Parole | Zarry

09

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The guy with a buzz cut did most of the singing and the blonde played the guitar, while the brunette with blue eyes entertains the crowd.

They weren't bad.

They weren't good either, exactly, but it was fun.

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Three songs in, Zayn dragged Harry onto the dance floor, apparently not caring that most of this crowd seemed pretty straight.

Harry stopped caring too as he and Zayn jumped and bumped together.

And when the band sometimes switched to something slow and crooning.

Zayn scooped Harry into his arms and they rocked their bodies together tightly enough that Harry could feel Zayn's cock harden against him.

and he knew that Zayn could feel his.

It didn't matter that Zayn couldn't speak.

Harry wouldn't have been able to hear him over the din anyway.

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After the Mix direction played their final song;

Harry and Zayn stumbled out into the cold night, their arms around one another's waists.

They weren't drunk-

They'd been too busy dancing-but they were high on adrenaline and, most likely, a whole cocktail of fun hormones.

Zayn had parked his car a few blocks away in a secure lot, and the streets they walked were mostly deserted.

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"I haven't had that much fun in years," Harry said.

Zayn beamed.

They were only about a block from the parking lot, making their way past a sandwich shop that had long since closed for the night.

When a pair of men stepped into their path.

Young men, and the taller one had a tattooed on his forehead.

Nice.

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"Faggots."

Spat the other Youth, a short kid with almost no hair.

"Morons,"

Harry shot back, because he knew there was no point in running.

Taller one squinted at him.

"What's this? Fucking Pansy-Ass Pirates Day?"

"Yeah, like I've never heard a pirate joke before. Man, you're so clever! Now how about you toddle on home and practice your goose-stepping or something? Or, you know, find some other way to sublimate your urges to fuck each other silly."

Oh yes, he'd learned a thing or two from Sarah, who'd done a psych minor in college.

Beside him, Zayn snorted with with amusement.

The brownshirt wannabes were not amused, however.

The Kid came rushing forward.

Taller one hung back a second longer before joining him.

Harry and Zayn had time to only exchange a quick glance.

-And then the fight began.

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The thing earlier was, Harry had spent some time in the gym right after high school beginning when he couldn't think of anything more gainful to do and ending.

When he decided the whole Don't Ask
Don't Tell thing was a giant crock of shit.

He'd been in long enough to learn some hand-to hand combat skills, and he'd polished those skills after the neck incident, figuring it never hurt a slightly dude to be handy with his fists.

He was both strong and a pretty good brawler.

As he soon learned, so was Zayn, who certainly wasn't a big guy but was all hard, wiry muscle.

Their attackers didn't have a clue, and within minutes short one was out cold, and taller was sitting on his ass, crying over a busted wrist.

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Zayn swooped Harry into his arms, and partly out of celebration and partly to give the bigots a show, they kissed.

Loudly and theatrically.

With a few extra gropes thrown in.

And then, laughing like maniacs, the two of them ran off to the car.

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"Maybe we should call the cops,"

Harry said as they piled inside.

But Zayn shook his head and gunned the engine.

"Yeah, you're probably right. Ten thousand questions and paperwork and crap."

And Zayn would have a tough time answering any of those questions, Harry knew.

Better to just let it go.

The skinheads were unlikely to go crying to the police, and maybe they'd even learned a lesson about the wisdom of gay-bashing.

• ☘ •

-Hope you are still enjoying.