Keep the Car Running (Zarry AU)

Chapter 13

It sounds like a strange thing to say given that Zayn has him in free fall, but if Zayn’s one thing, it’s consistent. It may not feel like it, but every week is the same: Harry arrives at 9 p.m., they exchange the same pleasantries then the same toe curling orgasm and Harry is in a cab by 10 p.m. You can set your watch by Zayn, Harry’s grandmother would say, and as much as Harry tries to disrupt him by arriving eight minutes early or not letting himself come, holding on for so long that his jaw is juddering and his shirt is sticking to his back, he can never throw Zayn. He just angles his hips in such a way that when he thrusts into him it feels like he punches the orgasm out of him then Harry’s in a cab at 9.52 p.m.

It’s driving him mad, like actually mad. Harry can feel something in him unravel a little more every time he thinks about what it would be like to kiss him, to feel Zayn’s tongue dart into his mouth and his teeth tug on his bottom lip. He’s never wanked off thinking of a client before, but he thinks about Zayn all the time, in the shower, before he goes to bed, when he wakes up in the morning, stroking himself to the thought of all the things Zayn keeps hidden, the curve of his collarbones, the endless dip of his back.

The first time he did it, Harry was watching telly. It was a Sunday afternoon and he was idly flicking through the channels when he saw that Chelsea were playing and there was Zayn. It startled Harry so much that he sat up, his head spinning as he tried to reconcile the guy running backwards across the pitch with the Zayn he knew. Smooth, elegant Zayn who never wore the same thing twice and drank a glass of scotch like Harry hoped he gave head, with slow, quiet relish. He doesn’t know how he forgot that Zayn played football, but Harry’s forgotten about a lot of things since they met, as though every time he thinks about Zayn, about the heat of his breath and the way his hands shake when he ties his belt around Harry’s wrists, it burns something else away. So as soon as Harry saw Zayn in his Chelsea kit that Sunday afternoon, he started fisting himself like a thirteen-year old who’d just found a copy of Zoo magazine at the park.

Then Harry saw them – Zayn’s tattoos – laced over skin he’d never seen, and the shock of it made him come with a gasp onto his stomach. Now it’s all Harry can think about when they’re together, the tattoos that are under all the layers of silk and cotton and it’s driving him mad. So as much as he hates it, he needs it, Harry knows, he needs it to be the same every week because that means that one of them is in control. Harry isn’t, he knows that every time he catches himself composing another 4 a.m. text asking Zayn what he’s doing. So tonight, when Harry presses the buzzer and Zayn doesn’t respond, it feels like a rug has been pulled from under his feet.

He takes his phone out of the pocket of his trousers to check the time as it rings and frowns when he sees that it’s Zayn.

‘I’m stuck in traffic,’ Zayn says before Harry can say hello. ‘There was an accident on Battersea Park Road. I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes.’

‘That’s alright,’ he says, holding his breath as he thinks, Please don’t cancel.

I can’t wait another week.

‘Where are you?’ he asks, stopping to turn the song he’s listening to down. ‘Are you at the house yet?’

‘Yeah, but it’s okay. I’ll wait in The Pig’s Ear until you get here.’

‘Or you can pop over to Charlotte’s for a cuppa.’ Zayn chuckles and Harry flushes like a schoolboy at the sudden softness in his voice.

He made a joke.

‘I would,’ Harry says with a clumsy smile, ‘but Charlotte goes to Sociopaths Anonymous on Monday nights.’

Zayn laughs this time, loud and bright, and Harry can’t believe how silly it makes him, almost tripping over himself to say something funny and make him do it again. But then Zayn says, ‘Oh wait. I’m moving’ and Harry’s smile gets a little bigger.