Chapter Text
Chapter One: Planning
“How would you feel about drag? Or well. Not drag specifically, but something that was straddling the line between genders? Would drag be more Camp, or would it just be campy?”
Zayn quirked an eyebrow at the question. Harry had been obsessing over what they were going to wear to the Met Gala, since it would be their first public appearance and Harry was hosting. He’d already been FaceTiming with Anna Wintour and Stephanie--Serena was proving a bit harder to pin down.
“I would definitely want to think about it. I didn’t mind being Veronica, but heels are sort of out of the question. What did Anna say about us doing a duet? Did you ask?
“I did, and she’s 100% on board. You don’t think it was foolish to tell her? And whatever we choose will have to be thematically aligned.”
Zayn rolled his eyes at Harry directly. He didn’t know Anna Wintour, but Gigi did, and G liked her, said she was scary af but wonderfully helpful and loyal if she liked you, and she never gossiped. So.
There was so much right now that Zayn didn’t know, but he did know that there was a real danger of being too on the nose with the theme. Not to mention that he hadn't performed in public in holy shit this was terrifying years.
He personally felt “Can’t Help Falling” would be both an homage to their love and a shout-out to early Camp rockers--Elvis in particular of course. In the meantime, Zayn and Harry were finding themselves together a lot and as compatible as Zayn had ever hoped in his most starry-eyed fantasies.
He and Harry had perfected the art of sneaking around--Harry could get into New York City undetected, for instance, and they both had practiced flying in and out of LAX without being observed. Turns out if you fly coach nobody thinks you’re anybody, even if a couple of times he had been sat next to someone who said, “You look familiar,” and then a few seconds later, “I’ve got it! You kind of look like that guy who left that boy band. What was his name?”
In his best American accent, perfected with a dialect coach, because Harry didn’t have tons of friends in LA for nothing, Zayn had said, “Sorry, I can’t say I follow boy bands” before he slipped earbuds into his ears and opened a book.
They never flew the same flight. They never flew in designer clothes. They always wore long sleeves. Zayn had had his “Love” tattoo painfully removed from his fingers and had just recently given in to Harry on the smoking lips and the symbols on his fingers in return for Harry removing the cross from his purlicue. Zayn let his hair grow out and to be safe usually wore a beanie and a high-necked shirt. Love was all about compromise.
Like Harry put up with Zayn smoking on the back patio by the pool in LA and on the roof garden in New York, even if he made him brush his teeth after every cigarette. Zayn had traded smoking weed for edibles, even though he liked the immediate buzz and relative control of smoking. He ate three small meals every day. Healthy meals.
They hired personal trainers to work with them both wherever they were, because Harry insisted that they hadn’t waited eight years to be together only to die prematurely for preventable reasons. They switched, because Harry was a domineering little shit who occasionally needed discipline, their official line, and because they both liked being fucked, which was never to be spoken aloud.
Things they hadn’t solved: how to tell Yaser. Teresa knew, and she was sworn to secrecy until after the Met Gala. Gigi knew, for obvious reasons, and because Gigi knew Kendall knew. Whether they should live most of the time in New York or LA. Toilet roll over or under--how could Harry possibly think that under would ever be correct? Whether to play Fleetwood Mac or Drake when they were in their comfortable shared living space. Pop or folk art. Which is why they were currently discussing what camp meant.
Harry had read Susan Sontag’s essay, several times, which made him an expert if you asked him, but now Zayn had also read it, which made him challenge Harry’s interpretation. Every image on the internet, every song, every film they watched, went through the Camp or not discussion. Rom coms were a particular bone of contention, as were all movies based on comics.
Notting Hill. Not camp. Not even close.
Beaches. Camp. Definitely, Zayn thought. Or was it just campy? Harry was terrified of showing up at the Met Gala in campy attire, although he was determined, as always, to be bold and look like he didn’t give a fuck. It was a fine line.
What was the perfect example of Camp as expressed in a rom-com? Could the magnificent Heat, which Zayn maintained was the first lesbian romantic comedy, be Camp? (“Harry, do you really want to debate that Sandra and Melissa are a. lesbians, and b. in love? Of course you don’t.)
The Notebook. Not Camp. Harry was inflexible on this one even though Zayn maintained that Ryan Gosling was Camp, and anything he appeared in was Camp. Bladerunner 2049? Drive? La La Land?
Batman, the TV show. Just kitsch, according to Harry. Zayn liked to elevate it to Camp, because of he had a particular fondness for gay icon Adam West and wasn’t the show winking at gay with the relationship between Batman and Robin?
Personally, if you covered up Harry’s eyes, say, in a Batman mask, which Zayn had already begged for, he had the square jaw and full lips that would make him a Batman ideal. Zayn was okay with being Robin; he’d even dye his hair to that reddish brown to match Bart Ward’s. He could imagine the tights rubbing against his bare cock all night--delicious.
“No,” Harry said firmly. They were not going as anything as obvious as Batman and Robin. Not Liberace and Scott Thorson, either, even though Zayn could see Harry as Liberace, resplendent in an acre of jewels, a cape, a quiff like 2012. All they needed was a grand piano, and Zayn would let Harry cover Zayn’s naked body with that silk bejeweled cape as he fucked him into the keys. Ah, dreams died hard.
Elvis Presley, Harry insisted, was Camp. Zayn was thinking about that one. Certainly later Presley, but then he was tragic, and Camp should be fun, like Graceland. Rock acts seemed too obvious, and anyway, didn’t Sontag say that time changed our view of what was Camp, and this was what allowed us to assign Elvis to Camp but kept the jury out on, say, Britney Spears?
“Zayn. Britney is almost certainly Camp, because she is completely sincere and completely without content. Let’s never speak of this again. On that same subject, are K-Pop bands Camp but American and British boy bands not? Discuss.”
Zayn tried not to let it show too much, but he loved these conversations almost as much as he loved Harry. It was new to say “I love you” to the man he “hardly knew” in One Direction, and it made Zayn feel vulnerable and wrong. Mostly, it made him feel giddy and foolish.
At the same time, he barely could contain his glee at having real conversations about Susan Sontag with someone who had read her and had delved into everything she referenced, but who didn’t know so much more than Zayn as to make him feel tongue-tied or stupid. Love was unexpected pleasures, like never being bored by his lover. Gigi was wonderful, had done so much for him, but her idea of an intellectual conversation was debating the relative merits of Real Housewives Atlanta over Miami. Love was making smug comparisons to all his ex-lovers and feeling a wash of gratitude for the beautiful man presently sprawled on the floor at his feet with at least thirty books strewn about him.
“Couldn’t you talk to Harry Lambert about this, babe?” He seems like someone who straddles the line on Camp very successfully? I mostly never know what he’s trying to say, so I assume he’s Camp as fuck. No?”
Harry looked up at Zayn patiently. “Babe, you’ve essentially lived the last almost four years in a cave. Harry is gender fluid. He’s very on trend. And he can style us. He probably would love to. We’re both androgynous, which is good, and we’re both pretty.”
With this last rejoinder, Harry climbed into Zayn’s lap to straddle him, pulling his tee shirt off without encountering any resistance. “You’re pretty, anyway. I’m just cute and charming.”
“Is that all you are, Haz?” Zayn looked him over carefully. “I’ve always said “sexy” and I stand by it.”
“Well, your tattoos are sexy, except for those fucking eyes on your chest. I feel Gigi looking at me and judging me, Zayn. You have to get them covered.”
“She doesn’t judge you, babe. She would pay good money to watch us fuck. Does that sound judgmental?” Zayn unbuttoned the only button holding Harry’s shirt closed before running his hands up the toned torso to tweak the pretty nipples.
“Oooh, you know my body, Z. Don’t you want to keep it to yourself?” Harry pulled Zayn’s lips to his right nipple, Zayn’s favorite for reasons he couldn’t explain. “Put some teeth on me. And let’s stop talking about Gigi and fucking in the same breath. Maybe someday we can invite her over for a three way, but not in the foreseeable future.”
Zayn loved kissing Harry. Since they had been bandmates, Harry had learned to grow facial hair--sort of. If he left it completely alone, he almost had a mustache. Zayn liked to rub his nose against it before licking into Harry’s mouth. Sometimes he would steal Harry’s gum, provoking a “Hey!” but never any other sign of distress. To Harry Styles, nothing lovers did was disgusting.
Currently they were kissing in bed after sex, sticky, sweaty, and lazy with satiation. It was the perfect way to start a day, in Zayn’s opinion. Harry had taken to complaining, cutely, that Zayn was wearing him out, although not once had Zayn reached for Harry without him responding eagerly. They had waited for so long. Too long. He’d been worse than a fool, Zayn thought as he often did after glorious sex with his babe. He was just going to apologize for being such a terrible wanker when Harry’s one-track mind, finished momentarily with sexy thoughts, turned again to the Met Gala.
“Have you gone through those look books I had people send? I’m liking the look of Palomo--you know, the Spanish designer? I’ve worn a couple of their suits, but of course this time we’ll want something way more avant-garde. Or wait. Avant-garde is the wrong direction. Camp is the other way, isn’t it? We can’t be serious--but I want us to be really sexy. Ugh. Promise you’ll look really carefully while I go out tonight.”
It was adorable. Zayn thought maybe they should just wear bedazzled thongs to the Met Gala. They could get waxed; he had a not so secret desire to see Harry completely free of body hair and to rub all over him like a cat. It occurred to Zayn to wonder what exactly had come over him. Two months with Harry and he was not only willingly enduring the Met Gala but using the event to come out as bisexual. Love was intoxicating.
“H, this is a terrible idea, isn’t it? You’ve been an advocate. Won’t we be making coming out, or whatever it is we’re doing, like, less serious or momentous by waiting for this sort of ridiculous event with a Camp theme?”
“Babe, what in 2019 is serious about who a person fucks? The point is that it’s serious but it’s not important. We can’t do this without it being a big deal, so let’s just go overboard with the occasion and the styling while we refuse to say a word about it. We’ve talked about this a thousand times. Stop worrying!”
But Zayn had always been the worrier, and he couldn’t help but think they were inviting controversy and taking attention away from...well, he didn’t know from what. They were going to kill the theme, though. Harry Lambert has sent some sketches, just accessories and makeup around a few different themes, and Zayn was actually getting excited about going. They were going to look amazing.
“So,” Harry continued, after he had allowed Zayn to lie back gracefully while Harry eased himself up and down on Zayn’s cock until they were both screaming each other’s name and coming abundantly. Time and testing had eliminated the need for condoms, another benefit of a partner. It felt so good to feel his cock surrounded by Harry's unimpeded warmth.
Zayn was trying to figure out how he could ask Harry to take him from behind and spank him lightly with a riding crop. If he could show up at the Met Gala dressed “gender fluidly,” then surely he could ask Harry to help him explore his pain kink. He was pretty sure Harry had a little sadist in him that Zayn would love to tease out.
They had been staying in Zayn’s penthouse now for days. If anyone needed to see Harry, because really almost no one needed to see Zayn, he had set up his life for just such a circumstance, then they came in after dark, never using the same driver, pulling in the underground garage before being let out as near the service elevator as possible.
It was all very hush hush. Harry liked it for now--it appealed to his sense of drama and his love of secrecy--but it would get old, Zayn knew. Compromise. He would be seen with Harry, after their debut, and he would allow Harry to be seen with all his friends while he stayed home and made art. Perhaps he might cook for Harry, wearing only a frilly diaphanous apron. That would invite spanking, wouldn’t it?
Harry was out for the night again, with a few model friends and Grimmy, who had an annoying habit of turning up in New York City rather frequently. Zayn and he did not get along; Grimmy was a bad influence on Harry, who drank too much when he was with him. Zayn found Grimmy catty and mean-spirited, by which he supposed he meant that he thought Nick judged him in the same way Harry thought Gigi judged him.
Not surprising that Nick and Gigi adored each other and went out together on their own. Zayn did not like to imagine their conversations, but he was sure that he would not enjoy what they said about him. He was in the sitting room he now shared with Harry, a fire going in the fireplace on this cold and snowy winter evening, looking through the portfolios of a half dozen of the designers that Harry had decided would be good enough to dress them. After much nagging, he had finally agreed to come to some Decisions about a Look for the Gala.
"Shut up, Haz. I'm doing it. I swear. Go!" Love was choosing a genderfluid outfit for an event that gave you hives three years ago.
Zayn was thumbing through the pages of a leatherbound portfolio when a look genuinely took his breath away. It was a Palomo, a pantsuit, he supposed, and maybe velvet? The color was a rich royal blue, one that would look great on him, and it had cut out shoulders that ballooned into puffy sleeves that reminded him of something a French queen might wear. Hah, a French queen. He’d have to tell Harry, who loved a bad pun.
He saw that the shoes the model wore on the catwalk were low-heeled; that was good also. And then finally he saw the deep vee of the front that would display the pecs he had become so proud of after months with the personal trainer. If it were custom made for him, it could work with his tattoos rather than in spite of or against them. Harry would want something sheer--and Zayn had no idea to what extent his little exhibitionist was going to cover himself--but Zayn was willing to go so far and that far only. This might be perfect.
He could see a hat with it, maybe--what did they call those little hats women wore in the 40s? And maybe a half veil, but one that could be pinned back at some point. He would wear lush red lips, maybe even get some light lip filler a few weeks prior to give a more feminine appearance, and heavy dramatic eye makeup. Should he pluck his eyebrows at all? He would have to have Harry ask Harry Lambert. And when were they going to tell everyone potentially involved so that they could meet with a design team?
Zayn felt a stirring in his lap underneath the heavy portfolio and realized he was hard. Interesting. Harry was such a muse. He called to Zayn, and out came a dozen creatures Zayn didn’t recognize as aspects of himself. He was even thinking of doing some rather more traditional art, maybe oil on canvas, or poetry within established frames like odes or sonnets. All to his beautiful boy.
A few hours later, Zayn had turned off the gas fireplace downstairs, gathered all the portfolios and look books and swathes and watercolor sketches into a basket chosen just for them, put his teacup in the sink and turned out all the downstairs lights except for a single lamp for Harry. Another change. Before Harry, he could and would go days in his own filth, sometimes until Gigi returned from wherever she had gone and packed him off to shower.
Then she would order him around cleaning up. She always said that if he wanted a maid he should hire one instead of fucking a model, that there was a limit to how much she was willing to run his life. He never said, but he didn’t want her to do everything for him. He rather liked her bossing him around and making him do everything. He never got around to asking Gigi to spank him, either, but he’s pretty sure she would have done with more enthusiasm than Harry, who was naturally gentle and slow with anything sexual.
He could tease Zayn for hours, running his tongue around his rim, lightly stroking his cock, licking into his ear, murmuring his filthiest fantasies into Zayn’s ear, and generally working Zayn in a State without allowing him to come. That was Harry’s sadistic side. Zayn was pretty sure he was going to have to coax out a creature in Harry who was a little more stern. Maybe Harry might like to wear something...stern to the Met Gala? He would think about it in bed.
Several hours passed, and Zayn had fallen asleep, as he did pretty much any time he was prone. He loved the bed linens that Gigi had insisted on several years before, which were soft but also thick and lovely to lounge in naked. The bed was exactly the right firmness to ensure that his back, which could be cranky from all the time he spent bent over with a spray can, was well supported. Gorgeous, as gorgeous as his lover, and as right for him in every way.
Zayn woke to a thud and a “Fuck!” Harry had hit his knee against the footboard as he was prone to do even when sober. “Haz? You alright?”
“No! I’m drunk and in pain!” He was also quite naked, which seemed to Zayn to have been a tactical error in coming into a room known for its obstacles.
“Come here, babe,” Zayn murmured consolingly. “Let me kiss it better, my little naked faun.”
“‘M not a faun, ‘m a real boy,” Harry slurred. “Why do you always use the names of woodland creatures when you’re being affectionate with me? It’s not very sexy, is it?”
“And you’re gorgeous but not very sexy shitfaced either, are you? Get a glass of water from the bathroom and some ibuprofen. Full glass, sir.”
Harry grumbled, and Zayn was tempted by the sight of his plush ass and long legs, but no. Ever since they had had, after one of Harry’s late nights, what Zayn thought was a wild late night fuck session that Harry could not remember at all the next morning, Zayn had stopped wanting to give in to Harry’s insistence that he “wasn’t that drunk” when he most clearly was. No sex. Just spooning, and a hungover boy to take care of in the morning.
“Did you look at the books? See anything you like in there? Because I know you like what you see in here,” Harry taunted, sprawling across the better part of their king bed. “Since you won’t touch me I’ll have to touch myself.”
“Ok, babe,” Zayn agreed, knowing that Harry was likely to get through a couple of tugs before he passed out. Had he been able to work himself up to a full hard-on, Zayn wouldn’t be responsible, but he never did. And indeed, 30 seconds later, Harry was snoring lightly, and Zayn was working the duvet from under him to over him. Love. Being happy your lover was home with you, and not caring for anything else. Zayn wished for a moment that they could just stay this way, on their own, forever.