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Sometimes, Zayn reflected, it seemed to him that he never left home. He was still taking care of every one of his brothers in the band, just as though they were his sisters. They were, in fact, a lot more trouble, he thought from the comfort of his Bradford bed.
He was enjoying being home on the first real break from One Direction in over a year. Last night he and Doniya had stayed up late talking.
“It’s much worse being the oldest girl, Zayn,” Doniya said firmly, twisting her long brown hair into a knot. “I had to learn to cook when I was ten! And I had to babysit all of you.”
“Yeah, but if anything went wrong,” Zayn interrupted, “then I was to blame. It was always my job as the ‘man of the house’ to take care of ALL of you. So even when you were babysitting I was still at fault. Remember when Waliyha got gum in her hair? Who got grounded for a week. I was nine!”
“Yeah, you have a point,” Doniya agreed. “The only boy has it rough.”
“Exactly,” Zayn said. “I feel responsible for everyone. It’s the same in the band. Louis is the oldest--Louis! He’s the least responsible of anyone. And if he talks Harry into doing something irresponsible then I worry about them until I find them and make them stop.”
They both laughed, thinking of all the mischief that Louis and Harry got into.
“Remember me telling you about the time they stole the tour bus? Neither one could drive it, but they still managed to move it to the other side of the hotel. Paul was shitting himself,” Zayn remembered.
“It’s funny now, but at the time I watched them drive off and imagined them driving straight off a cliff into the river. We were in fucking Cardiff!”
“Stop swearing,” Doniya said automatically. They looked at each other and burst out laughing again. It was good to be home.
Zayn wasn’t lying when he said that he felt the oldest boy’s responsibilities keenly. It had helped him to bond with Liam, who was naturally responsible and serious, and it made him worry over the others, especially Harry.
In fact, Zayn more often than not took the blame for Harry, just because it was useless to protest. Nobody believed Harry could be naughty, and nothing could be further from the truth. He loved to see what he could get away with and Zayn liked to watch. He never tried to talk Harry out of anything.
He was the youngest, and he looked even younger than he was. His innocent expression meant that no one ever thought he had done whatever he had, in fact, done. He was so bad, Harry was. It was sexy, to be honest.
It was Harry's naughtiness that made him so conscious of him on stage. He wore nothing but skinny jeans and tight, almost transparent tees. Zayn found himself mesmerized by Harry’s lack of inhibitions, all the more because of the straightjacket his own bound him in.
He might have liked to dance like no one was watching, but instead he watched with longing as Harry skipped and swayed around the stage. He didn’t know if he wanted to fuck Harry or to be Harry. He wasn’t sure there was a difference.
So of course he was watching during their cover of “Teenage Dirtbag” when Harry covered his head completely with a towel to wipe down his wet hair--Zayn couldn’t have told anyone why, but probably Harry couldn’t have either, being a creature of impulse--and headed straight for the pyrotechnic display at the back of the stage. His head was down, he stumbled a little. He moved closer to the flames.
Zayn called out to him: “Harry! Watch where you’re going!” He knew Harry couldn't hear him. He held out his arms as though to snatch him back, and glanced over to Louis, who was watching with a bemused look on his face. Stupid Harry.
Zayn was at Harry’s side an instant later. “Babe, you almost walked into the fire. Back off, watch where you’re going,” he murmured into Harry’s ear.
Harry released the towel, seeming to see where he was for the first time. He got so wired on stage, so high with the energy of the crowd and the invisible bonds that connected all the boys to each other when they performed. “Thanks, bro,” he tossed at Zayn as he wandered off. Fuck.
Zayn watched Harry more closely for the rest of the show. Harry noticed. He wagged his eyebrows at Zayn, tilted his hips at Zayn obscenely, leaned into him to whisper dirty jokes in his ear. He never let more than a few minutes go by without contact.
It got to Zayn; he admitted it. It was hot to have Harry’s attention. It was hot to be the object of his knowing gaze. He let himself look, too.
He let his eyelids droop, licked his bottom lip slowly, caught Harry’s eye and smiled. He let Harry grind against him and “forgot” to act like it was a joke. For once it was Harry who had to laugh it off and move away.
After the show, Zayn was in the dressing room shower when he heard the door open. “Hey, I’m in here!” he called. “What do you want?” His eyes were closed as he soaped his hair.
“It’s just me, Harry,” A second later, his head peeked around the shower curtain. “Louis says you saved my fucking life tonight, and I should be proper grateful.”
“Louis said that? He seemed more like he was waiting to see whether you’d have to catch on fire to realize what you were doing,” Zayn grumbled.
“Nah, he knew you’d have me. You have all of us.” There was something in Harry’s voice that made Zayn open his eyes and look. Harry was grinning and giving him the once over.
“Like what you see, babe? Want to show how grateful you are?” Zayn teased.
“Sure, I’ve always thought you were fit. I don’t mind that you’re a boy, Z. I’d do you,” Harry laughed.
“What? Yeah, right. Get out of here, Haz. I’ll come out in a minute for a drink.”
“Ok, your loss,” Harry replied. Zayn watched him slip through the door. What did Harry mean by he’d do him? Zayn supposed he would never know.
He didn’t, either, for a while.