Deep (Zarry AU)

Opening

...but I gotta tell ya....

 

Sleepy, dark eyes, barely open.  Hair falling over half his forehead. That vintage Rick Springfield 84 tour t-shirt.  Oh, the irony, thought Harry, in the two seconds he had before Zayn spoke.

"Hazza... what the fuck, man...?" Zayn was saying, swaying slightly and propping himself against the edge of the open door, "what time is it?"

Harry had edged himself up against the door frame, into the shadow cast by the villa's porch and out of the moonlight where someone might see him.

"Late...I know.  I'm sorry,"  Harry said.  "Can I come in?  I really need to talk to you."

Zayn swayed back against the wall of the villa's entrance hall, waved a hand towards its interior.

"Sure, man."

Harry walked in, turning into the small sitting room and stopped, standing, arms crossed, shivering a little as the tropical heat gave way to frigid aircon. Moonlight slanted onto the polished wood floor through the half-open slats of the window blind.   Zayn flopped onto the couch that stood against the wall, lying back at first, as if he would fall asleep there, then pulling himself up straight, as if he had thought better of it.  He took a deep inhale, rubbed his hands up and down his face.

"So – shoot, bro.  Wha' is it?"

Harry chewed at a fingernail.  He shifted from foot to foot.   Now that he was here, he didn't know how to say it.

"Siddown, man"  Zayn waved a hand towards the opposite sofa. 

Harry stayed standing.

"I heard you're going home tomorrow. "  Harry's voice wavered.   "Louis told me."   

Zayn shifted forward, so he was sat on the edge of the seat, resting his elbows on his knees.  He looked down at the ground.  Then up at Harry. 

"Yeah. I am."

Harry nodded, then turned around, away from Zayn's sight.  He walked , two steps, towards a bookshelf that stood in the corner of the room.  There were actual books on it.  For a moment he wondered why a hotel room would have a shelf of books.   But the distraction only worked for so long.  He could only place a mental pile of books between him and Zayn's leaving for a second or two before its imaginary firewall would crumble to dust.   He closed his eyes. 

"Mate..."  He felt a hand on his upper arm, gently pulling him.  Harry turned and Zayn's arms hooked around him – one over his shoulder, the other under his arm and they pulled close and Harry felt Zayn's warm chest against his own.  For a second Harry buried his face into the shoulder of Zayn's t-shirt.  He inhaled the familiar smell  - cinnamon and lemon, it always reminded him of – and the memories came flooding back.   But then he noticed that Zayn's t-shirt was growing damp under his cheek.  Harry pulled back.

"Jeez, don't cry man. "  Zayn kept his hand on Harry's shoulder as he said it, frowning at his bandmate in concern. 

 

Embarrassed, Harry broke eye contact, looked down, sniffed.  Words flashed through his mind: Now.  Now or never.

"I love you."

There.  He had said it.  There was a moment of silence in which Harry studied the floor, the stripes of moonlight which formed angles with the dark floorboards.  A moment of agony; a moment in which he dared not look up at Zayn.