Keep the Car Running (Zarry AU)

Chapter 24

Zayn insists on driving him home, an offer Harry refuses several times, every bit of him aching as Zayn literally shoves him into his Ferrari. ‘Just drop me at Clapham Junction station and I’ll walk,’ Harry mutters miserably, the cuts on his palm stinging as he tugs on the seat belt. A request that is roundly rejected as Zayn gets in and turns on the sat nav, threatening to call Charlotte if Harry doesn’t give him his postcode.

They drive in silence, Harry leaning against the window and trying to avoid eye contact with the people who turn and stare as Zayn’s ridiculous yellow car roars down the Fulham Road, the engine so loud, Harry can feel it in his teeth. It’s a strange car for someone as guarded as Zayn to drive, but then Harry doesn’t know this Zayn, the Zayn who lights up at the roar of a crowd and holds his arms out to them like a fucking king. Actually, maybe he does know that Zayn, Harry thinks as he watches his hands wringing the steering wheel, the collar of his shirt sticking to the back of his neck at the thought of his fingers. He’s the only man he’s met who’d have him on his knees with a look.

Zayn speaks first for once. ‘Who is he?’

‘No one.’ Harry closes his eyes.

‘A client?’

‘No.’

‘An old client?’

‘No.’

‘A husband?’

‘No. Nothing like that.’

‘So he’s someone, then?’

‘He’s no one. Just some nutter.’ Harry sniffs, not realising that he’s still holding the handkerchief until his fingers fist around it. When he sees the blood, he feels a fresh shiver of panic and he’s glad then, that Zayn’s with him, shivering again when he thinks about what he’ll find when he gets back to his flat.

‘Nice suit for a nutter,’ Zayn mutters under his breath but lets it go as they pull off Wandsworth Bridge onto the York Road.

The silence resumes, Zayn fussing over his hair and tugging on the cuffs of his shirt every time he has to stop at a traffic light. At first Harry thinks he’s mad, but when he watches his gaze dart in all directions, he realises that Zayn’s nervous, no doubt terrified that someone will see him with a bloodied Harry and wonder what’s going on. So Harry slumps into his seat and props his elbow up on the door to cover the left side of his face with his hand as he wonders if Zayn’s regretting the ridiculous yellow car now.

‘You can drop me here,’ Harry tells him as they approach the 24-hour Tesco at the top of his road, but Zayn keeps going and turns onto his road.

‘Which number is it?’

‘The one with the white door,’ Harry sighs with defeat as Zayn pulls into a space.

‘Do you have a first aid kit?’ he asks, turning off the engine and panic punches at Harry again.

He’s not coming in. He can’t come in. What if they’ve been to his flat, too?

‘Look, if you want a blowjob for the lift, I can give you one here,’ he says with a shrug he hopes is nonchalant.

Zayn ignores him, climbing out of the car. By the time Harry follows – with a whimper, every bit of him aching – Zayn’s taking a green box out of the boot.

‘You’re not coming in,’ he tells him, but Zayn just gives him that look, the one that always makes Harry turn around and put his arms behind his back.

Harry holds his breath as he opens the front door, wincing as he bends down to pick up the mess of envelopes and pizza menus that has doubled since he charged out earlier. He drops them onto the bottom stair, reaching for the banister as he walks up them gingerly, his back throbbing. He can hear Zayn behind him, his footsteps a little lighter as Harry suddenly regrets his decision to rent a flat on the top floor. He never normally notices the three flights of stairs, glad not to have anyone living above him and grateful to have as much space between him and Mrs Burton’s television as possible. Harry hears a tinny round of applause as they pass her door and he can’t help but wonder what Zayn is thinking. He must be appalled by the shabby hall, the wallpaper peeling and the carpet so worn it’s balding in places. Harry feels a burn of shame when he thinks of Zayn’s house, his hand shaking as he puts the key in his door, sucking in a breath before he turns it, terrified of what he’s about to find. If there’s anyone waiting for him, or if they’ve already been, turning his flat over like they did last time, his clothes spilling out of the open drawers and the sofa stripped off its cushions. But he still goes in first, making sure Zayn is behind him as he opens the door and stands in the doorway.