V

IV - Harry

The first time he realises he's fucked there's a corpse at his feet. 

Blood has seeped into the leather of his shoes, his silk shirt, his hair where he pushed it from his face. There are five dead bodies on the ground, but only one catches his attention. Four of the names are easy to predict, to the passing stranger it would be easy to detect the bonds he has with the men they belong to. What's caught him off guard is the crudely carved 'Louis'. The choking dread lodging itself in his throat is not from the grisly picture, it's a result of acknowledging he's not deeply connected to Louis. He hadn't realised he wanted to be.

Simon prepared them well. The right contacts, the right methods, the right thoughts and within the hour this situation will disappear into nothing more than a secret swallowed by the night. It's a dance he's familiar with. He resents the bastard every waking day knowing he was groomed and worse yet, knowing there's no way to step out of the puppet role he was designed to perform. Theirs was a relationship that quickly surpassed the fallacy of paternal into thinly veiled contempt for each other's personalities, only put aside for the necessary professional respect.

They finish dealing with the brunt of the mess in silence. Zayn keeps cutting glances like he's waiting for Harry to acknowledge it, but he'll be waiting a long time for a confession. So Harry had downplayed things when Zayn warned him of the ruckus he'd been dealing with, so Harry had turned a blind eye to the sloppy work instead of confronting the new coked up kids. So Harry had been wrong. Harry wasn't Simon, and if Zayn thinks he could be doing better he should have stood up to the man when he'd had the fucking chance. They've had this conversation before. Infact, Harry's pretty sure at this very moment they're having it again with every passing glare.

After the last body is pitched into the back of a truck with fake plates and serial number grinded off Liam retreats to the shadows with a phone to his ear, issuing orders for a proper cleaning crew to come by the back of the club and bleach the tiles of the pooling red. Harry got lucky with him. Knew the moment he took his hand he'd be holding on tight.

The choice Harry's been presented with his newfound discovery is heavy on his mind. He runs his hands along his shirt and pinches the silk to wipe the tips of his fingers clean. Something blocks the taillight he's been using to see, not that the red light had been particularly useful to begin with. Zayn's silence is loud enough to warn Harry he's not going to like what comes after it. He rarely does these days.

"You going to tell your ballerina about the list he's on?"

"No." The simplicity isn't designed to annoy Zayn, but the slant of his chin says he thinks otherwise.

"Should I dig an extra hole to wait for him?" Harry scowls at his tone, already tired of listening. "You're ludicrous not to tell him to duck when there's a mark on his head."

There are words poised to flatten Zayn's arrogant energy sitting on Harry's tongue. It's something Zayn's never understood since they were children. Harry's never hesitated over a loss for words, he uses moments of silence to hold in words too sharp. Zayn knows each of Harry's soft spots, no matter how well guarded Harry might try to keep them. The same is true in reverse. Harry himself had never fully understood the depth of love Zayn had held for a few precious moments, and in the end being aware of the target painted on her back hadn't helped Perrie. Harry's not cruel enough to say her name when there's still blood on Zayn's hands.

"Grimmy is securing contact. Despite your burning rage over the sad loss of these beautiful creatures, don't retaliate." It's an order given in vain, but he says it simply for the future moment he will be able to reference the fact he said it.

Liam passes by to start up the car they'll be taking and Harry peels away in time to march with him. The jacket he took off upon arriving still rests on the roof of the sleek car, now damp in the evening's chill, and he tosses it onto his seat to protect the leather. Before settling into it he straightens and looks at the stark outline of Zayn smoking against the old truck's bumper, painted in red with bodies piled out of sight behind him.