A House Built Out of Stone

Part 10

The club Zayn’s playing at isn’t that big, but it’s already packed by the time Louis and Harry arrive.

Louis feels nerves deep in his belly, this anxious butterfly type feeling that leaves him light-headed and trembling, a little. There’s a line by the door, already halfway around the block, and Louis wonders how all these people have heard of Zayn, how many people are here simply through word of mouth.

Harry sticks close next to him, when Louis tells the guy at the door his name, when they’re let in with ease but have to push through the warm, tipsy bodies in the club, Harry’s fingers clinging to the back of Louis’ jacket. It’s hot inside, and Louis feels his hair sticking to the back of his neck within minutes, feels the heat rising up on his face and the low valley of his back.

“Big crowd,” Harry murmurs, lips close to Louis’ ears and body pressed up even closer. There’s not much room in here, and they’re pushing it time-wise, squeezing in just as the lights start to dim and there’s a guy on the stage introducing Zayn. “D’ya think he’s nervous?”

Louis watches the stage close, his eyes following the dimmed figure that slinks out from the side, all leather and gel, even from where they’re standing. “Don’t think he has much to be nervous about,” Louis says, eyes on Zayn as he drops on his stool, knees bent up and head pushed close to the mic.

The music starts and Louis recognizes some of it from months before. When Zayn was piecing together songs and beats, humming little melodies as he made breakfast, both of them tired and hungover and sleepy in the bright light of the kitchen. Louis remembers bits and pieces of this, cut off snippets of Zayn’s voice, catching on a word or a certain beat that stuck with him.

He’s in his element here, is the thing. With his eyes closed and the mic in front of him, his voice sounds smooth like honey. Confident and melodic and Louis remembers it intimately, remembers Zayn singing in the shower and in the kitchen and getting dressed in the morning, voice raspy and heavy with sleep.

And now he’s here, on stage in a hot, packed club, singing to a full crowd of swaying, enthralled bodies, singing to them, singing to Louis.

Singing to Harry, who’s got his hands tight over Louis’ belly, both of them moving in time to the song, trapped between people enjoying Zayn’s music, enjoying Zayn.

It’s a lot to take in. The thumping beat behind Zayn’s voice, the heat of the club, the feel of Harry’s body swaying behind him, sturdy and strong and broad. Louis leans back into it, leans his head back to rest on Harry’s shoulder and lets Harry’s fingers hold tight to him. He’s a constant and steady pressure, not pushing for anything more, but Louis leans into him anyway, gives him this. Or lets him take it.

It’s hot in here and Louis feels flushed and languid and Harry’s grip is firm, and Louis still doesn’t know who’s giving and taking now. If there is a difference between the two of them, Harry and Louis, here.

Zayn stands up at one point, all sharp-angled, dangerous grace on his skinny legs. He’s got his customary cigarette tucked behind his gelled strands, and it’s probably not noticeable but Louis can see his hands shaking around the mic, the fingers gripping tight enough to hurt, probably. He saunters to the end of the stage, voice like a powerhouse, head thrown back around the notes he lets loose.

Louis lets the sound of it wash over him. Lets Harry’s fingers press against him and feels the solid chest at his back, feels the curls tickling his face when Harry leans in and says, “He sounds fucking amazing, Lou,” and Louis shivers from the voice vibrating against his ear, shivers from the awed atmosphere of the club and how Zayn sounds fucking incredible, standing up there where he belongs.