Summary:
Everybody has a talent. Zayn, he drew. Liam, he sang. Niall, he could drink for Ireland, and did frequently. Harry, he always knew exactly when, where and how people were going to die.
It’s no big thing, just like how his mum knows exactly how long it takes to bake her cakes and make them taste like heaven on a plate. His perception of the world wasn’t much different from the average person’s except for the beacons that hung over everybody’s head like an illuminated sign, only to be extinguished after the first glance. This meant Harry had no choice but to know that the little girl who said hello to him every morning was to die in a car crash two months from now, and that his university professor would commit suicide by gunshot in his late fifties following a divorce from his cheating wife.
He’s powerless to stop the hands of fate, and he knows that better than anything else, but when one boy in particular makes his way into Harry’s life obliterating everything in his way, Harry is determined to cheat death with him for just as long as he can
***
The room was filled with a sticky humidity that England usually lacked. Harry’s hair was melding into the slight sweatiness of his forehead, and the white shirt he was forced to wear during work hours was stifling against his neck. Zayn was standing mere centimetres away in the cramped proximity of the supplies cupboard, puffing away on a cigarette that was most definitely prohibited. His hair wasn’t spiked as it usually was; abandoned in favour of softness that seemed foreign against his chiselled features.
“It’s so fucking hot,” Zayn moaned, leaning his back against the wall. Harry mirrored his movements, unbuttoning the top of his dress shirt.
“Probably isn’t helped by that,” he murmured, pointing towards the cigarette. Zayn just raised an eyebrow in his direction and Harry slumped back, sighing. There was no point, and he was too warm and exhausted to care much anyways.
The closet was tight; so much so in fact that Harry and Zayn had to organise themselves to exit it, their shoulders too wide to stand beside each other. It had no windows, and smelt of damp and slight mildew, making Harry wonder, yet again, how the restaurant had managed to achieve a four star hygiene rating. The door jammed, forcing them to crash into it and each other to get out. However, despite all of its less-than-appealing qualities, Harry and Zayn spent more time in there during the course of their work week than they did out on the floor.
Gemma, Harry’s sister and the girlfriend of the establishment’s owner, poked her head in, dimpling away with messed up hair. “Jerry wants you out,” she said breathlessly. “A reservation’s came in., and I couldn’t get him to leave you for much longer.”
Harry shot his sibling a thankful smile and looked over at Zayn, who maintained his careful demeanour of uncaring as he puffed on the cigarette. “You take this one,” he whined, poking Harry in the arm after Gemma disappeared once again. “I need to finish my fag.”
“You know I hate that word,” Harry said, but he lifted his apron from the hook and tied it around the back expertly. He slicked back his hair, grimacing at the sweat that appeared on his hands.
Zayn rolled his eyes. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he muttered. He threw a towel over to Harry. He wiped his hands on it and slung it around his waist. After dropping a notebook in the pocket of his apron and choosing a pen from the multitudes of biros hidden behind a large quantity of crisp packets Harry moved towards the exit, looking back at Zayn with fondness dripping off the edges of his mouth.
“Yeah, I know,” he said as Zayn leaned back into the wall, moulding so perfectly into the stone it was as if he’d been there his entire life. “It just brings back bad memories, yunno?”
