Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“It wasn’t my fault!” Harry’s never been a particularly aggressive person, but in this situation he thinks it’s probably best to start things off with a clean slate. “This time it really wasn’t, I swear.”

Paul sighs as Harry drops into the chair at one end of the conference room table and rubs his temples. Harry does feel more than a little bit bad—he knows that he’s probably not the easiest musician to work for, and his fanbase is certainly more, well, fanatical than many—but wants to be clear about this from the start. And anyway, Paul should be used to it, after six years with Harry. “Really,” he insists, “It wasn’t. I was right where I was supposed to be, and James wasn’t there.”

“Exactly where you were supposed to be?” Paul levels Harry a questioning look. Maybe Harry should have stayed standing, so he could face Paul head on, instead of looking up at him. But he’d been on his feet all day for rehearsals for the UK leg of his tour, and he’s tired. And Paul’s taller than him anyway.

Still, he shifts in his seat. “Fine. I’d gone to sign a few autographs. But I hadn’t gone far! He could totally have seen me.”

Paul sighs again. He has a lot of practice at that. “Okay. No matter how you swing it—”

“It wasn’t me!” Harry reiterates, but Paul just goes on,

“Clearly James isn’t working out as a bodyguard, so we’re finding someone new. Who can hopefully actually keep tabs on you.”

“I don’t try to lose them,” Harry mutters, but he doesn’t really protest. He doesn’t try to lose his bodyguards, but it does end up happening, usually because they’re busy trying to make him stop doing his job, which is to interact with fans. Or they just loom a lot and it makes Harry a bit uncomfortable, and it definitely makes people he’s talking to uncomfortable. Either way, it doesn’t work.

“Anyway,” Paul continues, like he hadn’t heard Harry, “We’re going to try something new this time—someone closer in age to you, a little less conspicuous, see if that doesn’t help. Maybe you’ll actually manage to be friends with this one.”

“Hey! I can be friends with anyone.” It’s true. Harry’s proved it. He’s gotten Simon Cowell to smile. Still, he drops his head at Paul’s steady stare. “Fine, maybe not my bodyguards.”

“We’ll see about this one. We’ve got him basically chosen; he’s just here to come by and meet you so you can give the final okay, make sure you can work together. If it all goes well, he’ll be going on tour with you next week.”

Harry nods. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, over and over. What is new, though, is when Paul leans forward, bracing his hands on the table. “And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but remember, you’d be his employer. Seducing employees is illegal.”

“What?” Harry sputters, straightening. “I don’t—I haven’t—I wouldn’t!”

All three of those are probably lies, because there have been some hot techs and roadies and assistants and Harry likes attractive people, and he likes sex. He doesn’t think it’s particularly a failing, given that he’s never had anyone come out of it hurt. But still. He doesn’t need to be warned, like a teenager who can’t keep it in his pants. He’s twenty-three, he doesn’t need a talking to like that. So he crosses his arms over his chest and gives his best scowl, which he knows perfectly well is more of a pout than a glare but still usually works on Paul.

This time, though, he just raises his hands, palm out. “I thought it needed to be said,” is all he says, then hits a button on the phone on the table to activate the intercom, and tells it, “You can send in Mr. Malik.” He turns to Harry. “His resume’s in front of you, if you want to look, but you can trust he’s qualified.”

Harry picks up the paper anyway. It’s pretty impressive, he thinks—lots of martial arts training, a couple stints as bodyguards for other celebrities, albeit smaller than Harry. He went to university, Harry notes, which strikes him as a little odd, even if it was only for a few years before he stopped, apparently to start bodyguarding. He knows Paul wouldn’t let anyone through he didn’t think could look after him, physically at least, but this guy looks pretty badass, on paper at least.

Still, Harry thinks as he swivels back and forth on his chair, the others were too. The whole parade of big burly men who loomed and tried to cajole him into not talking to fans and stood out like a sore thumb at clubs or bars or anywhere fun Harry tried to go, ruining his game. So he’s not really expecting much—maybe a younger big burly musclebound man, which could be a bit better, he supposes.

“Excuse me?” comes a soft voice from the door behind Harry. Or no. it’s not soft. It’s quiet, but it’s firm, slightly rough with a Northerner’s broad vowels, the sort of voice that fills a room so he doesn’t have to yell. “They said I should come in?”

“Yes!” Paul smiles, “Come on in, Mr. Malik. Thanks for stopping by.”

“’Course.”

“Before we formalized anything, I want you to meet Harry, make sure there are no major problems. Malik, this is Harry Styles. Harry, this is Zayn Malik.”

Harry turns in his chair to greet him.

His first impression is of stillness. It’s weird, that that’s the first impression, because the second impression hits like a thunderbolt—he’s almost impossibly hot. Dark hair that might be almost as long as Harry’s pulled back into a ponytail that accentuates his sharp cheekbones, hazel eyes lined in eyelashes almost too long to be real, stubble highlighting his cheekbones and pink lips. Broad shoulders, stressed by his button-down, tapering into narrow hips and skinny legs in black jeans. Harry blinks, but it’s not a dream. He’s still there.

“Him?” Harry demands, turning to Paul. “He’s not a dancer for the next video?” As soon as he says it, he bites his lip. That was horribly rude. “Sorry,” he tells Malik, giving his best sheepish smile. “I just—you don’t look much like a bodyguard.”

Malik’s even look is worse than Paul’s, just long and blank and Harry can’t see what’s going on behind it at all. “I am, though.” Then his face softens, just a bit, his lips tilting upwards in something that might almost be a smile soon. “And, like, you wouldn’t want me to dance. Trust me.”

That one sentence is more humor than any of Harry’s other bodyguards have shown in the past six years, and Harry could grin in relief. “Well, then, let me try again.” He holds out his hand. “Harry Styles. Nice to meet you!”

Malik reaches out, takes it. His palm’s rough, calloused and warm, smaller than Harry’s, with a bird tattooed on one side and some lettering on the other, but his grip is as firm as his voice. Harry resists the urge to let his grip linger, mainly because he can see Paul giving him threatening eyes out of the corner of his gaze. “Zayn Malik.”

“Great.” Reluctantly, Harry lets go. He can see why Paul gave him the ‘no sleeping with the crew’ lecture. But it’s hard, when his default is to flirt, so in his effort not to he says the first thing that comes into his mind, which is usually a bad idea but it’s the only one he’s got, “So, you’re sort of small for a bodyguard, aren’t you?”

He only realizes as he says it that it’s true. Malik’s shorter than he is, and slighter. But he hadn’t really noticed that, in the face of his face.

Malik just shrugs. “I can get the job done.”

Harry waits a beat for more, but it doesn’t seem like he’s going to say anything else. He looks a bit like a statue, all finely crafted features and expressionless face. Maybe he will just be like all the others, boring and a buzzkill.

Luckily, Paul jumps in then, “I’ll just let you two get acquainted, without old fogies like me.” Harry presses his lips together so he doesn’t snort at that. He thinks he sees Malik’s lips twitch again, but he really can’t be sure. “Give me a buzz when you’re done, Haz.”

“Okay!” Harry chirps, and Paul leaves. Harry turns to Malik. “So…we can sit down, I guess?” He’s not really very good at this. He’s probably supposed to be interviewing him, but that’s all been done. He’s never really had to test if he can get on with someone, because he gets on with everyone. But Malik sits in one of the chairs with the sort of disdainful grace of a cat, and Harry plops down in the seat across from him. “How old are you, anyway?” he asks. Then, “Actually, I can’t ask you that, right? It’s discrimination.”

Malik shrugs again. “It’s fine. I’m twenty-six.”

“Isn’t that young?”

It gets another shrug. “I got into it early.”

“You don’t talk much, do you?”

Malik’s lips twitch again. “Not when I don’t have to.”

“Hm. Guess that’s a perk of being a bodyguard, you don’t have to talk all the time. Not that I mind. I like talking.” He thinks he sees Malik’s lips move just a bit, like he’s biting down on a comment. It might mean a sense of humor. “But I guess this is an interview. So, like, I guess—why’d you get into bodyguarding?”

“I needed money.” It’s frank, at least. That hasn’t been anyone else’s answer. But then Malik goes on, “And, like, it was what I was good at, I guess. I’d done the MMA thing for a while. This seemed like the natural jump.” He stops, but Harry leans forward. It doesn’t sound like he’s done.

“What else?”

This time, Malik does smile, his lips twisting wryly. It only makes him more attractive. Harry doesn’t know if he’ll be able to last with this much hotness near him all the time. Will it make him less hot in comparison, or more? “Well, I’d always wanted to be a superhero. And this seemed like the closest I could get.”

Harry tips his head back to laugh. That’s definitely the best answer he’s ever heard. When he looks back at Malik, he’s just looking at him, but there’s definitely humor in his gaze. It’s understated, but it’s there, and Harry likes that too. Likes him, quietness and prettiness and expressionlessness aside. He should probably ask more questions, but Harry’s always trusted his gut, and he likes Malik’s aura.

“So, is there anything you want to ask me?” he asks, tipping back in his chair. This is his favorite part of interviews. He thinks, in another life, he’d have been ace at getting jobs.

“Just…” Malik’s teeth pop out to bite on his lower lip. It’s really unnecessary, Harry thinks, dropping back onto all four of the chair’s legs. “Even if you don’t give me the job, can you, like sign this?” He pulls a hat out of his front pocket, one of the ones with Harry’s face on it. It’s…and odd thing for a potential hiree to be carrying around. Generally, hiring fans isn’t a good idea. He shrugs again when he sees Harry’s face. .“I promised my sister I’d ask.”

“Sister?” Harry grabs the nearest pen.

“Yeah. Her name’s Safaa, she’s a big fan. I know it’s unprofessional.” Malik really does smile then, soft and almost sweet, crinkling at the corner of his eyes and turning his whole face from marble into something a thousand times worse. “But, didn’t want to give up the chance to be the best big brother ever.”

Harry blinks, swallows. “Right,” he says, hoarsely. So. That’s—that. That’s a bit overwhelming. And horribly, horribly sweet. “So. Here’s that back,” he hands over the hat, “And, like, I think that’s everything? I feel like we could get along, do you?”

He grins, his biggest grin that won over everyone from X-Factor judges to TV hosts to teenaged girls across the world, and keeps it there even when Malik’s gaze fixes on him, that same steady, piercing look that makes Harry feel like he’s being seen into.

“Yeah,” Malik says, slowly but surely. “I think so.”

“Good!” Harry hits the intercom. “We’re good here, Paul! Get the paperwork and things?”

“Coming,” Paul replies. Harry straightens. Zayn’s still just looking at him, and he can’t read it, and it’s a bit intimidating, really.

“And it’s Zayn,” he says, suddenly. “Stupid of you to be calling me Malik when we’ll be spending so much time together. And I’m not that much older than you.”

“Okay, Zayn.” Harry grins again, tasting the name on his lips. It feels good. “Welcome to the team.”

---

“So that’s your new bodyguard?” Nick probably thinks he’s whispering, but Harry’s pretty sure he’s not. He’s a little too drunk to tell, but he has his suspicions. “He’s too hot to be a bodyguard!”

“I know!” Harry throws up his arms. It’s a little bit of a problem. Not much of one, because contrary to popular belief Harry is actually capable of controlling himself even if he doesn’t often do so, but if Harry had hoped that he would get less attractive after that first impression, he’d been proven wrong that evening, when Harry had opened the door to find Zayn waiting there to escort him to the car. He was just as hot in black jeans and a t-shirt as he had been in his suit jacket. “I’m not even allowed to sleep with him.”

Nick’s gaze skirts sideways, to where Zayn’s leaning against a wall watching Harry. He doesn’t think Zayn knows what they’re talking about, because his face is carved-of-marble still, but that could just be because that’s what he looks like. He’d looked like that the whole drive over, as Harry drummed his fingers over his knee and tried not to look at Zayn too hard, or fiddle with his scarf too much like he was trying to draw attention to his bared chest. But he had to see them staring, because Harry could feel him looking sometimes, like his gaze had weight, even around the other people in the bar. None of his other bodyguards had felt like this.

Of course, none of his other bodyguards had looked like this. They’d all stood out at these sorts of bars. So did Zayn. But he didn’t stand out like he didn’t fit, he stood out like Harry suspected he’d always stand out, like he’d already had to gently say no to two girls and a guy who’d started talking to him.

“If you can’t sleep with him, can I?” Nick asks. He’s laughing, but Harry still pouts.

“No,” he declares. “No poaching my bodyguard.”

“It’s not poaching if you’re not going to do it.”

“Well, he’s my bodyguard,” Harry repeats. It’s important. He likes how it feels, Zayn looking at him, even if it’s just the constant knowledge that a hot guy is looking at him. “And I think he has a girlfriend.”

“Why?”

“He was talking on the phone to someone, called her ‘love’,” Harry explains. He puts air quotes around the ‘love’, because it feels important. “So none for you.”

“That’s never stopped you before,” Nick teases. Harry sticks out his tongue.

“Threesomes aren’t cheating.”

“It’s just you being a slag,” Nick agrees, and Harry just makes a face back. Those threesomes were awesome, and Nick’s just jealous because despite all his talk he likes relationships and shit like that, and doesn’t want to have threesomes with his hot friends.

Nick laughs, and leans back in his seat. “When are you leaving, then?”

“Next Friday,” Harry informs him. “First concert’s Saturday.”

“So, going away bash Thursday, then?”

It’ll mean he’ll have to pack and get ready right beforehand, but Harry nods enthusiastically. Nick throws the best going-away bashes ever. “Yep!”

“And a pre-pre-pre game now?”

Harry laughs, and hails down the bartender. “Why not?”

Four hours later, Harry is very, very drunk. Nick got lost somewhere—he thinks he found one of his friends, maybe, Harry doesn’t know—but now it’s just Harry on the dance floor, and people are starting to look at him like they get when they’re wondering what they could get for sleeping with him, and Harry hates that, how they look at him like that, like they know him. He spins off the floor—and there’s Zayn! Zayn. He wants Zayn.

“I’m ready to go home,” he announces, stumbling up to him. “Can I go home?” He doesn’t mean it to sound as plaintive as he thinks it might, as young, but that’s what he wants. He wants to take off his tight pants and mess up his hair and sleep.

Harry still can’t read Zayn, but he nods. “Just you?”

“Just me.” Harry glances around, in case someone appeared, but no one did. “And you.”

“Okay, I’ll call the car.” He pulls out his phone, an old school nokia that has Harry giggling because he didn’t think anyone used something like that nowadays. He’ll have to get him a new phone, because he doesn’t think he can be seen with anyone who uses a phone like that. Maybe he should give phones to all his employees, that’d be nice. But what about temps? Or—

“Woah there.” Harry didn’t notice he had been tipping over until there was an arm around his shoulders pulling him back up. “C’mon, Styles, stay with me.”

“I’m fine!” Harry pushes his hair out of his face, straightens up. “Fine!”

“Okay.” Harry thinks he sounds amused, but when he looks he can’t see anything. “The car’ll be here in a minute. Gonna get outside on your own?”

“I’m fine,” Harry repeats. He’s good at this. He’s good at taking care of himself. He’s been taking care of himself since he was seventeen and winning X-Factor and going on tour all on his own, leaving his family and home behind. “I can—”

“Okay,” Zayn agrees. “Then let’s go, yeah?”

“Yeah.” He spins—then there’s a gentle hand on the small of his back, not holding him up, just guiding him, showing him where to go. It’s gone before Harry can really register it, but by then Harry’s pointed the right way and he’s stumbling towards the door.

He gets a few steps before he trips on nothing at all, and he’s on the way down before there’s an arm around his waist, hauling him back up. “Easy, there,” Zayn murmurs, and it’s nice and he’s nice, because it was his job to keep Harry from falling but he also doesn’t let go this time, doesn’t listen to Harry’s protests that he’s fine and just helps him out of the club, through the flashing camera lights, and into the car.

Harry slumps back into the seat as Zayn slides in after him, closes the door. It’s easier to concentrate in here, away from the pounding bass and people and all, with just Zayn and his steady gaze on Harry. It makes Harry feel more there, that gaze, like Zayn can see him so he can’t float away. He looks comfortable, at least, sitting with his legs slightly parted and his shoulders relaxed and a t-shirt that looks really soft and it’s not fair how inviting he looks when Harry’s not allowed to touch. He looks more comfortable than he did in the bar, definitely.

“What would you be doing, if you weren’t here?” Harry hears himself ask. He’s never really been curious about his other bodyguard’s lives, but his other bodyguards had never been gentle getting him into a car. Had never held him up when he was having trouble walking, even if he could do it on his own.

Zayn shrugs. “Nothing, probably.”

“Nothing?” Harry grins, teasing. “Your life is so exciting.”

“We can’t all be popstars,” Zayn replies. Harry snorts.

“Well, now you sort of can be.” He pauses. “Would you be with your girlfriend?” he asks. He should know about his employee’s life. It’s only fair. It’s only fair Zayn keep talking, in the quiet of the car, with London’s streets rolling by outside, in that quiet, steady voice like nothing could shake him. Like nothing could knock him aside, could change him, not like Harry’s too fast world with all the changing tempos of it.

“Girlfriend?” Zayn echoes. “Why?”

“Can’t I be curious?” Harry crosses his arms over his chest so he can pout properly. It’s probably good he has a girlfriend. That way Harry can’t be tempted by the way light plays over his skin, even when he’s drunk. He can’t think about how there’s a spot between his neck and his jaw that looks like just the right place for Harry to bite. “You know everything about me. Everyone knows everything about me. I’m the openest of open books.”

“If you say so.” Harry narrows his eyes at Zayn. It sounds like he doesn’t believe him. “I am! You can google anything about me.”

Zayn shrugs. He does that a lot. “Like how you’re sleeping with Grimshaw?”

“I could be.” Harry waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Maybe we’re in an open relationship.”

“You aren’t.” He sounds so sure. Sure like he knows Harry, like he can see into him, and it’s not okay because people can’t, no one can, Harry’s the openest of books written in invisible ink.

“You don’t know that.”

“I could be wrong,” Zayn admits. He doesn’t sound much like he thinks he is. “But I’d bet you’ve never slept together, no matter the rumors.”

“How much?” Harry asks, tilting his head curiously.

Zayn’s lips twitch, and he reaches into his pocket for an old, beaten up leather wallet. “Five quid.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Pocket change?”

“Not all of us are popstars,” Zayn retorts. He’s teasing, Harry thinks. He likes it. Likes how it doesn’t feel mean at all. “What do you propose?”

Harry opens his mouth, and his first instinct is to be cheeky, be flirty, all the things he’d do if Zayn was just a fit lad who’d stumbled into his car—bet a kiss, a blow job. But he’s not allowed. But Zayn isn’t a fit lad who’d stumbled into his car, he’s quiet and still and beautiful and Harry likes him, like he hasn’t liked a bodyguard before. He doesn’t want to scare him off.

“Five pounds is fine,” he proposes. Then he does smile his most cheeky smile. “’course, if you lose, I’ll brag about it for ages. I’m an awful winner. You’ll never hear the end of it.”

It gets one of those lip twitches that’s basically a smile, and something warm lights in Harry’s stomach, at the sight, something that feels like triumph. “I’ll risk it.”

“Fine,” Harry huffs out a sigh. “We’ve never slept together.”

“Knew it!” Zayn exclaims. It’s not loud, but it’s louder than Harry’s ever heard him, and he sits up at it. At how Zayn’s eyes lit up, and he’s smiling more than ever. Not like when he talked about his sister, but still, it’s nice. “Pay up, Styles.”

None of his other bodyguards would have joked with him like this. It’s probably not allowed—it’s probably inappropriate, or he’s being disrespectful, or something—but it’s nice. Being treated like just the loser of a bet. Even if Harry does stick out his lower lip exaggeratedly as he digs in his own wallet for a five.

“Here.” He hands it over. “How’d you know?” he asks, though. Most people don’t guess that.

Of course, Zayn shrugs. “I watch people for a living.”

Harry huffs out a discontented breath. But he wonders what else Zayn sees, too, as he looks out the window. How much else of Harry he sees.

---

It’s two more days before Harry sees Zayn again, because he can actually go places on his own if it’s not going to be publicized and he probably won’t be mobbed. So he goes to rehearsal, and meetings, and recordings; he goes shopping for tour; he hangs around Niall at the restaurant. If he maybe thinks about Zayn—wonders about him, wonders what he’s doing with his days off, how he’s spending his last days at home for a month, well, Harry likes to know about his employees, especially the ones who look like Zayn, and who act like they’re figuring Harry out.

But on Wednesday, Harry has an interview, so Zayn’s waiting for him in the car when he slides into the backseat. Harry’d taken a little while to get out there—he’d still had a bit of washing up to do, and had to fiddle with his hair even if the stylist was just going to redo it, because people would see him before he went into the interview, and maybe those ‘people’ were Zayn but that doesn’t really matter—so Zayn’s clearly not expecting him, and is once more still on the phone.

“No, Lou, she can’t,” he’s saying, as Harry opens the door. He nods, “I’ve got to go, okay? I’m working.” He pulls his ridiculous flip phone away from his ear—then pauses, as it’s clear the person on the other end is still talking. “No, I’m not putting him on. I’m working.” Another pause. “And now I’m hanging up,” he announces, and does.

Harry’s trying, not very hard, to hide his grin. “You could have put me on,” he points out, as Zayn gives another roll of his eyes and puts his phone in the pocket of his jeans. “I’m quite good to talk to.”

Zayn’s lips twitch. “Held off for your sake, not for his,” he replies.

“His?”

“My best friend,” Zayn explains, with a smile like when he talked about his sister. It’s maybe the most information Harry’s gotten out of him—he has a best friend. “He’s…” he trails off, then his nose scrunches up. It’s weirdly adorable. “A lot.”

“I have friends like that,” Harry agrees. “Well, I think I might be the friend like that?”

Zayn does his mini-smile. “You? Never.”

Harry sticks out his tongue. “Hey, I’m enthusiastic. It’s a nice thing.”

“Clearly,” Zayn agrees. It’s nice, like this. To be talking and joking and teasing. Maybe they were right to get a younger bodyguard; this feels friendlier, like he’s with a mate. Like he’s with Niall, if Niall was a beautiful mysterious dark-haired badass, which he’s not at all.

But it’s that niceness that makes Harry remember what he meant to say. He drops his gaze, trying to bypass the rips in Zayn’s jeans as he does so. “I wanted to apologize for Saturday night. I didn’t mean to be bratty.”

“You weren’t,” Zayn slouches back in his chair. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips. It’s unfair.

“I just—I didn’t want to give you the wrong impression. I’m not that bad, usually, I promise.”

“I’ve worked for spoiled brats.” Zayn shrugs. “You aren’t one.”

“Yeah?” Harry can’t help his grin, can feel how huge it gets. He’s mostly gotten over the horrible, overwhelming need that everyone like and approve of him, but still, Zayn’s approval feels nice. “Who else have you worked for?”

Zayn’s eyebrows raise. “You saw my resume.”

“Which ones were brats?”

Zayn’s doing his not-smiling thing again. “That’s confidential.”

“Is it? You’re not a doctor.”

“Nope.” Zayn mimes locking his lips. “Not unless you want me spilling all your secrets to my next client.”

Next client. Harry doesn’t actually know how long he signed on for, whether it was just the UK leg of the tour or for Europe or Australia or the US, but still, he doesn’t really like the sound of it, which is ridiculous because it’s only been three days. Harry’s had relationships longer than this, and that’s saying something.

Harry spreads his hands wide. “I told you, I don’t have any secrets. I’m about to tell everyone the truth on national TV.”

Zayn gives him an even, skeptical look. “Are you?”

It makes Harry laugh. “No,” he admits. “But still. I don’t have secrets.”

“Everyone has secrets.” Zayn retorts.

“Do you?”

Zayn fucking shrugs. Harry’s going to tie down his shoulders soon. “Of course.”

“Like—”

“We’re here,” Zayn announces. Harry sticks out his lower lip for a second, because he wants to know, but he pushes that back quickly. He needs to be on form, because he can hear people outside, even though he bets they’re at the back entrance.

Zayn gets out first on his side—Harry hears screams that quiet quickly when it’s clear he’s not Harry—then Harry’s door is opening. Zayn’s there, loose and relaxed, his gaze moving everywhere, and he shuts the door behind Harry as Harry steps out.

Girls are yelling, and Harry waves and smiles and signs a few things, asking about the teenagers’ days and listening to their effusive praise. Then there’s a hand on Harry’s back, not heavy but present, like it’s just there to exist.

“We’ve got to move if you’re to be on time,” Zayn’s voice is warm and rough in his ear, and Harry can feel him close to him, and his lips are probably within touching distance of Harry—and Harry needs to get on track. He nods, to show he’s aware, then Zayn’s gone. Harry finishes up the line, and goes inside.

Inside, it’s a whirl of stylists and prepping and the interviewer introducing themselves and Paul giving him last minute instructions. It’s nothing Harry’s not used to; he smiles and nods and absorbs and then he’s on the couch next and the interviewer, a blonde lady with teased curls and a pantsuit on, is smiling at him.

He can do interviews in his sleep, by now, though he really tries not to—he owes the fans more than that. But he answers questions about the new tour, the fragrance he’s putting out, all that stuff. He jokes with the interviewer, says approximately three things that will spark new rumors by his count (he’s hoping for four, but he doesn’t think anyone noticed the last innuendo), and gives the camera as many cheeky grins as he can manage.

They’re nearing the end of their half hour when interviewer gives a pretty badly faked sweet smile. “So—and I have to ask, I know—is there anyone new in your life?”

“Why yes!” Harry replies. “I just met the nicest baby yesterday, his name was Timothy. Hello, Timothy!” He waves to the camera, makes a silly face.

The interviewer’s smile is less faked this time, and Harry counts it as a win. “But no one romantic, then? Because you’ve been spotted several times now with a mystery man, and England’s dying to know.” She hits a button, and a picture comes up on the screen next to them. It’s him and Zayn outside of the bar the other night. Taken without context, Harry can see where the gossip’s coming from—Zayn has a hand on his back, and Harry’s leaning in close to him. It’s as much as they usually get from him, with his flings.

Harry’s almost certain she was asked to ask this question. His PR team’s good enough to know that while no one questions big bulky men dressed in black around him, a young handsome man’s going to raise questions, as he’s never made any secrets about his sexuality. It’s better to preempt them, before the shipping wars and problematic rumors get started. He resists the urge to look at Zayn, hovering somewhere in the shadows near the wall, and answers.

“He is mysterious, isn’t he?” Harry asks. He leans back in his chair, and pauses for a second for emphasis before he goes on, “But no, that’s my new bodyguard.”

“A bodyguard?” The interviewer gives a politely skeptical laugh. “Can I sign up for one that looks like him?”

“No, I keep my sources secret,” Harry replies, chuckling. He winks. “Of course, I can’t say more. It’d be unprofessional. And I’m never unprofessional.”

He makes his most innocent face, and the interviewer laughs again, and moves on.

Harry does one of his songs after, then he’s done for the day, so he gets to go home. Zayn’s at the door, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s still expressionless, but Harry thinks there’s a smile in his gaze when he looks at Harry.

“Going home?” he asks. Harry nods—then pulls out his phone. He thinks Niall texted, and he wants to see Niall before he leaves…

He scrolls through a couple texts, some twitter DMs, and a few other notifications before he finds it—and there it is. “Actually, would you mind horribly if I went to a friend’s?” He asks, “I know you probably thought you were free after this, but he’s at his restaurant…”

“I’m at your disposal.”

Harry grins. “Dangerous thing to say, mate.”

“Really?”

Harry’s not allowed to sleep with him, Harry repeats sternly to himself. No sleeping with him means no flirting with him means he needs to stop before he tries, because he knows himself well enough to know where that was going.

“Yeah. Anyway,” Harry pushes on, “You can meet Niall! You’ll like Niall. Everyone likes Niall.”

“Sounds good,” Zayn agrees, and ushers him out the door.

---

Zayn hesitates as they pull up to the restaurant, before he gets out. “I can just wait,” he suggests. “Don’t need to intrude.”

Harry shakes his head. He’s always felt bad making security sit around in cars or whatever, and it’s not like Niall doesn’t have a whole restaurant’s worth of room. And anyway, Niall will want to meet Zayn, after what Harry’s told him about him. “No, come in! Niall likes more people to feed.”

Zayn gives him another one of those look, searching looks, but he gets out, opens the door for Harry, and is a pace behind Harry as he trails into DIRECTIONS.

Niall’s been Harry’s friend since secondary, and he’s wanted to own a restaurant since he was in diapers, so this is basically his baby. Harry’s pretty proud of it too, both as a friend and as a silent partner—of the way it manages to be homey but also classy, welcoming but not overwhelming. It’s a good reflection of Niall, Harry’s always thought. The restaurant’s basically empty, given that it’s barely four, so the happy hour people haven’t come in to the bar yet, and the lunchers are done, so Harry waves to Kevin the bartender and heads up to Niall’s office.

He doesn’t bother knocking, just opens the door. That proves to be a bad idea, when there’s a weirdly placed chair the door rebounds on. Harry jerks back to avoid it, stumbles, windmills—then Zayn’s hands are on his waist, steadying him. It takes everything in Harry not to take advantage of this situation, as he’s learned to after years of clumsiness, to melt back into Zayn’s arms like feels natural. Instead he just takes a second to savor Zayn’s hands on him, the feel of them holding him up, more there then they’ve been before.

“You okay?” Zayn asks. Harry really hopes he isn’t blushing when he nods.

“Yep! Happens all the time. Thanks!” He does not, however, have the willpower to actually step away, not until Zayn’s hands fall away and there’s really no reason to be standing that close except for how he wants to. “And stop laughing,” he orders Niall, who’s not hiding to stifle his chuckles at all from where he’s sitting behind his desk.

“Hi to you too,” Niall retorts, still laughing. “You do know how to make an entrance.” He leans back, shoves aside some paperwork. Responsibility looks good on him, as much as carefree life had too; in his suit with the jacket laid aside and his sleeves rolled up, his hair carefully styled out of his face, he looks like the very image of a business man. It makes Harry want to beam at him, at how far he’s come.

“I am the best at those,” Harry agrees, and plops into one of the chairs across from Niall. Zayn moves towards the wall, and Harry rolls his eye. “You can sit, if you want.”

“Wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Any friend of Haz’s a friend of mine,” Niall inserts. He stands up a bit to shake Zayn’s hand, grinning at him. Zayn barely hesitates a second before he shakes Niall’s hand. No one can resist Niall.

“Well, I’m not exactly a friend of Harry’s. I’m—”

“The bodyguard, yeah? Harry’s told me about you.” Harry’s eyes widen, and he tries to communicate telepathically for the first time in his life for Niall to stop talking immediately, because there was some talk of just what he’d like Zayn to do to him or vice versa in those conversations that Zayn really doesn’t need to hear.

Thankfully, Niall must get the message, because he goes on, “It’s okay, anyone’s a friend of mine, not just Haz’s friends. You need to hear my stories, anyway. Need to know what Haz can get up to.”

“Yeah?” Zayn’s eyebrows go up, but he sits down in the other chair. He’s looking at Niall, clearly intrigued, and something twists in Harry, at the sight of Zayn’s steady gaze on someone else. He wants Zayn to be looking at him again, not Niall, who can make anyone comfortable.

“Wait!” he says, because he has to say something. “Let’s play the game.”

“The game?” Niall asks. Zayn just tilts his head slightly.

“The game,” Harry clarifies, “Like with Nick.”

Zayn’s lips curve upwards. “Same terms?”

“Sure.”

“He bet me he could guess if I’d slept with Nick,” Harry tells Niall. He keeps himself as perfectly still as he can, so Zayn can’t use his body language to guess. “He won five pounds off of me.”

“Big money.”

“And bragging rights,” Zayn adds, with something that’s almost a smile. The whole weight of his gaze is on Harry, like he can see through him, then it flicks to Harry’s side to Niall. Harry keeps on looking at Zayn. He needs—if Zayn doesn’t get this, it means something. It means he’s not as transparent as he feels, that Harry’s crush shouldn’t be quite as overwhelming as it’s quickly getting.

“And bragging rights,” Harry agrees, “I even told him what a sore winner I am, he still agreed.”

“And I won,” Zayn replies. Harry tries very hard not to smile, but he does. It shouldn’t give him any clues, and Harry likes to smile.

“So?” Harry prompts. “What do you think?”

Zayn gives him one more of those looks. “Fooled around when you were younger,” he starts, slowly, “But not lately, and never…seriously.”

Harry’s jaw drops. “How’d you get that!” He spins, so Niall can be just as astonished as him. Niall nods too. He doesn’t seem nearly as impressed. “You’ve only seen us for a minute!

“Told you, I’m good at observing,” Zayn replies, with a shrug. Then his lips curve again, and it’s a smile, a real smile, something wicked and funny and it makes Harry’s stomach turn to mush. “Also, at reading Niall’s lips.”

“Traitor!” Harry gasps, whirling to stab a finger at Niall. “Cheat. You’re a cheater.”

Niall just laughs, his fingers drumming over his desk.

“And you,” Harry turns his glare to Zayn. It’s hard to glare at him, when he’s basically smirking at Harry, and Harry would really like to see what else he could do to get him to smile like that. “You’re a cheater too. I’m not even giving you the money.”

“We never said how I’d figure it out.” Zayn doesn’t falter, or even react, it seems. “But if you want to renege…”

“I’m not reneging,” Harry mutters, and hands over the quid. Niall wasn’t supposed to betray him. Niall was supposed to help him to make Zayn…something. To help him get to know Zayn better.

“So Zayn,” Niall says, clearly bored of this conversation, “You did boxing, right? Would I know you?”

“Nah, I was never that big. And it was more MMA stuff.”

Niall nods enthusiastically, leaning forward. “Legend! Were you good?”

“Good enough.”

“Good enough to what?” Harry asks.

“To win some prizes,” Zayn says, shrugging. “Never tried to go big.”

“Why not?”

“Not what I wanted.” Zayn folds his arms over his chest, so his muscles flex and move under his tattooed sleeve. Harry will look away someday soon, he’s sure. “So this is your restaurant, then?”

“Yeah! Well, and Harry’s, technically,” Niall grins and starts to tell Zayn all about it. It’s a pretty unsubtle attempt at misdirection, really, but Harry lets it go, because Niall doesn’t have a right to push. Harry doesn’t have a right to push either, but there was something in Zayn’s face when he said it, something that hints about mysteries, and Harry likes puzzles. He also likes Zayn, and so he jumps into the conversation, because Zayn’s looking at Niall and not at Harry and that’s not okay.

They stay there for another hour, mainly Harry and Niall chatting, but they manage to get a few more words out of Zayn, before a call comes in and Niall holds up a hand to answer it. Harry watches him talk, how he keeps smiling but his face tightens and he starts to speak faster, and gets up.

“One second,” Niall tells the person on the phone, then puts it on the desk and talks to Harry, “Sorry! Delivery went wrong for tonight, I’ve got to deal with this.”

“Of course!” Harry knows it’s important, he knows that Niall’s busy and this job is important and it’s everything he wanted and it’s Harry’s money too, but—he’d hoped for more than an hour. “Will I see you before I go?”

“Probably not, I’ve got a big party on Friday we’ve got to prep for.” Niall comes out from behind the desk to give Harry a hug, and Harry wraps his arms around him and holds him tight, tries to get the Niall-ness of him, the sunny strength and easy support. “But it’ll be legend mate, I know it.”

“Always,” Harry grins, and makes sure he’s still grinning when he steps back. “Love you.”

“You too.” Niall holds out his hand to Zayn, who’s stood and moved behind Harry slightly. “Nice to meet you. Keep Harry out of trouble.”

“Hey, I don’t get in trouble!” Harry protests, so falsely that he has to add, “Not on purpose, anyway.”

“I’ll do my best,” Zayn tells Niall, and smiles at him, a real smile with his lips moving and everything. “Nice to meet you too.”

Harry’s never gotten that much of a smile, he thinks. It’s—Niall’s good at that, at getting people to smile, but still. So is he. The sunshine twins, his mum had used to call them, and he was just as good at it. Zayn should probably be smiling at him.

“I want pictures of any horrible mistakes!” Niall warns Harry, then picks the phone back up, and starts to talk into it about something that sounds like gloop.

Zayn’s holding the door open, so Harry leaves. He waits until they’re back in the car, on the way back to Harry’s, before he asks, “So, what’d you think?”

“He seems cool.”

“He is! He’s the best. Really.” Zayn doesn’t look away from his face, and Harry sighs. He’d never say this out loud to Niall, or even to his mum, or to anyone, but Zayn’s gaze seems like he’s asking. Like he knows there’s more, that Harry’s not saying anything, in a way Niall’s too busy to notice anymore. “He’s busy, you know? All the time. And so am I. And I’m hardly ever here, so I don’t really see him that often.”

Zayn nods, and Harry thinks there’s a hint of knowing in it. “Long distance is hard. Even friendships.” His lips thin, and his brow furrows a bit. “Even anything.”

“Right? I’m not complaining, I love it, the traveling. But still.” Harry shrugs this time. He’s not sure where this is coming from, not sure he’s ever even thought it in these words before. “I’m a busy bee.”

“The busiest,” Zayn agrees, and he’s not even laughing at Harry. Or if he is, Harry can’t tell.

Something buzzes. It’s not his phone, Harry knows, and Zayn jerks. His hand moves over his pocket, but then he looks at Harry, and his hand drops back down. “Do you—like, can I?” he asks, frowning. “I shouldn’t, but—”

“Yeah, go ahead,” Harry sighs. It’s probably his girlfriend. Because he’s not alone or anything.

Zayn nods, and pulls out his phone. He reads the text, then Harry watches with dry-mouthed interest as he bites his lip as he types out a reply, his teeth digging into the pink. He should probably outlaw that around them. For both their safety.

“Who was it?” he asks to distract himself, when Zayn puts his phone back into his pocket.

Zayn’s face is blank. “No one. Sorry about that.”

Of course he doesn’t want to tell. Harry turns to the window, to soak in London while he can, and so he doesn’t have to look at the stupidly hot man he for some reason thought would be a good idea to keep around him all the time.

---

Harry’s going away party is loud and crowded, filling up the whole of the club Nick rented out for him. Harry’s not drunk, because he does have to get on a bus tomorrow and nothing’s worse than traveling with a hangover, but he’s well past tipsy, and all his friends are here, and he’s in a pretty good place, all around.

“I’m gonna miss you,” he whines, throwing his arms around Nick. Nick laughs, and hugs him back before letting go.

“Gonna miss you too, popstar. You’ll just have to give me shoutouts all the time.”

“All of them,” Harry promises. “I love everyone here!” he announces, loudly, and there are cheers from the people closest to him. It’s brilliant. Everyone here is brilliant, and tour will be brilliant, and—“Where’s Zayn?” He’s not anywhere. Harry’s been able to see him all the time when he was here, leaning against a wall, sitting at a table, never intruding but he’s been there, Harry could feel him. Harry had maybe been playing it up a little, dancing like he knew Zayn could see, because he really was going to get this crush under control sometime very soon. By the time they’re on tour, certainly.

“Feeling unsafe?” Nick retorts, “All your needs not being met? Need some mouth to mouth?”

“He’s not here,” Harry repeats. It’s crowded, so he does the logical thing and hops up on a chair, trying to see where Zayn’s gone. But he can’t see anyone. There’s one of the other members of his security team, but no Zayn, and Harry doesn’t like it. “Where’d he go?”

“Do you know the fans are already shipping you two?” Nick asks, idly flicking some non-existent lint off his shoulder. It gets Harry’s attention enough that he stops looking for Zayn and instead looks down at Nick.

“What? Do they know who he is?”

“No, what I saw on tumblr was ‘hot tattoo guy’.” Harry laughs, because it’s not inaccurate. But still,

“That’s—why?”

“Because they’ll pair you off with anyone with a pulse?” Nick suggests. His eyes skate up Harry, and it’s not nearly as nice as Zayn. “Are you going to get off the chair?”

“No.” Harry crosses his arms over his chest, sticks out his tongue. “I like it up here. Looking down on all of you.”

“Is the fame going to your head?”

“Nope, the alcohol!” Harry toasts Nick with his drink, then overbalances when the motion makes him move more than he expected. He’s not that drunk, it shouldn’t be doing this, but he stumbles and he tries to catch himself off the chair and then he’s falling, and—

And then there are hands on him, caught under his armpits, and Harry can smell the cigarettes and musk scent. He probably shouldn’t know it this well yet, and the mere touch of Zayn’s hands, the thought of him catching Harry, shouldn’t make Harry’s stomach twist and send giddy giggles to his throat, but the crush doesn’t have to be under control until tomorrow.

Zayn says something, but Harry can’t hear the words, just the rumble of his voice, and then Harry’s being set back on his feet. “Zayn!” he yells, grinning widely. “You’re back!”

“Lucky for you I am” Zayn agrees, almost smiling. He’s all in black and it’s the worst, from the tips of his boots to the top of his black button down shirt to his shiny ponytail, and Harry would not mind licking him. “Why were you on the chair?”

“I—trying to find someone,” Harry answers. He’s not drunk enough to say who. He’s got that much control. “Thanks for not letting me die.”

“It’s my job,” Zayn reminds him. Right, Harry probably did need that reminder. Even if none of his other bodyguards had ever managed to catch him when he fell like that, even when no one else ever had. It’s his job. It’s Zayn’s job. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you I’m going, but Luke’ll be taking over for tonight.” He nods to the wall where the bodyguards are hanging out.

“No, where are you going!” Harry doesn’t throw his arms around him to hold him there, but he considers it. He likes having Zayn around. He hasn’t had much of it, but he wants more of it.

“I’ve got to go home,” Zayn replies, which isn’t an answer at all, and Harry sticks out his lip but Zayn just shakes his head. “I’ll see you tomorrow. No more falling off of chairs, okay?”

“Well, not if you’re not here to catch me,” Harry agrees, with his cheekiest grin, and Zayn actually smiles, not a big one but his lips curve up and his eyes crinkle and its beautiful and wonderful and why is he going away.

But he just pats Harry on the shoulder. “Bye, Styles.” Then he’s gone.

Harry rubs at his shoulder absently, trying to rub away the fireworks from where Zayn touched him. Behind him, Nick’s laughing, not entirely his really amused laugh.

“What?” Harry demands.

Nick smirks. “You’ve got it bad, don’t you?”

“Nick, he caught me!” Harry moans, and collapses back against Nick. No one understands his pain. “Did you see that? He actually caught me. How am I supposed to deal with that?”

“Booze,” Nick replies. It’s a very good point. “Lots of it.”

“Be drunk all tour. There’s a plan,” Harry groans, but he accepts the shot Nick acquired somewhere and hands to him. He’ll get drunk and maybe take the girl with the red lipstick over there up on her unspoken offer. The party’s a lot less fun with no one watching.

---

Harry wakes up hangoverless, which he’s pretty proud of, given he’s not sure he remembered to drink any water the night before when he dragged himself out of the cab about—he glances at his phone—three hours ago. Ideally, he’d go for a run, make himself breakfast, take advantage of being in a house for the last time in a month, and for the last extended period of time in at least six months, probably, depending on if he feels like coming back here over breaks, which he probably won’t. But he’s late and he overslept and so instead he does a quick shower, throws on his trustiest outfit of tight jeans and a brightly patterned shirt, pulls a beanie on over his hair so he won’t have to deal with that until he gets to the venue, then grabs the bags he packed yesterday and a banana before he’s out of the house and into the car waiting to take him to the bus.

It always feels a bit like a school trip, the first moments of getting on the bus—how there’s two buses parked in a lot, and all sorts of people milling around with their luggage, sometimes with family too, all saying good-byes. It’s not particularly private, as Harry can see some fans and photographers hanging around the gates, but no one’s particularly close and as long as no one is expecting Harry to know what’s going on, he’s okay with smiling and waving and being pretty. He’s very good at that.

To that end, he hops out of the car with a grin for the driver, and sets off to find Paul. Usually Paul just tells him to go wait somewhere while he organizes all the roadies and security and hair and makeup and the other logistics, but he still likes Harry to check in.

Sure enough, he finds Paul holding a clipboard and looking harried. “Good, you’re here,” Paul snaps when he sees him. Harry doesn’t take offense at the snapping. Paul snaps at everyone for the first day, while he’s still making sure everything’s organized. “Go find Zayn, and don’t disappear.”

“I don’t disappear!” Harry protests. He doesn’t. Sometimes he goes and signs things for fans, sure, but he stays in the general area which he’s told.

“Find Malik,” Paul repeats, then whirls on the girl with her own clip board who taps him tentatively on the shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

Harry leaves him to that. Find Zayn. He’s okay with that plan. Although…he pulls out his phone, switches the camera to look at himself. It’s okay. He should have maybe taken more time, done his hair, because it’s kind of messy now and he looks younger in a beanie, and he’s pretty sure Zayn already thinks of him as a lot younger, even though he’s not. Not that it matters. Because Harry has total control over this crush.

“Total control,” he repeats to himself, when he catches sight of Zayn. He’s standing next to a beat-up old sedan with two guys Harry doesn’t recognize. He’s got a beanie on too so his hair curls out underneath it, and he’s in black jeans and with a denim shirt open over a white tank top, and tattoos are showing above the tank top’s neckline. It’s a good thing Harry isn’t hungover, because if he was, he’d really have to go find some cold water to dunk his head in.

One of the other guys—shorter, with longish brown hair—says something, and Zayn laughs. The other guy—big, more like the bodyguards Harry usually has, but with an open, friendly face—throws an arm around Zayn’s shoulder and pulls him in, and Zayn goes, rests his head on him. This is another thing that doesn’t matter, that other people are making Zayn laugh and get to hug him, because it’s been a week and Harry shouldn’t care and he couldn’t do anything if he did care, but he’s moving before he thinks about how he should leave Zayn to his good-byes in private.

“She’ll be fine, Zaynie,” the smaller guy is saying. He’s got a high, sharp voice, and it’s not especially comforting, but it sounds hard to argue with. “Don’t worry about it. She’ll love the time—”

“That’s not helping, Lou,” the bigger guy interrupts, “He doesn’t need to hear how she’ll love time away from him. But,” he adds, turning to Zayn, who’s still close to him, basically tucked under his arm. How is Zayn supposed to protect Harry when he’s held like that? It’s probably something he should stop, now. “It will be fine. You’ve got your phone, and you’re not going to be too far away. She’s not going to forget you.”

“I know, it’s just the first time—” Harry really doesn’t want to hear about this girlfriend Zayn’s so attached to he can barely stand to be away from her for a month, or see how Zayn looks with these men, and also he should probably stop eavesdropping, so,

“Hi!” Harry says, bouncing up to the group. “Sorry to interrupt, but I was told to find you, so, reporting for duty!” He does a little salute thing, which sort of distracts him from staring at how the stubble from yesterday has grown into an actual beard that looks like would feel excellent on Harry’s thighs.

All three of them look up. If Harry could look at anything other than Zayn, he’d probably notice that these other guys are also very good-looking, but as it is, he barely even registers that, because Zayn’s giving him a bit of a smile and it’s sending butterflies fluttering in Harry’s stomach.

“You’re Harry Styles,” the smaller guy says flatly, and Harry drags his gaze away from Zayn, tries to hold back on the stupid grin he can see on his face.

“Yep!” Harry holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“This is Louis,” Zayn tells him. Louis takes his hand, gives him a firm shake, “And Liam,” Zayn adds, gesturing at the guy who’s still hugging him. He looks like he’d be good to hug. Harry should probably try it out.

“Good to meet you,” Liam shakes his hand. His grip is strong, but it’s not possessive or anything, which may be a little more than Harry can say for himself. “I love your music! I think it’s really cool, what you’ve been doing, with the harmonics?” He goes on, and Harry can feel himself warming to him despite the fact that Zayn’s so easy with him. He’s so earnestly enthusiastic, it reminds Harry a bit of Niall. And also Harry’s not really good at disliking people.

So he grins back at Liam, and lets himself get drawn into a discussion about his latest album. He only notices immediately when Zayn slips away from Liam, and he and Louis take a step away, their foreheads touching, Louis’s hand on Zayn’s hip and Zayn’s on Louis’s shoulder.

“Sorry, you know all this,” Liam rubs at the back of his neck, laughing nervously, and Harry drags his gaze away from Zayn. “I’m just, usually when I meet people like you I’m working, so I can’t talk.”

Harry makes up for his inattention with a wide grin, and his most concentrated look. Zayn’s friends should like him. He wants them to like him. “No, I could talk music all day!” he assures Liam. “What do you do?”

“I’m a bodyguard too.”

“And a firefighter,” Louis adds, slinging an arm around Liam’s shoulder. Zayn’s suddenly next to Harry. It feels like the most natural thing in the world, and also like all of Harry’s nerve endings are on edge in case Zayn touches him. God, he hasn’t had a crush this bad since he was fifteen. “Anyway, I’ve got to get back, got a train to catch.”

“Looks like things are getting ready to move here too,” Zayn agrees. He bites at his lip, and Harry glances away. “I—like, don’t—”

“Oh shut up.” Louis grabs him, hugs him tightly for a second, before he pushes him away again. Zayn doesn’t stumble, just goes with it like he’s expecting it. “It’s a month, don’t be stupid, and I’ll see you up north. And you,” he stabs a finger at Harry, “Behave for him. We give him enough grief here, he doesn’t need you acting out too.”

“I’m always good,” Harry replies, fluttering his eyelashes. Louis laughs, and Zayn snorts as well, but then he’s throwing his arms around Liam, and Liam’s holding him tight. They’re whispering something to each other, things that sound like ‘it’ll be okay’ and ‘I’ll watch out for her’ and ‘stop worrying’, but Harry can just hear the murmur of their voices. It’s sort of horribly intimate. Harry really has to try out this whole hugging Zayn thing.

Finally, after what feels like hours, they let each other go, step back.

“Okay, bye.” Zayn nods.

“We’ll miss you,” Liam says.

“I won’t!”

“We’ll miss you,” Liam repeats, elbowing Louis without looking. “All of us. Don’t worry about anything, we’ll call if anything comes up.”

“Tell her—”

“Stop fussing,” Louis orders sternly. “Go fuss about him.” He waves at Harry. “He’s the one who needs it.” With that, he opens the car door, slides in, and slams it shut.

Liam rolls his eyes at Zayn, and Zayn smiles back. It’s the most Harry’s seen Zayn smile. “See ya, Li.” Zayn says, and Liam waves before he gets into the other side of the car.

Zayn doesn’t watch them leave, just turns away, back towards the bus. His face is expressionless again, but now Harry knows how he can smile. Even if the stoic thing looks just as devastating with the beard.

Harry waits a second, then, when it doesn’t look like Zayn’s going to say anything, “Are you okay?”

Zayn shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I be?” Before Harry can point out why—leaving his friends, leaving his girlfriend—Zayn goes on. “I need to see Paul, so let’s go.”

Harry tags along as Zayn stops by Paul, then to the other bus, where he gets his wire. Harry even waits while he puts it on and fiddles with it, because no matter what Paul says he’s not a handful at all. And because he can distract himself by watching Zayn while he waits, and then distract himself from that by fiddling on his phone. Niall’s busy, and Nick’s at work, and everyone else he knows is probably asleep, so he can’t text them, but he can go on Instagram. He does an idle search to see if Zayn has an Instagram—he does, but it’s only visible for friends, and Harry has to ask him before friending him, because people will figure out who he is quickly then and Harry doesn’t want to out him. He doesn’t have a twitter, though, or a facebook it looks like. Somehow, Harry’s not surprised.

“Okay,” Zayn says. Harry jumps, and blushes guiltily. He wasn’t stalking, though. It’s normal to google employees, and friends. “I’m good. And we have like fifteen til we’re on the road.”

Harry nods. He could get on the bus, but the crowd’s growing outside the fence, and, “I should sign things,” he decides. Zayn nods, and he’s a few paces behind Harry as Harry goes to the fence, and meets the screams with his brightest grin.

It’s his favorite part, the meeting the fans, so the fifteen minutes blurs by in signatures and photos and just listening to their stories. There’s one, ‘what’s your bodyguard’s name? He’s hot!’ but it’s loud enough that Harry can pretend he didn’t hear it among all the other noise.

“We’re good to go,” Zayn’s voice is in his ear, and Harry nods and steps back.

“Thanks for coming!” he waves to the crowd. Some of them reach out, and he steps away far enough he thinks he’s out of reach before he turns around to go.

There’s a bit of noise—Harry glances over his shoulder, but Zayn’s between him and whatever’s happening. He likes that feeling. And anyway, it doesn’t seem to be anything but some people trying to push closer, and him trying to do anything about that would just make it worse, so he just keeps walking.

A moment later, there are more footsteps behind him, and Harry doesn’t know what it means (that’s a lie. He knows what it means, but he’s going to pretend he doesn’t) that he recognizes them as Zayn.

“Everything good?”

“Yeah.” The lot’s clearing out, people getting on buses or in cars or going home, so Harry goes right to his bus. Zayn follows him, but then he stops. “Have a good ride.”

It takes Harry a second to realize why Zayn isn’t going with him, but of course, he has his own bus, security goes on the other one. It’s one of the perks of being the talent, getting his own bus, and usually it’s nice to have his time alone, away from someone always watching him, but—

“You could ride with me,” Harry suggests, before Zayn can get too far away. Zayn pauses, tilts his head like a question, so Harry goes on, “I mean, it’s usually just me and sometimes Paul, and I don’t think Paul’s going to be there this time, and I bet the other bus is crowded.” He’s grasping, and he knows it, but it just—his bus sounds very empty right now, leaving London behind, and Zayn looks really good. Harry will start getting over that crush once tour really starts, with the first show tonight.

Zayn gives him a long look, like he can see right through Harry, but then he shrugs. He brings a hand up to his ear, and has a quick discussion with whoever’s on the other end of it—Harry’s never been entirely sure—then nods. “Okay.”

“Really?” Harry swallows, shakes his head. He’s not—well, he might be basically a teenager with a crush, but he’s also an international award-winning musician. “Sick, c’mon then.”

He pulls open the door to the bus, goes in first, but then he stops to talk to Dave the bus driver, ask him about his break and the kids and all, so by the time he’s done with that Zayn’s already in the lounge, leaning against a wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

Harry rolls his eyes, and settles onto the couch, propping his feet up on the table. “Are you planning to stand the whole ride? Is it bodyguard conditioning?”

Zayn chuckles, and moves away from the wall, settling into a chair with the same open-legged slouch he seems to default to when not on duty. “We have to stand for seven hours a day, it’s in the contract.”

Harry beams, at the joke. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“My lips are sealed.” Zayn makes a motion like he’s locking his lips, and Harry snorts. It’s so not what he’d expect, sillier than Zayn’s been, but it’s still a good look on him. Maybe this is him in a good mood, which means a sharing mood.

“So,” Harry starts, as the bus pulls away. “Louis and Liam?”

“Yeah?”

Okay, so it won’t be that easy, “Who are they?”

“Friends.” When Harry gives an overly exasperated sign, Zayn gives a quick, almost blinding grin before it’s back to his usual stoicism. “They’re my best friends. Wouldn’t let me get away without a proper send off, Lou said.”

“Is that where you had to go last night?” Harry supposes best friends is a good enough reason to leave him. Even if he doesn’t particularly want to.

“Sort of. Wanted to spend the last night with family.” Zayn’s lip twitches. “I guess they count too.”

“That good of friends?”

“I’ve known Liam since forever,” Zayn explains. “We’ve been best friends since, fuck, since we were like seven. I met Louis in uni.”

“And now they’re friends too? That’s nice.”

“It is. They’re great, always have been.” Zayn’s got a smile on like he had when he talked about his sister, soft and fond and lovely. Harry runs a hand back through his hair, fiddling with the ends. “Sorta my rocks, here. Been with me through—through a lot.”

Harry could ask about that enigmatic ‘a lot’, like he could ask about how Zayn met Louis in uni when he didn’t finish, or about Zayn’s girlfriend, but he doesn’t. He wants Zayn to keep talking, and sensitive subjects make people shut up. He doesn’t want Zayn to shut up.

“But your family’s not here, right?” he asks instead. Zayn probably likes talking about his family. “Where are they from?”

“Bradford,” Zayn answers easily. “Up north.”

“I’m from Cheshire!” Harry exclaims. It’s not even a thing, really—it’s not like the cities are particularly close—but still, it feels like a point of commonality. Zayn doesn’t even give him a weird look for it, just smiles a little. He’s smiled more in the past few minutes on the bus than at all before. “Are they coming to a concert while we’re up there?”

“Should be. Saf—Safaa—was really excited when I got this gig, basically demanded tickets.” Zayn chuckles fondly. “Said I was finally useful for something.”

“Sisters,” Harry agrees sympathetically, “Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.” He loves Gemma, but she’s sort of the worst sometimes.

“Love ‘em, though.” Zayn’s still got that smile on. It makes him look a little softer, less hardened. Younger. All sorts of things that Harry probably shouldn’t think about for his own sanity. “And my mum was pretty excited too,” he adds, with a lopsided sort of smirk.

“Your dad, too?” Harry teases. “I love dads. Does he look like you?”

Zayn snorts. “No homewrecking, Styles.”

“It was just a question!” Harry raises his hands, palm out, but he knows he’s still smirking. “And I don’t mess with married men.” He says it before he thinks, then winces. He knows the rumors, knows everyone knows the rumors, and he’s never bothered denying because acknowledging them only make people assume he has something to hide. So he knows the question that’s coming next.

But it doesn’t come. Instead, Zayn just chuckles again. “Nice of you.”

“Right?” The relief of it makes his smile wider. “I’m generous like that.”

Zayn just nods, and doesn’t respond. Harry could let the conversation die, pull out his ipod or his book, see what Zayn does, but it’s like Zayn’s looser here, in this enclosed space (maybe that’s what it is. He knows Harry won’t get attacked here) and Harry needs to take advantage of that.

“So your parent’s are okay with what you do?” he asks. It occurs to him after that it’s not the most tactful thing to say. “I mean, I know my mum would freak out if I was fighting.”

“My mum’s not thrilled,” Zayn admits. “But she gets it. And it’s all my dad’s fault.”

“Really? How?”

“He got me my first lessons.”

“Why?”

“Is this twenty questions?”

“Only if you haven’t been counting.”

Zayn laughs again. “I was bullied a lot, as a kid. Got into fights, kept on coming home beat up, ‘cause both Liam and I weren’t exactly good at, like, backing down? So one day my dad sees me with, like, a black eye for the third time that month, and he gets me boxing lessons the next day. Said that if I wouldn’t stop fighting, at least he could make sure I didn’t get hurt.” He grins, something mischievous in it. “Don’t think he expected this, though.”

“Why did you keep on with it?”

Zayn shrugs, the smile dying. “Liked not to be beat up, at first. And, like, I was good at it, and I needed money, but that was—later.” He shakes his head. “So, what’s your origin story, then?”

“I can get you the book,” Harry suggests. His origin story isn’t exactly a secret.

But Zayn just fixes that intent, unrelenting gaze on him. “Nah, that’s not your origin. Why’d you start to sing?”

Harry blinks. It’s not something people ask, usually. Why you auditioned for X Factor, sure. Why you wanted to be famous, sure. But not why he sings.

“I don’t know,” He says, slowly, “I just—always have. I’ve always loved it. I’ve never wanted anything else. You know?”

Zayn gaze shutters. “No,” he says, and leans back, like he’s pulling away. “No, I don’t.”

---

Zayn falls asleep quickly once the bus really starts moving, which is a little sad, but has two pluses. First, it means Harry does have the time he likes to gather himself, to text Jeff in LA and a bit with Niall and Aimee and Gemma, without worrying about how he looks because Zayn would be watching. And the other plus side is he can watch Zayn, because he’s really utterly out, stretched out on the couch with one hand falling off the side and the other resting on his stomach. His face sleeping…is still pretty stoic, but it’s nice to be able to stare without anyone caring, as he texts his friends.

How creepy would it be to google my bodyguard? He texts Nick idly, once he’s gone through Instagram to his desire. He needs something to do, after all, and he’s not so good with the whole everyone else around him not being talkative thing. Ideally, of course, he’d sleep, but he’s a going til he’s not sort of person, and right now he’s still going.

NOT! Nick replies. He must be back home, because it comes almost instantly. Googling anyone isn’t creepy.

It’s not invasive? Harry replies. He doesn’t exactly have perspective on this, he figures, because when he googles himself the amount that comes up is staggering and mainly false and what isn’t false is what he wanted out there, for the most part. He doesn’t know what it’s like not to have that. Nick’s not entirely better, but Niall’s probably working, and Gemma would laugh at him, so Nick’s his best bet.

Internet stalking’s not invasive unless you’re hacking. If you find nudes, send them along?

If I find nudes you won’t hear any more from me, because I’ll be dead, Harry sends back, and opens his computer.

The first few things that come up are blocked social media things. Then there’s an article about an art show from University of Manchester, which Harry opens. The article doesn’t say much, though, just announces it and mentions Zayn’s name as one of the artists. It’s another nice detail, Harry thinks. He does—or did—art.

After that, though, is where the search bears fruit. The next thing is an announcement for a fight, with Zayn Malik versus someone called Leon Carson, and after that—after that is a link to a video. Harry opens that, puts on headphones just in case, and waits for it to load on the temperamental bus wifi. He gives Zayn a quick glance as he does, because it’s sort of weird to be doing this with him right there, even if it’s all public domain, but Zayn’s still fast asleep. His shirt’s ridden up a bit, so some skin shows above his belt, tanned skin and muscle and something that Harry thinks is ink before he decides that staring at him in general might not be creepy, but staring at his navel is, so he looks away, to where Zayn’s eyelashes are spread over his skin.

Find anything juicy yet? Nick texts. Harry makes a face at the phone.

It’s been five minutes! And you could do this yourself.

I’m not the one with a crush, though. This is much more fun.

L Harry replies, and turns his attention back to the now-loaded video.

It’s an older video, from what looks like six years ago, so probably when Zayn was in college. He’s slighter than he is now, his face a little softer. His hair is slicked back up into a quiff, sides of his head shaved, and it’s hot but it looks like he’s trying to be sharp and cool in a way that’s endearing, especially compared to him now.

Then he takes off his shirt, which makes everything much better. There are—there are a lot of tattoos over the muscle there, and Harry refuses to let his jaw drop, but there’s ink on his chest and his hips and his sides and his shoulders and Harry’s seen even more on his arms now, so there’s probably only more. It’s a little devastating. And it’s probably only gotten better.

Harry watches as he tapes up his hands, talking with someone who looks like Liam from earlier and some other big guy. He’s grinning, clearly joking around as he bounces around, making mock jabs at the air and at Liam that Liam blocks with a laugh, as the other guy tries to tell him something in a way that reminds Harry of how Paul talks to him. He looks lighter, even when he ducks under the ropes into the ring. His opponent is bigger than him, a bit hulking and mean-looking, and even though Harry knows Zayn ended up fine his stomach twists a little at the possibility.

But when the fight starts, his stomach unknots a bit. Harry doesn’t know much about fighting, but the other guy seems to be strong but slow, and Zayn’s fast on his feet, ducking around punches, staying out of range of the other guy’s fists. It’s not an unfair fight, Harry doesn’t think, and pretty soon he has to cover his eyes most of the time because Zayn keeps on getting hit, knocked backwards and wincing. He’s giving it back, though, and he must be stronger than he looks because the other guy seems phased by his hits.

Zayn’s stopped smiling, his face set in the sort of blank, concentrated expression Harry recognizes, a fierce focus on his opponent. It shouldn’t be hot, Harry doesn’t approve of violence and especially not this, which is basically modern gladiatorial fights and people are betting on Zayn getting hurt and it’s so primitive—but god it’s hot, the sweat on Zayn’s skin, the way his muscles move, the way he moves, fast and deliberate. It’s not even really graceful, it’s just calculated, Harry thinks, efficient. Like he knows where he wants to be and then he’s there. It makes Harry wonder if he’d be like that with Harry too, if he’d be as deliberate with him, if—if nothing. Because he won’t. Because Harry can’t.

Instead of wondering, Harry focuses on the video, just in time to see Zayn slide close to the other guy, do something tricky with his legs, and then end up on top of him on the matt, pinning him down, all within seconds.

Harry shuts the computer before he can think. It’s—that’s not going to help, knowing that if he wanted Zayn could end up on top of him in seconds.

Beating people up shouldn’t be hot!!!! He sends to Nick. All he gets back is a row of various laughing emojis, along with a muscled arm, a boxing glove, and a heart. His friends are awful people, Harry decides, and instead of texting him back pulls out his phone to listen to music.

Zayn doesn’t wake up until they get to the venue, and then Harry’s rushed away for sound check. It goes well enough, and it’s also the first time Harry’s seen the band since his last performance on Sweden Idol, so afterwards he sticks around to chat with them until he has to get into hair and makeup. Zayn’s there when he sits down, and Harry makes a face at him in the mirror to get his lips to twitch until Lou hits him in the face with a brush to make him stand still.

“He start giving you trouble yet?” she asks, and Harry thinks for a second she’s talking to him, given that she’s tugging at his hair, but it’s Zayn who answers.

“Nah. No trouble.”

“Well, watch out for him.” She pulls unnecessarily hard, Harry thinks, and he whines. It’s useless—Lou’s been immune to his pouting for about three years—but he likes to make sure she knows it hurts. “He’s trouble, this one. Give him an inch, he takes a mile. And your boyfriend.”

“I did not!” Harry objects. “There was light flirting, that’s all.”

“Don’t give me that, Styles, I know your ways.” She sprays something at him, and his retort is caught in him coughing at the fumes. “He’ll take your kid, too,” she adds. “Lux was asking about you.”

“Yeah?” Harry grins, tips his head back so he can look at Lou. “She gonna come visit?”

“Maybe a bit. Now sit still.”

“I am!”

“See?” she sighs over-dramatically, and in the mirror he can see her turn to Zayn. “Trouble.”

“Well I don’t have a boyfriend for him to take,” Zayn replies, doing his not-smile thing. “So I should be fine.”

Lou laughs. “That’s what everyone thinks. Then he’s moved into your house for a month.”

“It happened once!” Harry protests again, because his friends are awful, but then Lou gives him new pictures of Lux to console him. It’s not quite good enough for making fun of him in front of Zayn, but it’s enough.

Zayn disappears as Harry’s finishing, when the show’s about to start, it sounds like, and Lou gives Harry a raised eyebrow look as Caroline releases him. “So,” she asks, giving him a once-over that’s less flattering than it reminds him of his mum. “That’s the new bodyguard?”

“Yeah.” Harry fiddles with the highest button of his shirt. He could probably get away with undoing one more. Fans don’t come to see him with his shirt buttoned, after all.

“That must be fun.”

Harry sticks out his tongue. “He’s really nice! It’s going well.”

Lou snorts. “Nice, right. That’s what you like about him.”

“It is,” Harry declares, and goes off to find people who will be nice to him and not make fun of him because he made the stupid decision to hire the hottest guy alive as his bodyguard.

---

There’s nothing in the world Harry loves more than performing, than the feeling of being on stage with everyone watching and his voice filling the huge room. And the first show is a whole other ballgame, the excitement of the crowd, his own excitement. The feeling that this is where he belongs, that it’s not his house or Holmes Chapel or London that’s home but wherever there’s a stage.

He’s on stage, then he’s not, coming off for a quick break to change into a sheer shirt he’s particularly fond of, then he’s back on again. He plays with the band, vamps to the crowd, takes all their screaming and rides so high on it he never wants to come down.

He’s still on that high as he comes off stage again, grinning so big he thinks it’ll take over his face. He always thinks he’s exaggerating it to himself, that this rush isn’t as big as he remembers, until it starts again and it’s back. Lou and Caroline congratulate him, Paul comes over to slap him on the back, and he laughs with the band—and then he can feel Zayn’s gaze on him and he turns to where Zayn’s watching, leaning against a wall.

“Zayn!” he bounces over. He’s gross and sweaty and a mess and he doesn’t care, he’s never felt hotter. “Did you see the show?”

“Most of it,” Zayn replies evenly. He doesn’t move, his arms still crossed over his chest, but he looks so steady and solid, like he could take all this energy swirling in Harry and help even it out.

“What’d you think?” Harry whines. He doesn’t need Zayn to like his shows—a lot of his previous bodyguards haven’t, a lot of his team now doesn’t—but he wants him to. Wants him to like this part of Harry too.

For a second, Zayn’s face is still blank, but then it breaks into a smile, bigger than anything Harry’s ever seen on him before. “It was good. Not my sort of music, but you were brilliant.”

“Hah!” Harry spins to stab a finger at Lou, who he knows is laughing at him and he doesn’t even care. “See? I’m brilliant.”

“You don’t have to tell him that,” Lou tells Zayn.

“No, you do,” Harry argues. “You should tell me that a lot. Can we put that in your contract? Must always tell me I’m brilliant.”

“I’ll make a note,” Zayn replies, still smiling. It’s brilliant. Everything’s brilliant. He even reaches out to touch at the collar of Harry’s shirt. “Don’t much believe in clothes though, do you?”

Harry scoffs, holding a hand to his chest. “I do! This is fashion, Zayn. I am fashionable.”

“He’s a mess,” Caroline inserts. “Never lets me finish, this one.” Harry sticks out his tongue, and she gives him an unimpressed look back. “Now you—you I could work with.”

Zayn chuckles. Harry loves it, everyone getting along, all his tour family all together.

“Okay,” Paul announces, clapping his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Time to go.” He turns to Zayn, gives him a look Harry can’t interpret. “Big crowds at the exit, tonight.”

“I’ll be good,” Harry rolls his eyes, and accepts the towel Caroline hands him to wipe the sweat off his neck. “Promise.”

“That’s a promise you’ve never kept,” Lou shoots back, and he gives her a cheerful leer back before going to find a jacket.

The crowd’s mad outside, first show and all, and Harry lingers, signing things that are thrust at him and talking and taking pictures as best he can. It’s his favorite part, and these people have waited ages, he knows; he hates the thought that someone would walk away disappointed. If he can make people happy just by letting them touch him, he’s going to.

So he listens to gushing girls and grins sympathetically at beleaguered parents and blows kisses. He knows he can’t get to everyone, but still, it seems like only seconds before Zayn’s hand is on his back again, heavy and warm, and his lips are so close to his skin. “Got to go, Harry,” he murmurs.

“Nawww!” Comes a general coo from the crowd, and Zayn jerks back, clearly surprised. Harry just grins. He’s really not surprised there’s already shipping, though he’s trying to put off people finding out who Zayn is as long as possible. It won’t be long, but he can at least try not to say Zayn’s name or anything.

He twists so he can reply, “Coming,” and it just so happens it’s close to Zayn’s cheek. Not that Harry was aiming that way or anything. He’s being good. “If you smile at them, they’ll probably faint.”

He expects a smile, or at least sort of one, but Zayn’s serious as he scans the crowd. “Wouldn’t want to risk it,” he drawls. He doesn’t move back, though, doesn’t even move his hand, and it’s more distracting than it should be, the fact that Zayn’s right there. It probably helps, honestly, because it diverts him from getting distracted by all the fans still clamoring for him. He calls out a few good-byes, some ‘I love you’s, and then he’s somehow been backed into the car and the door’s closed behind Zayn.

Zayn taps at his ear piece when they settle. “We’ll go get settled in the hotel,” he tells Harry, then pauses, clearly listening to instructions. “Then you can decide what you want to do from there.”

“Sounds good!” Harry scoots over so he can look out the window, see more fans. It’s mad, madder than it’s ever been, and his fingers are drumming over his knee and he thinks he might shake out of his skin.

That lasts about ten minutes. Then, almost all at once, the energy’s gone, and the exhaustion from not sleeping last night has hit him along with the adrenaline crash. He thinks he falls asleep, but all he knows is one second he was watching the lights of the city and the next he’s drifting back awake as the car slows.

He got a pillow from somewhere, he thinks groggily, because his head is resting on something soft and warm, and it smells like musky cologne and cigarette smoke. It’s so comfortable though, even though it’s moving, and it—Zayn, he realizes, too far asleep to think more than that—is talking, probably on the phone.

“How was she?” he asks, quietly. His voice is a rough murmur, and it sends shivers up Harry’s spine, hearing it this close, where he can almost feel the vibrations on Zayn’s skin. “Any problems?” A pause, then, “Yeah I think this’ll work, I could get away….thanks, Liam. It’ll be better in a few weeks.”

This is probably dishonest, Harry thinks, as he wakes up a bit more. What’s more dishonest is he makes sure to keep his eyes closed, to relax his breathing, because—because if he’s awake, he’ll have to move, have to put up those boundaries again, where he doesn’t sleep on his bodyguard’s shoulder no matter how good he smells.

The car jolts to a stop, and Harry squeezes his eyes shut harder. Asleep. He’s asleep.

“Got to go, give her my love,” Zayn says, and hangs up, before he taps Harry gently on the shoulder. “Hey, Harry. Time to wake up.”

Harry blinks, stretches. “Huh?” he asks, very convincingly, he thinks.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “You’re not very good at lying, are you?” he asks, and just as gently tips Harry back up so he’s not on Zayn’s shoulder anymore.

Harry ducks his head, trying not to blush. It’s—he didn’t mean to eavesdrop on Zayn’s conversation with his girlfriend. Or, like, about his girlfriend. He just…happened to. More in his mission to learn more about Zayn, he figures.

“Huh?” he says again, because if there’s one thing he’s learned it’s that bravado can get you through most situations. “We here?”

Zayn’s lips twitch, but he lets himself be distracted. Or something, Harry thinks—there’s still something serious about him, more so even than usual, in the way he’s looking at Harry. “Yeah. Looks like it hasn’t been leaked, you should be okay.”

“Thank God.” Harry rakes his hair back from his face, and only ogles a little as Zayn gets out in front of him. He’s never been one to turn down a nice view.

Like Zayn said, no one had followed them, so they get into the lobby with no problems. Harry waits patiently as he can as Paul talks with someone, still mainly drooping from his nap. If he was just a little bolder—if he cared a little less—if Zayn wasn’t his bodyguard—he’s probably just wander over to where he was standing, lean on his back to go back to sleep, but he…can’t really dare. He’s already been forward enough. And what if Zayn has some sort of ninja reflexes that mean he hits people who come up behind him?

“Okay, here’s the key to your suite,” Paul says at last, handing the card to Harry. He gives another one to Zayn. “It’s a suite, so Zayn’ll get the other room.”

Harry blinks. He knows he’s not entirely awake, but that’s weird. Usually security has their own rooms a little ways away. Harry’s always figured it was to give them a break from him, which even he can admit is probably necessary. “In the suite?”

“Yeah, that okay?” Paul asks casually. Harry swallows. It’s okay. It’s perfectly fine. Zayn’ll just be asleep within feet of him. That’s a thing that will totally let Harry sleep.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. Hopefully people will put the rasp in his voice down to his nap. “I’m gonna stay in tonight, I think.”

“Makes it easier for me. Let me know if you need anything. We need to be on the road by seven.”

Harry’s affirmation turns into a groan, but he nods anyway, and Paul swats at his head as he trots away.

---

The room’s about what it normally is, the same as every other hotel Harry’s been in, so it’s second nature to stumble in, to drop his bag on the floor and fall into the bed next to it. He could just go to sleep like this. Just go to sleep, and not think about how Zayn followed him in. It is weird, though. That they’d make him share his suite. Not that he cares, but still. That they’re going to put temptation right there in front of him, like it’s a test. Maybe that’s what this is, a test of his will. Of how long he can last with a gorgeous, nice, funny bodyguard within arm’s reach at almost all times before he just starts rubbing himself against Zayn.

“Hey, Harry?” Zayn calls, from the main room. It’s not domestic or anything, Harry tries not to think. He’s known Zayn for a week. He shouldn’t be thinking like this. “Can you come out here?”

Harry really, really doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to leave this soft bed. But his traitorous brain also fills with fantasies of him coming out of his room to Zayn naked on the couch—Zayn all in black leather—Zayn grabbing him and kissing him silly—and anyway, it’s not that late, so he groans and gets up again.

Zayn doesn’t grab him, and he’s still dressed like he was, in jeans and his t-shirt. If anything, he looks serious, his arms crossed over his chest.

“What’s up?”

Zayn bites at his lip, his brow furrowing for a second before it evens out. “Sit down, please.”

Harry drops into a chair. This is—weird. “Is something wrong? Did something happen?”

“No. Not really.” He bites his lip again. This may be some sort of warfare, Harry’s sure. Or maybe he’s just doing it to distract from what sounds pretty foreboding. “I just, like, need to tell you something.”

“Are you breaking up with me?” Harry jokes. Zayn doesn’t smile.

“Paul doesn’t think we should tell you.” It’s a pretty terrifying way to start out. Harry’s smile dies. “But in the end, it’s my call how I best keep you safe, and I think you need to know. I think you should know.” He nods, like he’s agreeing with himself, but his gaze is dark and fixed on Harry, steady but not intense. “You’ve been getting threats.”

There’s a beat. Harry cocks his head. “I get threats all the time,” he points out slowly. “It’s part of the job.”

“These ones are more serious.” Zayn puts down some photos on the table. “They took these.”

Harry leans over. At first glance, they’re not that scary—he’s seen what feels like thousands of pictures of himself. But then he looks closer. There’s one in some signing line, barely a foot from him. One from the front row of a concert. One of his back, at an airport. One of him asleep on a hotel bed, close up but not grainy like it would be with zoom, like he was actually right there.

“That’s me in Sweden,” Harry gets out. It’s—he remembers that hotel, because it had weird patterns on its bedspread. “That’s—”

“Tech people say it’s the same phone as has been sending threats,” Zayn says, evenly. It’s good, that he’s even, that he’s steady, because Harry doesn’t know what to think. “They’re working on tracing it down. But this person has been sending in death threats, Harry, and they have gotten close. That’s why they hired me. And it’s why I’m in this room. I’ll be here if anything happens.”

Harry nods. He can’t—he doesn’t know—he’s not sure what to think. What he feels. The person was just so close. He might have touched Harry, in some of these. He might have. “Why—if they’ve been making threats, why haven’t they done something?”

“Because they want you to recant. To tell all the kids you’ve influenced that it’s not okay to be bisexual.” Harry snorts. He hasn’t even really dated any guys, or anyone at all in years. He’s never said anything. Not half so much as he feels like he should, sometimes. He didn’t do anything and now someone is watching him and they’ve been so close and—

“Hey.” There’s weight next to him on the couch suddenly, and a hand on his wrist, calloused and warm and Harry looks up into big hazel eyes. “I’ll keep you safe, okay? I promise. No one’s going to hurt you.”

“But—”

“No one,” Zayn repeats, and it resonates somehow, echoes in Harry’s head. “I promise. Okay? Hey, look at me,” he goes on, when Harry glances down, away, “Do you understand? You’re safe. I didn’t tell you this to scare you.”

“Well you succeeded,” Harry gets out. He swallows, to smooth out his voice. He thinks this would be torturous in another way in other circumstances, Zayn so close gazing into his eyes. But right now all he can think about are those pictures. “Why did you tell me?”

“Because some choices have to be made.” Zayn leans back, but his grip is still there on Harry’s wrist, not tight but anchoring. “I think you should make them. You aren’t a child.”

“Okay.” Harry swallows again, and pushes back the fear. He can. He knows how to push emotion down, to put on a good face. He isn’t a child, even if some people seem to think so. He can be in charge of himself. Probably. “What do I need to do?”

“I was watching you with fans tonight. There are a lot of them, and it would be easy for whoever this is to get close during it. It’d be hard for me to pick out a threat,” Zayn explains, in that same even, almost soothing voice. It makes it almost easier to hear. “We could deal with that, or we could limit access to you. Not have those lines. Keep people farther away.”

“It’s my choice?” Harry asks, though. It doesn’t sound like something he should choose. It sounds like something he’s not qualified for.

“The security team will make specific plans either way. But this is your call, Harry.”

“Shouldn’t it be Paul’s? Or yours?”

“If you want me to ask Paul, I will.” Harry can’t hear any judgment in the words. He can’t hear anything in the words. “But I wasn’t a child anymore at twenty-three, and I don’t think you are either. Which means you get to make these decisions.” He blinks, slowly, his eyelashes feathering on his cheeks. It’s easy to distract himself with that, with looking at Zayn. Easy enough to focus on the shapes his lips are making and not think about what he’s actually saying. “You can ask me anything you want. And I will go to Paul if you think that’s best. But I thought you should know.”

Harry closes his eyes. It’s easier to think like that, to close himself off from all the other distractions until it’s just him. Him, and Zayn’s hand on his skin. He takes a long, deep breath, like all his coaches have taught him, in and out. Like he used to deal with the stage fright.

Then he opens his eyes. “Do you think it’s serious?”

“It’s hard to tell.” Zayn shrugs. “A lot of times these aren’t. But the pictures do make it more immediate. And it’s always better to assume it’s serious.”

Harry nods. “What do you think?”

He expects Zayn to shrug. Instead he just gives him another one of those long, even looks. “It would be easier for me if you limited access.” He pauses, and Harry can hear the unfinished quality.

“But?”

“But,” Zayn goes on, slower. “I’ve never found that backing down from threats like these has helped, in the long run. Not in my experience.”

“You have experience?” It’s the wrong time to ask that, Harry knows, but it’s easier to think about that. To think about Zayn, not about this.

“I’ve had some threats made at me,” Zayn says. It sounds like it should be a confession, but he says it like it’s a point of pride. “I told you I was bullied a lot. And being a Muslim in a fighting community that’s often conservative isn’t always friendly. Which,” he continues, even slower. Almost like he’s reluctant to say it. “Is another thing for you to consider. It might be easier for you with a different bodyguard.”

“A different bodyguard?” Harry tries not to sound as high-pitched and frantic as he thinks it probably is, but he doesn’t want to think about Zayn leaving.

“Someone who makes these kind of threats probably won’t be happy with you having a bisexual Muslim Pakistani next to you.” Zayn leans back, away from Harry, and lets go of his wrist. It feels cold, like suddenly the fear is creeping back. “If you think it’s best, I’ll leave. I won’t call discrimination.”

Harry probably shouldn’t focus on the ‘bisexual’ part of that. But it’s the thing that sticks. “No,” he replies, probably too fast. “No. I want you. I want you here,” he amends, glancing away so Zayn doesn’t see what’s probably a blush. “And—” In and out, in and out. “I don’t want to hold back. It’s not fair to the fans that one person will scare me away from them.” He nods, mainly to himself. “I’ve got—it’s a responsibility, sort of. To them. I’m not hiding.”

He thinks Zayn is smiling. Maybe he’s making it up, because he did make Zayn’s job a lot harder, but he thinks he can see his eyes curve up. “Okay.”

“And besides,” Harry adds, trying to grin. “You’ll protect me.”

“I will,” Zayn agrees. It doesn’t sound like a joke, like teasing, and that settles in Harry’s bones, enough that he almost misses that Zayn’s going on. “So, protocol for right now—I’m going to check your room before you sleep, okay? The whole suite. And the door’s always going to be locked. If there’s—like, if you meet someone, I’d really prefer it if you come back here rather than going to theirs. And it’d be easier all around if you…” his tongue comes out, licking over his lips. “If you held off on that, for now.”

Harry watches his tongue. Watches his lips talk about sex. “It’s—don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

There’s a pause. Harry’s almost certain there’s a pause, like Zayn cares about that. He’s probably just thinking about how that affects his plans, but—but Harry can think that he’s considering reasons why it won’t be a problem for Harry, who’s not exactly known for his celibacy.

“Okay,” Zayn agrees. “In general, me or one of the other security guards will have eyes on you all the time. We’ll figure out what to do with signings and lines and stuff.” He shifts forward again, bracing his elbows on his knees. “And if you ever, ever feel unsafe, for any reason, you get me. Doesn’t matter when. Okay?”

“Yeah.” It comes out hoarse, Harry knows. Partly from fear, but partly because it sounds like a promise, like this beautiful lovely man is making him promises, and that hits something instinctive in him. He clears his throat. “Yeah,” he repeats.

“Good.” Suddenly Zayn’s gone again, standing up and away from him. “I’m going to do a check of your room now, so you can get some sleep.”

Harry stands up too, mainly on instinct. It’s easier to be with Zayn. He doesn’t want to be alone with those pictures.

“Hey.” Zayn’s hand is suddenly on his shoulder, his cheek, and it’s rough and warm and more comforting than a hand should be. “Hey, it’s okay.” His smile flashes, sudden and bright and certainly distracting. “You’re fine. I’ll just be a second.”

Harry grunts out something that he thinks is agreement. Zayn must think so, because then he’s gone. And Harry’s alone.

He turns away from the pictures, but that puts him looking out the window, and he doesn’t want to do that either. He wants to go home, he thinks. Wants to curl up in bed and pull the covers over his head and pretend it’s not happening.

It was easier to be brave and say things about responsibility when Zayn was here. When Zayn was here looking at him and promising he’d keep him safe and distracting him with his face. He needs—he needs to talk to someone. But he can’t call Niall, because Niall’s always been a little edgy about this side of fame and Harry doesn’t want to show him he might have been right. Nick’s the sort of friend he talks about the cute bodyguard with, but not this, not how he might be in real danger. He wishes he could call his mum, but he can’t do that to her, either. Can’t scare her like that.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket almost blindly, goes to his contacts and hits a favorite.

Gemma picks up on the fifth ring. “Hey, little brother!” There’s laughter in the background, and yells; she’s pretty clearly at a party. “How was your show?”

“Good.” He runs a hand through his hair, and takes a step back towards the corner. “It was fun, I’m back at the hotel now.”

“No crazy parties? I’m disappointed. I thought you’d have shagged at least three people by now.”

“All at once, or one at a time?” Harry’s smiling, or at least almost. He can’t not.

“Great, now there are images in my head,” Gemma complains. The sounds of the party are retreating.

“You started it!”

“You escalated.” Someone says something to her, and she laughs, and says, half-muffled. “Nah, just Harry. Why? Jealous?” Whatever the guy says, it gets another laugh before she’s back on the phone to Harry. “I didn’t expect to hear from you before we started planning all the LA things we’re gonna get up to, got to say. Something up?”

She’s laughing. Harry’s always loved the sound of his sister’s laugh. Loved how she loves this life he can give her, the parties and the fame and the bright lights, a little bit of pay back for all the times she defended him and believed in him and never doubted his dreams. He doesn’t want to sully that for her.

“No,” he says, sighing as his fingers tangle in his hair. Just talking to her has made it better. It’s okay. “Nah, just wanted to check in.”

“Well, you’ve checked in. Now go back to your boring life,” she teases. “Love you!”

“Love you too.” He hangs up before she can, then closes his fingers over the phone, squeezes it tight. He’s okay. He’ll be okay.

“Harry.” Zayn’s voice is rough and solid in the room, somehow filling up all the corners until it feels like he’s there. Harry looks up. Zayn’s standing in the doorway from Harry’s room, and there’s something just kind about him. Something comforting in the sight of him, more than there probably should be. Maybe it’s just that Harry’s seen those videos, is pretty sure he can take care of anything. Or maybe it’s just something in his bearing, like he can carry more burdens than it might seem. Or maybe it’s just that gaze, that makes it feel like he sees all of Harry, even the scared parts, and doesn’t judge. “Your room is clear. Get some sleep. It’ll feel smaller in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Harry nod, gives his hair one tug to anchor him. “Yeah, okay.” He can do that. He thinks he needs to do that.

But as he’s walking past Zayn, Zayn touches his shoulder to stop him. “I’m serious,” he says. He’s so close, mere inches away, and Harry thinks he could count every one of his eyelashes. He has a freckle in one eye, Harry hadn’t noticed that before. It makes him charmingly asymmetric. It’s easier to focus on that then on going into that room all alone. “If you feel unsafe at all, come find me. Even if you think it’s stupid. It’s better to be stupid and safe.”

“I know.” Harry manages a grin. “Wake you up all the time, got it.”

“If you must.” But Zayn’s lips twitch. “Go to bed. I’ll be right there.”

“Okay, mum,” Harry shoots back. Which, actually, on second thought, is pretty weird and creepy and he shouldn’t think about it. But Zayn had said he wasn’t a child, so he shouldn’t treat Harry like one.

Zayn just shakes his head, fondly Harry thinks, and shuts the door behind him.

Harry groans. He gets ready for bed in what feels like record time, and falls into the hotel sheets almost as quickly. He can’t think about the risk. About what might be outside those walls, outside the drawn curtains. He’s not a child, and he’s not afraid of monsters under the bed.

So instead, he shuts his eyes, rolls over onto his side, and daydreams about just how he might prove to Zayn that he’s not a child until he falls asleep.