Chapter Text
There were three practice rooms.
The first: Seiji. Strumming away, only occasionally stopping to plunk a rhythm on the piano. His nimble fingers made the transition back and forth look effortless.
The third: Nicholas—that other guy from auditions who had been let in. He was sitting with his guitar strap hanging loose to one side, a foot propped up on the amp.
The second…
Nathan checked the timesheet. Everyone was supposed to declare their times on a sign out sheet so that no one hogged the room too long, but this room, despite being occupied, did not have any names on it.
Furrowing his brow, Nathan peeked through the window.
There was someone in there—he knew there would be, could hear the soft resonance of music from where he stood beside the door—with his back facing away. They were only a silhouette; strong, athletic shoulders drew a V down to where the shirt hung loose around their back, bunched up at the hips. The sleeves were rolled up, the left forearm visible as they slid up and down the neck of their bass.
The figure was… actually pretty fucking attractive. Just from the backside, Nathan could tell they had it all. The whole package. Even a nice ass.
Nathan knocked.
Zayn turned around.
Oh, fuck. Not this guy.
Zayn Hameed? It couldn’t have been anyone else?
Nathan suppressed an eyeroll. He could not believe he’d just thought Zayn Hameed had a nice ass. After only a week at King’s Row, Nathan was fucking sick of this guy. He showed up in every corner of Nathan’s life; if figured that he’d be here, too.
They took all the same classes, and was Nathan’s primary competition for the top spot. He sped to finish quizzes first, raised his hand before Nathan, and worked his perfect charm on all the teachers.
And the way he said everything—with an air of arrogance that had the words “I know more than you” hidden beneath every syllable—made Nathan want to ball his fists up and plant them in his face.
He was looking at Nathan now, eyes narrowed. A beat went by, then his face slowly opened up in recognition.
Nathan turned the handle and opened the door. Despite his obvious qualms, he was determined to be cool about this. “Hey, man. You didn’t sign in. How long have you been here?”
That charming smile dawned on Zayn’s face. “Only a few minutes. Man.”
“Well, you didn’t sign in.”
“So?”
“I need to practice.”
Zayn’s gaze went to the padded guitar case clutched in Nathan’s hand. “What do you play?”
He brought the instrument a little closer to his side. “Guitar.”
“Bass,” Zayn answered, even though he hadn’t been asked. And his bass was nice, too—a wooden acoustic-electric that plugged into the small amp. Zayn folded his arms, his purple strap holding the instrument around those massive shoulders. “I didn’t know you played. Hey, you’re in AP English, right?”
“That’s right.”
“What’d you think of that reading assignment?”
“Alastor?” Nathan frowned. They’d been assigned to read Alastor; or, The Spirit of Solitude for English class this week, but he wasn’t sure what that had to do with the practice room. Nathan stepped fully into the space, letting the door slam behind him, and rested his guitar case against the wall. “Haven’t done it yet.”
Zayn hummed, returning to his bass. His fingers looked firm and strong where they laid on the thick strings. “I love poetry. I can’t wait to start on it.”
“Why don’t you do so now?” Nathan suggested. “And then I can have the room to myself.”
With a smirk that shone more through his eyes than his lips, Zayn shrugged off Nathan’s annoyance. He played a few more notes on his bass. It sounded like the beginning of a melody, or perhaps more of a countermelody from how it lilted up at the end. “Did you try out for the band?”
Nathan bristled. “Stop trying to change the subject. I haven’t forgotten that you refused to properly sign in to this room.”
“I’ll take that as a yes, then. You auditioned, and you didn’t make it in, and now you’re a sore loser.”
“Hey!”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Zayn continued. “We all knew it would go to Seiji, and of course I have to wait until Harvard graduates next year before I can even think about auditioning.”
“Then why are you here?”
“To play.”
“Ridiculous.”
“Really?” The smirk deepened as two dimples in his cheeks. He really is the dictionary definition of conventionally handsome. “Then are you here, if not to play?”
There was no good solution here. Nathan didn’t even think of playing as a means to improve; to him, it was a way to relax.
“Fine,” Nathan snapped. “You win.”
“Was this a competition?” He asked innocently.
Nathan brushed past the snide remark. “I’ll leave for an hour. When I return, I would like the practice room.”
“Whatever. Hey, maybe you can read Alastor and give me the rundown on what you think.”
That had been Nathan’s plan, but now he simply was not going to do that. Out of spite. He would find something else to work on. “Do you own homework, Hameed.”
Zayn’s hands flew up in defense. His perfectly wavy hair was blown back by the force of the motion. “Woah. No need to bring out the accusatory last names. Zayn’s fine.”
Nathan didn’t answer. He turned up his nose and left.
He finished his Trigonometry, completed the History readings, and then…
Ah, fuck. He had to do it. And maybe if he let Zayn talk him out of it, then that also meant Zayn was winning, albeit in a different way.
Nathan opened the book.
Earth, ocean, air, belovèd brotherhood!
Nathan closed the book.
He did not like poetry. He had always hated Shakespeare units, and when he’d read The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, he’d fallen asleep four times with his nose in the page.
Well, maybe it would get better once he fully dove into it.
Nathan flipped through the pages, marveling at all the unbroken stanzas before landing somewhere in the middle.
Hither the Poet came. His eyes beheld
Their own wan light through the reflected lines
Of his thin hair, distinct in the dark depth
Of that still fountain; as the human heart.
Nathan simply was not strong enough to read this.
He closed the book, drummed his fingers on the cover, and checked his watch. It had barely even been a half hour.
He had to try reading this again.
Okay, Nathan. From the top.
From the top, Nathan.
Anytime now, Nathan…
He flipped back to the front of the book, allowed himself just a few more moments of bliss, and began again.
Earth, ocean, air, belovèd brotherhood!
He dipped out around fifty-three minutes. It wasn’t a full hour, but it was close enough, and he would rather wait outside the room than try to suffer through another page. Book newly annotated with sticky notes, he tucked it neatly into his bag before throwing it across his back. It weighed heavily on his shoulders.
The practice rooms were right down the hall. He made the short walk, remarking on how empty they were this late in the evening. Half the lights were off and each footstep felt like a drum as they echoed down the linoleum floors. For a boarding school, there sure was a lack of students around at night.
Zayn was gone.
He still hadn’t signed in or out on the timesheet, but that was whatever.
With an over dramatic sigh of relief, Nathan entered the room, dropped his backpack, and unzipped his guitar case.
He couldn’t help but notice how warm the room was. Especially when the hallways had been cooler, this space felt toasty. It was like a part of Zayn still lingered.
Nathan huffed indignantly to himself. What a ridiculous thought that was.
Still, the navy blue walls blocked him in with a persistent memory: Zayn had just been standing here. Playing here. Zayn had been practicing in this exact spot, probably not even a few minutes ago.
Depending on when he left, there could still be lasting vibrations from his bass still hanging in the air.
Yes, that had to be why Nathan felt so strange. The vibrations. It was simply physics: vibrations took a long time to die out—far longer than humans were able to perceive them. And now, the barest hint of Zayn’s vibrations was permeating Nathan and making him feel uneasy.
It was the butterfly effect, or something. Zayn had simply flapped his wings, and now Nathan was—
Haunted?
No, he wasn’t fucking haunted, and he wasn’t being uneased by some ghost vibrations. He was simply rattled by Zayn’s inability to properly use the room’s timesheet. That was all.
Settling his acoustic over one knee, Nathan began to run scales.
In the library on Saturday, Nathan tried to tackle Alastor again.
The poem was just so supremely unnecessary. It simultaneously felt like there were too little and too many words. Perhaps they were just the wrong words; why was this a poem and not a book?
And o'er the aërial mountains which pour down
Indus and Oxus from their icy caves,
Well, who the hell was that?
Opening up a new tab in his browser, Nathan typed in Indus. Indus River. Okay. He tried again: who was Indus?
Not a singular person, but a group of people. The first large human civilization, actually. Perhaps whom the river had been named after? Kind of fascinating, but it did not explain the poem. Thank you AP World History for absolutely fucking nothing.
He repeated the search with Oxus, and found that that, too, was a river. Although also an ancient civilization—Bronze Age—and the name of a god.
Great. This didn’t help anything.
Pulling at his own hair, Nathan tried to reevaluate the two lines with this knowledge. He has to be talking about the rivers, right? It used the phrase “pour down.” If this wasn’t about the rivers, then there were at least three layers of metaphors he had to decode, and he was simply not interested in doing that.
This fucking blows.
The chair perpendicular to him squeaked against the floor as someone pulled it out. Nathan’s eyes snapped up to Zayn, who somehow looked even more stunningly handsome in the school’s blazer and red tie.
“This seat taken?”
“Yes,” Nathan snapped, but Zayn seemed to know he was lying. He plopped down without a second thought.
Zayn reached into his backpack and pulled out his own copy of Alastor. The brilliant green cover somehow looked much more vibrant than Nathan’s. “I was thinking we could work on it together.”
“No way,” Nathan immediately refused. He didn’t want to do homework with Zayn Hameed. The arrogant know-it-all.
But then again—
Nathan looked down at Indus and Oxus.
“Fine.”
Zayn beamed at him. “How far have you gotten?”
“Only a few pages,” Nathan admitted, showing Zayn his copy and where the bookmark laid. “I hate poetry.”
“All poetry? That’s very pessimistic.”
“I’m not sure that falls within the proper definition of the word.”
“Wow.” Zayn barked a single beat of laughter. “Okay, well, I love poetry.”
“Of course you do.”
“It’s like seeing a window into how someone’s mind works. Poets have to do so much with so little, and watching them solve the problem in such intricately creative and emotional ways never ceases to amaze me.” He seemed to genuinely believe it, too, from the way his eyes lost focus and wrinkles crept up around them. It looked almost regal, and it made Nathan want to gag.
Nathan watched him—just to see if this was some sort of joke—and caught the way Zayn’s eyes quickly darted to Nathan’s mouth. “Or perhaps I am just a romantic.”
Well, what was Nathan supposed to do with that?
He nudged his open book towards Zayn and pointed at Indus and Oxus. “Any idea what this means, then?”
Zayn refocused his eyes on the page. He read it only once before declaring, “It’s talking about the rivers. If you relate this to the lines before it, the author is describing the journey he’s taking—through the mountains where the rivers meet—and it’s one as beautiful as it is difficult. Not everyone’s journey is easy, you know.”
He really does fucking love poetry. Zayn was speaking like an expert on the subject; the confidence of someone with a doctorate in the field, not someone who had just read a few lines and immediately understood it perfectly, if not more than Nathan—who had been turning it over in his mind all afternoon.
He tried not to pout in defeat as he pulled his book back. “I guess.”
“Have you done any background reading on the story?” Zayn asked. “It might help you understand if you know what the author’s intent was.”
“I don’t need you to tutor me,” Nathan snapped.
Zayn readjusted in his seat, splitting open his book to read from the beginning. “Suit yourself.”
Nathan did suit himself. He did, so much so, that he stopped paying attention to Zayn completely. Pretended he wasn’t there, even, when he opened a new tab on his phone and searched up the background of the poem.
“That’s morbid,” Nathan mused aloud.
Zayn didn’t look away from his book. “Did you look it up?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s morbid,” Zayn agreed, “but it’s also beautiful, in a way.”
Nathan squinted at his phone screen, rereading the summary on Wikipedia. “I guess.”
Zayn leaned forward and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Do you want to hear my favorite part?”
The smell of his cologne floated between them, and he was close enough that Nathan could catch sight of stubble on the underside of his chin. He was clean shaven, but it was late in the day, and Nathan thought that he could probably count every single hair if given the chance. Which was a horrible thought to have.
“You’ve read it already?” Nathan asked.
“I skimmed it yesterday,” Zayn said. “Come on. Let me read this bit to you.”
Nathan crossed his arms and leaned forward on the table. The act closed a few more inches of space between them. This near, he could focus on the detail in the iris of Zayn’s eyes. “If you must, then go right ahead.”
Zayn cleared his throat, licked his lips, and did not back away as he began to read:
“Bright in the lustre of their own fond joy.
And what am I that I should linger here?
With voice far sweeter than thy dying notes,
Spirit more vast than thine, frame more attuned
To beauty.”
He spoke with such an air of reverence and knowledge, it was like he had written the words himself. He knew them so well, they flowed from his lips like an extension of his soul.
His pretty, kissable lips.
Ugh.
It was literally impossible to hate someone more. Nathan couldn’t even imagine it. Couldn’t even fathom.
Zayn whispered one more line:
“With doubtful smile mocking its own strange charms.”
His voice was low and sweet. It rumbled in his chest with an edge of hoarseness from where it broke past the barrier of his throat.
Nathan found himself staring, once again, at Zayn’s lips.
They were thick. Wet—but even so, a tiny peek of pink tongue licked the bottom. His mouth parted just so to allow room for the motion. He didn’t close his lips again after that, just kept them separated enough to let air out. It revealed the edge of his top row of teeth and the shadow of his mouth.
“Like it?”
Nathan watched as Zayn’s lips formed around the words.
Yes, he liked it very much.
Which, well, that was a problem. Because even if Zayn was hot—super, mega hot, smoking, could be a model, so far out of Nathan’s league—his personality left much to be desired.
Nathan thought he was down right arrogant.
But was it arrogance, or passion?
“Speechless, huh?” Zayn teased, the corners of his lips turning back into that smirk. “Do you understand it better when I’m reading it to you?”
No, it was arrogance.
And the worst part? Nathan had understood it better. Probably because Zayn understood what he was reading, and so he was able to easily convey the tone and phrasing within the rise and fall of his voice.
Yes, that had to be it. It was all about phrasing. Just like a melody.
That being established, Nathan would rather fail the unit than admit to benefiting from Zayn’s help. “Absolutely not. I can’t believe you would think that.”
“That’s a pity,” Zayn whispered. His eyes wandered around Nathan’s face, and Nathan was able to see all the exact twitches of motion his pupils made when they reached his cheeks, his nose, his lips. “I liked reading it to you.”
He scooted closer. So close. Why was he so close?
Nathan startled back. He tried to turn the sudden movement into nonchalance with a casual brush back of his hair. His hand got caught in the strands, so he had to tug, which made the entire sequence embarrassing in front of perfect-hair Zayn. Perhaps it sold the necessity for the act further? I can’t lean in close to you, I have a knot in my hair.
No. That wouldn’t hold up.
“You would like the sound of your own voice,” Nathan scoffed.
Zayn leaned back, too—albeit much more smoothly. He kept his hands flat on the table with the shoulder facing Nathan dropped. It made his posture lopsided. He didn’t raise his voice to normal volume when he asked, “Do you not like yours?”
Nathan couldn’t help his snort. “What kind of question is that?”
“An honest one,” Zayn answered. “You’re a musician. Surely, you must sing sometimes.”
“I don’t.”
“I’m not sure I believe you.”
“Well, that sounds like a you problem.”
“I’m sure you have a beautiful voice.” Zayn leaned his chin on the palm of his hand. It drew further attention to the stubble there. “Not that I would know. You did kick me out of the practice room.”
Nathan wrinkled his nose. “If you had properly signed in on the timesheet, I would not have bothered you.”
“I truthfully had just gotten there.”
“Doesn’t matter. There is a procedure in place for a reason.”
Zayn pivoted, “How long have you been playing guitar?”
Nathan slammed his book shut. It was hardly seventy pages and with a paperback cover, so the first few pieces of paper arched back upwards when closed. “That’s enough. Clearly, you are not here to study.”
“I have other things on my mind,” Zayn confessed. “Wanna meet again next week?”
Nathan paused halfway through sliding his laptop into his backpack. Then, before he knew what he was doing, he agreed.
“Next Saturday, same time.”
“Yeah,” Zayn grinned, his charm on display in full force. “I’ll be there.
But that was, of course, not the last he saw of Zayn that week.
They shared all their classes. The only reprieve was the language credit, of which Nathan had chosen Italian, and Zayn had seemingly not.
Not that Nathan spent that period missing the smug, dark head of hair in the front of the row.
Nathan did not know what language Zayn had signed up for. He did not ache to know. Why would he do that?
Nathan just kept taking his notes—color coded, with handwriting so neat it could have been off a typewriter—and refused to think of Zayn’s stubble or the kissable shape of his mouth.
Yet his thoughts remained—not unlike the practice room—haunted by the vibration of Zayn. He found himself remembering the tone of his voice over and over throughout his day. It played on a loop in the back of his mind. I liked reading it to you.
When the last class of the day broke, Nathan couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He grabbed his guitar and ran back towards the practice rooms.
Perhaps it would have been better to wait and practice until after he’d completed his homework, but it provided a nice rest in the middle of his otherwise busy day, and right now, he needed the distraction. Guitar was something he could just do, something he was good at—he could sit down, drop his hands, and simply play.
Maybe it was better that he hadn’t made the cut on auditions. This way, he could keep using guitar as a means to relax, rather than stressing about concerts, and time management, and standing up beside someone like Seiji—
But the extracurricular would look good on college apps…
No use dwelling on it. He hadn’t made it in. Hadn’t been good enough.
Nathan reached the second practice room. A quick check of the timesheet revealed that no one was signed in. He knocked.
Zayn’s face appeared in the window.
Nathan jumped back. “Agh!”
“Hey, Nathan.” Zayn opened the door, displaying his full body and the room. Nathan only looked at one of those. “You wanna practice together today?”
“Absolutely not.” Nathan wrapped his fists around his case’s handle tighter. “Why didn’t you sign out again?”
Zayn’s eyebrows creased together as he leaned around the door—into Nathan’s personal space—to peer at the sheet. “Oh. Whoops.”
“Yeah. Whoops. How’d you get here so quickly after class anyway?”
“I don’t know. I walked?”
Nathan’s eyes went to Zayn’s legs. Proportionate to his height, with thighs that Nathan could clearly tell were unnecessarily muscular through the slacks. His walk was probably equivalent to Nathan’s sprint.
He tore his eyes away from Zayn’s legs with an aggressive scoff. “Why can’t you practice in your room?”
“My roommate doesn’t like the noise. You?”
“Same.”
And, for any normal conversation, that probably should have been the end of it, but Zayn continued to inch closer and closer into Nathan’s space. He lowered his voice and asked, “How’s Alastor treating you?”
Nathan barely suppressed his groan. He still hadn’t finished his first read through. Actually, he was struggling even more than before. It’s like his brain knew that Zayn reading it to him was an option, and refused to comprehend it in any other way. Nathan had even attempted an audiobook version, but the narrator’s voice had been dry. It lacked all the passion Zayn had conveyed.
“I still have time,” Nathan answered.
Zayn smirked. “It’s due in two days.”
“Just the reading. I still have another week on the essay.”
“What if there’s a quiz?”
Then I’m fucked.
With how his mind refused to cooperate unless Zayn was reading to him, Nathan suspected he was sort of fucked either way.
“I’ll figure it out.”
Zayn leaned heavily against the door, eyes trailing down Nathan’s body. “If you would like my help, just ask.”
Nathan did, kind of, want his help, but he would not ask. He’d gotten this far in his academic career without needing a handsomely arrogant guy to read poetry to him. “As if I’ll need it.”
“Suit yourself. But if you change your mind, you know where to find me.” Only then did he step out of Nathan’s space, the absence of his body heat shocking Nathan once again. Slowly, Zayn let the door fall shut. The tail end of his whispers floated through the opening, “Right here in this practice room.”
“You motherfucker,” Nathan grit out. He clenched his fists tighter. “One hour.”
“Sure. See you in an hour.”
The door clicked, and Nathan was in the hall alone again.
One hour later, and Zayn was still in the practice room.
Nathan was already irritated after another session of not fucking understanding poetry, so when he approached the sounds of a low bass tumbling through the hall, he felt his heartrate double in speed.
He knocked with perhaps more force than necessary.
Zayn opened the door again, his bass slung easily across his back. “Yes?”
He looked so happy and handsome.
At the sight of his face, Nathan’s irritation increased tenfold.
He couldn’t even speak. Clearly, his mind was so clouded by frustration and anger that he had completely forgotten how to form a sentence. Or a word.
Zayn wore a knowing grin, told in the way he lowered his chin and looked through his lashes as much as the curve of his lips. He waited a little too long for Nathan to speak—only bringing unnecessary attention to the fact that he couldn’t— before lowering his voice again to ask, “You wanna come in?”
Nathan continued to stare at him.
“I’ll read you poetry,” Zayn offered, “if you play me something on your guitar.”
And Nathan was just annoyed enough at everything in the entire fucking universe that he almost said yes.
Instead, he blew the entire thing off, refused to dignify Zayn with an answer, and stormed back to his dorm.
At eleven o’clock on Tuesday night, Nathan gave up.
Alastor was straight kicking his ass. He’d only made it two stanzas beyond where they’d reached in the library several days ago. With over half the book left, there was no chance in hell that Nathan was going to be able to swing this.
He gripped his pencil tighter between his fingers, knuckles completely white, while he tried to work out what to do.
Should he try the audiobook again? No, the narrator was too dry. It was worse than reading.
Maybe his roommate would have some input?
Nathan glanced back behind his shoulder. His roommate was already asleep, a mere shaped lump beneath his thick comforter. No dice.
With a stretch, Nathan stood.
Paced a little.
Readjusted his desk lamp.
Tried one more time—
It was like the words floated right through his brain. He couldn’t process it, couldn’t focus. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t comprehend a single word. It was hopeless.
There was only one thing left to do.
The curfew at King’s Row was fairly tight, but not always properly enforced. While Nathan had not tested the limits yet, he’d heard whispers in the hallways of people who had. Apparently, if you stayed within the confines of the building, you were unlikely to get caught—unless you happened to get supremely unlucky and ran into one of the hourly patrols.
Nathan set his pencil down on his desk.
Was he really about to do this?
He was. His grade depended on it.
As quietly as he could, he slid his book, laptop, and writing supplies into his backpack and zipped it shut.
Nathan swiped his keys on the way out and made sure to lock the door behind him. The lights in the hallway were dimmed, but not completely off; it was enough to see where he was heading.
Not that he really knew. He had a guess which room was Zayn’s—not too far down, on the left—because he’d seen Zayn walk into it the other day, but he could have been visiting someone else’s. Nathan would just have to trust that this was it, because, well…
He needed that A.
Nathan walked up to the doorway— ah shit, I forgot to put shoes on —and knocked.
Zayn answered.
For a moment, the two of them stared at each other.
Zayn towered over Nathan. He was easily a full head taller, but he stood with a confidence—even in his worn, purple pajamas—that made him feel even taller.
Crossing his arms, Zayn leaned against the doorframe. The top he was in was short sleeved, so Nathan had a full view when his muscles flexed.
“I was wondering if you were going to show up.”
There’s that arrogance. No, Nathan, suck it up. You need this.
“Are you still willing to help?”
Zayn looked him over. It felt like an evaluation, and Nathan hunched his shoulders and shrunk beneath the scrutiny. This whole ordeal was embarrassing. Not only would Zayn have thoughts about this, but what about Zayn’s roommate?
Oh, shit. What if he said no? Nathan hadn’t even considered that before walking over here in his fucking socks, exposing himself, risking getting caught after curfew—
And then, the door opened a little wider.
Zayn stepped aside.
“Come on in,” he said, as charming and charismatic as always. “I was just boiling water for some tea.”