Deep (Zarry AU)

Manhattan, am

The next morning, Harry had what Ed would have called the mother of all hangovers. It had been natural, after all - when Zayn hadn't responded, and Harry hadn't felt interested in his usual extra-curricular activities, and couldn't find anything on the hotel's TV to interest him; hadn't even wanted to play Call of Duty – to raid the mini-bar. Small bottles now dotted his bedside table; their outlines dark and almost inconspicuous under the grey morning light. As he rubbed his eyes his gaze wandered over the labels: Grey Goose; Inverary; Malibu. Yeuch. Malibu ? Had he really drunk three shots of Malibu? No wonder he felt like throwing up. He sat back against the headboard, closed his eyes again.

You were supposed to say No.

What the fuck had Malik meant by that?

Harry turned over and buried his hands under the soft folds of the sheets. As he did so he caught sight of the tiny, cursive A on his arm which Zayn had tattooed. Harry had a brief flashback to the night Zayn inked it onto his arm, his concentration intent as he bent over Harry's arm, a tendril of hair falling forward from his dark quiff; the way Zayn had pressed his hand gently against Harry's bicep to flatten the skin; the way he had rubbed Harry's chest reassuringly when Harry winced at the pain. Harry hummed at the memory. Despite his hangover a morning erection was still taunting him, like a scratch he couldn't itch. He turned onto his front and pressed himself into the mattress and as he did so the dreams of the previous night came back to him in a rush. They had been about Zayn. All Zayn. Damn.

Then suddenly he was back beside a hotel pool, at night, with the sound of cicadas singing in the background, and then of Zayn's quiet, resigned tones:

"You only ever want what you can't have, Hazza."

Harry frowned.