Need • Zarry

6. So, so good

Pathetic.

Harry laid face down on his queen sized bed with his head buried into his pillow, groaning to himself. This wasn't the plan. This was never the plan. Harry saw a homeless teenage boy sleeping on a bench on the verge of winter in front of the library and offered him a place to stay out of the kindness of his heart.

I was just trying to be nice.

Harry enjoyed having Zayn around, genuinely. He knew that. It felt like he had made a new friend, someone to talk to, to share interests with, to both teach and learn from, and he hadn't anticipated on it ever being anything more.

But somehow from the very moment that Harry entered Zayn's aura it was like his molecules had become completely rearranged in this peculiar way, igniting his thoughts, sending them to places he had never been to before, places he never knew existed and he found himself feeling something.

Harry couldn't make any sense of it because in the span of 28 years Harry had never once spent a single minute wondering what it would be like to be with a man romantically.

Why now?

He never thought about what another man's lips would feel like pressed against his. He never stared at a man who was bent over, swinging an axe, getting something out from the fridge. He never admired a man's smile, the way his eyes shined, the way his clothes fit. He never heard the sound of a man's voice pleasuring himself and wanted to hear it again and again. But that's exactly what was happening.

And there was a lot of shame and a lot of embarrassment that never seemed to leave his side every time he realized this. They just laid beside him in bed while he simply prayed that he didn't have one single dream about Zayn, about his naked body, bronze and toned, or the way that his fist wrapped around his dick or the obscenities that fell from his mouth when he pleasured himself late at night.

All Harry wanted was to think about was a woman, so he tried.

The sweet scene of her perfume. Her clean shaven legs and delicate thighs, spreading them open. The shape of her breasts, perky, and supple. Her round, pink areolas, her budding nipples. Her pretty, pink pussy with wet lips glistening just for his dick, to swallow it whole. Her perfectly manicured polished finger nails dragging down his back, clinging to him frantically. Her soft lips and maybe they were red or pink or any color, but they would be staining his shirt collar and he'd kiss the colors away as they smeared across his cheeks and neck and she'd scream his name in ecstasy.   

Harry jumped in his skin when he heard an ever-so-gentle knock on his white painted wooden door.

He held his breath for a second and swallowed hard, saying nothing in return because Harry didn't know what to say. Zayn kissed him and he kissed Zayn back and now Harry was terrified and he fled and that's what happened.

But he knew Zayn was standing on the other side of the door just waiting for Harry to say something, for some kind of explanation and he felt terrible. He felt awful and ashamed and embarrassed and sick and the worst part was that he liked how that kiss felt.

He liked it a lot. He liked it too much.

And then Zayn knocked again, this time a little bit louder and Harry heard the cool, low tone of his voice and he closed his eyes tight, trying to remember how to breathe, anticipating a conversation that he didn't want to have, that he didn't know how to have.