You Can Let It Go [ZARRY]

Fifty

Zayn:

We spent the night in tangled sheets, grasping at each other, insatiable.

Harry had to go to DC in a week and I
had to figure out what the hell to do with my life, but for a few days, we had only each other.

After a shower, we called a truce in order to eat and drink and refuel. Harry loaned me a pair of his sleep pants and we both stood in the kitchen, shirtless, eating cold chow mein out of the boxes with chopsticks.

I fed Harry a piece of baby corn, since I knew he liked those best, and he reciprocated with a small pile of noodles.

His chopsticks slipped, and half of the noodles made it into my mouth, the rest hitting my chin.

“You’re probably one of the most incredible, agile piano players on the planet,” I said, reaching for a napkin. “How can you suck so bad at chopsticks?”

He stopped my hand. “Shows what you know. Maybe I did that on purpose.” Harry leaned in, his eyes suddenly dark and hooded as he sucked the noodles into his mouth and then kissed me.

My blood ignited immediately, and I set my food down to hold him to me.

So much for our truce.

“Are you Lady and the Tramp-ing me?” I asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s another classic movie you haven’t seen.”

“Oh yeah?” He kissed my chin, sucked my lower lip. “Who’s the lady and who’s the tramp in this scenario?”

“We’re both the tramp. Tramp and the Tramp: The Reboot.”

“Mm,” Harry said, kissing me harder. “Your cinematic expertise is such a turn-on.”

“Yeah?” I grabbed his hips, ground him against me.

“Yeah.” His tongue invaded my mouth while his hand ventured down to stroke my erection. “I have an overwhelming urge to suck you off right now.”

“Such a romantic.”

“Do you want romance or do you want a blowjob?”

“Is this a trick question? On your knees, Styles.”

“That’s what I thought.”

~~~~~

That morning, we toured the Valley Village group home with Marcel. He followed behind us nervously, hands twisting, as the director showed us the facility and the grounds.

The place was beautiful, immaculate, clean. It had space for twenty residents, each with their own room and bathroom.

We toured the dining room, kitchen, art rooms, rec rooms, and the library.

“How about it, Marcy?” Harry asked. “This is some library, right?”

Marcel nodded, not lifting his eyes. “Yes, quite. A lovely place, indeed.”

Harry and I exchanged glances.

Marcel seemed torn between wanting to investigate further and wanting to run out the door.

“What do you think?” Harry asked me out in the sprawling yard in front of the director, a middle-aged woman named Odette, with a kind face.

“Zayn is a medical professional,” he
explained to her. “What he says, goes.”

“I think it’s clean, professional, first class. The residents seem happy.” I turned to Odette. “There’s not another facility like this for miles, is there?”