FIC, the shortest distance between two points, harry/zayn
title: the shortest distance between two points (is the line from me to you)
pairing: harry/zayn.
rating: PG
word count: ~ 900
disclaimer: do not own the boys, no disrespect intended
summary: zayn is an atlas and his head is at (x).
notes: this follows the same line as 'it comes and goes', but in the POV of zayn (read this first).
You’re splayed out across his bed. Its two years and the hotels have gotten substantially more lavish, more secretive, procedure more military. The whole thing makes you feel less safe, - its irony, you think - less centred and you want home and the security of those sounds, those faces- the ones you haven’t seen in, well, a while.
Somehow this all turns the wheel - into reverse - and drives right back to him, because he may not be the sound or the face but sometimes when it’s all black and it’s all vibrations, you pretend.
You tell yourself it’s nothing intrinsic, that soft feeling he fabricates in you, no it’s not something specific or something identifiable. Because you’re just limbs and skin on his bed, and if it was something tangible you’d know it. It would stretch at your palm, the tips of your toes until that specific thing crawled out of what was left of you, eyes wide open
no, it wasn’t like that. But it was something. And you’re still on his bed, skin moist inside a t-shirt and boxers and he’s at the desk, scribbling on an old napkin. You say “Harry?” and he doesn’t answer - it’s been silent for an hour, an hour of itchingly comfortable stillness and the whirr of the A/C trickling through the vent- .
He doesn’t answer so you say “Hey, Harry”, and you get up from the bed, want to know what he’s doing - or what is depriving you of his concentration, the pinch of his fingers at your hip, the slow lick of his gaze -. You catch the soft strokes of lyrics, the beginning of a -Zay before he tears the words up.
You get used to it. The way he is. The tactility of him, the lines and the bends of his fingers as they protract against you. And it becomes vital in the way that Liam’s protectiveness is to you, the way Niall’s warmth and Louis’ elation is. You don’t fully understand it the way he does though - it takes you a while to realise this, how much he needs the touch - and for now, you won’t try to understand it the way he does. You catch him studying you one morning from across seats in the car and it’s like he’s mapping you out; co-ordinating the points from A to B - latitude, longitude - but it’s not really you he’s trying to locate yet, he’s trying to figure out where he fits in all of it.
So you think of yourself as some kind of atlas -an elevated view of yourself, okay- but you figure that he does too because you’re this crimson (x) and he’s the compass and wherever you seem to be lately, so is he. You wake up sometimes and feel the empty draft resting on your skin, you sit up and turn the A/C off - it’s September in New York, so naturally- and you go back to bed but the feeling lingers.
So within the atlas theory, he cannot always pinpoint where you are - you’re an atlas and you span a large surface area, your head is all over the place and he can’t always find it-. Your sitting in the car and he’s last to be collected, it’s been three days and you’ve forgotten his fingers on you - you’ve tricked yourself into believing it feels the same as Liam’s, Louis’, Niall’s, His, Hers, and Hers- and when he bounds his way inside, you're stuck between Niall and Liam’s touch and you see something in his eye. It’s not something specific, something identifiable - still, you can’t word it- but his gauge is off, his dial is faulty and he can’t find where you are. So he stares out the window and you pretend not to notice.
You get used to waking up to it. The feel of him. The atlas theory works so that he senses you better when you’re asleep - you figure it’s because there’s less interference between your signals, wires getting crossed or something - and you’re alone in the car when you feel the wet of his mouth at your wrist. You pretend you’re asleep to stop yourself from begging for it - just one more because this feeling is like… - and then your eyes flick open unexpectedly from all the internal discomfort. You say “Hi” because it seems appropriate but it’s not really, not when you know him to the very crux of his flaws and insecurities and hopes and birth marks. He keeps hold of your wrist with his fingertips, stroking back and forth and you hum out the feeling until you fall back to sleep.
You’re (x) isn’t so obscure after a while - in fact, it’s engraved in stone on the atlas of you so harry doesn’t even need all those pages of maps anymore - and you start positioning yourself where you know he’ll find you. You’re not entirely aware that you’re doing this and you tell yourself it’s just because he’s the sounds and the faces that you miss so much - it’s not this, you know, it isn’t this at all - but you find that you haven’t left his side all day. You’re performing every night and the glow is incredible yet you still need to whisper “I’m so proud of you” in between songs and fold your arms around his waist when the lights go down.
And then you’re on the bus, both wet from the shower and you slip your hand under the cling of his t-shirt, let your fingers stick to the skin of his back for a while. You like how his lip looks between his teeth, how visibly nervous you make him - you’re not used to this, not used to how positively charged the air is-.
And you think he's drawing out all those maps again because you’re all over the place - everything is still not specific, not completely identifiable in your head - and you’re certain that he can’t find you through the thickness of this. But he does, he does. And you’re not an atlas anymore, not now - you’re more like an image in his mind, he doesn’t need to figure out the quickest route to (x) when it’s stored and saved in his memory - not when it’s you with your lips and your tongue at his wrist
not when you’ve got your (x) and he’s got his and the routes all lead to the same place.
pairing: harry/zayn.
rating: PG
word count: ~ 900
disclaimer: do not own the boys, no disrespect intended
summary: zayn is an atlas and his head is at (x).
notes: this follows the same line as 'it comes and goes', but in the POV of zayn (read this first).
You’re splayed out across his bed. Its two years and the hotels have gotten substantially more lavish, more secretive, procedure more military. The whole thing makes you feel less safe, - its irony, you think - less centred and you want home and the security of those sounds, those faces- the ones you haven’t seen in, well, a while.
Somehow this all turns the wheel - into reverse - and drives right back to him, because he may not be the sound or the face but sometimes when it’s all black and it’s all vibrations, you pretend.
You tell yourself it’s nothing intrinsic, that soft feeling he fabricates in you, no it’s not something specific or something identifiable. Because you’re just limbs and skin on his bed, and if it was something tangible you’d know it. It would stretch at your palm, the tips of your toes until that specific thing crawled out of what was left of you, eyes wide open
no, it wasn’t like that. But it was something. And you’re still on his bed, skin moist inside a t-shirt and boxers and he’s at the desk, scribbling on an old napkin. You say “Harry?” and he doesn’t answer - it’s been silent for an hour, an hour of itchingly comfortable stillness and the whirr of the A/C trickling through the vent- .
He doesn’t answer so you say “Hey, Harry”, and you get up from the bed, want to know what he’s doing - or what is depriving you of his concentration, the pinch of his fingers at your hip, the slow lick of his gaze -. You catch the soft strokes of lyrics, the beginning of a -Zay before he tears the words up.
You get used to it. The way he is. The tactility of him, the lines and the bends of his fingers as they protract against you. And it becomes vital in the way that Liam’s protectiveness is to you, the way Niall’s warmth and Louis’ elation is. You don’t fully understand it the way he does though - it takes you a while to realise this, how much he needs the touch - and for now, you won’t try to understand it the way he does. You catch him studying you one morning from across seats in the car and it’s like he’s mapping you out; co-ordinating the points from A to B - latitude, longitude - but it’s not really you he’s trying to locate yet, he’s trying to figure out where he fits in all of it.
So you think of yourself as some kind of atlas -an elevated view of yourself, okay- but you figure that he does too because you’re this crimson (x) and he’s the compass and wherever you seem to be lately, so is he. You wake up sometimes and feel the empty draft resting on your skin, you sit up and turn the A/C off - it’s September in New York, so naturally- and you go back to bed but the feeling lingers.
So within the atlas theory, he cannot always pinpoint where you are - you’re an atlas and you span a large surface area, your head is all over the place and he can’t always find it-. Your sitting in the car and he’s last to be collected, it’s been three days and you’ve forgotten his fingers on you - you’ve tricked yourself into believing it feels the same as Liam’s, Louis’, Niall’s, His, Hers, and Hers- and when he bounds his way inside, you're stuck between Niall and Liam’s touch and you see something in his eye. It’s not something specific, something identifiable - still, you can’t word it- but his gauge is off, his dial is faulty and he can’t find where you are. So he stares out the window and you pretend not to notice.
You get used to waking up to it. The feel of him. The atlas theory works so that he senses you better when you’re asleep - you figure it’s because there’s less interference between your signals, wires getting crossed or something - and you’re alone in the car when you feel the wet of his mouth at your wrist. You pretend you’re asleep to stop yourself from begging for it - just one more because this feeling is like… - and then your eyes flick open unexpectedly from all the internal discomfort. You say “Hi” because it seems appropriate but it’s not really, not when you know him to the very crux of his flaws and insecurities and hopes and birth marks. He keeps hold of your wrist with his fingertips, stroking back and forth and you hum out the feeling until you fall back to sleep.
You’re (x) isn’t so obscure after a while - in fact, it’s engraved in stone on the atlas of you so harry doesn’t even need all those pages of maps anymore - and you start positioning yourself where you know he’ll find you. You’re not entirely aware that you’re doing this and you tell yourself it’s just because he’s the sounds and the faces that you miss so much - it’s not this, you know, it isn’t this at all - but you find that you haven’t left his side all day. You’re performing every night and the glow is incredible yet you still need to whisper “I’m so proud of you” in between songs and fold your arms around his waist when the lights go down.
And then you’re on the bus, both wet from the shower and you slip your hand under the cling of his t-shirt, let your fingers stick to the skin of his back for a while. You like how his lip looks between his teeth, how visibly nervous you make him - you’re not used to this, not used to how positively charged the air is-.
And you think he's drawing out all those maps again because you’re all over the place - everything is still not specific, not completely identifiable in your head - and you’re certain that he can’t find you through the thickness of this. But he does, he does. And you’re not an atlas anymore, not now - you’re more like an image in his mind, he doesn’t need to figure out the quickest route to (x) when it’s stored and saved in his memory - not when it’s you with your lips and your tongue at his wrist
not when you’ve got your (x) and he’s got his and the routes all lead to the same place.