Oh, Won't You Let Me Burn (Won't You Let Us Conquer) [Zarry] [DISCONTINUED]

Chapter Two | Apollo's Still a Right Twit

"Louis, you're not listening to me, man." Zayn scrubs his hands down his face, inhaling deeply. "This is Harry Fucking Styles. Harry Fucking Styles," he attempts to desperately plead with him. "You know how I feel about that miserable twat."

Hell, anyone who's known Zayn at least as long as he has should know how he feels about that miserable twat. He was never exactly subtle.

"Oh, I don't think that I do though," a stupidly deep voice drawls from behind them then, slow as molasses, amused, and Zayn hates that he immediately still recognises it.

It belongs to said miserable twat, so his body goes taut at the sound in a second, and his blood instantly runs cold. Shit.

"Care to enlighten me, Zayn?"

No, Zayn doesn't think that he does, actually, he quips sullenly to himself as he rolls his eyes before schooling his face into an inscrutable expression and turning.

And there he is, stood only a few feet away from him at the open back door, his golden skin bathed in moonlight and the stars. Zayn's fingers itch and tingle at his side at the mere sight of him.

"Styles," he greets blandly in the face of his annoyingly blinding dimpled smile.

"Hello, Zayn," he beams back, looking so infuriatingly smug that Zayn could punch him.

Or, no, that's– that's a bit extreme probably. He should fix that.

Harry Fucking Styles is looking so infuriatingly smug that Zayn could tell him how dumb he thinks that some of his tattoos are.

Yeah, he's sure that would do it.

"I'm happy to see that you made it," Harry continues like they're old friends or something as his oddly-chuffed-for-someone-who-was-just-insulted expression persists. "Louis'd said that you might not be able to because you're always busy with work nowadays," he reveals, causing Zayn to frown and immediately glance his ex roommate's way.

Louis slightly grimaces when he does, but Harry only runs a large hand through his hair as if he hasn't noticed any of it. It's a lot shorter now than it was when Zayn first knew him, he absently notes in the back of his mind.

"Either way, it's very lovely to see you again." I wish I could say the same. "It's been years, yeah? How have you been?" Harry simpers, and Zayn can't take much more of it.

He has to narrow his eyes at him. He can't not, so he narrows them at that stupidly endearing artful smile, narrows them at that ridiculously disingenuous polite question, narrows them at Harry Fucking Styles, fully preparing to snort caustically out loud and rag him, as if you even care, Apollo, when the elbow to his ribs prevents him from doing so.

Louis is looking over at him now, cocking his head to the side, and his eyes are expressive. Zayn gazes at him in question.

"Look, before you say anything," his best mate attempts to conspiratorially whisper, "I know how you feel about him, but think about this, Zed. This bloke's my neighbor now," he says. "I have to live right next to him, so I'd really prefer it if I didn't have to avoid him like fucking avocados every time I walk out my door just because you two can't get on, y'know what I mean?" and Zayn guesses that's a fair point.

Or, it would be, really, if they were dealing with literally anyone else.

But they're not, unfortunately. They're dealing with Harry Fucking Styles who's grinning like a bloody idiot right now as he reminds them, "Louis, I can hear you, mate," as if he doesn't know that it's rude to eavesdrop.