All the Leaves are Brown (Zarry AU)

Chapter 16

July

Of course as soon as Zayn gives himself permission to shag Harry, he fucks off to Cyprus for two weeks with his family, which is probably for the best but is still deeply annoying. Harry tortures him, sending a string of selfies that, Zayn assumes, are supposed to make him jealous of Harry’s view from the sun lounger and his building tan, but results in Zayn almost wanking himself blind thinking about Harry’s stupid puffy nipples.

Other than the inappropriate wank material, which he prays Ant never finds out about, (in Zayn’s defence, is wank material ever appropriate?) without Harry around, things begin to go back to normal. Zayn gets into a routine, working at Piccadilly Records during the day and DJing at night, and yeah, sleeping on a beach in Thailand would be pretty fucking sweet, but at least he gets to listen to music all day.

It would be worse. He could be stacking shelves in Asda or standing outside the Trafford Centre holding a GOLF SALE sign. Plus, he’s just started DJing at a club on Princess Street. They can’t pay him, but he gets free drinks and a cab home, which is more than he gets from some of his gigs. So he and Ant soon forget that they’re supposed to be embracing their last summer before they go back to uni, too distracted by the quiet ebb and low of life, of getting up, going to work and puffing until they fall asleep again. Of beer in the Hat and Stick and chips and pita on the walk home.

Maybe that is embracing it.

Maybe life doesn’t always have to be about riding your heart like it’s stolen.

So one evening, while Zayn’s having a pint at the Hat and Stick and Ant walks in with Yaf, he knows exactly what Ant’s doing, but the kick of irritation he’d usually feel isn’t there. He even manages a smile, even when Ant makes an excuse ten minutes later about needing to get back to the flat because he’s left the bathroom window open.

He doesn’t come back of course and while Zayn and Yaf are both painfully aware that they’ve been set up, Zayn can’t be mad because Ant’s right – the fucking fucker – Yaf is absolutely his type. He’s bright, funny and loves music. Plus, he really is as fit as fuck and exactly what Zayn goes for: tall and broad with a smile that could rival Harry’s.

As soon as Zayn makes the comparison, he curses himself because Ant’s right about that, too. Why the fuck is he thinking about Harry when he’s sitting in a pub with a bloke who knows who Ian McEwan is, laughs at his jokes and spent his gap year teaching English in Ghana. Plus, he’s fit as fuck. Has Zayn mentioned that? Because he is. Stupidly, confusingly, beguilingly beautiful. His parents are from Ghana so he has clear, dark skin and eyes the colour of expensive Scotch, but he was born in Edinburgh, so has a soft Scottish brogue that makes Zayn want to ask him to read things out. Everything. Anything. The menu, the phone book, the graffiti on the bathroom wall.

He’d make all of it sound like poetry and it’s fucking distracting.

So when their knees touch under the table, Zayn can’t help but think of the way his heart jumps up in his chest like a startled cat when he and Harry touch. He smiles to himself and when he thinks of him in Cyprus, drinking cocktails and darting around the island on the Vespa he’s rented, it doesn’t just feel like they have most of Europe between them, but the whole world. Zayn, who doesn’t even have a passport who’ll be lucky to get a weekend in Blackpool this summer, almost laughs then, when he asks himself why he’s taking this thing with Harry so seriously. It’s nothing. He’s pretty sure Harry isn’t in a bar somewhere in Cyprus, wondering where things are going with Zayn, and that’s cool. Perhaps he’s just a guy who crashes his parties sometimes and shows up at 42s to tell Zayn to play an Arctic Monkeys song and he’ll never be any more than that.

This is what he needs, Zayn thinks as he looks at Yaf. Someone who can buy his own drinks and doesn’t tell the nacho cheese joke every time he eats Doritos. Someone who has a plan, who knows where he’ll be in five years and doesn’t ignore the house phone when it rings. So he doesn’t move his leg and when Yaf smiles, Zayn smiles back because what the hell? He dreads to think what Harry’s up to in Cyprus; if his texts are anything to go by, Harry’s having the time of his life. So why is Zayn overlooking Yaf – smart, funny, beautiful Yaf – for someone who isn’t even thinking about him?

That’s when Harry walks in, of course, and as soon as Zayn sees him, his heart jumps up in his chest like a startled cat. He looks so good – so alive, his hair lighter and his eyes brighter, a firefly in the dim pub – that Zayn’s suddenly unsure how he’s made it through the last two weeks without him and has to stop himself running over to him.

Not that Harry even notices him as he barrels into the pub, making as much noise as possible. There’s a cheer from the regulars when he says, ‘Hiiiiii!’ (Even from Sid who pretty much hates everyone, apart from Bobby Charlton.) Zayn’s legs aren’t as steady as he stands up and smiles. Harry sees him then, heading straight for him, for his pint, actually, which he takes a huge gulp of before Zayn can prise it off him.

‘You alright?’ Harry asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like a kid who’s just finished a glass of milk, then throws his arms around him.

Zayn chuckles as he gets a mouthful of his hair which he definitely, absolutely does not smell and definitely, absolutely does not smell like coconut.

‘I thought you were back tomorrow?’ he says, resisting the urge to reach for him again when Harry steps back and looks at him.

‘Got my dates wrong, didn’t I?’ He rolls his eyes then turns to Yaf, who stands up and holds out his hand. Harry shakes it with a smile. ‘Hey, I’m Harry.’

‘Yafeu.’

Before Zayn can explain who he is, Harry reaches for his pint and when he takes another swig, Adam shouts, ‘Oi!’ from behind the bar. Harry turns and grins at him – all teeth and dimples, like he’s posing for a school photo – and says, ‘It’s alright as long as I don’t buy it,’ (always his excuse for poncing drinks) ‘and I’m accompanied by an adult.’

Adam looks at Zayn and scoffs. ‘Yeah right.’

‘Hey!’ Zayn frowns.

Adam holds up one finger and reaches under the bar for a pint glass. Harry gallops over, almost tripping on his laces as he does, and Zayn laughs.