Chapter Text
Liam thinks Zayn’s going out for more eggnog.
If he’d been about five minutes faster, he’d be on the road right now. He wouldn’t have run into Harry on the front steps; Harry wouldn’t have sent the cabbie away and shoved him back inside, back into the coat room; they wouldn’t be stood here breathing the same flat air.
But he hadn’t been, so - here they are.
On the other side of the door, just down the hallway and to the left, the sounds of the real world resume: the dialogue to Muppets Christmas Carol is near overrun by the chattering of various nieces and godchildren, Saf of course holding court over them all by virtue of being the youngest (and coolest) auntie there. Doniya’s singing seems to’ve coaxed Sona out of her strop some; it certainly hasn’t woken Dad up, from the sound of his snoring. Mum and Anne sound to be Planning Something; Liam, Rob and Danny are bickering over West Brom’s chances; and Jordan’s still waxing poetic about the virtues of bacon, Gem telling him to hush every so often. Liyha’s off somewhere on her mobile, and Ant and Talia don’t seem to be making much noise at all, so they’ve probably disappeared into the guest room.
It might be a long while before anyone starts missing him, Zayn thinks, watching, wary, as Harry takes the tiniest of steps closer.
The coat room is already very tiny.
'You're looking rather…overwhelmed,' Harry murmurs, breath wine-warm, sour. The smell of snow is still sharp on him - beneath it, a cologne Zayn can't quite place.
'Might have somethin' to do with you manhandling me.' He tries to keep his voice light and unworried - the plan is to give Harry an escape route that won't leave both of them hugely embarrassed. 'So, ah. did you want my number? I'm free next Wednesday, if you wanted to, like, go for lunch.' Harry blinks at him slowly: he knows, as Zayn does too, that something will come up. There'll be no lunch, no returned phone calls - maybe no more Christmases, either. If Zayn ever gets around to actually telling his parents what really happened between him and the son of two of their oldest friends.
Well. Since they’re pretending anyway: ‘You could bring Taylor. If you like.’
Harry snorts. ‘And you could bring Liam,’ he says, and then he leans forward and kisses Zayn. Tries to, anyway. Zayn forcibly stops him with both hands on his chest.
'Uh, not sure if you noticed? But we don't do that anymore. Fuck's sake, Harry, this is why—' he cuts himself off at the pass: that way's no good. 'Never mind. Just move, I have to go.' Harry blocks his way.
'No, finish what you were saying. This is why, what? What is this?’ He flicks a hand out between them, his elbow neatly knocking over a stack of hats before returning to his side.
'This is nothing - we are nothing,’ Zayn says. ‘Move.’
Harry’s face goes blank with hurt. Then he smiles, steps out of the way. ‘Don’t let me keep you, then.’
Only Harry, Zayn thinks, would try a guilt trip like that after dragging someone into a coat room and physically barring their exit. And maybe only Harry would be successful.
'Harry,' he sighs, deflating a bit, 'c'mon. don't do that. you know what I meant.' This is exactly why they don't talk anymore. Before it was never so huge a disaster if they didn't end up on the same wavelength - now it's just another reminder of fairly useless memories.
'No, I don't,' Harry says, blinking up quickly. He always looks like a bug when he does that. 'All I know is that you refuse to explain—' he twists his lips ruefully '—and, and c'mon, you looked all smug when I turned up alone? You keep digging in your heels, Zayn - how am I supposed to move on?'
Zayn rolls his eyes. ‘How is dating someone else diggin’ in my heels? I’m trying to move on, babe - you’re the one who won’t let go.’
'Well, move on, then,' Harry snaps, awkwardly trying to stay upright with the coats wavering at his back, 'but how about doing it properly? Let everyone know instead of holding it over my head. But just get it over with, alright? I do actually have better things to do than be ignored on Christmas Eve.'
Harry’s such a twat, God. ‘What, like, being ignored by Nick? Don’t fuckin’ make me laugh. You came here because you wanted to see me, because you need me, because you want me.’ He’s breathing hard when he finishes.
'Well. you want me, too,' says Harry. He's not smiling; he wouldn't dare. Zayn can read him anyway. I’ll always want you, he said, once, on a night a little bit like tonight: the both of them tucked away in some cramped little room, Harry tipsy and Zayn cornered; their families entirely elsewhere. Of course, back then Zayn had meant every word - tonight he’s not entirely certain he can trust anything either of them says.
Think of Liam, he thinks, and he does - thinks of his arrogance, his bullheadedness, his insecurities. Thinks of how he won Zayn’s entire family over one by one, back when everyone was still carrying a silent torch for poor Harry. How he never bothers waiting up anymore - just leaves a wrapped plate on the counter.
Because he trusts that Zayn will always come back home to him.
'No, actually, I don't,' Zayn continues, winded, and a little bit sorry, 'not anymore.'
Harry cocks his head. ‘No?’ he murmurs, reaching out slowly to brush Zayn’s hair to the side. His gloves are brown leather, cool and crumplingly sleek against Zayn’s forehead, against his cheek, his jaw. Around his throat. ‘Not even a little?’
Zayn doesn’t say anything, just watches Harry watch him. He looks exhausted. And thin, thin like he hasn’t been since his second growth spurt. His hair looks like it could do with a bit of a wash, his eyes are smudged pink and puffy, and his five-glass flush makes him look feverish.
Zayn really will always want him.
He sticks two fingers, still faintly cold, up under Harry’s coat and vest and shirt and into his belly button. Harry yelps and giggles, falls back a little against the teetering tower of boxes, smile wavering into a sulk. Zayn grins.
'Not even a little,' he says. He pats Harry on the cheek, lets him grab his wrist and hold onto him. He's at least a little drunk, maudlin, probably, about the prospect of going home to an empty flat. Zayn can do this one thing for him. 'Happy Christmas, eh, babe?'
'Happy Christmas,' Harry mumbles, and then he hauls him forward and kisses him, wet and sloppy and unrehearsed. Ah - Zayn can do this one…other thing for him. ‘I am sorry,’ Harry says, hopelessly, licking the words into Zayn’s mouth. Only longterm experience with Harry mushmouth allows him to distinguish the rest: ‘I never said. All that rubbish I said about - tigers and, and spots, it wasn’t fair. It was-- I was wrong, I should’ve trusted you.’
Zayn allows one last disconsolate kiss, then pats Harry on the chest. ‘If it, like, makes you feel any better,’ he says, after a few steadying breaths, ‘you were right. Not about, like, the tigers and spots (they’ve got stripes, babe, obviously). But, like. about me. Sometimes I feel like—’
He swallows, thinks about the night he’d found Harry and Nick together, thinks about what Harry’d said: Here’s that way out you’ve been looking for. Lucky Nick had said something snide and disgusting so Zayn had an excuse to haul off and hit him; there’d have been no returning from hitting Harry.
Maybe there was no returning from any of it, anyway. ‘—like I’m shootin’ myself in the foot. Just like, again and again.’
Harry peppers his face with kisses, like there hasn’t been a cold front between them for nearly a year. Always 0 to 60, with him. ‘Liam doesn’t think so,’ he says soothingly.
'Well, I mean, I never,' mumbles Zayn, maybe the slightest bit distracted, 'there was, like, this girl, once, almost. But I never told him.' He stares at Harry through his eyelashes, even though he's so close Zayn probably looks cross-eyed and stupid. 'He doesn't think I've. got. like. spots.'
'He trusts you,' Harry says, kisses coming slower now, and sweeter. 'He knows you'd never—'
'Never,' Zayn agrees - and still he stops short when Harry goes for his belt.