(Won't) Last Forever •ZARRY•

ii.

           

            It was the first party of the year of some frat house Harry's roommate was in, so of course he was obliged to go. Harry, a freshman journalism student who barely knows anyone here, would never willingly go to a party full of jocks. Well, a lot of them are hot so that's a bonus. Unfortunately, a lot of them are also straight. But one should never redeem a situation like this worthless unless one sees the situation first-hand.

            And that's how Harry finds himself standing in the corner of a living room, nursing a red plastic cup of disgusting beer, listening to a drunk girl rant about her cheating boyfriend. The night is getting worse and worse by every second he's at the party. The guys are machos and straight, girls are so not into him because they came there for "athletes" and not "floppy haired hipsters". Harry makes a vow to himself to never attend a frat party again.

            And that's when they lock eyes. Harry is just scanning the room, skipping over guys in barely there muscle tops and snapbacks with girls hanging off their arms. The owner of those beautiful whiskey eyes Harry is staring into is the only dude here who isn't way over 6 feet tall with puffed out muscles. He's wearing a leather jacket and similarly to Harry, is leaning against a wall with that shitty beer in his hand.

            Harry doesn't even think about it, says a quick sorry to the girl and makes a bee line for the beautiful hot stranger. He wrestles his way through the party and finds himself standing in front of him. The guy smirks and takes a sip of his beer. The grimace he makes clearly describes the taste of it.

            "You were staring at me," Harry states instead of saying hello or introducing himself.

            "Yeah, I was. You're the only other guy here who's not wearing the typical jock uniform, so I thought I might ogle you and you'd notice so we could chat or something," the stranger has a very beautiful smile and Harry's mesmerised.

            "I'm Harry," Harry sticks out his hand to shake the stranger's.

            "Zayn," he accepts the hand and Harry already loves how Zayn's skin feels on his own. If he can get a hook up out of this, he'll literally be the happiest person in New York.

            "Do you want to get out of here? I wanted to get drunk, but the booze is shit so we can might as well leave this frat hole," Zayn chuckles. With that beautiful face of his, he could ask Harry to hide a dead body right now and Harry's about 98% sure he'd do it without asking any questions.

            "Sure. And where is it you wanna go?" Harry smirks. He need to start charming the fuck out of Zayn if he wants to get any tonight. Leaving together is a good sign though. Harry innocently fiddles with the buttons on his shirt. If his hand leaves the shirt more unbuttoned and maybe flashing his right nipple a bit, Harry absolutely doesn't notice it.

            "There's a gallery nearby that's open all night this weekend and there may be champagne. What do you say?" Zayn asks it with a soft smile and Harry's dumbfounded. He half expected to be asked to go back to Zayn's place or another party, but he never saw this coming. Truth be told, it only makes him more intrigued with Zayn. This beautiful stranger who stared at Harry from across a room with an obscene look, as if he wanted to bend Harry over the beer pong table and fuck him right there, is now asking him to go to a gallery in the middle of the night. Harry thinks he's in love already.

            "Sure, let's go," Harry smiles and leaves his cup on a shelf next to him. Zayn does the same and grabs Harry's hand without hesitation. They weave their way through drunk people and making out couples until they're in the hallway. Running quickly down the stairs, their hands not letting go, they find themselves out in the brisk October air. Zayn's hot hand in his is an amazing source of heat for this fall weather.