Work Text:
5.
Fame's not bad at first, but it steadily gets increasingly overwhelming.
Harry tries to take it in in steps, little by little, paying attention to the way his already-famous friends do it. There are methods to it, he's realised, there are lines you can draw. There are people he knows he can turn to, too, people outside of the band who understand.
It's probably why Zayn and Louis seem to be caught the most off-guard, both too intent on dragging their feet and sticking to home and people they've always known. They compensate for it in different ways, though: Louis' is getting louder, a little more irritating, much sharper. It's a version of him that Harry isn't entirely sure he knows how to work with yet, but he figures he'll give it time.
Zayn's is getting quieter, closing himself off a little bit. He does this thing - he always looks like he gathers excess tension and places it at his jaw, getting sharper in a different way.
This version of Zayn, Harry gets - it's the first version of Zayn he understands properly. The usual Zayn Harry finds a little thorny, someone who's with Harry for most of the way when they're talking about something, and then defers wildly for the last ten per cent, when it comes to actual action and execution. This one he finds strangely calming, weirdly approachable, even though it adds a little distance between Zayn and the other boys. This Zayn is someone who's all right with sitting next to Harry when he's been out talking to fans or is just fresh off a live interview, when energy is still thrumming through him; he's someone who absorbs his excess, lets him find the time to be still.
A month after they get to the States for the first time, Zayn and Harry chance running out for lunch together - it's raining, and they figure they can get away with it. They're surprised by the fans who end up waiting outside anyway, and they take twenty minutes longer than they'd wanted to.
They get back to the hotel dripping wet, and Paul ushers them to the one of the crew members' rooms, right next to the one they've decked out to be a makeshift studio.
"Can you fucking believe that," Zayn says, sounding slightly winded. His eyes are a little wide when he glances over at Harry.
Harry tosses him the second towel he's brought over from the bathroom, rubbing at his own hair. "No," he says honestly, sitting down heavily next to Zayn. He still feels like he's buzzing, and he's only thrown off even more by how visibly affected Zayn is - Zayn would've siphoned it off by now, usually. "Are you all right?"
"No, yeah," Zayn says. He unfolds the towel and folds it again, and then lays it over his lap. "Just...didn't expect this at all. When we started."
"Yeah," Harry says, catching at one of Zayn's hands before he tears a hole into the towel from his fidgeting. "Feels like we're catching up to the Beatles, doesn't it?"
"One of the Beatles was killed," Zayn says plainly, throwing him an exasperated look. "Let's not do that."
"You know that's not what I meant," Harry says, rolling his eyes back at him even as he threads their fingers together. He's still trying to figure Zayn out, but he's been at the brunt of Zayn's exasperation enough to be familiar with the varieties of it, and he's aware that this is the tamer of them - put on, a little defensive.
"I know," Zayn relents, like Harry'd expected him to. His face smoothes out as he stares ahead. "Bit unsettling."
"You have us, though," Harry says, squeezing his hand lightly. "We're all dealing with it too, aren't we?"
"I know," Zayn says again, and he slides into a smile, just like that, wiping the look previously on his face with almost alarming ease. "You're right, Harry. We are."
"We'll sort it out," Harry assures him. His excitement is finally wearing off a bit, for once because of concentrated effort on his part, instead of leeching off Zayn's quiet solidity.
Zayn hums in response, finally turning to look at Harry properly. The look on his face has shifted again, his eyes becoming considering, his mouth turning up just a little more at once side.
"What did the Beatles do in their downtime, you think?" Zayn asks. He'd be seconds away from a wink if he were the kind of person to do it, if he didn't pretend he was cooler than that.
This one's a version of Zayn Harry doesn't know what to do with, yet - the one who has a challenge in the curve of his mouth when he looks Harry over, the one who guides quiet moments into something heavy.
The one who, unlike during their first months together, stares back at Harry every time he catches Harry staring first.
The click of the door opening is deafening in the quiet room, and both of them flinch, their hands slipping apart.
"Finally," Niall says. "Zayn, you need to record again, they couldn't understand the first line - "
"Again, yeah, I know," Zayn says, rubbing at his face and getting up. He slaps Niall's arse as he passes him on the way to the door. "Don't fuckin' laugh at me when I leave."
When he turns to shut the door behind him, though, his eyes are warm, and he's clearly holding back a laugh of his own. Whatever had been bothering him just minutes ago has clearly been put aside.
Harry smiles back and tries to do the same.
4.
Zayn kisses with a singular focus.
It's why Harry thinks Zayn hasn't realised how rough his hold on Harry's hair is, nor how hard his grip on Harry's waist is - he's far too intent on Harry's mouth, biting lightly at his lower lip, pulling him in to get them on the same height. He makes an annoyed noise when Harry pulls back, clicks his tongue when Harry moves to mouth at his neck, and yanks him back up to keep kissing him.
Fine. If Harry doesn't get to choose the way they kiss, he's going to choose where they do it. He slides a hand under Zayn's left knee and tugs him up and in, dragging him away from the room door. Zayn only pulls away when Harry falls back onto the bed.
"You think she noticed we left?" Zayn asks, grinning at him from where he's somehow managed to keep standing, despite Harry's grip on him. The way the light hits him, Harry can see the shine on his throat from where his mouth just was, and that's what makes him smile back smugly.
"Do you think she noticed that the two famous band members she was hitting on left?" Harry clarifies, crooking his fingers at Zayn.
"Yeah," Zayn says. He tugs his shirt off and slides onto the bed on his knees, resting his arse on Harry's shins.
"You're - " Harry starts, breaking off into a gasp as Zayn sidles closer, grinds down into him.
"Yeah," Zayn says again, his voice lowering.
"You're an id - " Harry tries again, and whines when Zayn bypasses his mouth to bite at Harry's ear.
"What am I, babe?" Zayn says. He laughs when he meets Harry's glare.
Harry only tugs him down with an arm around his back, knowing that if Zayn had his way, they wouldn't progress for another ten minutes.
Zayn's still laughing when their mouths press together again.
They hadn't spent more than an hour at the bar: their attempts at pulling had nose-dived dramatically in quality when their eyes had met looking at the same girl, and it'd only got worse when their one-upping had suddenly becoming flirting with each other, deliberate and certain.
The thing about their charged back and forth is that it's not unfamiliar - there's always been an air about them, tension that needs cutting. It's nothing like how they are with the other boys, and how the others interact among one another. They've got good at toeing the line, probably because of the kind of practice they've had with pressing too close and then pulling back again.
There's something about the unfamiliarity of the city they're in, though, the Melbourne summer adding humidity to their heat, adding distance to the way they are when they're together at home - something that makes them click, makes them loosen.
Zayn's hand slowly sliding up the inside of Harry's thigh, bodies pressed against the wall right outside the restrooms at the bar, was all it took.
Harry had thought about asking him what this is, what it means, where they're going to take it; he'd thought about it throughout their walk back to the hotel. About setting boundaries, letting there be a cut-off point; about what girlfriends would mean, about what they should let the others know.
Kissing Zayn now, though, in the privacy of their room, Harry can't think. He can't hear anything over the slick of their mouths, the pounding of his heart in his ears.
Whatever he'd wanted to ask, he loses his grip on fully.
3.
"None of the lads coming up?" Zayn asks, pressing the button for their floor.
"Not tonight," Harry says, biting at the inside of his lip as he looks Zayn over. He moves in a little closer, reducing the distance he'll need to cross after the lift doors close and they're alone, but he has to stop when someone bursts in.
"Ready to tuck in for the night, boys?" Lou says cheerily. "I've never done this much hair and make-up in my life, we're never doing costumes again, all right?"
"You'll just need an assistant, next time," Harry offers, trying not to lean too much into Zayn's space. "Have you - "
"Fuck's sake," Lou says suddenly, pressing the lift doors open again before they're fully shut. "Speaking of assistance - " she's out the door before she's finished the sentence, a cloud of perfume all that's left of her.
Harry presses the button to make the door close quickly, for good measure, so nobody has the chance to slip back in. Zayn raises an eyebrow at him when he turns to face him again, looking amused.
"So how's being in shorts again feel?" Harry says, walking slowly closer to him.
Zayn makes a face as he tugs at his T-shirt and then at the band of his pants, like he's testing that he's still in them. "I liked the skirt," he says. "Bit airy. Good for the weather."
"Mmm, right," Harry says, grinning. Zayn would be more believable if he hadn't kept running his hands down the lines of his thighs, hadn't kept staring at mirrors he passed by, clearly adoring the shape and feel of himself.
Harry'd call him out, but Zayn's stubborn, and Harry's got better things to expend his energy on. He slides an arm around Zayn's waist instead, pulling him a little closer, staring steadfastly forward. "You know you've still got your eyeliner on?"
"Yeah," Zayn says. "But I mean, that's not all I've still got on."
Harry's grip tightens subconsciously, something in his brain suddenly tripping. "Well-played," he allows. He drags him out the door - not that he has to, because Zayn willingly matches him step for step.
They head straight for Harry's room without even discussing it, the way they've taken to doing these days when they skip out on the buses. Harry tries to plan exactly what to say to take things further - maybe he could make a comment about reasserting Zayn's manliness, or maybe he could cut straight to the point and ask him about dicks? - only Zayn pulls away from him and sits at the couch in front of the television set.
"Up for dinner?" Zayn asks, the room service menu already in his hands.
Harry blinks, trying to process how the build-up in the lift hasn't led them straight to the bed. "Uh, sure," he says.
"I promise I won't order spicy again," Zayn says, winking at him, totally unaffected by how it takes Harry a second to catch up. "Chicken marsala all right?"
"Get something laddy," Harry suggests gamely.
"What," Zayn says. He wrinkles his nose. "Like a pint and chips?"
"I don't know. What's laddy?" Harry asks, furrowing his eyebrows.
"I don't know! You suggested it, Harry!" Zayn says, hitting him with the menu as Harry slides into the seat next to him. Zayn almost immediately slides an arm around Harry's shoulder and tugs him in close, and he pulls his leg up on the couch to lean his knee against Harry's thigh.
It's easy from there for Harry to sink into him, reaching over to Zayn's other side to get the remote control. He talks a little loudly on purpose when Zayn's on the phone with room service just to make Zayn smile the way he does at Harry, and only ever at Harry - exasperated, tinged with sweet fondness.
They've laughed their way clean through dinner (chicken marsala, but nachos, too, they decide; Harry gives Zayn all the jalapeños), chilled with drinks on the balcony, and taken turns in the shower - and they're finally slipping into bed by the time Harry remembers.
"What've you still got on," Harry says.
"What," Zayn says sleepily, pushing at Harry's hip to roll him onto his side.
"In the lift," Harry says, obligingly shifting so his back is facing Zayn. "What you said. What've you still got on?"
"Show you tomorrow," Zayn promises, and presses his nose against Harry's shoulder. "I set our alarm for six."
2.
There's a knock on the hotel room door over two hours after dinner. The only reason Harry's still awake to get it is that he hasn't been able to sleep - the lights and sounds of Tokyo are hard to get used to.
"Can I bunk with you, Harry? Louis' being a twat."
Zayn looks apologetic even after Harry waves him towards the bed, making it clear Harry'd been the last resort. The way he moves is awkward, too, like he's forgotten how to navigate spaces he shares with Harry.
He has, though, he really has forgotten; both of them have. Harry hopes it resolves itself by the time they start their tour next year - it would be strange to start taking abrupt U-turns, constantly keeping themselves from touching. He doesn't know how to be on stage without Zayn's casually possessive touch, the easy weight of his hand on his hip.
Just the thought of it is awful, distancing in a way that makes something stick in his throat. He doesn't want that at all.
Tired of Zayn's discomfort, watching him sit gingerly on the right side of the bed, he clears his throat. "Lou with Eleanor?"
"Skype," Zayn confirms with a grimace.
"Your fiancee not up for it?" Harry prods, making sure to keep his voice from curdling the way he wants it to.
"Nah, Japan's on the weirdest time zone," Zayn says, shaking his head. "She's told me off for being in the middle of nowhere."
The noise of traffic from outside stops exactly when Zayn stops talking, adding to the sudden crackling tension in the room, and it's Harry's turn to wince. Zayn thinks of Perrie so easily, brings her up so easily - even to him. Harry's still trying to figure out how Zayn can compartmentalise the way he does, the kind of thought processes he goes through, the kind of justifications he allows himself. How he could kiss Harry the way he did and propose to someone else within the span of a week.
Whatever. This isn't Harry's concern, not any longer. He doesn't begrudge Zayn for it, not really; despite the occasional night where they went straight to bed, they'd never been anything more than good fun, a really good time. They'd always been friends with sexual tension, and the latter'd been what they'd sunk into. It's just going to take reconfiguring - a little more 'friends', nothing of the sex.
Harry pulls the back cushion off the hotel couch and puts it on the centre of the bed.
"I'm going to the loo," he says. He pauses by the suitcase for a second and then, hoping Zayn doesn't comment on the abnormality of it, pulls out a pair of pants to change into. "Make yourself comfortable."
Zayn's in bed by the time Harry comes back out, sheets tugged up to cover half of his face, as always. The little hope Harry had had about finally falling asleep an hour ago is gone now - as he climbs into the other side, careful not to tug the covers too hard, he's frustratingly aware of the sharp, clean smell of Zayn's favourite soap.
Zayn shifts around a little and settles again, and Harry listens to him breathe.
His mum had told him once that she knew she knew Robin when she could start figuring things out by paying attention to the little things - looking out for changes in his breathing to know if he's upset, the way he tilts his head to check if his laughter's real.
Harry can't even tell if Zayn's awake.
"I don't get you at all," Harry says out loud, feeling suddenly sick.
Zayn doesn't say anything at all. His breathing doesn't shift one bit.
The cushion between them is thick, the texture rough even through the hotel blankets, but Harry pretends he can feel a line of heat from his shoulder to his knee, a cold foot nudged between his.
It's not hard to recall. Sometimes their nights together are all he can remember.
1.
Harry runs into Zayn in the corridor one night as he's heading back to his room, both of them hunched over their phones.
"Night, Harry," Zayn says, sidestepping him to get into the lift.
"Have a wild one, Zayn," Harry offers. It comes out a little sharper than he'd intended it to.
Zayn stops and turns, already beginning to frown. "I'm going to the gym," he says, his mouth tight. Harry can see the old iPod he's holding in his hand now, the small drawstring bag hanging from two fingers. "Don't you start."
"Start what," Harry says, digging out his keycard. "If Liam's already told you to be careful - "
Zayn heaves out an annoyed sigh and turns away, and Harry feels an ache starting to set in at his temples.
He recognises this Zayn, is the thing - the buzzing. The excess energy, and the tinge of anxiety to it. He recognises the extra effort Zayn's made to channel it into his time onstage. And he recognises, too, that it's been flooding over - that he's kept it up even outside of his time onstage in Asia, and that Louis' only been encouraging it with their consecutive nights out.
It makes Harry wary, but right now, it also makes him want to try to help. He'd been able to help before, years ago, hadn't he?
Harry reaches for Zayn's elbow, gentling him before he's fully spun around and away from him. "Are you all right, you think?" Harry asks.
Zayn glances at his hand, and then up at him. "I'm trying to get there," Zayn says wryly, his voice going low. "How do you even do it, this popstar thing?"
Harry shrugs, tugging him a little closer. Nothing he says is going to help here, he's learned by now. They're not dealing with the same thing - none of them are, and Zayn even less than the others. There's something else he can offer, though, something he knows Zayn usually likes.
"I was going to watch a movie on demand," Harry says. "Watch it with me?"
Zayn smiles at him and shakes his head, pulling his arm away lightly. "Too restless," he says. "Later?"
Later sounds good. Watching Zayn step back into the lift area, Harry thinks he feels a little hopeful.
+1.
Of course they keep track of him. Their group chat, the one for the five of them, has gone mute, the e-mail thread untouched, and Harry's certain they don't really talk to him individually either, but they keep track in other ways.
The pap photos are the most common, the easiest to chance upon - he sees them all the time, Zayn buying a house, Zayn taking his new rescue dog for a walk. There's Twitter, though he tries to steer clear of it, because there's never a point to getting involved or even reading everything that comes up there - something he wishes his bandmates remembered more often.
There's one other interview, in the middle of June, in a way that puts it all into better perspective - the way the four of them had been pushing for. It's a radio interview, but Harry looks for a transcript. Zayn says he doesn't like the kind of person he is when he's famous. He doesn't like what he has to be, what he ends up being, how people talk about him either way. It's - whatever, but at least it's reason - and it's one that Harry understands at least at its very core, even if the way it stretches out still leaves him dissatisfied. Zayn's awful at being famous, always has been; as hard as he tried not to, he always left himself too vulnerable, and took subsequent hits harder than any of them ever did.
All in all, though, both by concentrated effort and a genuine lack of accessibility, it's not until the end of August that he hears Zayn's voice again.
It's a late call, late enough that he receives it as he gets back to his room after a show. He picks it up before he realises what the number on the caller ID is.
"Harry."
"Zayn," Harry says, confused. He glances around the room automatically - there's no one around, of course, he's alone in his hotel room.
"How's Chicago?" Zayn asks. "Wiki says you're in Chicago?"
"It's - " Harry stops, feeling abruptly upset and out of sorts. "What are you on," he says instead. "We haven't talked in months."
"Yeah," Zayn says, the usual calm of his voice shifting a little, in a way that Harry can't help but register even now. He's always been good at catching the tone of Zayn's voice, he thinks, even if Zayn'd never let him know he was right. "How's everyone?"
"Great," Harry says sharply, his voice overloud. "Louis and Niall've fucked off to a club, Liam's with his Sophia."
"Of course," Zayn says, and then he takes in a deep, shaky breath.
It's the sound of that breath, the off-beat of it, that makes Harry pause. He sinks into the bed, feeling the tension in him snap, and he breathes in too. They're quiet for a bit. Harry tries to pull himself back in, still feeling a little too raw.
"The show was good," Harry says finally. "Saw someone cry through What Makes You Beautiful."
"Like all of you weren't crying on the inside," Zayn says softly, after taking in another long breath, like he's pulling himself together too. "Five years."
"Five years," Harry agrees. "They didn't have orange juice at the hotel breakfast this morning and Liam looked destroyed. We had someone run out and buy a carton and leave it in his room."
"Does he know who did it, because he's going to be so embarrassed," Zayn says. His voice is roughing over the way it does when he starts to smile. Harry feels a strange, quiet thrill knowing he still knows what that sounds like, and then feels upset knowing there's no point to that kind of knowledge now.
"Nah, but he'll figure it out," Harry points out. "It's just orange juice, he'll be fine."
Harry glances around the room as he waits for Zayn to speak. He'd intended to go out and find somewhere to eat, but he finds himself suddenly loathe to do it now, and he reaches for the room service menu.
Zayn coughs. "I started doing yoga, like you'd said last year, do you remember?" he asks. "It's really helped me..." he trails off.
"Ground yourself?" It'd been an off-hand thing, something he'd been thinking of telling Zayn throughout the tour leg in South America before he'd hastily thrown it into a banal conversation about the weather in a lift one night, the night before their flights back to London. "I'm glad you remembered."
Zayn hums in agreement. Harry feels his cheeks heat a little, something in his chest warming over. He knows how he sounds when he says these things; it means something, as it always has, that Zayn took what he said into consideration.
Harry lets himself try to picture him, of his own will, for the first time in months. There's new things to account for, of course - the striking shortness of his hair is the hardest to slot in. But the way he's probably looking down, trying to pretend it isn't a big deal; the way he's probably pursing his lips, trying to hold back whatever he wants to say - those are easy to think of. Those are easy to know.
Zayn shuffles around on the other end. This carefulness Harry remembers, too - it's run through most of their conversations for two years.
"So I think I've finally found a pet who's going to love you," Zayn says, and a smile creeps onto Harry's face, totally unbidden.
He wakes up with his phone pressed to his ear and to the news that Zayn's engagement's been called off.
+2.
Harry practically jumps on the phone when it rings, glancing around the room the way he always does these days before he accepts the call.
"Listen to this," Harry starts, picking up exactly where their last conversation left off two days ago. "Remember that thing you told me about bees?"
"Give me a second," Zayn says, and Harry hears the too-familiar beep of a door unlocking on the other end.
"Are you at a hotel?" Harry asks curiously, shutting the door to his refrigerator.
"Yeah, that's what I - " Zayn breaks off and heaves like he's just lifted and dropped something heavy. "That's why I called. You up for meeting for dinner?"
"Are you - Zayn." Harry takes immediate umbrage, operating on host instinct. "You're in LA?"
"Guilty," Zayn says. He's smiling now, and Harry can tell by the way he sounds as he continues. "Tell me when?"
"Now," Harry says. "And you're staying over, you ass."
"Ass," Zayn mocks, his American accent making him sound like a 40-year-old white man. He takes too long to say anything else, though, and Harry knows he's overthinking it.
Harry can understand why - they haven't met face to face in close to year, maybe. But they've talked every so often for months now, collecting facts and ideas and thoughts, things they find interesting. After the last show of tour he'd thought suddenly ways to think about home and all he'd wanted was to talk about it with Zayn. There's no one else, at this point, that Harry thinks he could feel more comfortable with. And there's a part of him that thinks he knows Zayn better than anyone else now, too, simply by way of listening to him, listening to him reply to the things Harry says. Knowing where to poke and prod at him when Zayn slows down or closes himself off, and knowing when to leave him be.
It's a little too heavy to abruptly pile onto Zayn on the phone, though, especially after a long flight, so he keeps that in for now. Different plan.
"I have five spare rooms and I'm trying to marinate meat the way you taught me last week," Harry wheedles instead. "Help me not poison myself, Zayn. I only know how to bake."
"You and your baking," Zayn says, too much affection in his voice. There's some shuffling around on the other end before Zayn speaks again, and this time his voice is shaking a little. He sounds both nervous and excited - this Harry gleans from a combination of knowing how Zayn sounds now when he feels these things, and of knowing that's what he himself is feeling, thinking about seeing Zayn again. "You're sure?"
"Come give me a live demonstration," Harry says firmly. "Go check out, and tell me what you're doing here while you're walking over there."
"Leaving," Zayn says warmly. A hard click of confirmation punctuates his sentence.
"Getting a hotel room while I'm in LA," Harry says, shaking his head as he starts to clear up some of the mess in his kitchen. "It's a wonder I'm even letting you in."
"All right, Harry," Zayn says. "You gonna tell me about what you read about bees?"
+3.
Album promotion somehow doesn't get any less tiring, Harry muses, saluting at Niall as they diverge paths at the first fork in the hallways. There's too much to manoeuvre, too many things to make sure he doesn't get wrong - he's good at it, sure, but he misses the straightforwardness of pure performance. He knows who he is onstage. He knows he's lucky to feel that way.
Still. One album down, and a badly-promoted greatest hits to go.
He taps the keycard against the door as he starts pulling out his phone, dialling the last number he'd called earlier that morning.
"Hey, Harry."
It takes a second to realise he didn't hear Zayn on the phone - the number's still trying to connect. He looks up, eyes immediately drawn to Zayn. He's lying on the bed, legs crossed at his ankles, a book in one hand. In his joggers and plain worn T-shirt, he's a sight for sore eyes - Harry's torn between burrowing beside him right away, and running off to the bathroom to scrub himself clean so he won't have to get up for hours.
"Hey," Zayn prompts again, his smile bright.
"Hi," Harry says back, grinning at him gormlessly. "Hey."
Zayn looks him over as Harry watches him back, drinking him in.
There's a softness to Zayn these days, something that'd made Harry feel resentful for a while as he and his bandmates had dealt with trying to get back on their feet. Niall will still tell him now that it's unfair all five of them didn't get to leave at the same time, that they'd had to keep going when their will to had suddenly been sapped dry, and Harry understands that. He wishes they could've left, too. But Zayn was always going to reach breaking point first, was always going to cut out first; the costs for him always outweighed the benefits.
Maybe Harry's biased, though. Plus - and this is a big plus - Zayn's smile has only gotten more killer in the year or so since he left the band.
"Are you not going to ask?" Zayn asks finally, bringing his eyes back up to Harry's.
"Surprise," Harry says, shrugging and waving his fingers a little. "I got it. Come up here and kiss me."
Zayn laughs as he sits up and knee-walks his way to the end of the bed, gesturing at Harry to come closer. From this position, Harry has to tilt his head up just a bit in order to kiss him, and he does it happily, immediately opening his mouth to Zayn's, feeling warm and loose, his tiredness seeping out of him.
"Surprise," Zayn says softly while he pulls away, nudging his nose against Harry's.
Harry slides his arms around Zayn's waist, letting out a noise of contentment as Zayn's hand gently weaves through Harry's hair and pulls him back in, to press their mouths together again, a little more lightly - nothing at all like the way they'd used to kiss.
It makes him wonder.
"Back when we first did this," Harry says, pulling away to start peeling off his clothes. "I wanted to ask you about boundaries. When to end it."
"You didn't ask," Zayn says. He leans back and sits back down, keeping his eyes on Harry.
"And that didn't work out so well, did it," Harry says with a laugh, shaking his hair loose from the band he'd had it in.
Zayn smiles at him as he reaches out and tugs helpfully at Harry's trousers. "You asking now, then, babe?"
Harry shrugs. "No boyband dynamics to consider this time," he says.
"No girlfriends," Zayn adds self-deprecatingly. "But there's been no one else for me but you."
"Yeah?" Harry asks.
"For a while now," Zayn says, and grins at him like he hadn't confessed to anything at all.
Harry feels a rush of fondness, followed by unmistakable heat.
"Give me out of your rings, then," Harry says, moving to straddle Zayn on the bed. "Let's make it official."
"Whatever you want," Zayn begins, and then shakes his head and gently pushes him off his lap. "Shower first."
"Boyfriends share showers, don't they?" Harry says, and he pulls Zayn off the bed too.
+4.
"We're so glad to hear you sing again, Zayn," the interviewer says. "Back after you left 1D it felt like everyone was in mourning."
Zayn glances up at Harry and shoots him an exaggerated look of disdain. Harry to clap his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing, very aware of the speakerphone on the bed between them.
"I've always loved music, I think I was always going to come back to it," Zayn says carefully, and somehow his voice sounds earnest and clear despite his facial expression. "Just needed to do it on my own terms, you know?"
"And your bandmates, how are they?" the interviewer presses.
"They're good, they're all good," Zayn says. "Enjoying their mid-twenties retirement. They're all mostly taking the chance to go in hiding."
Harry's seen this answer from him several times over the last week, in the papers and online and even on his Twitter mentions, but it's the first time he's actually heard Zayn say it. 'They're taking the break that I got to take over a year early' is what Harry's always read into it, and seeing the accompanying sheepish smile on Zayn's face confirms it.
Zayn glances up at him from his phone and Harry smiles back immediately, pleased that he's here with him, and hoping Zayn can tell.
"Have you talked to them recently?"
Zayn squints at Harry goofily, pretending he's looking for something. "Just grabbed lunch with Harry," he says.
"Grabbed" implied spontaneity, when really they'd just managed to cordon off a section of the hotel restaurant for privacy, and Harry had paid off one of the waiters to run off and buy samosas from the Indian place down the road. They'd had wine, and they'd split dessert. Harry can't wait to get to do these things wherever they want.
The interviewer sounds delighted, and Harry winces, practically seeing the conversation heading right off-course.
"I'm still here, actually," Harry says, throwing caution to the wind. "Haven't stopped listening to his album all week."
"Thanks, Harry," Zayn says.
The woman on the phone sputters, clearly flustered, and they hear the sound of papers being shuffled. Harry glances at the stopwatch they've got open on his phone, sitting next to Zayn's - they've got less than a minute before the end of the interview, thank goodness.
When Harry looks up again Zayn's already looking at him, unimpressed. Harry grins, and Zayn shakes his head, with a poor attempt at hiding a smile. It's been years since Harry's made a ridiculous, knee-jerk decision - and this one's all Zayn's fault. Zayn's probably figured that one out.
"What's your favourite track, then?" Zayn runs with it, raising his eyebrow at him.
Harry knows what to do now with this Zayn, the one who looks at him with a challenge in the curve of his mouth, the one who stares back at him when he meets Harry's eyes. This Zayn gets mad when he worries that the food he's cooking has been on the stove too long, and beams at Harry when he slides in beside him at the stove to get a sneak preview. He stares right at him in their bedroom, heavy with purpose, and breaks into laughter when Harry aims for his mouth and misses by a mile in his eagerness.
He still kisses with singular focus, and always smiles into his mouth when Harry presses into him long enough.
"Kissing Constraints is pretty good," Harry says, and hopes Zayn can tell what he means from the way Harry looks at his mouth.
From the way Zayn tilts his head, slightly to the side, and from the warmth tucked into the corner of his eyes, Harry knows he knows.
+5.
"Babe, did you pack the suit Caro gave me into your case, because - "
"Because I knew you'd forget," Harry finishes. He turns his head to accept the cheek kiss he's knows he's going to get, but Zayn does him one better, walking by and pressing his mouth to Harry's nose, and then his mouth.
Harry makes a noise of protest as Zayn pulls away, and Zayn grins and slips out of the bathroom.
"Are we meeting the others there or picking them up?" Harry calls, tugging his tie into place and checking it against his reflection.
"Just Liam who wants a ride, I think," Zayn says back, voice muffled. "His room's two floors down."
"So are we going to take it easy on him tonight," Harry asks, "Or are we going to make his ears get all red?"
Zayn's buttoning up his shirt by the TV, but he looks up at Harry when he exits the bathroom to throw him a bright smile. His hair's already done, teased into something Harry remembers from a red carpet appearance, eight, ten years ago. His trousers are fitted nicely, his stubble's carefully shaved.
Harry can't help but smile back, even as he tries to catch his breath a little, and he takes a couple of large strides so he can get closer, reaching for Zayn's collar to do the last button.
"What did you say, babe?" Zayn says, smoothing Harry's hair off the side of his face.
"Nothing," Harry says, preoccupied with trying to resist sliding his hands up under Zayn's shirt. "Just thinking about how red Liam's ears are going to get in the car."
Zayn grins at him, shaking his head. "Nothing'll beat the time he and Niall barged in on us at your album release last year," he reminds him.
"You were getting bored," Harry reasons.
"And you're full of it," Zayn continues. He pretends to pull back, but he doesn't really move back more than an inch. "Popstars like us don't get on red carpets with their clothes all mussed."
"I don't know," Harry says, ready to prove him wrong as he leans in to kiss him, taking back what Zayn's refused him in the bathroom. "Didn't the Beatles?"