°• 𝙰𝙻𝙱𝚄𝙼 𝙰𝚁𝚃 •°[ 𝚣𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 ]

Golden 🌅

ZAYN

Hold it, focus, hoping
Take me back to the light
I know you were way too bright for me
I'm hopeless, broken
So you wait for me in the sky
Browns my skin just right

You're so golden
You're so golden
I'm out of my head
And I know that you're scared
Because hearts get broken

I don't wanna be alone
I don't wanna be alone
When it ends
Don't wanna let you know
I don't wanna be alone
But I, I can feel it take a hold
I can feel you take control
Of who I am and all I've ever known
Loving you's the antidote

Zayn found himself back at another one of Harry's shows.

A few things were different this time, though. For one, he hadn't been dragged here by anyone—he'd come on his own. Willingly. Nervously, yes, but willingly. Naisargi wasn't with him this time either, which felt both strange and comforting. Most significantly, this wasn't the confused, awkward limbo of last time. Since the London concert a couple of months ago, he and Harry had been... texting. Not constantly—Harry was still in the thick of his tour, and Zayn's own work was stacking up faster than he could manage—but sporadically, steadily, in a way that felt natural.

A meme here. A line from a song there. A photo of Zayn's cat curled up on a sketchbook. A blurry mirror selfie from Harry captioned "wardrobe panic — help."

It wasn't grand declarations. It wasn't a flood of feelings. But it was something. Comfortable. And after everything that had happened, that felt like a quiet miracle.

Tonight, Zayn sat in the crowd at The Forum, surrounded by strangers but more at ease than he'd expected. He watched as Harry moved across the stage like it was made for him. He was completely in his element—radiant, confident, teasing, warm. Every time he addressed the crowd, Zayn felt the residual shimmer of something electric. He could enjoy it now, let it wash over him without the thick anxiety weighing down his chest like last time.

And God, the man could perform. Even now, after all this time, Zayn was in awe of how Harry commanded the space. He made eye contact with fans, accepted flowers tossed from the pit, twirled with dramatic flair during the last chorus. He blew kisses like they were confetti. He danced like nobody had ever told him to stay still.

When the final note rang out and the outro blared through the arena, the entire crowd was on its feet. Harry grinned wide, sweat-damp curls stuck to his temples, as he gave one last bow. "Thank you, Los Angeles!" he shouted into the mic, his voice hoarse with joy.

And then, he was gone.

This time, Zayn wasn't waiting backstage. He didn't need to be led there by security like a lost parcel. He knew the way now. More importantly—he wanted to go. And instead of the dread that had followed him last time like a second skin, there was something lighter now. Excitement, maybe. Curiosity. Hope.

He made his way through the familiar halls, winding past production crates and harried crew members, until he reached Harry's dressing room. He knocked lightly.

The door opened a crack, and then Zayn stepped in—just in time to see Harry halfway through pulling a shirt over his head.

Zayn froze, momentarily stunned. The image was disarming in its simplicity—Harry, flushed from the stage, hair messy, bare-chested and golden under the fluorescent lighting. Harry turned around quickly, tugging the shirt down the rest of the way.