Parole | Zarry

08

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Christ, what would it be like to be stuck always as an observer, unable to communicate anything beyond the basics?

They went out again on Saturday.

This time Harry chose the place, and they had burgers and onion rings and stout-all of which he paid for.

-and afterward Zayn kicked Harry's ass at pool game.

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"No fair." Harry pouted.

"There should be some kind of rules for beginner before challenging them."

Zayn smirked and played the next game with one eye squeezed shut.

He still won.

When they got to Harry's place that night, Zayn still didn't cut the engine, but this time Harry leaned over before getting out of the car.

and he kissed Zayn.

He tasted of sweet cinnamon and Harry wanted to savour every sweetness.

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The following Wednesday it was raining again, but Zayn popped out of his house as Harry walked by.

He'd obviously been waiting for him to arrive, and that made Harry's heart sing.

Zayn had a postcard in his hand, the type used to advertise art exhibits and concerts, and he dragged Harry up onto the relative dryness of his porch and handed the card over.

Mix Direction, the card said.

Apparently that was the band's name.

There was a photo of three people:

A handsome man wearing vintage jeans and a frown; a brunette in goth-wear; and a busty blonde in a sexy schoolgirl outfit.

They were playing at a downtown club that Saturday.

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Zayn poked his finger at the date and looked at Harry with his eyebrows raised.

"Seriously? Sounds like fun. Um, if you're willing to put up with my dancing, that is."

Zayn laughed and gave Harry a one-armed hug and a smooch on the cheek.

Then he used various gestures to let Harry know he would pick him up on Saturday at eight.

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Harry had no idea what to wear.

He felt like a total teenager as he considered and rejected one outfit after another.

Finally settling on his tightest leather jeans, making his ass huge and pairing up with white silk shirt, unbuttoned at top.

Okay, not very exciting.

At least he wasn't wearing the skull and crossbones T shirt with colourful boa.

A present from Sarah on his last birthday.

People tended to give him dirty looks when he wore it, like he wasn't allowed to make fun of his own infirmity.

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When he heard the car pull up, Harry loped out of the building and toward the car.

Maybe Zayn approved of his choice in clothing.

Because he gave an appreciative wolf whistle as Harry climbed into the passenger side.

Zayn was wearing his usual ripped jeans, this time with a black Turtle neck t-shirt that showed off his lean torso.

Harry licked his lips.

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The club was already packed when they arrived.

Zayn paid the cover and grabbed Harry's hand, towing him toward the stage and somehow managing to find a vacant tiny table.

This time they both ordered Smirnoff Ice.

It wasn't long before the band started up.

They were loud and raucous, sort of old-school punk with a good twist of grunge and, inexplicably, occasional infusions of what Harry was pretty sure was Celtic stuff.

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- Harry licked his lips.