Faking

15

Third POV

Dawn had set a couple of hours ago, the gentle light of the morning was brazing through the curtains; the heat of the sunlight warmed Harry's eyelids, and as if in reaction, they opened. He noticed the difference almost instantly. The sudden ability to breathe a little better, the lighter feeling in his stomach. The clearer thoughts, making him well aware of his major fuck up.

The man's eyes darted to the alarm clock, the wooden oak object hadn't been set for about two months. Clearly, it read, 8:04 AM, and Harry's first thought was that he hadn't woken up at six again. He stretched his body in a turn, expecting his raven-haired husband to be quietly sleeping.

However, when fully turned Zayn was nowhere in sight. Harry knew he'd slept in here, the traces of evidence lying in the crumbled sheets. Harry moved upwards, breaching his legs out and closing his eyes with the slight pleasure of his pulling muscles. He made his way out of the bed, only then realize he was only in boxers.

That was strange. He didn't remember stripping his clothing before bed. Shaking it off, he stretched a little and made his way out into the hall.

Before heading downstairs to the distant sound of a tea-pot whistling, Harry went to the last room in the hall. He opened the door, surprised to see no one in there. He'd thought for sure at least Liam would be keeping the bed occupied in a slumber. He quickly went to the next door, quietly twisting the handle and taking in the scene in the room.

On the bed next to the wall, Niall was pressed against the wooden fixture. Curled up next to him was a small body - Lou, precious little Lou who looked so peaceful. Then there was Liam, who had his lengthy arms hugged around Louis, his cheek pressed against the boy's messy-bed head that was sticking up in different directions.

Harry felt his heart warm, and if he was under the light of an x-ray, it would show how the muscle pumped with love. Then the reminder of what he did came to loom over him again, like a dark rain cloud making the moment a little upsetting.

Sighing, Harry shut the door and made his way down the leveled stairs. When he reached the bottom he noticed the clean living room, the way the TV screen was black with no power, and the smell of cleaning products. Zayn. The raven stressed clean, a habit since they had been married. It only made Harry feel worse.

He bee-lined to the kitchen, standing in the doorway to his lover's back. It looked as if Zayn was cooking something, and by the aroma that was wafting through the air, it was french-toast. A frown set the place on Harry's face, and just as he was about to go up to his partner, said man's smooth voice rang out, "Sit at the table, please."

Calm. Collected. Harry thought. It was different than the set in the living room that was laced with anxiety. He determined that Zayn had been up for a while. Enough to settle down at least, Harry thought. Or maybe Zayn had done it last night when he was sleeping, he really didn't know.

Whenever the raven had done it, the calmness in his voice still held a strict undertone that Harry wasn't ready to mess with. So with clear thoughts, he set his half-naked body down in one of the kitchen's wooden chairs, the mahogany structure hinging across the floor as Harry scooted closer to the table.

While waiting, Harry decided to keep himself busy by taking notice of Zayn's attire. Much like himself last night, the raven was fitted into a pair of loose joggers, their colour the equivalent of ash. Hanging over the waistband of the trousers was a baggy sleep-shirt, rugged and stained - worn but in a good way; it was like that one item of clothing that you just couldn't get rid of, no matter how old and bad it looked.

Harry himself had been dressed in a pair of joggers much like Zayn's - maybe they had gotten them from the same store, but now he was just showcased in a pair of dark and short knickers. In contrast to his husband, however, he had no top on. He didn't know why though because he remembered going to sleep with protection scratching against his torso.