Deep (Zarry AU)

Manhattan, 9pm

April 2015

Harry sat in his hotel room. One of several penthouse suites: split level and - square-footage-wise - almost as big as his house in London. A view across the city: necklaces of lights twinkling through darkness. Polished wood floors and deep cream pile carpets and a marble bath. For once, he hadn't wanted to go out, or take up the offer of one of the regular groupies who hung around the reception of every hotel they stayed in. He never asked them how they knew which hotel it would be. They just did. Every time. Sometimes the same girls would be there with their permanent tans and their short shorts and their long hair; his favourites who liked to do threesomes and would provide any service, no matter how weird, and every drug you wanted - and the ones who were just happy to massage his shoulders and listen to him, drunk or high as a kite, talking nonsense. The funny thing was, even though he hardly knew them, he felt like he could tell those girls everything. Well. Everything... but never that. Never that thing that made him want to get high, or drunk out of his mind, or lost in sex in the first place.

He sat on the edge of the bed, with his elbows on his knees, looking at his phone. He still had Zayn's number. Niall claimed he had deleted it from his phone, but Harry didn't believe him. Weren't they all just a little bit in love with him - even Niall? Didn't they all feel like jilted lovers when he left?

Harry took a drink from the vodka and lime he'd ordered - his fourth of the evening. He looked at his contact list; chose Zayn. If he wasn't going to do it now, then when? Once Zayn was actually married?

It would be late back in the UK - 2am maybe - but Zayn would probably still be up. He typed the text slowly. Supose congratultions r in order. So Congrats man. Hope u r very happy Hx

Harry took a deep breath and raked his fingers through his hair. It was too long but he'd sworn he wouldn't cut it short until the band broke up. It was one of those things he wanted to hold on to. One of the things he could hold on to.

He didn't know why he did it - well, it was probably the warm confidence brought on by alcohol - but he carried on typing and the words that appeared on the screen were:

What I said in that cabana - its still true

He knew he'd be lucky to get any response - Zayn was a notoriously slow responder and Harry wouldn't exactly be his priority at that moment, he thought. So he threw the phone onto the bed and headed for the bathroom.

He had turned off the taps and was staring at the rings under his eyes in the mirror when he heard the familiar ping of a text through the door. Probably Louis.

Probably just Louis, Harry told himself - but somehow that walk from the bathroom, across the cream pile carpet to the King Size with the view of the Upper East Side, took forever.

Harry tapped in his passcode.

Zayn.

The text was from Zayn.

Harry's heart started pounding as he opened the text. His eyes scanned the lines - back and forth to check he'd read it right.

"You were supposed to say No"

What? Harry's mind would have raced, had he not been drunk. Instead it lumbered, his frown deepening. What was Zayn referring to? Sober, he would have wanted to be cool, wait a while before responding. Fuck that. He swayed slightly as he stood, thumbing the screen.

To what?

But no matter how much Harry looked at his phone, and checked his texts, and his signal, and his e-mails - and he did - all that evening, and the next day, and the next week - he never got an answer.