Archive of Our Own

It’s the sounds of home that Zayn misses the most when he’s away. He has houses: two perfectly good houses, in London and Los Angeles, both of which he might at some point refer to as home. But it’s not like here. It’s not like in Bradford, with all of its noise, compared to the quiet, echoey rooms of an empty house.

If he stands at the foot of the stairs, he can hear it all. Waliyha and Doniya, upstairs, bickering over who lost whose sweater. Safaa, in the living room, scribbling away at her homework and singing some Top 40 song under her breath at the same time. His mum, in the kitchen, with the clatter of pots and pans and jars and whatever else. His dad, right beside her, murmuring things to her too low for Zayn to make out, things to make her laugh.

Zayn grins and stuffs his feet into his boots and ties the laces into some semblance of a knot. “I’m going out!” He yells.

No one responds: they carry on, just as ever.

And, then, from the kitchen: “Get some milk on your way back, please, sunshine!”

“Red or green?” Zayn pulls his jacket on. He forgets, having spent too much time in California, how the Bradford chill gets right under his skin and down in between his bones.

“Green! And a couple of limes if they’ve got them but don’t worry if not.”

Zayn tugs the door shut behind him and pushes his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

No one pays him the slightest bit of attention as he strolls down Stafford Street and round the corner. It’s a grey day. It starts to drizzle and Zayn tugs the hood of his sweatshirt over his head to keep dry.

Sometimes, he wonders why his family stays. Anywhere in the world, he says to them.You could live anywhere in the world, now. But most of the time, he’s glad they do. What reason would he have to come back to Bradford, if his family were gone? He couldn’t imagine calling any of his old, childhood friends—do you mind if I come stay for a few days? I just want to have a walk around the old place. Or, god forbid, booking a hotel room, just to spend time here.

He barely comes to Bradford as it is. He’d be lying to himself to even think that he would ever make the time if his family weren’t here to tempt him home with the promise of a Harry Potter movie marathon and enough balushahi to make him sick.

It’s funny to think of how different things might have been. If he hadn’t gone to that audition. If he hadn’t stuck out boot camp. If that Liam Payne bloke hadn’t gotten laryngitis right before the final, leaving him a clean sweep at the win against the girl group that had been left as his competition.

Four years, two changes of management, one bit-of-a-flop of an album later, here he is. Zayn Malik, twenty-three years old, and, as of about forty-five minutes ago, the number one artist across singles and album charts on both sides of the Atlantic with his second album.

And here he is. In Bradford. On a street corner, turning progressively wetter as the rain soaks through his definitely-not-waterproof-but-cost-a-bloody-fortune leather jacket. Across the street, a dog stares at him as he finishes taking a piss against the side of a building.

Charming.

*

The Tesco on the corner is more or less empty. Zayn goes in because he’s got nothing much else to do and his feet are starting to squelch in his boots from the rain. He grabs a basket for something to do with his hands, although he’d barely need it for a carton of milk and a couple of limes.

He finds the limes, first, and dumps them into the basket. His feet leave behind little wet footprints on the linoleum floor as he walks down the aisle.

“Zayn?” A woman’s voice. A startled gasp.

Zayn tenses and his hand tightens around the handle of the basket. He looks over and—oh. “Mrs. Styles. Hi.”

“It’s Twist, now, actually,” she says as she walks over to him. Her basket is more appropriately laden. She looks much the same as ever; her warm, friendly smile the one that Zayn remembers from summer days long past.

“Right, of course. Sorry. Mum mentioned that you got remarried. Nice bloke, she says.” Zayn shuffles from foot to foot. Four years away from his shy teenage self but he’s still god awful at small talk.

She hums and cocks her head. “Look at you, though,” she says, as though he hadn’t said anything at all. “God, you look so grown up.” She laughs, a little breathless. “Suppose I shouldn’t be so surprised by that, though. Gems and Harry have gone ahead and done the same thing. Can’t quite my head around calling them adults, though.”

“They both good, though, yeah?” His memories of her children are a little fuzzy. He knows that both her and his mum made a valiant effort to have him be friends with her Harry, given that they’re around the same age. He always got on better with Gemma, though—up until she was sixteen and Zayn was thirteen and she realised he had a bit of a crush on her. After that, she mostly just hung around with Doniya, if she came round the house at all. Harry was always an odd one: by which Zayn means, Harry wasn’t into superheroes or colouring within the lines so Zayn never really got on too well with him.

“Yeah, they are. Gems has got a job in a photographer’s studio in London and lives with her boyfriend. Harry’s— Well.” She shrugs. “Just graduated from Oxford—with a first, we’re so proud. He’s a bit unsure of what to do with himself now though, so he’s at home for a bit while he tries to figure that out. Bless him, think he’s a bit lost. You know how it is.” She laughs brightly and smacks her hand over her mouth. “Well. I suppose you wouldn’t so much. Your life took a bit of a different course, really, didn’t it?”

Zayn can’t think of what to say so he just smiles at her. He shifts the basket from one hand to the other.

“You doing a bit of shopping for your mum?”

Zayn nods.

“That’s a good lad. I’m sure she likes having you around for a bit. Misses you so much, she does.” She hitches her bag up over her shoulder. “I should be getting on but tell your mum I’ll see her on Thursday, yeah?”

“Will do. Good to see you again.”

“You too, Zayn. Take care of yourself.” She squeezes his arm. “Are you staying long? Maybe you and Harry could get together for a catch up before you go.” She’s off before Zayn can respond, with a little waggle of her fingers.

Zayn grabs the milk and moves off towards the counter. There’s a shelf of little sweets just before it, just as there used to be when he came here as a kid on his way home from school, one hand clasped in his mum’s. His eyes fall on the Freddos, just like the ones he used to beg his mum for.

She’d always say yes. He’d ask if he could have a caramel one, and she’d ask how he did on his maths at school. Seven out of ten, maybe eight.

Alright, then, sunshine. Since you did so well.

Even though, they both knew that even if he got three, one, zero out of ten, he’d be walking out of that shop with a caramel Freddo tucked in his fist.

Zayn picks up three and adds them to his basket.

*

Zayn opens the door to the house with both pockets of his jacket bulging round and obscene with the shape of the limes, and his hands frozen cold from holding the milk. Ironically, the Freddos are probably melting in the back pockets of his jeans.

His dad greets him in the hall and lays a hand over his head.

“Dad,” Zayn grumbles but it’s halfhearted at best as he tries to knock his hand away.

“It’s good to have you here,” his dad says. His hand falls to his side. “House of full of women all the rest of the days. Good to have my boy here again, for a change.”

Zayn flushes: a little proud; a little embarrassed. He kicks off his boots and goes through to the kitchen. “Saw Harry and Gemma’s mum at Tesco. She said she’ll see you on Thursday.”

“Blast from the past, hmm?” His mum takes the milk and limes from him and kisses his cheek in thanks. “She’s looking good, isn’t she? Hasn’t aged a day. Not like your poor old mum.”

Zayn frowns and wraps his arms around her protectively. “You’re beautiful,” he mumbles into her shoulder and squeezes her tight.

“Zayn,” his mum huffs and shrugs him off. “You’re soaking wet. Get this off before you catch a cold. Can’t have you losing your voice with tour this close.”

Zayn does as he’s told. It doesn’t do not to, when he’s at home. Out there, he might be a record-breaking (weird, to think about) millionaire (double weird) recording artist, but here, he’s just a kid who better do as his mum says.

“Long time since you’ve seen Harry. He was always soft on you.”

“Mum.” Zayn rolls his eyes. “He just didn’t like being ignored for his sister.”

“No, no. It was more than that.” Her eyes twinkle as she turns to face him. “He told me so.” She points at the dining room table. “Right there, over a glass of Ribena and a Mini Roll.”

Zayn stares at her. “You remember the strangest things.”

“I remember everything, Zayn.” She chuckles and leans back against the kitchen counter. “It was right around the time Gemma found out you had a crush on her. Poor Harry was crushed.”

“He was, like, twelve!” Zayn protests.

“Still. It was very sweet, I remember.” She grins. “Always asked after you, the few times I’ve seen him over the years. A very handsome and polite young man.”

“Alright, mum, enough now,” Zayn grumbles and turns to leave the kitchen. His socks are soggy and he wants to get changed.

“I should invite them round for dinner. It would be good for the two of you to catch up.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Zayn grunts as he takes the stairs two at a time. He doesn’t try to protest his mum’s idea: he already knows he doesn’t stand a chance.

***

“What do I need an assistant for?” Zayn mumbles as much into his pillow as into his phone.

“What? What did you say?”

Zayn, for his part still in bed and very much sounding it, is a total contrast to his manager, Sarah, who’s already adopted her clipped, business-like tone although it’s barely ten in the morning.

Zayn raises his head a millimetre from the pillow. “Why do I need an assistant?” Zayn enunciates clearly and then lets his head flop back down.

Zayn had had high hopes for his morning. His mum ducked her head in at some horrendously early hour to say they were all headed out and that he’d have the house to himself until around midday, to which he thinks he might have managed to provide some semblance of a reply. He’d planned to wake up slowly, get a hand around his cock, and try his best not to think about how he’d somehow reverted back to his sixteen-year-old self.

But then Sarah had to call and ruin it all. For one thing, he is, unfortunately, awake. His cock is completely soft against his thigh and he has the beginnings of a headache. A headache that’s only going to get worse when Sarah realises he hasn’t been listening to a word she’s said and yells at him for it.

“Right,” Zayn says, hopefully. “I see.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “You didn’t hear a word I just said, did you?”

Zayn winces. “Not exactly.”

“I’m sending you an email about it right now, with some advice on where to start looking. I want you to find them because it’s you that’s going to be spending time with them. But, to summarise, I’m tired of having to be your alarm clock when you could afford to pay someone to do that kind of thing for you.”

Zayn doesn’t reply. He gets the distinct feeling that he’s being told off.

“Look, Zayn. You’ve got a great work ethic: you work incredibly hard and it pays off. But your timekeeping skills are abysmal and, frankly, I wouldn’t hate you to have someone keeping an eye on you from time to time.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “You sound like my mum.”

“Good. That means I’m doing my job right. Check your email. Oh, and Zayn?”

“Yeah?” Zayn sighs. He glances at the clock on his bedside table. 10:04. He stands a chance at still saving his morning from utter ruin.

“You are remembering to keep in shape, aren’t you? This tour is going to be physically strenuous. You’ve done shows before, yes, but not like this. You need to keep fit.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve been exercising and eating properly and… That kind of stuff,” Zayn lies as he gives his belly an idle scratch. “Totally on it.”

Sarah sounds unconvinced. “Okay. I’ll see you soon. Check your email.”

Zayn hangs up and tosses his phone down onto the bed. It buzzes not a minute later with the email from her. He adjusts himself in his boxers but he’s just not in the mood anymore and his curiosity’s piqued.

An assistant.

He’s not even really sure he knows what that means, in terms of his life. He grabs his phone again and skims the contents of the email Sarah’s sent but it’s mostly links to recruitment agencies that might be able to find him an assistant and a quick postscript about remembering to exercise again.

He pulls up the web browser and types in a new search.

how to find an assistant for male help waking up etc

The first three results are all escort agencies. Assistance guaranteed for those early morning hardships! Big tits, no extra charge!

“Fuck’s sake,” Zayn mutters and changes his search.

how to find an assistant

He scrolls through various links and bookmarks a few to come back to later. He starts a new search.

what do I do with an assistant

He hastily amends that one before he even hits search.

what does an assistant do

An article catches his eye, a few results down: The Do’s and Don’t’s of Having an Assistant.

Zayn arches an eyebrow and props an arm up underneath the back of his head as he begins to read.

The Do’s and Don’t’s of Having an Assistant.

1. Do get to know your assistant as a person. You’ll be spending a lot of time together; you don’t want to spend endless car journeys discussing the weather.
2. Don’t mistake your assistant for your friend. They are your employee. Boundaries are important.
3. Do treat your assistant with respect.
4. Don’t treat your assistant like your servant. If you’re tired, they can get you a coffee. If your feet hurt, they can call you a masseuse—not massage your feet.
5. Do remember your assistant has a life outside of you. They want evenings and days off for their friends and family just like everyone else.

And possibly the most important rule of all:

6. Don’t fall in love with your assistant.

Zayn snorts. “So, don’t be a dick, basically,” he mumbles to himself. He doesn’t pay much attention to the last rule.

Doubt that’ll be a problem.

***

Zayn can vividly remember the last time his mum forced him to put on a button-up shirt: physically forced him, sending him back upstairs in his t-shirt clad state and standing guard at the bottom of the stairs until he’d done as she’d said. He was fourteen and his dad’s boss had been coming over for dinner.

It doesn’t seem to matter that it’s seven years later or that it’s only the Styles-slash-Twist family coming over tonight; his mum sends him and his grey t-shirt right back upstairs and into a neat white button down that she’d even ironed for the occasion.

By the time he makes it back downstairs, three more have joined their house. He lingers on the stairs and peeks at the back of Harry’s head from through the bannisters.

He’s taller—obviously. Probably taller than Zayn. His hair’s long and curls down over his shoulders. He’s wearing a loose-fitting, vibrant pink shirt with white polka dots all over it that hangs down over his hips. His black jeans are practically painted onto his legs and hugs the curve of his thighs and the rounds globes of his bum.

Zayn fidgets and smooths his shirt down over his torso. There’s not much he can do with his hair shaved short as it is. He twiddles his nose stud in a circle and then walks down the last few stairs and into the living room.

“There he is! Our Zayn,” his mum says, her cheeks rosy.

“Mrs. Twist,” he says smoothly to Harry’s mum and kisses her cheek. “And you must be Mr. Twist—we haven’t met.” He offers his hand to the unfamiliar man in the room.

If Harry’s mum is surprised by how much better Zayn presents himself here than he did in Tesco, she doesn’t comment. Zayn’s not putting it on—he’s certainly not putting it on for Harry.

But he does make a point of holding his head up high as he turns to face Harry, about a head taller than him. “Hi, Harry.”

Harry’s cheeks are pink. “Hi, Zayn,” he says. He sounds breathless, as though he’d run here. “Wow. I mean—it’s just—you look—you always—but, now.” Harry snaps his jaw shut. “Hi.”

Zayn bites back his smirk. His mum might have been right about Harry. “You too,” he murmurs and looks up at him from under his eyelashes. He touches his hand to Harry’s bare forearm. “It’s been a while.”

Zayn glances over his shoulder. Both of their mums look thrilled, their grand master plan coming together. As for Zayn, he has no intention of seeing Harry ever again after tonight: he just wants to get through this dinner without his mum glaring at him like he’s an insolent teenager again. “I’ll go lay the table.”

The mums simper.

Waliyha observes him from the doorway to the room, her arms folded across her chest. She arches an eyebrow. “Nicely done,” she whispers to him as he walks past, cottoned on to his plan.

*

By some miracle, Zayn’s managed to stay out of the focus of the conversation over dinner. He eats slowly, chewing laboriously over every bite and miming that he has his mouth full every time his mum looks as though she might call on him to speak.

Harry, on the other hand, talks almost non-stop. He needs no prompting to join in with the discussion, many a statement punctuated with a bright laugh that reaches the light of his eyes.

More than once, Zayn catches himself staring. Harry catches him, too, if the slight smirk on his lips is anything to go by.

Zayn doesn’t look away this time, as Harry’s gaze meets his across the table. He takes a sip of water and doesn’t so much as blink. Harry raises an eyebrow to this staring contest.

“Aren’t you, Harry?”

Harry startles and his fork clatters against his plate. “Sorry, what was that?”

“I was just saying that you were thinking about trying to find some work as a personal assistant, maybe. While you think about what you’d like to do,” Anne prompts. “It’ll be sad to have him leave again but I can understand feeling trapped under your parents’ roof.”

Harry smiles. “Just feeling a little restless. I need to be doing something.”

Zayn drops his gaze to his plate and keeps his mouth firmly shut.

“Well, Zayn’s looking for an assistant!”

Zayn freezes. “Mum,” he tries but she cuts him off.

“It’s so hard, though, isn’t it—to find someone you can trust and are comfortable to spend that much time with. Not really a job for a stranger, is it?”

Zayn shoots his mum an exasperated glance but her grin is toothy. She looks far too pleased with herself.

“Now, that’s a coincidence,” Anne says, but her tone suggests it’s not coincidence at all that the conversation has been brought up.

“Convenient, that,” his dad comments. He winks at Zayn. You know what your mother’s like.

Harry, for the first time that night, is silent.

“Zayn?” His mum nods at him encouragingly

Zayn shifts in his seat. “Might be a bit weird, right? Such old friends and that…” He trails off. It’s a threadbare excuse at best. He looks up at Harry.

“Might be,” Harry agrees. He chews on his lower lip. He looks over at his own mother. “I could really use the experience, though,” he adds, a little louder.

Zayn sighs and looks around the table: an audience of hopeful expressions, and then, his father, barely containing his gleeful laughter. “I suppose we could give it a go,” he concedes.

***

The door lock clicks with the swipe of the keycard, but Zayn barely registers it.

“Good morning,” a voice sing-songs.

Zayn grunts and smashes his face further into the downy pillow.

Harry sets Zayn’s alarms now—three of them, all with the expectation that Zayn will hit the snooze button on every one. Harry himself makes the fourth, and final, alarm: in person, bearing coffee, and sometimes muffins.

Zayn opens his eyes slowly. He sniffs. “I think it’s a large-cup kind of morning,” he mumbles. His throat is rough from sleep and a late night of chain-smoking from the hotel balcony.

“Good thing I’ve learned to read your mind over the past three months, then, huh?” Harry deposits the cup on the bedside table and a brown paper bag beside it.

“Muffins?” Zayn asks hopefully.

“Fruit salad.”

Zayn bypasses the bag and reaches straight for the coffee.

Harry opens up the Moleskin diary that’s become a fixture in his hands. He refused the tablet that Zayn offered to him for work, says he remembers things better when he writes them down with a pen. Zayn didn’t protest—he feels the same. And Moleskins don’t require chargers, which Harry is apparently apt to losing. Zayn’s stopped letting him borrow his phone charger back in New Zealand when the third one in a row mysteriously went missing.

“I’ve given you a little extra time in bed this morning because you’ve got that shoot with Elle first thing. No point in you taking half an hour on your hair if they’re going to do it for you when you get there.”

Zayn opens his mouth to protest.

“Don’t even start.” Harry doesn’t even look up from his diary. “Thirty-two minutes and seventeen seconds yesterday, Zayn. You went onstage ten minutes late because of your hair.”

Zayn colours. “It was a bad day,” he protests.

A small smile twitches at the corner of your mouth. “So unprofessional,” he tuts. He flips his diary closed and twinkles down at Zayn. “What are we going to do with you?”

Harry turns out to be everything Zayn didn’t realise he needed so much: responsible and punctual; patient, even when Zayn takes thirty-two minutes and seventeen seconds doing his hair. Indispensable.

Theirs is an odd relationship—odd in that Zayn has never had one quite like it before. It’s not the relationship they had as children; but it’s not just a professional one, either. Zayn comes to look forward to seeing Harry in the mornings, and misses him when he says goodnight. For all the days off that Zayn gives him, Harry always seems to find his way back to Zayn’s room by the middle of the afternoon, whatever city they’re in that day. He props his tatty boots up on the edge of the sofa and tells Zayn about the sweet old lady he met in the market, or the little lost kitten by the water with the cut in his ear.

And Zayn forgets, sometimes, that Harry’s his assistant, and not just a very helpful friend. Which is fine. No one made a rule against being friends with his assistant.

In fact, he reckons it’s probably to be encouraged, really.

***

"Please put me down, it’s just a sprained ankle."

Harry doesn’t respond and he makes no move to set him onto his feet.

“Harry.” Zayn ducks his head as they pass through another doorway towards the green room. “Harry, honestly. I’m okay. I can walk.”

He feels a little ridiculous, if he’s being honest. He isn’t the demanding, fussy type—the type who walks into a venue before a show and requests a hamper of only green M&Ms and someone to massage his feet. There’s just him, just Zayn, his band, and a handful of people from his team milling around to make sure everything’s good to go.

One of those people now being Harry, who seems to have made it his life’s mission to fuss over Zayn as much as is humanly possible. Harry, who is almost too good at his job. Harry, who is the type of person that sees Zayn stumble over a bit of staging and instantly picks him up off the floor and carries him to a sofa to rest.

It’s sweet, almost. It’s also a tad unnecessary.

“I just went over it. Really, it feels better already,” Zayn insists. He gives his ankle an experimental twist and winces.

Harry catches it. “You’re not alright.” He hitches an arm more securely under Zayn’s knees as he turns into the green room. “You have exactly three hours and twenty two minutes until you’re due on stage which means you are going to spend the next three hours and twenty minutes sat right here, with that foot elevated and on ice.”

Zayn huffs out a sigh as Harry sets him down on the sofa and gets to arranging his foot just so. “Harry.”

“Zayn.” Harry puts his hands on his hips. Harry is, unfortunately, just as stubborn as Zayn is. If not more so.

Zayn wriggles and tips his head back against the arm of the sofa. “Fine.” He taps his fingers off his leg. “You going to keep me company for the next three hours and twenty minutes, then, or am I going to have to die of boredom first?”

Harry barks out a laugh and drags over a chair to sit on. “Three hours and nineteen minutes, now,” he points out. He crosses his legs up underneath himself on the chair and props his elbows on his knees, chin resting in his hands. “Want me go to hunt down a Monopoly set? That could fill three hours easy.”

Zayn hums and tips his head around to look at Harry. They’re about the same age, he knows that much, and they get on well, despite Harry’s fussing. But, really, for all the time that they spend together, Zayn doesn’t know all that much about Harry, as an adult. “Tell me about yourself. You know so much about me but I feel like I’ve never had a chance to learn much about you. About the you you are now. Not the kid I knew when I was eight.”

Harry looks surprised. He fiddles with a strand of hair and then pushes it out of the way. “Well. What do you want to know?”

Zayn shifts a little on the sofa. “Why did you want to work for me so badly? You graduated with a first in Economics from Oxford. I know the job market’s bad but I reckon there’s got to be better things you could be doing.”

Harry shrugs. “I never really wanted to go into Economics, or anything financial. I was—am—just good with numbers. Thought I might as well just get a degree under my belt while I figure out what I want to do with my life.”

“And?” Zayn prompts. “What do you want to do?”

Harry twists a ring around his finger. “In a perfect world?”

Zayn nods.

“I think I’d like to write music,” Harry says quietly.

“That’s really great.” Zayn smiles. “You know that if you want me to introduce you to some people, or anything like that—you know you can ask, right?”

Harry frowns. “No, Zayn. That’s not why I took this job, to get favours.”

Zayn holds up his hands. “Hey, no. I’m not saying you did. But you should take the favours. Besides, it’ll only get you so far. Favours won’t get you anywhere if you haven’t got talent.” He pauses. “But I bet you do.” His lips curl up into a grin. “I have heard you singing, on occasion.”

Harry’s cheeks turn pink. “Oh.”

“But that does leave me with me one question,” Zayn continues, to distract Harry from his embarrassment. “If you weren’t looking for favours, then why this job? Just because it was there?”

Harry’s cheeks don’t fade in the slightest; the flush works its way down Harry’s neck. “You— I mean— I was— I am a...” Harry stumbles and then rubs his hands over his face with a pained laugh. “I’m a fan of yours, I guess. And you always seemed so nice and you are so nice and so great to spend time with except for in the morning when you’re a little rude sometimes but I don’t think you mean it. And you know, you’re quite, well, aesthetically pleasing to be around and— Stop smirking like that!”

Zayn laughs out loud. “I’m sorry, I can’t help it.” He grins. “You’re quite cute, too. Just so you know.”

“I never said you were cute, I said you were aesthetically pleasing,” Harry mumbles and folds his arms over his chest.

“So you don’t think I’m cute?”

Harry stands up abruptly and nearly knocks his chair clean over. “I’m going to go find that Monopoly set.” He points towards Zayn’s ankle. “And some more ice.”

“Okay, Harry. I’ll just be here. Looking cute,” Zayn calls out after him.

Harry all but sprints out of the room.

***

Zayn is drunk.

Zayn is blurry vision, can’t-feel-his-fingers, liable to throw up at any second, drunk.

Zayn is been talking to a wall for the last ten minutes about the political uncertainty in Europe thinking it was just a particularly unresponsive person drunk.

He blinks at the empty seat beside him and giggles loudly. He gasps and smacks a hand over his mouth. “Shush, Zayn,” he whispers to himself.

The party is still so loud and energetic around him: voices competing over one another; lights flashing this way and that; the clink of glass as more and more drinks are poured.

It’s late. It’s late and Zayn has a show tomorrow night and he should go home.

He digs around in the pocket of his jeans and pulls out his phone. The keyboard blurs in front of him, a smudge of letters and symbols. He hits what he thinks is the home emoji and hits send.

“Well done,” he says to himself. A proud smile curls at the corners of his mouth.

Zayn struggles to his feet and veers into the crowd, searching out a blonde head of hair. “Gi!” He nearly goes headfirst to the floor as he trips over his own feet but she catches him before he makes it that far.

“Woah, there, Zed.” She rights him and pats his shoulders. “How are we doing?” She chuckles and looks at him knowingly.

Zayn frowns. “You seem very not-drunk for being the birthday girl,” he comments.

Gigi shrugs and smiles that coy smile that Zayn knows so well. “I’m pacing myself. I wanna see the sunrise!”

Zayn tilts his head and smiles at her softly. “Happy birthday, babe. I had fun.”

“You going?”

Zayn nods. “I have a show tomorrow. I should— Should sleep.” He sways on his feet a little as the crowds push past his back.

Gigi leans in close, her eyebrows knotted in worry. “Do you want me to find someone to help get you home?”

Zayn shakes his head. “I’ve got my— My.” He licks his lips. He can’t remember the word. “My Harry,” he settles on.

“Your Harry?” Gigi’s expression morphs into something gleeful. “Who’s Harry? What have you been keeping from me?”

“No, no, no,” Zayn chants and that giggle falls from his lips again before he can stop it. “No. S’not like that.”

“Sure it’s not.” Gigi waggles her eyebrows.

“It’s not,” Zayn whines. “He’s just, you know. Curls, and dimples.” Zayn sighs. “And legs.”

“Curls and dimples and legs,” Gigi repeats. Her gaze flickers over Zayn’s shoulder. “Hmm. Might have found your man.”

“Harry?” Zayn whirls around, far too fast, and nearly goes for the floor again.

This time, it’s Harry’s strong arms that catch him and haul him up tight against his chest. “Are you okay? Why did you send me the whale emoji?” He murmurs into Zayn’s ear.

“Harry,” Zayn says on a sigh and clings onto his shoulders. “Gi, this is my Harry.”

“Hello Zayn’s Harry.” Gigi wiggles her fingers in a wave. “He’s a little drunk.”

Harry chuckles. “I can see that.” His gaze turns fully onto Gigi. “You’re—” His mouth forms a perfect circle; his eyes nearly bug out of his head. “Oh my god.”

Gigi laughs, girlish and soft. “It is my birthday party, after all, that you’re crashing.”

Zayn frowns. He tunes out the conversation that’s going on above his head, too focused on the expression on Harry’s face. Harry’s not supposed to look at Gigi like that; that’s how Harry looks at Zayn. Awed and a little flushed and very interested. That’s not for Gigi.

“Took a lot of convincing that I was here for this one for them to let me through the door,” Harry’s saying. He gives Zayn’s shoulder an amicable pat and tries to prise his off his chest.

“We’ll need to get you a badge: VIP, property of Zayn Malik,” Gigi teases.

“No,” Zayn whispers but no one listens to him. “No, he’s not my property, he’s Harry.” He tugs at Harry’s shirt. “Harry.”

Harry bats him off and keeps curling and dimpling at Gigi.

Zayn’s eyes flit back and forth between the two of them. And, then, without stopping to think twice, he leans up onto his toes and licks a fat stripe up Harry’s neck.

“Jesus Christ!” Harry yelps and stares down at Zayn. “Okay, mister, time to get you home.”

Zayn smiles, pleased with himself. He turns the force of his smirk on Gigi as he wraps his arms around Harry’s waist and presses his cheek to Harry’s chest.

Gigi stares right back at him. I’m onto you, Malik, her eyes say.

“Any advice?” Harry asks.

“Hmm?”

“For dealing with him.”

“In general or when he’s drunk off his ass?”

Harry laughs. “The second one.”

Gigi shrugs. “A couple of glasses of water and a bucket by the bed. He’ll be asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.” She pauses and then leans in to whisper something into Harry’s ear.

Zayn strains to hear but it’s useless over the noise of the club. His ears are ringing as it is. Harry’s heartbeat thumps in his chest, underneath Zayn’s face. He likes it. It’s steady, and reassuring. His eyes slip shut.

“Not here you don’t.” Harry shakes him awake and starts to manoeuvre him towards the door. “Come on. One foot in front of the other. Baby steps.” Harry slides an arm around Zayn’s waist.

Zayn leans into him and breathes steadily through his mouth as he moves through the club towards the door. He’s itching for a smoke but he doesn’t know that he could stand up long enough to have one outside. It’ll have to wait until he gets home.

His bodyguard, Josh, waits by the door. He whistles lowly at the sight of Zayn.

“Yeah,” Harry sighs. “I know.”

“Want me to carry him to the car? We’ve got it pulled up just outside.”

“Just past all of the rabble, you mean.”

Zayn peers out of the glass pane in the door. Men with cameras line the edge of the street. He swallows back bile that rises from his throat.

“No, best not. We don’t want them to see how bad he is. If you carry him, they’ll run with incapacitated, and Jen from PR will have my head.”

“You going to manage?” Josh eyes the two of them skeptically.

Harry nods. “Clear as much of a path as you can and get the door. I can handle the rest.” Harry turns his gaze on him and cups Zayn’s cheek in his palm. “Zayn? You with me?”

Zayn blinks. “Your eyes are so green,” he whispers. He doesn’t take his eyes off Harry as he tips his head into Harry’s palm and lays a kiss against the soft skin there.

Harry shivers and pulls his hand away. “Zayn.”

Josh snorts quietly, a few steps away from them.

“Zayn, I just want you to focus on getting to the car. Ignore all of them. And if you feel like you want to be sick, hold it, okay? Just until the car. Then, you can throw up on me for all I care. Just please don’t do it on the street.” He pauses. “On second thought, please don’t throw up on me. Don’t throw up on the street and don’t throw up on me.”

“Don’t throw up on the street, don’t throw up on you,” Zayn repeats.

The door is opened and a million bright little lights pop in front of Zayn’s eyes.

“I really want to throw up,” Zayn whispers anxiously to Harry.

“Nearly there, Zayn, nearly there,” Harry urges and marches him past the line of photographers to the waiting car. He pushes Zayn in first and crowds in behind him, slamming the door shut.

Zayn groans and pushes his forehead into the seat, his knees tucked underneath him, his bum in the air.

“Zayn.”

“No,” Zayn protests stubbornly. “Mm’comfy now.”

“Zayn, for—” Harry huffs out a laugh and places his hands over Zayn’s hips.

Zayn can’t help but shudder. Harry’s hands are so big over his small frame; so easily pushes him down against the seat, Zayn pliant beneath his hands. “Hi,” Zayn whispers and curls a hand around the back of Harry’s neck. Just a few inches more and he’d be able to lick the bead of sweat from the top of Harry’s lip. Zayn strains upwards.

Harry’s hand pushes firmly down against his torso. He pulls away and sits on the opposite side of the backseat. “Let’s get going,” he calls out to the driver.

“As soon as we can,” the driver grunts and gestures to the line of cars trying to pull out ahead of them.

Zayn tips his head to one side and stares at Harry. He wants him so badly. He’s not sure how long he has wanted him for but he knows he does. He knows he did the other week, too, when he and Harry sat and played Monopoly for two hours and Harry made him pay extortionate amounts in rent on the three hotels he’d racked up across Mayfair and Park Lane. He’d watched him and his curls and dimples and legs and he’d wanted him then, too.

Harry’s silent, his gaze fixed on the headrest in front of him. His hands fidget in his lap.

“I’m sorry,” Zayn says to the silent car. “I’m sorry, Harry.”

Harry stiffens and shakes his head. “You don’t need to apologise.” He finally looks at Zayn. “You look a state.” He smiles softly. “Come here, sleepyhead.”

Zayn shuffles across the seat and leans into Harry. He wraps his arm around his stomach and rests his head on his shoulder. “Thank you for saving me.”

“Saving you?” Harry chuckles as he wraps an arm around Zayn. He runs his hand down the curve of Zayn’s spine. “Is that what whale emoji means?”

“Does now, I guess.” Zayn grins.

The car finally pulls out into the street and Zayn yawns wide.

“You can fall asleep now, if you want. We can get you into bed.”

“No, I’m okay. I can manage.”

They don’t talk for the rest of the journey. Zayn traces the seam of Harry’s t-shirt with his fingertips and Harry rubs circles into Zayn’s back with the flat of his hand.

Zayn’s never felt so content.

*

Back at the house, Zayn’s legs give out. It’s just them, now: Harry left to pour water down Zayn’s throat and haul him up to bed.

Harry wraps an arm around the back of Zayn’s knees, bends down, and slings him over his shoulder. “Fucking hell,” he grunts as he makes for the stairs. “For someone so little, you’re heavier than you look.”

“I’m not little,” Zayn protests and kicks his feet, straight into Harry’s stomach.

“Stop that.” Harry smacks the back of Zayn’s thigh playfully.

Zayn bites his lip and falls pliant.

It’s a joint effort, getting Zayn undressed and under the blankets. Zayn’s head sinks back against the pillow. He gazes up at Harry and reaches out a hand. “Stay. Please.”

Harry hesitates and then sits down on the edge of the bed. “No, Zayn,” he replies gently. “I’m going to go home, okay? I’ll come by for you tomorrow afternoon, before the show.”

Zayn frowns. Home for Harry in L.A. means a hotel room. It’s not a home. “I have spare rooms,” he protests. “Tons of them. Sleep here tonight.”

Harry shakes his head.

Zayn shouldn’t but— “Or, or here. Right here. With me,” he murmurs. He leans up onto his elbow and grazes a hand along the inside of Harry’s leg.

Harry looks pained as he removes Zayn’s hand from his leg. “Zayn, stop.”

Zayn curls his hand back and under the blankets. “Sorry, I thought maybe you…” He trails off and turns his head into the pillow. His cheeks flood with colour. “I guess I thought wrong.”

Harry says nothing for a long minute. “It’s not that,” he whispers. “But you don’t want me. You just don’t want to be alone. There’s a difference.”

“No, that’s not it. Harry, I want—”

Harry shushes him and smiles a gentle but sad smile. “Gigi warned me, just before we left. Said how you get when you’ve been drinking. Desperate for someone to hold you, to touch you. Said it wouldn’t matter who, or what it meant. It was just a need.”

Zayn tenses. Ice drips down over his skin and curls around his stomach. He doesn’t look at Harry. He turns over onto his side, away from Harry, and brings the blanket tight up around his shoulders. “Goodnight, Harry,” he says flatly and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Zayn?” Harry puts a hand on Zayn’s shoulder.

Zayn shakes him off roughly. “I said goodnight. You can go home now. Your shift’s over.”

“Okay,” Harry says finally. The bed shifts as he stands up. “Goodnight, Zayn. Sleep well.”

***

Zayn feels like hell. And it’s not just the dry, stale taste in his mouth or the pounding behind his eyes or the waves of nausea that keep rising up through his body.

The thing is, Zayn doesn’t forget. He doesn’t black out parts of his night when he’s drunk; doesn’t wake up the next morning unsure how he got home.

No, Zayn remembers every excruciating detail of the night before. Everything he said to Harry, every time and way he touched him. Every tiny little way he managed to fuck up the good, solid, professional relationship that the two of them had. And the personal one, in whatever terms that existed.

His phone’s been ringing since early in the morning but he doesn’t dare answer it. Doesn’t even want to touch it. He wants to bury himself in this bed and not come out again until he’s old and withered and no one in the world remembers the name Zayn Malik.

Downstairs, the doorbell rings. Zayn doesn’t move.

The door opens. “Zayn, I’m coming in!”

“Nooooo,” Zayn cries quietly into his pillow. He curls into a ball and pulls the blankets over his head. Maybe, Harry won’t find him. Maybe, he’ll just leave again.

Zayn waits, and he listens.

A tap running somewhere in the house. Feet on the stairs. In the room. Something being set down on the bedside table. The bed dipping as someone sits down.

“Good afternoon, Zayn.”

Zayn doesn’t move. “What time’s it?” He asks from under the blankets.

“Just after midday. No rush yet, but…” Harry sighs. “Jen said you weren’t answering your phone and there’s something you’re going to need to deal with before the show.”

Zayn squeezes his eyes tight shut. Oh, no. “Incapacitated?”

“Uh.” Harry laughs, uneasy. “Worse. Or, maybe, better? Depends on how you look at it.”

Zayn peeks his head out of the blankets. Harry looks horrifyingly fresh and handsome. Zayn probably looks like he got run over by a truck.

Harry holds up his phone screen. “In love.”

Zayn scrambles to sit up and grabs the phone. He scrolls down, and there they are. Leaving the club with their arms around each other, Zayn turned into Harry. Harry manhandling Zayn into a sitting position in the car. Zayn’s hand around the back of Harry’s neck, their faces inches apart. Zayn, curled into Harry’s chest, with Harry’s hand on his back.

“Fuck,” Zayn whispers and drops the phone. “Oh, fuck.”

“Worse, then,” Harry says. He takes his phone. “The comments section is quite entertaining, when you’re ready for a laugh.”

Zayn stares at him.

“ I knew something was going on between them!! I met Zayn after his show last week and Harry was standing nearby and I saw the way Harry looked at him! Aww, they’re so cute!” Harry reads.

“Please stop,” Zayn says into his hands.

Harry either doesn’t hear him or he ignores him. He keeps going. “Isn’t that his assistant? He’s fucking his assistant? What a cliché. Then someone’s replied: This isn’t just fucking, can’t you see how Zayn looks at him?? He loves him! ZARRY FOREVER!” He locks his phone and puts it away. “I had to Google the Zarry thing which, in hindsight, might have been a mistake.”

“Just stop,” Zayn begs. He scrubs his hands over his face. “I get it, thank you. This is a big fuck you to Zayn who thought that maybe his assistant fancied him a bit and got excited because he fancies him a bit back.” He gets up and stomps to the bathroom.

“Wait, what did you just say?”

The phone starts to ring again. Zayn grumbles obscenities under his breath as he marches back, grabs it, and retreats into the bathroom. “‘llo?” He slams the door shut behind him and sinks down against it.

“I’ve been calling for hours, Zayn, for Christ’s sake. Is Harry there? I sent him over to make sure you weren’t dead.”

Zayn brings his knees up to his chest and rests his head against them. “I’m fine. A little humiliated but otherwise fine.”

“By the photos? You don’t need to be embarrassed. If you’d thrown up all over yourself, then you’d need to be embarrassed.”

“No, it’s—” Zayn sighs. “Never mind.”

“…I’m not going to ask. This is— Well. It’s not a disaster but it’s not ideal.”

“What do we say?”

“Nothing, essentially. I don’t want to encourage the idea that you make a habit of fucking your assistants. It’s not professional.”

“So we say nothing? Because that always works so well.”

“Unless you want to go out there and say that your assistant is also your boyfriend and that you’re happily and monogamously together, then yes. It’s your call.”

Zayn’s stomach lurches. He can’t imagine anything he’d like to do less than walk out of this door to face Harry and say, hey, so, for the record, if anyone asks, we’re together and in love and probably giggling about marriage and kids over tea in bed, yeah? “We say nothing,” he agrees. “It was nothing. Just joking around. I was tired.”

“Fantastic.” Zayn hears the clack of a keyboard. “Drink some water, take a shower, and have a great show tonight.”

Zayn gets to his feet slowly. He puts his phone down on the bathroom counter and studies his reflection. His eyes are red, his cheeks are pale, and his beard is scruffy. “I’m going to take a shower,” he calls out to Harry, in case he’s still hovering in the bedroom. “I’ll be out in a bit.”

“Okay,” Harry calls back. “I’ll put some coffee on.”

Zayn tugs off his underwear and tosses them onto the floor. He gets into the shower and lets the spray beat down his back and over his head. He closes his eyes and tucks his chin to his chest.

We say nothing.

Nothing happened.

It’s nothing.

How quickly things could be reduced to nothing. Nothing, the feelings that Zayn’s kept tucked under his ribcage—or, tried to, the protection weakened after a few drinks or a raging hangover. Nothing, the promise that he’d been sure was there just a couple of weeks ago, hovering in the air between them.

Zayn doesn’t exactly feel better once he’s dried off and dressed, just a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt until he has to leave for the show, but at least he feels clean. The smell of coffee draws him downstairs; his bare feet pad over the wood.

“I made you eggs, too, if you want them,” Harry says and pushes some breakfast onto a plate.

Zayn isn’t hungry but he knows he should eat. He hauls himself onto the stool by the kitchen island and picks up the fork. “Thank you. This isn’t really in your job description but I appreciate it.”

Harry shrugs. “It’s fine,” he says. He stands across the kitchen and fiddles with the hairband around his wrist. “Was that Jen? On the phone?”

Zayn nods.

“What did she say? Are we supposed to— Do we have to do something or will this just blow over?”

Zayn shovels a forkful of eggs into his mouth and washes it down with a swig of coffee. “We’re going with the say nothing approach. Because it was nothing.” Zayn can’t look at him. It aches too deep in his gut.

“Right,” Harry murmurs. “Yeah. It was nothing. You were just drunk. Like Gigi said.”

Zayn winces. His feelings reduced into the drunken desires of a desperate man. “Exactly,” he says. He puts his fork down and pushes the plate away, half finished. He downs the rest of the coffee. “Take the rest of the day off. I can handle this evening by myself.” He should let Harry go, really. He should pack him back off to England with a generous final paycheque and say goodbye to him. As an assistant; as anything more.

“Are you sure?”

Zayn nods. “Yeah. You deserve a night off.”

Harry starts to move towards the door. “Okay, well. I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”

Zayn stares down at the kitchen counter. “Great.”

Harry’s feet still. “Zayn? About what you said?”

Zayn hunches his shoulders up to his ears. “It’s nothing. I got the wrong end of it, that’s all. Crossed a line I shouldn’t have.”

“What if you didn’t?”

Harry’s closer; Zayn can feel the heat of his body behind him.

“What if you were right about me?” Harry presses, his voice so quiet that Zayn almost has to strain to hear him.

Zayn turns to look at him. He slides off the stool and stands before him, his arms limp by his sides.

“Was it nothing?” Harry asks. His eyes search Zayn’s face.

“I don’t know,” Zayn replies finally. “I don’t think so.” He sighs. “No. No, it wasn’t nothing. It wasn’t nothing because I’m sober now and I still want to kiss you. More than anything.”

Harry’s breath hitches. His chest heaves as he stares at Zayn. “I—I should go.”

Zayn crumbles and reaches for him. “Harry, wait.”

Harry shakes his head. “I should go before I let you,” he whispers.

“Why would that be such a bad thing?” Zayn touches his fingers to the curve of Harry’s jaw and traces it right up to his ear. He tucks a curl of hair behind his ear. “To let me kiss you.”

“Because I’m your assistant, Zayn.” It’s as though Harry doesn’t even hear what Harry’s saying, though, as he presses closer to Zayn and curls his hands around Zayn’s waist. “We shouldn’t. It’s not professional.”

“Fuck professional,” Zayn breathes as he pushes up onto his toes. “Fuck all of it.” He nudges the tip of his nose against Harry’s. “Fuck me.”

Harry whimpers and presses their mouths together. He pushes Zayn until his back hits the counter and tucks his hands under Zayn’s thighs to hitch him up onto the countertop.

Zayn wraps his legs around Harry’s back and keeps him close as he twists his hands into Harry’s hair and traces the curve of his lower lip with his tongue. He chants Harry’s name like a prayer as Harry’s mouth moves to his neck. Harry nips at the juncture between his neck and shoulder with his teeth and Zayn feels his cock swell against the front of his sweats. “Please,” he murmurs.

Harry shushes him gently as he cups a hand over Zayn through his sweats and rubs his thumb over the length of him. He sinks down to his knees, looks up at Zayn with blown pupils and then— Promptly starts to laugh.

“What?” Zayn snaps. His knuckles are white from clinging onto the countertop and he’s embarrassingly, achingly hard.

“This counter was clearly not designed for this,” Harry teases as he hooks his hands around Zayn’s knees. “I’m going to need you to come down here.”

Zayn hops off the counter onto his feet. His knees wobble a little as Harry tugs at the waistband of his sweatpants. “I can stand,” Zayn says.

“You sure?” Harry grins as he pulls the waistband down to Zayn’s knees. He groans when he sees that Zayn’s got nothing on underneath and presses his face into the crook of his hip. “Fuck, Zayn.”

Zayn pushes Harry’s hair back from his face and slides his fingers gently through his curls. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs.

Harry smiles up at him, so sweet, so soft—a smile that turns devilish as he slides his tongue up the underside of Zayn’s cock.

“Oh, fuck.” Zayn’s grips onto the counter behind him with his spare hand and the other tightens in Harry’s hair. Zayn watches the length of his cock disappear into Harry’s mouth and his knees give out. “Babe, I—”

Harry cackles with glee as Zayn flops down on the floor next to him. “This’ll do.” He grins and pushes him down against the kitchen floor. He wastes no time in guiding Zayn back into his mouth, his hands curling hard around Zayn’s hips to keep him pinned down.

Zayn’s not going to last. Not between the obscene, slick sound of Harry’s mouth on his cock, and the heat of his mouth, and the feel of his soft hair between Zayn’s hands. Definitely not when Harry pinches at his hip with his fingertips and Zayn feels himself jerk against the back of Harry’s throat.

Zayn wants this today, and every day. He wants Harry’s soft, naked skin beneath his hands. He wants Harry’s mouth never too far away to kiss. He wants to wake up with Harry’s hair shed all over his pillow and fall asleep with one of Harry’s thighs between his own.

“Harry,” is all he can say as he comes down Harry’s throat, all those thoughts pouring out into one, single word. Harry.

***

Short, shallow breaths fall from Zayn’s lips. He struggles to keep his eyes open and his thighs burn as he rocks down onto Harry’s cock. It’s early—at least, early by his standards. The morning light streams through the thin curtains of their hotel room. Berlin, now, reaching the last leg of the tour.

“How is it,” Harry murmurs, his eyes soft and burning hot all at once. His hands curl around Zayn’s lower back to keep their hips flush together. “How is it, that you always feel even better in the mornings?”

Zayn lets out a breathless laugh that gets cut short as Harry cants his hips up to meet him, the tip of his cock nudging deep inside of Zayn.

It’s been a few months of this. Of early mornings in hotel rooms that they claim not to be sharing, across America, across Europe, across the world. Of Zayn waking Harry up with his mouth on Harry’s cock or being woken by Harry pressing the length of his hard cock between Zayn’s cheeks. Of picnics on rooftops and room service and licking sugar from each other’s fingertips.

It’s been a few months of being on honeymoon, sort of, except that almost every day, at some point, Zayn has to act like Harry’s boss and Harry has to act like Zayn’s assistant. Zayn has to keep his hands to himself and Harry has to try not to stare at Zayn like he wants to fuck him right there on the table when he’s talking the timeline for his next album.

“That’s got to be some kind of weird kink,” Zayn mumbles now as he fucks himself harder on Harry’s cock to meet his thrusts. He’s hot and exhausted and so fucking close.

Harry smirks. “You gonna talk to me about weird kinks?” He gathers Zayn’s wrists in one hand and pins them behind his back.

Zayn’s head falls back and he whines. His thighs tremble. It hadn’t taken Harry long to figure that one out. How Zayn turns to butter if he just uses the tiniest bit of force on him. “S’not— Not weird.”

“No,” Harry replies softly. He rubs his thumb over the tree of veins on the inside of Zayn’s wrist and Zayn nearly loses it right there just from how gentle he’s being. “It’s not weird. It’s insanely hot.”

Zayn’s cock blurts precum over the shaft. “Harry, babe.” Zayn squirms to try and get a hand free to wrap around himself. “Just—”

His phone starts to ring shrilly from the bedside table.

“Don’t answer it,” Zayn grits out through his teeth. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to ignore the sound. But Harry’s stilled beneath him, his grip on Zayn’s wrists going slack. “No, no, Harry, c’mon.”

“It’s Jen.”

Zayn swears loudly and stops moving. “That’s one way to kill the mood,” he mutters and lets Harry slide out of him. He takes a deep breath and then picks up his phone.

“Zayn. Put me on speaker. I want to speak to both of you.”

“B-both of us?” Zayn eyes Harry carefully. No one knows about the two of them; except for maybe Josh. And the various drivers they’ve had over the months. And probably Harry’s sister, given that she came home one evening to her flat where Harry was staying to find Zayn, in his underwear, in the kitchen making tea.

“Yes, Zayn. You and Harry. Speakerphone. Now.”

“Why would Harry be here?”

“Because he’s your assistant. And I assume he’s with you, while you have breakfast—

Zayn tentatively puts the phone on speaker as she keeps talking.

“—and I assume the reason you sound out of breath is because you were so caught up in your discussion about today’s schedule that you had to rush to get the phone. And I assume you’re both fully dressed and sitting at a table regarding each other with a professional air. See, Zayn? I can make assumptions. Just as can your fans, and the general public who use the internet. Except that it’s more likely their assumptions will be more along the lines of: Zayn Malik is fucking his assistant.”

Zayn clears his throat. “Did we miss something here?”

“Frankly, Zayn, I have no desire to know anything about what you and Harry do behind closed doors, nor is it any of my business. But what you and Harry do in public is my business.”

Zayn widens his eyes at Harry. They’ve been careful. Haven’t so much as had a snog in a public toilet although it’s come pretty close a few times.

“Harry, check your email, please. I’ve sent the photos as attachments to spare you both from having to read the nauseatingly sweet headlines about the two of you and your love affair.”

“Nauseatingly sweet?” Harry mouths to Zayn and bats his eyelashes.

Zayn pinches his bare thigh.

“Found them,” Harry says. He tips the phone towards Zayn.

They’d had dinner, the night before, with the whole team that was on the road together. As a group. Completely inconspicuous. What had perhaps been slightly less inconspicuous was that the two of them shared a car back to the hotel, alone, while the rest of the group squeezed together into a following two cars, a little while later.

“Now I know what it looks like,” Zayn starts as Harry scrolls through the paparazzi photos of them. Getting into the car, sat close together. Zayn on Harry’s lap with his face in his neck. “But the thing is…” He trails off and looks to Harry for inspiration.

Harry shrugs and sinks back against the pillows.

“I slipped.”

“You slipped. You slipped, and fell onto Harry’s lap. Well, I do hope you’re okay and you didn’t hurt yourself in the process.”

“Uhm.”

Jen sighs. “I can sort out this end. You just have to figure out what you’re going to say to Franz on Energy FM today. Because they’re going to ask. And I can’t blacklist it any longer. It’ll look more suspicious if I do.”

Zayn and Harry sit in silence for a while once the line’s gone dead.

“What do you think I should say?” Zayn asks.

Harry shrugs, again, and stands up. “I’m going to shower.”

“Harry.” Zayn catches his arm. “Are you okay?”

Harry nods and smiles but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Come join me,” he purrs.

Zayn does. But the whole time, he can’t shake the feeling that something’s off. Even as Harry pants Zayn’s name into his mouth; even as they towel off together and kiss under the steam left from the shower.

Something’s different. The honeymoon’s over.

*

“So, Zayn. We have to ask.” Franz quirks an eyebrow across from him in the studio.

Zayn leans back in his chair and prepares himself for it. “Ask away.”

“There’s been rumours about you and a certain young man named Harry Styles for quite some time now. Any truth behind those rumours? And before you answer, you might want to remember that there are photos. Everyone’s seen these, right?” He asks the other presenters in the studio. “From last night?” He chuckles and there’s a murmur of assent.

Zayn looks past Josh’s shoulder, through the glass to the green room, where the sound from the studio is being played through speakers. Harry sits on the edge of a table by the far wall. His head is drooped low that Zayn can’t see his expression. He swings his legs back and forth with his hands clasped into his lap.

“Just rumours, mate,” Zayn says. “That’s all it is. Yeah, me and Harry spend a lot of time together—but that’s because he’s my assistant.” Zayn laughs. Easy breezy. It’s all good.

“Your assistant? Do you regularly sit on your assistant’s laps?”

“Well.” Zayn licks his lips.

Harry’s raised his head. His eyes bore into Zayn’s.

“Harry’s my first and only assistant so it’s hard to say—but it was just a bit of a joke. We’re pretty close, I guess, from spending so much time together, but I don’t even know that I’d say he’s a friend. He’s paid to spend time with me, he has no choice,” Zayn jokes. Something churns unpleasant in his gut; every word drips so heavily with the lie that it makes him feel sick.

“So, that’s it?” Franz presses. “Your assistant?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Sorry to disappoint, folks: but Harry is just my assistant.”

Harry stands and leaves the room.

Zayn can’t get the look in his eyes out of his head. A flat, dull green. No sparkle. No laughter. No desire. Just flat.

“Zayn?”

Zayn starts. He hadn’t even realised the interviewer was still talking. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Your next album? You said you’ve started working on it?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Zayn sits forward and starts to talk them through his post-tour plans for studio time. But his mind is already out of the studio, out of the building, chasing Harry down the street and begging him to stay.

*

“Where’s Harry?” Zayn asks as he skids into the green room.

Sarah raises her head from her phone. “He wasn’t feeling well so he went back to the hotel. He said he’ll call if he doesn’t think he can make it to the venue tonight.”

“Fuck,” Zayn spits and scrubs his hands over his face. Just my assistant. The words playback on loop in his mind and each time makes him feel more and more ill.

“Hey, man, great interview, thank you.”

Zayn nods, vaguely. “Sorry, I need to get going,” he mumbles. “But thank you, yeah. Good to see you. ’til next time, yeah?”

Franz tips his head. “You’re fucking him. The assistant.”

Zayn opens his mouth and then snaps it shut again. “It’s not like that, mate.”

“Sure, okay.” Franz raises his hands. “Whatever you say.”

Zayn doesn’t have time to bicker about this. He slips out of the room and takes the stairs two at a time down to get to his car.

It’s not like that. I’m not just fucking him. I’m in love with him.

He makes it out of the studio and into his car without incident. He can’t sit still the whole way back to the hotel, fidgeting so much that the driver asks him if he needs to stop to find a restroom. Zayn shakes his head and indicates for them to keep going.

He dashes into an elevator before anyone can see him and jabs the button for the fourteenth floor so violently that the older woman beside him looks quite alarmed. He apologises and no sooner have the doors started to open at his floor that he’s off, running down the corridor.

Zayn doesn’t know what to expect. Maybe Harry really wasn’t feeling well, and that’s why he’d been off earlier, and in the studio. Maybe he’ll find him tucked up in bed, and will welcome Zayn to him to take care of him.

Or, maybe he’ll be long gone. Suitcase packed and out of the door. Away from Zayn.

Just my assistant.

Zayn slips his keycard into the door and steps inside. “Harry?”

“Hello, Mr. Malik, is there something I can do for you?” Harry doesn’t look up from where he’s stuffing shirts into his suitcase.

“Harry,” Zayn whispers. His heart collapses in on itself. “What are you doing? Where are you going?”

Harry ignores him. He throws down the sweater in his hands and marches towards Zayn, pushing until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the sofa and he buckles. Harry climbs into his lap, knees locked around his thighs. “You want to fuck? Is that what you want?”

“What?” Zayn asks, bewildered. “No, Harry, I don’t want to fuck, I want to talk about this.”

“No.” Harry shakes his head and rocks his hips down.

Zayn squirms and tries to push him off. He doesn’t want this; he doesn’t want Harry’s body on him when he’s this angry. “Harry, please. Stop. What is this?”

“I’m trying to fuck you, Zayn,” Harry hisses. “I’m trying to fuck you because that’s what we do, right? We fuck? That’s all this is. I’m just your assistant. I’m just your assistant that you happen to be fucking.”

“Harry, get off me.”

Harry grunts and stands up. He turns away from Zayn, his back tense and rigid.

Zayn stands, reaches out, and touches Harry’s shoulder.

“Don’t,” Harry hisses and pushes him off. He stops, his hands balled into fists at his sides. “But no, it’s not your fault. It’s not your fault that I’m the idiot who thought that you saw something more here. Something more with me than something to fuck when you’re feeling lonely and desperate.”

“That’s not what this is. It never was,” Zayn protests. “Harry, you know that. You know how I feel about you.”

“Do I?” Harry rounds on him. “Because what I heard was you saying that I was just your assistant. So what I’m hearing is that this?” He gestures between them. “This was just sex. This was just fucking. Right, Zayn? We were just fucking. And what’s worse, is that you paid to take me around the world with you, just to fuck me. VIP, property of Zayn Malik, right? Just like Gigi said.”

Zayn shakes his head. “No, no. That’s bullshit, Harry.”

“Really?”

Zayn gapes. “How can you even ask me that? After everything?”

Harry shakes his head. Tears pool in the corners of his eyes and he scrubs at them furiously. “I don’t know what it is about me, or about us, that you’re so ashamed of,” he whispers. “But I can’t be your dirty little secret anymore, Zayn. I care too much about you to be that.”

Zayn steps forward and Harry scrambles away from him. He throws the last of his things into the suitcase and zips it closed.

“I’m going home. I quit.”

Zayn’s frozen in place. “You quit the job, or you quit… Me?”

Harry smiles sadly. “Both,” he answers. His voice wavers. “Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Malik. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”

“No, Harry—” Zayn’s hears his own voice crack; panic clutches at his ribcage. “Harry, don’t leave me. I’m not asking as your employer, I’m asking as Zayn. You’re not a dirty secret, Harry, I love—”

“Don’t.” Harry cuts him off and squeezes his eyes shut. “Don’t make leaving you any harder than it already is.”

“So, don’t leave,” Zayn wails. He crosses the space between them and wraps his arms around Harry tight.

“Zayn,” Harry murmurs as he peels him off. “I’ve got to go.”

“Why are you doing this? Why are you giving up on us?” Zayn feels shaky, like he might collapse, or throw up, or both.

“Can’t give up on something that never even existed,” Harry murmurs and walks out of the door without another word, suitcase trailing behind him.

Zayn sinks down onto the bed and hopes, not for the first time, that the blankets might swallow him whole.

***

Zayn stares at the mountain of t-shirts and pairs of jeans scattered across the floor of his hotel room. Last stop. Last stop before home. He needs to pack, really. Or to sleep for a few days straight. He needs to do something, anything, that isn’t just sitting in one spot, staring at the mess, and thinking about what an arsehole he is.

He rubs his fingers under his eyes and sighs. He straightens and winces as his back cracks. The phone rings, from somewhere under the sheets. He could ignore it. He could leave it to go to voicemail—better that, than listen to Sarah tell him again how lacklustre his last few shows were. How his fans are worried—worse, how they’re disappointed.

The phone keeps ringing.

Zayn digs it out and doesn’t hesitate this time to answer. “Hi, mum.”

“Hi, sunshine. Just wanted to check in.”

Zayn hums. “Nearly home. I might come up to Bradford for a few days, once I’ve rested a little. Before I start recording. Or you could come down for a visit.”

“That would be nice, love. We’ll make plans once you’ve had a chance to catch up on some sleep, yeah?” She hesitates.

Zayn bites his lip. “Is everything okay?”

“I bumped into Anne yesterday.”

Zayn slumps back onto the bed. “Yeah, I sort of messed that one up pretty badly,” he whispers. “I never wanted to hurt him, mum. Really, I didn’t.”

“I know you didn’t. You’d never be the type to hurt someone you love.”

Zayn laughs softly. “Of course you knew.”

“I always know, Zayn. I’m your mother.” She pauses. “And also because Wali showed me those things online about the two of you. What I don’t understand is why you weren’t honest with everyone about it. It would have been better for everyone.”

“I thought I was doing what was best. Honest, I did.” Zayn scrubs at his eyes. “And now I’ve gone and buggered it all up, haven’t I? He won’t talk to me. Took off a few days ago and won’t pick up the phone when I call. Don’t have a clue where he even is.”

There’s a pause. “I might be able to help you with that.”

***

Zayn has his phone in one hand, the other poised, ready to knock on the door. He’d gotten lucky, with the door to the building: managed to slip in behind someone else, who cast him little more than a glance before letting him in.

He takes a breath, hits post, and knocks on the door.

“Just a sec!”

Apparently, a second that it takes to open the door is long enough for Harry to check an Instagram notification. He opens the door, dressed in cut-off jean shorts and a loose t-shirt, wielding his phone wildly in one hand.

Harry blinks. “What is this?” He squawks and gestures to his phone screen.

“I thought it was quite a nice photo.” Zayn tries for light-hearted, with a nod towards the photo of him and Harry in Italy a few weeks back. Zayn’s lips are pressed to Harry’s cheek that was sticky with remnants of gelato consumed naked in bed.

Harry huffs. “Get inside before someone sees you,” he orders and drags him in the door.

Zayn closes the door behind him. “You look great.”

It’s the truth. Harry’s light golden tan from travelling around with Zayn has faded into a soft glow; his long limbs on show in his casual summer clothes. His hair is tied back in a bun but a few loose strands poke out this way and that. He’s got flecks of paint on the bottom of his t-shirt.

“What are you painting?”

Harry rubs a hand over his shirt. “The bathroom.” He gestures behind him. “It was a really gaudy shade of pink when I moved in and the landlord didn’t object to the idea of a more water-themed motif.” He shakes his head. “No, stop. Look. What are you doing here? And what are you doing?” He looks at his phone again and then shoves it into his pocket.

“I’m not ashamed of you. I need you to know that. So that’s what I was doing.”

“By posting a photo of us online? By captioning it saying that you—” Harry bites his lip and folds his arms over his chest. “I don’t understand you sometimes, Zayn. A week ago you wouldn’t even acknowledge that I was your friend.”

“It wasn’t about what people would think about you, or even about us. It was about wanting to keep this,” he gestures between them. “For us. Untainted by anyone else’s opinions about it. Not that they matter but.” He shrugs. “They’re there. And we can’t avoid them.”

Harry doesn’t say anything.

“And it’s true. What I wrote.” Zayn takes a tentative step closer to Harry. “I do love you. I have been in love with you for sometime now. I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen. So I told the world, instead.” He smiled. “Can you hear me now?”

“That still doesn’t really explain why you’re here,” Harry murmurs. “Could have called.”

“Tried that. You didn’t answer.” Zayn slides his hands into his pockets. He hadn’t even realised until now that they are shaking slightly. “Besides, there was something else I needed to tell you, that had to be done in person.”

Harry raises an eyebrow.

“You’re fired.”

Harry frowns. “I’m pretty sure I already quit, actually.”

“Okay, but. All the same. You’re fired.”

“Thanks so much,” Harry deadpans. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Yes.” Zayn fiddles with a loose thread in his pocket and swallows back the dry taste on his tongue. “Because the thing is, I don’t think it’s appropriate to be employing the man that I love.”

“Oh, now it’s inappropriate?” A fraction of a smile flickers at the corner of Harry’s mouth.

“You know.” Zayn takes another step closer, and another. Harry doesn’t stop him. “I keep telling you that I love you. And you keep saying—”

“You’re an idiot,” Harry sighs.

“That I’m an idiot,” Zayn finishes.

“A complete idiot.” Harry grins. He closes the remaining space between them and loops his arms around Zayn’s shoulders. “Who doesn’t even realise that I’m love with him, too. Even if he is hopeless and a bit of an arse at times.”

“There we go,” Zayn whispers as he rocks up onto his toes to meet Harry’s mouth.

“There we go,” Harry repeats, his smile pressed against Zayn’s.

***

“Mum.” Zayn walks into the living room, his fingers laced through Harry’s. “Mum, I’d like you to meet someone.”

She looks bemused. “Yes, love. We’ve actually met. I’ve known Harry since he was in nappies, remember?”

“No, mum.” Zayn laughs, exasperated. “I’d like you to meet my boyfriend, Harry.”

She plays along dutifully. “Hello, Zayn’s boyfriend, Harry.” She blinks at Zayn. “Is that that now, then? Can I go back to what I was doing?”

“I suppose.”

Harry tucks his chin over Zayn’s shoulder. “Reckon he just likes saying it a lot,” he explains in a hushed undertone.

Zayn’s mum chuckles. “Always knew about you two. Knew you’d figure it out one day.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “You did not.”

“Did too. Mother’s intuition.”

“My mum said that too,” Harry offers. “She says it was her whole plan all along.”

Zayn narrows his eyes. “Somehow, I wouldn’t be surprised.”