t still listening in. Harry tried to keep his eyes on his task, but they kept flicking over to Zayn’s back, to the tense line of his shoulder’s under his leather jacket. It was almost November and getting colder everyday, but try as he might, Harry couldn’t imagine Zayn in any other jacket, no matter how freezing it was outside.
Probably one of those types that pretend they never get cold. Harry thought, scooping up some more chicken salad and putting on a bun. He almost made himself laugh out loud picturing Zayn being made to put on a hat and mittens.
Angeline’s voice brought him back to the present.
“You’ll just have to find someone to cover!” She said, shrugging. Zayn winced audibly as she continued talking. “Hey! I mean, I’ll give you the phone list, you can send a -- “
“I’ll do it,” Harry said, the words flying out of his mouth before he’d even had a chance to think them through. “I’ll cover.”
Angeline snorted, her eyebrows knitting. “Do you even know when you’re agreeing to work?” she asked, letting out a disbelieving chuckled. Harry blushed heavily, indeed having no clue whatsoever which shift Zayn needed him to work. He shot Louis a death glare when he joined in laughing with Angeline.
“It’s next Wednesday,” Zayn said softly, turning around slowly. “Night. Next Wednesday night. Six to close.”
He’d been staring down at his hands, but he lifted his head as he spoke and Harry had to avert his gaze when their eyes met, his heart skipping a queasy beat.
Harry started to nod, squirming a bit under everyone’s attention. He could even feel Martin staring at him from next to the big industrial dishwasher. “Uh, yeah. I can do it. No class or anything, so... “
“Are you sure?” Zayn asked, and Harry felt a small stab of disappointment at the unconvinced look on Zayn’s face. Zayn started to wave his phone around a little. “You don’t -- I mean, I can text and see if anyone else can…”
Harry shook his head. “You don’t have to. I can cover. It’s okay.”
“Alright,” Zayn said, still reluctant. He coughed into a fist. “Uh, thanks -- Thanks, man.”
“No prob,” Harry had been aiming for casual, but of course his voice came out as a tinny squeak, instead, and he almost grimaced when he saw that his hands were, in fact, shaking slightly. He gave an awkward shrug, like it was no big deal to try to mask it.
“Okay…” Zayn said. He was inching slightly toward the door in a way that was probably far less subtle than he thought, clearly unsure if it was just okay for him to leave immediately or not. “Uh, see you -- see you later?”
“Yep,” Harry peeped, nodding and watching Zayn hurry out of the restaurant again. “Later.”
Harry's face had gone so warm from their brief interaction that it might as well have been a space heater. He could still feel Angeline and Louis looking at him, so he held out as long as he could, pretending to be intensely interested in the bun to salad ratio on all of his little sandwiches. Eventually it became too much, and he risked a quick glance in Louis’s direction.
Harry groaned at the knowing look on Louis’s face, sending both Angeline and Louis back into a small fit of laughter. “Shut up!” He muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s just the nice thing to do! I would want someone to do that for me!”
“Oh, I can think of someone you want to do a lot of things for you,” Angeline chortled.
Louis reacted as though that was the greatest thing he’d heard in his life, throwing his head back in laughter and clapping the oven mitts he was wearing together with a satisfying thwump thwump sound as he did so. “No wonder you get so stroppy around him,” he mused, almost to himself, when he’d finished.
Harry realized then that he’d been frowning so heavily he was sticking out his bottom lip. Pouting. He was literally pouting. He quickly tried to school his face into something much less “stroppy”, but he didn’t manage it before Louis came over gave and him a nice, consoling pat on the back, still laughing softly.
“It’s alright, Styles,” he said, “Nick and I were at each other’s throats when we first met. Look at us now!”
“Shut up,” Harry repeated, his pout back in full force. He just wasn’t used to this kind of situation. It was hard.
*
Thursday, Harry took his time meandering home after his morning class got out. He stopped to get a coffee and then stared at the flyers hanging on the shop’s bulletin board for a full two minutes, acting like he actually maybe had a need for a dog walker or a vocal coach a room to rent. He spent the entire time pretending he wasn’t delaying going back to his flat because he was nervous about how things might go with Zayn when he got there.
Harry shuffled inside quietly when he finally did, shucking off his boots and setting his rucksack down carefully by the door. He practically tiptoed into the kitchen, craning his neck to peer into the living room. He had this strange feeling, like if he made too much noise or moved too quickly, he would rustle Zayn from his hiding place and Zayn would bolt.
He isn’t a fucking bird, you idiot. Harry thought, rubbing at his sternum as he turned in a circle in the middle of the room. Zayn wasn’t there at all, and Harry was experiencing a strange sort of hollowness in his chest as the realization settled in. Whatever. It’s not like anything was going to change just because... Stupid.
He slunk off to his bedroom to change in his lounge clothes, still rubbing at his breastbone and wishing the world were different. When he stomped back out to the kitchen to make lunch about five minutes later, Zayn was there, standing by the sink, and Harry let out a sharp gasp of surprise. The gasp surprised Zayn in turn, and he nearly dropped the kettle he’d been fiddling with.
“Watch -- “ Harry said, as he hurried forward to steady it, his heart fluttering.
“Thanks,” Zayn whispered, staring down at where their hands were overlapping on the dented metal.
“You’re welcome,” Harry took a quick step back, his cheeks heating up in an entirely predictable way. Zayn looked sharply elegant and beautiful, still in his leather jacket with a deep red shirt underneath it, and Harry felt clumsy in front of him from the effect of it all. It was as though his brain was working half a beat slower -- his arms practically dead weight and his fingers twice their normal size when he raised a hand to the back of his neck, chuckling. “Guess you’re gonna keep scaring me even when I get here first, huh?” he said.
Zayn let out a small, startled laugh, his whole face scrunching up in delight for a split second before it was replaced with an awkward sort of purposeful neutrality. Harry swallowed hard, fidgeting and trying to ignore the way his heart had threatened to split right open at the first hint of a smile.
Get it together. Please get it together.
“Well, I got -- I got a little scared too this time,“ Zayn pointed out with a shrug and a half-smile. Harry couldn’t be sure, but he thought there might have been hint of a flush on Zayn’s cheeks too. “Was, uh, was going to make some tea?” Zayn said. He cleared his throat, still fiddling with the kettle. “For us.”
“Oh,” Harry said, sitting down at the table so he could watch Zayn get to work. He tried to tamp down the hope that wriggling to life inside him, his heart fluttering more and more. “Okay.” He shot Zayn a smile that was somehow tentative and cheeky at the same time. One that he’d be tormented by later that night when he was lying awake in bed replaying their entire afternoon together, unable to sleep due to a mixture of mortification and happiness. “Thanks.”
*
“You like olive tapenade?” Zayn asked, several weeks later while examining the contents of the fridge. He shot Harry a look of disgusted disbelief over his shoulder and barked out a short, happy laugh when Harry immediately shook his head violently in response. “Didn’t think so.”
“Niall does though,” Harry explained, tapping his pencil against his lips. “What a sicko, he has the worst taste buds, but he thinks they’re refined.”
Zayn laughed more, bobbing his head in appreciation. “Sounds like Louis,” he said, pulling the styrofoam container of bruschetta out of the fridge instead of the tapenade, “he loves olives, hates tomatoes. Glad I don’t live in that world.”
They’d fallen into the habit of having tea together on Thursdays, spreading their books out across the kitchen table and studying together in companionable quiet. They’d make occasional comments to each other about what they were reading and nibble on whatever leftover appetizers Harry’d brought home from the White Horse that week. Harry didn’t want to jinx anything by acknowledging it, but it had started to feel like they were actually friends. He really liked it.
“Put some tomatoes on that,” Harry said, giggling as Zayn said down and started preparing to eat one of the crusty little slices of bread, “but don’t make it look like Christmas.”
Zayn groaned, rolling his eyes as he took a bite, and Harry felt a spike of regret at having brought up a joke from the restuarant that pre-dated his tenure there.
As soon as he’d had started at the White Horse he’d heard variations of that odd phrase. “Put some artichokes on that, but don’t make it look like Valentine’s Day.” “Put some carrots on that, but don’t make it look like Halloween.” “Put some candles on that, but don’t make it look like your birthday.” Sometimes they didn’t even quite make sense, but Harry had immediately loved the air of in-joke camaraderie that arose whenever someone said one.
You’re always doing this. He scolded himself. Always -- always assuming you belong. Always inserting yourself. He’s not like that. Zayn’s not -- he’s different. Harry’s eyes darted over Zayn’s face, searching for signs of genuine irritation, and his embarrassment eased a touch when he didn’t find any. He shifted forward in his seat, doodling in the margin of his notebook and squirming a little. “Where’d that come from, anyway?” he asked, suddenly curious. "Why do you guys say that?"
Zayn snorted out a laugh. “Carrot one’s the original,” he said with another roll of his eyes, “Louis and I were trying to reverse engineer Chef-isms one night, and it stuck.”
Harry smiled in understanding, nodding. The Chef at the White Horse was a large, middle-aged man named Danny Kiemans. He had a very distinctive way of speaking and a very dry sense of humor, so it was always fun seeing everyone do their best impressions of him. Harry couldn’t help but feel a little jealous too, though. Of Louis with Zayn. Couldn’t help but feel like he’d probably never be in with Zayn in the same way that Louis was. He wondered how Zayn even felt about spending time with him like this. He bit his lip, realizing with a jolt to the heart that he’d never wanted someone to like him as much as he wanted Zayn to. He’d never liked someone the way he liked Zayn.
He must have kept staring at Zayn for a little too long, because Zayn had been about to started reading about music theory again, but he stopped. “What?” he asked.
Harry swallowed. “Nothing. Just thinking.”
Zayn gave him the half-smile that never failed to turn Harry's insides to butterflies. “Okay,” he said slowly, like he didn’t really believe it, but wasn’t going to push. He suddenly seemed to think better of not pushing, and he nudged Harry’s foot under the table with his own. “C’mon. Tell me.”
“I’m not really sure how to put it,” Harry said, after a moment of indecision, wishing to high heaven he didn’t have such a hair trigger blush around Zayn, “but it’s just nice, I guess. Nicer than I thought. Having someone to sit with. Like, where it sort of doesn’t feel like you’re sitting with anyone at all...”
Zayn cocked his head to the side and blinked at Harry for a moment, his eyes roaming over Harry face. Harry felt exposed, like his heart was lodged up in his throat, waiting for a response. Zayn just kept staring.
“What?” Harry asked this time, unable to resist, his pulse racing the longer Zayn looked at him.
Zayn blinked faster, shifting in his seat. “I -- I don’t know,” he murmured, a pinkish hue coloring his tan cheeks, “you’re not… you’re just. I don’t know. You’re different -- ”
And of course that was the precise moment that Niall decided to burst into the flat, home early from Thursday class for the very first time that year.
“Hello, lads!” he hooted, clearly in an incredibly good mood. “Ooooo, bruschetta!” he dropped his satchel to the floor unceremoniously and started to dig in. “This stuff’s so good, I’m glad you losers work at that place.”
Harry and Zayn leaned back in their chairs at the same time and Harry felt like they were letting out a long, communal breath.
“Zayn,” Niall was already marching toward his guitar, his mouth still full of tomato and bread as he spoke, “listen to this shit I came up with earlier, please!”
Zayn nodded, standing up, and Harry took that as his cue to leave. He packed up his books and scurried off to his room, flopping back onto the bed. He felt let down and electrified all at once. He couldn’t wait for next Thursday.
*
Harry didn’t actually have to wait a whole week to see Zayn again. They rarely worked the same shifts at the White Horse, but Harry was leaving just as Zayn was coming in on Sunday, and Zayn rushed up to him right as he was heading out the door.
“Do you want -- um,” Zayn said, his thin fingers wrapped around Harry’s wrist. His eyes moved over Harry’s figure and Harry blushed, realizing he’d been about to walk home in his apron.
“Oops,” he mumbled, removing it as quickly as he could, tossing it toward the pile of dirty table linens in the corner. “I always forget.”
Zayn let out a strange laugh, and Harry realized he hadn’t even noticed. His pulse rate kicked up a little when he saw that Zayn actually seemed a little nervous.
“Uh, do you want -- I’m like, doing an open mic Tuesday at George’s,” Zayn said, not making eye contact. “I thought. I mean, if you want to come. Or like, could come. That would be -- like, Niall too, obviously.”
Harry was already nodding vigorously, so elated it almost felt like an out of body experience. “Oh, yeah. Sure! Of course.”
“Okay,” Zayn said, bobbing his head and smiling the prettiest, most heart twisting smile Harry had ever seen. Zayn turned to head back into the kitchen.
r“Um, what time?” Harry called out after him.
“Oh, uh, duh,” Zayn had to do a little pirouette to avoid bumping into the coffee machine station, and Harry thought he might die of endearment, happy about Zayn’s awkwardness. “Um, nine-ish. I usually go on around nine.”
“Okay.” Harry said, smiling and knowing he was displaying his dimples to their best advantage.
“Okay.” Zayn echoed, waving as he disappeared around one of the corners of the kitchen.
Harry pretty much floated home from work.
*
Harry and Niall were almost late to see Zayn sing, and it wasn't Harry’s indecision over picking an outfit that delayed them. It was Niall’s.
“You don’t understand, Haz. Okay, maybe you do,” he said, adjusting a ridiculous cap on his head and then rejecting it, “but just, think about all the ladies that’ll turn up to see someone like Zayn sing! I gotta look my best.”
Harry had rolled his eyes, checking his watch every five minutes. It was an open mic, and he knew Zayn’s set wouldn't be that long. He didn’t want to miss the whole damn thing because Niall couldn’t decided which of his seeming identical navy blue striped shirts to wear.
They ended up getting to George’s just as Zayn took the stage, and Harry let out a deep sigh of relief. Zayn was in all black, with a few day’s beard, his hair off his face. He was so striking that Harry was transfixed, and Niall elbowed his way through the fairly sizable crowd to go get them pints.
Zayn did four songs, each one better than the next. Harry was amazed by the rich emotional quality of his voice, by the beauty of it, and he felt almost giddy by end, overly excited to get to talk to Zayn and congratulate him.
He hadn’t anticipated how disappointed he’d feel when it turned out that Zayn wasn’t all that eager to talk to him, at all.
There are a lot of people here. He told himself, watching Zayn work the room, moving from cluster to cluster of people. Shaking hands and hugging and patting people on the back. Seemingly at ease while he did so. There are a lot of people here who probably came just to see him...
It would have felt a lot better if he hadn’t gotten the distinct impression that Zayn cared a lot less about him having shown up than Harry had cared about coming. Harry and Niall had spotted Louis and Nick and Liam by the bar right after Zayn had finished, and even when Zayn had stopped by to say hi to them all, he’d barely spared Harry a glance. The few times their eyes met across the room, Zayn’s had immediately darted away, like he hadn’t even seen Harry at all. Like maybe he was embarrassed that Harry seemed to be seeking him out. Embarrassed that Harry’d had such obvious expectations.
“You okay, Haz?” Louis asked as Harry and Niall were heading out.
Harry knew he must have been something of a downer all evening, and he felt another shiver of embarrassment run through him. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, shrugging. “Got an early class, keeping thinking about it.”
He’d known that wasn’t true when he’d said it. He wasn’t fine at all. He didn’t fully realized why until he and Niall were walking home, moving slow due to their beer buzz. Before, Zayn’s reaction to him had frustrated him. He’d turned into a spoiled brat around Zayn because Zayn didn’t know him and he’d dismissed him out of hand, and that wasn't fair. Now, Zayn knew Harry, and he still didn’t want him. And all Harry felt was sad.
I can’t believe I even thought -- Harry shook his head, feeling foolish as he and Niall climbed the two flights of stairs up to their flat. Stupid. Just stupid. Let it go.
*
Harry had half a mind just not to come home on Thursday. He felt so embarrassed he’d let his hopes get so ridiculously high that he just wanted to hide away at the library and not have to see Zayn at all. That wasn’t fair though, and he knew it. He’d been lying to himself that what he’d hoped for was to be friends, but if that was all that Zayn wanted, he’d just have to be a normal, mature person about it and accept it.
It would have maybe been easier to handle if Zayn hadn’t been looking extra handsome that day, Harry’s cuppa already steaming on the kitchen table when he arrived.
“Hi!” Harry said, hoping his tone didn’t sound as over bright and false to Zayn’s ears as it did to his own. He knew it probably did.
“Hi,” Zayn said softly, watching as Harry sat down and accepted the mug of tea.
They sat in silence together, and Harry felt his stomach turn over, a sickly panic starting to rise inside him because this was nothing like before. It wasn’t easy and companionable anymore. It was awkward. And he must have been the source of that.
He winced, furrowing his brow and making a move to stand up, when Zayn’s hand shot out across the table and grabbed his wrist.
“Have dinner with me?” Zayn blurted out, his cheeks flaming red.
Harry plopped back down in his chair, too stunned to respond, his mouth literally hanging open. He felt as shocked as he had the first day he’d found Zayn in the kitchen, his heart pounding and his eyes wild.
Zayn took a ragged breath, scrunching up his face like perhaps he’d been feeling the same sort of recurring self-loathing that Harry had, lately. “Look, I’m --,” Zayn shook his head again. “I’m not good at this type of thing -- I’m,” he continued in a whisper, as if he were admitting something terrible. “I’m shy.”
Harry blinked, still too stunned to do much of anything else. He opened his mouth to attempt to speak, but Zayn continued in an urgent whisper.
“I’m sorry. About the other night,” he ran an unsteady hand through his hair, not quite making eye contact. “I like, I know I was a dick to you. When we first met. I -- I was jealous and then I was a dick. And then,” he let out a rueful laugh, “then I got to know you, and I started to like you… It’s okay if you don’t. I understand, but I thought --”
“Jealous?” Harry echoed, confused. Everything felt slightly surreal, dreamlike in a way that made Harry feel as though they were communicating underwater and he had to concentrate twice as hard to understand anything.
Zayn nodded, rambling. “It took me so long to like, make friends at the White Horse. It always takes me so long. And, I don’t know, then I went home and Louis and Li kept telling me about how great you were, all Summer. How much Chef liked you, straight away. And I was jealous,” he swallowed hard, his eyelashes fluttering as his voice level dropping even further. "Then it turned out that you were attractive, and it made me -- I was pissed about it.”
Harry couldn’t stop the way his breath caught in his throat a little at the comment. His heart continued to pound and he had started to sweat. He was still slightly dazed, even though everything seemed to be slotting into place. The idea of it, of Zayn liking him back, made him feel so dangerously happy it overwhelmed any of his reservations or confusion. Harry wanted to kiss Zayn so much. He let out a high pitched giggle.
“I’ve had a crush on you since before we met,” he said, “I’m an idiot, and I stalked you on Louis’s instagram because -- believe me -- no one would shut up about you all summer either.”
“Really?” Zayn looked sincerely surprised, so utterly delighted, that something twisted in Harry’s heart.
“Yes!” He said, a small laugh punching out of him, “of course they didn't.”
“I get embarrassed sometimes,” Zayn said, voice small, “because I’m shy, but I’m not quiet. Like, after you get to know me, I’m not quiet. So I feel like -- ” he cut himself off with a grimace, looking down at his hands, “I’m really sorry about Tuesday. I worked myself up, about you coming. And then I was so nervous, I couldn’t -- I couldn’t even look at you.”
“Zayn,” Harry said, refusing to feel ashamed about how breathy his voice came out through sheer force of will.
He stood up, his jerky, adrenalized motions almost causing him to knock his chair over completely, but he managed to save it at the last second. He wobbled across the small distance between them, and felt such a spark when he took Zayn's hand and pulled him up onto his feet that he almost burst out laughing.
“Harry,” Zayn murmured, nuzzling into the trembling touch of Harry’s hand on the side of his face and shivering as Harry’s thumb moved along the perfect line of his jaw.
“Gonna kiss you.”
Zayn was still nodding when their lips came together, soft and slick and heart-stoppingly perfect. Harry’s blood was surging through him, absolutely singing as joy tingled out into his fingertips and toes. Zayn made a small sound in his throat, and Harry backed him up against the fridge, pressing their bodies together and deepening the kiss until they were both gasping for breath.
Zayn sneaked a quick peek down at his watch after they broke apart, and they both burst into giggles at the same time.
“How long do we have?” Harry asked, watching in wonder as he thumb brushed over one of Zayn's flawless cheekbones.
Zayn smirked, leaning into the caress. “About two and half hours, unless he decides to come back early again.”
Harry smiled back, taking Zayn’s hand and leading him down the hallway toward his room. “Better hurry up then,” he whispered.
“Yeah, we better.”