All the Leaves are Brown (Zarry AU)

Chapter 23

They get the train. Harry’s so excited he wakes Zayn up at seven. If he could raise his arms to strangle him he would (especially when he starts singing, I’m getting laid) but he does summon the energy to tell him to fuck off. Zayn doesn’t know what else he says when Harry ignores him – mostly gibberish punctuated with a fuck every now and then to make it sound vaguely threatening – but he’s loud enough to wake Ant up.

‘It’s Sunday.’ He bangs on the wall. ‘Have mercy.’

‘Sorry!’ Harry says, but he isn’t at all as he takes Zayn by the ankle and pulls him out of the bed. Zayn doesn’t go quietly, which makes Ant bang on the wall again as Harry climbs on top of Zayn, pinning him to the floor. ‘Babe, it’s Sunday.’

‘Don’t call me babe,’ Zayn hisses, even though he loves it.

‘It’s the last Sunday in August.’

‘So?’

‘Blackpool’s going to be heaving.’

He’s right, Zayn’s horrified to learn, the train packed when they get on.

‘It’s 8 o’clock on a Sunday,’ he says to no one in particular as he scowls at everyone on the carriage. It’s full of old dears in sunhats and families – dads in dad shorts and kids in Crocs, their skinny arms and legs already chalky with sun cream ready for a day at the seaside – taking up the seats and clogging the aisle with cooler bags that make Zayn think of those Sundays at Lytham St Anne's when they were kids, his mother up at the crack of dawn to fill theirs with Capri-Sun and cheese sandwiches. It’s almost enough to make him smile, but when he nearly trips on a suitcase, his scowl deepens.

Harry – who would find a McDonald’s in the midst of a nuclear holocaust – has spotted a two-seater, much to Zayn’s relief because he doesn’t have the energy to deal with a kid kicking him all the way to Blackpool. He lets Harry have the seat next to the window even though there’s a toddler in a dinosaur t-shirt running up and down the aisle. ‘Don’t you want to sleep?’ Harry asks, but Zayn insists because he knows he likes to look out the window. When he does, Harry takes his hand and presses a kiss to it and Zayn wonders if that’s love, caring about someone else more than yourself. It feels like it when Harry leaves him be even though he’s so excited he’s fidgeting, then covers him with his jacket when Zayn falls asleep as soon as the train pulls out of the station.

They get to Blackpool just before nine-thirty. Zayn’s slept enough on the train to have mustered enough energy to start moaning again because there’s no earthly reason that they need to be in Blackpool at nine-fucking-thirty on a Sunday morning. The shops haven’t even opened yet. He makes sure Harry knows that, but Harry has the sense just to nod and say, ‘I know.’ That knocks the wind out of his sails, so when he reaches for his hand, Zayn doesn’t say anything, just lets Harry lead him towards the promenade.

Given his uneasy relationship with the sea, it’s odd that Zayn loves the seaside so much. But as long as it stays where it is, it’s cool. Harry knows that; it’s the first secret Zayn told him, one night while they were waiting for their chips in the kebab shop. Zayn made a dig about Harry’s age that sounded harsher than he intended so his punishment was to tell him a secret. Zayn told him he was scared of the sea and Harry was unimpressed, clearly hoping for something involving being caught wanking, but Zayn realises that he hasn’t mentioned going to the beach and hasn’t brought a towel, so as they approach the promenade, he squeezes Harry’s hand.

‘There she is,’ Zayn says as soon as they see the Blackpool Tower.

Harry frowns. ‘It’s red.’

‘Yeah. What colour did you think it was?’

‘Black, like the Eiffel Tower.’

‘The Eiffel Tower’s brown.’

Harry looks horrified. ‘No it’s not.’

‘It is.’

‘Really? It looks black in the print in my sister’s bedroom.’

‘Is it a black and white print?’

Harry doesn’t say anything, just peers up at it. ‘It’s red.’

Zayn hasn’t been here for years, but the promenade is just as he remembers: too bright, even in the day, the shop fronts and arcades painted red and blue and ice cream yellow with papier mache mermaids and pirates perched on top. It’ll be even worse later, when the lights come on. The poor man’s Las Vegas people call it, but Zayn doesn’t feel hard done by at all as the breeze rearranges Harry’s curls so they look even wilder. He’s never been here before, so Zayn can’t help but wonder what he makes of it, Harry, who’s just been to Cyprus and stayed in a hotel that Zayn absolutely, definitely did not look up on the Internet and does not have a pool bar that you can swim up to. Blackpool doesn’t just pale in comparison, it disappears, even with it’s rowdy arcades and papier mache mermaids. But there’s something kind of sweet about it, Zayn thinks – something kind of old fashioned – with its deckchairs and sticks of rock and donkey rides. And Harry must do too because he’s smiling when he tugs Zayn into a café, a tiny place with brown plastic chairs and a dog-eared copy of The Mirror on every table. It smells of fried bread and cheap tomato sauce, but it’s Zayn’s Shangri-La.

He kisses Harry’s cheek when they sit at one of the tables because it’s just what he needs: food. They eat scrambled eggs and drink over brewed tea from chipped mugs and Zayn doesn’t think he’s ever been so happy. And while he’d never underestimate the power of a decent brew, he knows it’s Harry because a few months ago, Zayn would never have done this, blown money that he can’t spare going to Blackpool. But that’s just what he needs, too, to be somewhere new, chatting to a waitress who doesn’t know his name. And when he looks out the window, Zayn doesn’t see the kebab shop or the Korean shop or any of the other things he usually sees when he looks out a window. Everything is big and bright and unexplored. There are benches they haven’t carved their initials into yet. Parks they haven’t sat in, eating crisps and drinking warm beer.

‘Come on,’ he says, taking Harry’s hand and leading him out into it.

‘Where are we going?’ he asks with a slow smile.

‘Everywhere.’