Watched the Ocean Eat the Sand | Zayn/Harry | NC-17 | ~13,000 words | [2/2]
Back to Part One
--
Zayn gets paid on Friday and he has an appointment with his tattoo artist at 6. Harry’s there waiting, but Zayn didn’t know if he would be, so he hasn’t mentioned the appointment yet. He never makes plans with Harry -- doesn’t have to, because Harry’s there every time they get together as a group and then sometimes he shows up while Zayn is closing Tuff Beans. Zayn doesn’t work regular hours and he never tells Harry his schedule, so he wonders if there are times when Harry arrives to find he’s already gone home.
Zayn follows him over to where the car is parked but lingers by the hood instead of getting inside.
“I’ve got plans,” Zayn says, when Harry turns around. “Getting inked,” he says, shrugging his shoulders preemptively.
“I’ll come,” Harry says. Then, “What are you getting?”
Zayn lifts his hand, crosses his fingers and waits until Harry nods in understanding and says, “Sweet.”
Zayn’s been working on the sketch for months, knows every curve of every line is there on purpose, so even if he realizes later that he could have done it differently, at least he’ll know the mistakes were intentional. Waiting for it to be right paid off, Zayn thinks. The design is pretty sweet.
--
This is easier than when he got the tattoo across his collarbone, easier than the splash of black wave inking up the inside of his wrist. It still hurts. Harry watches him, chews on his lower lip, and Zayn tries to make his face remember how to smile.
“Does it hurt?” Harry asks.
“Just have to breath through it,” Zayn says, and then the next thing he knows Harry is pointing out a star in the big book of stock images and lying down in the seat beside Zayn’s.
“This is going to go well, I think,” Harry says, lifting his arm above his head, and Zayn has to spend the rest of the hour listening to Harry try to muffle his giggles into his opposite shoulder.
--
“Ouch,” Harry says, scratching at the edge of the tape holding the plastic to his underarm. “Ouch.”
“Don’t touch it,” Zayn says. “They told you.” Harry is the abject worst at this. He is not coming with Zayn to get his next tattoo. Which probably won’t happen this summer anyway, so it doesn’t matter, but principles count for something. Harry watching Zayn across the space between their two chairs and biting down on the inside of his cheek, what a fiasco.
“This hurts like burning,” Harry says, giving Zayn a demanding look as if he had anything at all to do with what has happened.
“Yes?” Zayn says.
They’re walking down the side of the street towards Harry’s car.
“I’m thirsty. Is there a Starbucks around here?” Harry asks.
Zayn crosses his arms and says, kind of meanly, “Not for another 50 kilometres, but I do work at a coffee shop,” and Harry just nods, like, Okay, let’s go there.
“It’s just Kicking Horse coffee,” Zayn says. He doesn’t feel like opening again now that he’s got the place closed up. “I’ve got beans at home.”
“Can we do that?” Harry asks, even though obviously Zayn just offered.
In hindsight, Zayn wishes he’d left Harry to his own devices instead, because they get back and Harry burns the crap out of his thumb trying to pour the water from Zayn’s electric kettle into the French press. It’s just cheap and the plastic gets blisteringly hot, and Harry’s skin obliges, popping up white even though he holds it under cold water for ten minutes while Zayn finishes making the coffee.
Harry’s better about second degree burns than he was getting ink and Zayn forgets to be annoyed, takes Harry over to the couch and smokes him out, crawls onto the floor and sucks Harry’s cock. Zayn’s throat is raw from his last toke and he can’t take Harry deep, just mouths sloppily at the head. Sometimes Zayn sucks hard and flicks the tip of his tongue over the slit of Harry’s cock and Harry thumps his hand against the armrest, the fabric deadening the sound.
Harry looks like a hot mess, holding an ice cube wrapped in a dish cloth to his thumb to stop the blistering, the plastic wrap around his arm coming untaped at the corner where he scratched it off.
“What is up with you today?” Zayn asks after he dragged his nails up the inside of Harry’s thighs and Harry bucked his hips, crooning low in his throat as his cock flooded Zayn’s mouth with salt.
He lets Harry put himself back into his pants, and grabs the papers and his bag of bud and starts rolling.
“I don’t know,” Harry says. “I was feeling antsy. Sometimes there’s not a lot going on here.”
“You’re bored,” Zayn says.
“I guess,” Harry says. “Sometimes. It’s been raining a lot lately.”
It has been wet all week, but nothing outside of the norm. It never gets that hot here.
“Why did you come to Tofino for the whole summer? You’d have a lot more going on for you if you stayed in Vancouver.”
Harry shrugs, tucking his thumbs into his jean pockets. The top button is still undone from when Zayn pulled it open. “I needed a break.”
“Hard life of a student.” Zayn thinks he mostly manages to keep his tone light.
“I’m on a full scholarship to U.B.C.,” Harry says tightly. “I have to keep an 81 average.”
“Or else your parents start paying for you.” He doesn’t want to be mean, but seriously: who cares?
“Right,” Harry says, twisting his mouth into a smile.
“What,” Zayn says.
“Nothing.” Harry rolls his shoulders to crack his neck. “I should go.”
“I’m not helping with the boredom.”
“I didn’t say anything about you,” Harry says. “Don’t get defensive.”
“No, I just live here.”
“So you know better than anyone else.”
“I’m not bored,” Zayn says. Not like Harry is, just waiting for the summer to pass so he can get on with his real life, already one foot out the door.
“Liar.”
“I’m not more bored here than I was in Port Alberni,” Zayn says. “And I can guarantee you know nothing about that.”
“Yeah,” Harry says, pushing to his feet. He lets his hands dangle at his sides and squints at something outside the one small window, set high toward the ceiling. The angle’s not right to see anything at street level; the window just pulls in a little natural sunlight. That’s not going to give Harry any answers.
Harry says, “Thanks for making me coffee,” and lets himself out.
He’s left his ice cube melting in the cloth on the side table and Zayn carries it over to the sink, stands with his fingers curled over the edge of the counter and fights the impulse to chase after Harry. They’re not dating, Harry’s not his boyfriend, it doesn’t matter if he’s pissed him off. Zayn’s still learning this, how to want a little bit from someone without letting it consume him. Harry already knows the way to package wanting into discrete increments. One day Zayn’s going to figure out the secret.
--
Zayn doesn’t want to go out, but Liam’s waiting outside in the car, so it’s too late to play sick. Liam drives him and Niall down to meet Louis and Harry, who are well on their way to setting everything but the drift log on fire.
“What did you think was going to happen?” Louis complains when Liam takes the box of matches away from him.
“Nothing that bad involving fire, since you’re ten metres away from the ocean.”
“Give it to Niall,” Harry says, nodding at the matches. “He’s good at starting fires.”
“Why did you throw seaweed onto the logs?” Niall asks.
“Yours is not to ask why,” Louis says. “But possibly you’re going to want to start over with some new wood.” And then Louis says, “Heh, wood.”
Louis and Liam get into a pretty intense slap fight (but not that bad, or Liam would have Louis in a headlock by now), so Zayn walks with Niall down the beach to collect wood. Niall is this happy presence in the dusk, hopping up the shore when he spots driftwood that might work. Most of the logs are too heavy to carry back, or soaking wet from all of the rain, and by the time they have enough to head back, the sun has almost set.
Niall knows what he’s doing; he makes a little tipi and sets the kindle underneath, cupping his hands protectively and blowing into the tiny flame until it catches on the wood for real.
“Nialler!” Harry cheers loudly, throwing Niall a beer. The throw is off and the bottle lands in the sand. It pours foam everywhere when Niall opens it.
“We’ve talked about this,” Niall says, shaking his wet hands. He chugs back what is left in the bottle.
“Don’t throw beer,” Harry says. “I remember now.” And then he lobs another bottle over to Niall, who catches it this time and cradles it carefully.
Louis’s trying to roll a joint in his lap and he keeps cursing to himself as the wind fucks him up.
“Just get in my mouth,” Louis says, pinching at the bud angrily.
“Why don’t you ever do this at home?” Zayn asks. “Or get a pipe?”
“Do you want to help?” Louis asks.
“Looks like you’ve almost got it,” Zayn says, nodding encouragingly.
Louis rolls a loose, lumpy joint, but it holds together well enough when they pass it around. Zayn pulls off his runners and buries his toes in the sand.
Harry walks over to the ocean and wades in. The waves catch silver cuts of moonlight but Harry’s just a dark figure against a dark background. He kicks at the water for a while before coming back, stepping into the warm light of the fire. His skin is still red beneath the black line of his ink.
“Lou,” Harry moans, tucking himself under Louis’s arm. Louis wraps Harry up, presses his cheek to the top of Harry’s head.
“Talk to me,” Louis says. “Tell me your problems that I may take them away.”
Harry grumbles something and Zayn turns away, walks himself around to the other side of the fire and sits at Niall’s feet. Niall’s found the best spot on the log and he’s strumming his guitar happily, humming to himself. Zayn wonders what it would be like to be Niall. If he could figure it out, maybe he could capture some of that for himself.
“Play me a song,” Zayn says, twisting his head backward but making sure to keep out of the way of Niall’s hands on the guitar.
“What do you want to hear?”
“I don’t care.”
Niall sets his fingers against the frets, strums carefully a few times before starts into the melody proper, and starts to sing, “In the early morning rain with a dollar in my hand, with an aching in my heart, and my pockets full of sand, I'm a long way from home.”
--
“Am I late?” Zayn asks when he answers the knock on his door to find Louis standing outside.
“Are you?” Louis asks.
“No,” says Zayn. “We didn’t have plans.”
“Surprise.” Louis says.
“How did you know I’d be here?”
“You’ve always got Monday and Tuesdays off,” Louis says. “Your schedule is not the great mystery you like to pretend it to be.”
“Not always,” Zayn says.
“Like nine times out of ten. Twenty-four out of twenty-five times, even. It is statistically likely.”
“Sometimes I have to cover Rohit’s shifts,” Zayn says.
Louis says, “But today you’re here and also, surprise, here I am, and I’ve rented us a boat and we’re going to Strawberry Island. Yay, adventures.”
--
When Louis said that he rented a boat, he really meant that he was going to troll up and down the dock until he found an unlocked paddle boat to liberate for the afternoon, but he also manages to procure a life jacket for Zayn, so Zayn doesn’t mind that he’s stuck doing most of the paddling while Louis gives a nonstop narration of everything that has happened to him in the last week.
It’s not the best idea to be doing this trip with a paddle boat. They start making the curve around the floathouses until Louis thinks he spots a Blue Heron and steers them toward the rocks.
“Should we get out?” Louis asks when they get close to the rocky shore of the island.
“It’s private property,” Zayn says, which isn’t a yes or a no.
“Humph,” Louis says. “Paddle us around to the other side, we’ll see what’s over there.”
“Next time you should steal us a motorboat,” Zayn says.
“Temporarily liberate for our enjoyment,” Louis corrects. “And those things usually have locks.”
Zayn gets them around to the other side. His legs are starting to hurt, but it’s in a good way.
“What’s that?” Louis asks. “See that, in the bushes?”
“Was it another Heron?” Zayn guess. Louis is remarkably good at being the only one in a group to notice rare animals. Purportedly.
“I think I saw a sasquatch.”
“Wow,” Zayn says. “That’s quite something. How do you suppose it got all the way over here?”
“Sasquatches can swim,” Louis says scornfully. He steers them in close to the island.
Zayn lets them drift in the water, the tides doing more to wash them into the shore than Louis’s attempts at steering. Zayn arches his back, cracks it against the plastic back of his seat. The ocean is calm today, a deep grey under the cloud cover muting the sun. There’s a trail of sweat sliding down the back of Zayn’s neck from all the paddling and he can feel every shift in the breeze.
“What was Harry upset about?” Zayn asks. “A couple days ago, on the beach.”
Louis’s still on the lookout for sasquatches, and he answers absently, “I guess just the divorce or whatever. He got in a fight with his mom.”
The only thing Zayn knows about Harry’s relationship with his mother is that no one could come to his house in the week leading up to her visit last month, and they didn’t see him for the three days that she was here.
“What did he fight with his mom about?”
“Same stuff as always,” Louis says, leaning over the edge of the boat to get a better look at something in the distance. “She’s pretty harsh.”
Louis’s better at getting close to people than Zayn is, of course he would know this when Zayn didn’t. Zayn considers being jealous of Louis, but he knows that Louis is better because he throws himself out there, head first, full force, and Zayn can’t. He doesn’t know how Louis can be everything to everyone and still hold something back for himself.
“Right,” Zayn says. It’s just a little island and it doesn’t take them long to make the trip around. “Don’t fall in. I am definitely not diving in to save you.”
“You’d save me,” Louis says confidently, leaning a little closer to the edge.
Zayn shakes his head and blinks slowly. He’s wearing a life jacket, so maybe he’d reach out to give Louis a hand back onto the boat but that’s it.
“We’ve got to head back,” Louis says, nodding at Zayn instead of starting to paddle himself. “We’re meeting the guys at seven.”
“What’s on for tonight?” Zayn asks. He starts working the pedals again.
“You’ll see.”
--
It’s a long drive down a dirt road before they hit the clearing. Someone’s set this up proper, with a makeshift station for a dj and floodlights pointing in a circle. Louis disappears into the crowd before Liam’s even got the car in park and they all trail after him. Zayn’s not drunk enough for how loud the music is, but that’s easy enough to fix. Easier yet when Harry wraps his fingers around Zayn’s elbow, leans in close to say, “I’ve got stuff for us if you want to get fucked up.”
“Yeah,” Zayn says. He doesn’t have to work tomorrow.
Harry’s got happy yellow tabs in an old breath mint tin that he passes around. Niall then Louis then Zayn, while Liam flaps around about finding them bottles of water. Zayn takes the bottle when offered, chugs it down in one go, passes the empty back to Liam. Weaves his way through the crowd until he’s surrounded by people, surrounded by squirming bodies thrashing to the music. He’s one of the swarm now and he moves with the hive, closes his eyes and waits to fly away.
He doesn’t notice Harry’s hands apart from all of the other hands when Harry finds him some infinite time later, the incalculable distance between when they first arrived and now stretching into the sky and back before grounding on Harry’s hands at Zayn’s hips. His fingers loop into Zayn’s belt loops.
“Liam says you have to drink water,” Harry shouts into Zayn’s neck.
Zayn cranes his head around. Harry’s got kaleidoscope eyes and his skin is the same white as the moonlight falling into the ocean.
“Water?” Zayn asks.
“Liam,” Harry says.
“Where?”
“We need to find him.”
Zayn shakes his head. “Dance with me.”
“Liam said water first.”
“After.”
Harry starts laughing. All around them is this whir of motion and force. Harry doesn’t move his fingers away from Zayn’s belt loops and dancing is more like treading on each other’s toes with an increased lack of concern. Sometimes Harry sends his giggles to the bare stretch of neck under Zayn’s jaw and it feels like bubbles popping against his skin.
“Liam said we had to go find him,” Harry remembers eventually.
“Okay,” Zayn says.
“Come.”
Zayn shakes his head. They’re surrounded by dark, dark forest, and he wants to stay here with the floodlights and the blasts of bodies moving under the heavy weight of the music.
“I’ll be back,” Harry says. “Wait here.” He frees his fingers from Zayn’s pants.
“I know that you’re going to leave, but you don’t know that I’m already gone.” Zayn lifts his arms and tries to feel the beat of the music beneath his fingertips.
“You’re right here, Zayn,” Harry says, cupping Zayn’s face with both hands.
--
Zayn wakes up and he doesn’t know where he is. This isn’t his bed. He rolls over and gets a faceful of curls.
“Stop it,” he says, batting at Harry’s head.
“What,” Harry grumbles.
“Shh,” Zayn says because even though he can’t see a clock, he knows it’s too early to wake up. Harry’s bed is really comfortable, and Harry too, once he gets his curls under control and rolls on his side, making room for Zayn to snug up behind him.
--
The next time Zayn wakes, he’s alone in the bed, and even though his head is throbbing, he knows he’s not going to be able to fall back to sleep.
He walks down the hall and finds Harry sitting with his iPad at the kitchen table, which is one large slab of weathered wood, like a reclaimed barn door. The whole cabin is full of furniture like that: authentically weathered at Restoration Hardware, or some crap like that. Zayn legitimately found his coffee table outside and reclaimed it for himself, but the laminate wood print looks nothing like this.
“Morning,” Harry says, rolling the cover over his iPad so the screen clicks to black.
Zayn says, “Hey, sorry for crashing on you or whatever,” and takes the seat across from Harry’s.
“Nah,” Harry says. “You were just a bit out of it.”
Not so out of it that he doesn’t remember last night, lying in Harry’s bed and wrapping himself around the warm stretch of Harry’s body, while Harry lay soft and still for him, let Zayn pet his hair until he was finally able to sleep. Harry’s curls are a fluffy mess now. Zayn can remember how they felt under his fingers, but that had to be the E because there’s no way Harry’s hair is actually as insanely, addictively soft as Zayn found it last night.
“Yeah,” Zayn says, looking down at his hands. “Sorry.”
“You okay now?”
“Yup.” Zayn puts his palm on on the table and traces his thumb nail around a knot in the wood. “You okay?”
“I’m good,” Harry says. “Didn’t hit me like it did you.”
“Not just last night.” Zayn turns his hand over so his palm faces up and looks over at Harry.
“I’m fine,” Harry says. He seems so calmly blank, peaceful about it like he doesn’t even have to try to keep -- whatever else from showing. Zayn wonders if Harry has friends, back in Vancouver, who can read his face when he’s like this. Zayn can’t. He knows the way Harry staggers as he’s trying to crawl out from the tug and flood of the tide, knows how Harry looks when he’s bathed in light from the bonfire, the white of his teeth and the pink of his cheeks. He still doesn’t know Harry at all.
“Your parents are getting divorced?” Zayn asks.
“Yeah. My mom and my stepdad, so I already know how this goes.” Harry rubs his thumb over the edge of his iPad, smoothing over the smooth plastic of the cover.
Zayn curls his fingers into his palm. “You never said anything.”
“Shocking only to you, but we don’t actually talk all that much.”
Harry looks small sitting at the big wooden table, surrounded by a house full of stuff that belongs to someone else.
“We can talk,” Zayn says.
“Or I could make breakfast,” says Harry. And then he scrambles eggs and cooks baking powder biscuits and serves everything on a plate covered in crispy bacon.
“You’re a good cook,” Zayn says, plowing through his food in spite of the initial wave of nausea.
“I’m not totally useless,” Harry says, tapping out a rhythm with the tines of his fork on the side of his plate.
Zayn presses his lips together. He carries his plate into the kitchen and starts on the dishes, soaking egg off the frying pan, rinsing off the baking sheets.
He doesn’t think anything of only wearing last night’s boxers until Harry comes up behind him, trails his fingers down the curve of Zayn’s lower back.
Zayn turns, keeping his hands at his sides, water dripping off his fingertips. Harry lifts his arms and rests his elbows on Zayn’s shoulders. He bends forward to press their foreheads together.
Zayn feels small under the weight of Harry leaning on him. “Is your mom mad that you’re staying here for the summer?” he asks, whispering against Harry’s mouth.
Harry signs, and Zayn can feel his breath.
“My mom doesn’t care what I do,” Harry says, “so long as whatever it is, I do the best.”
Zayn waits.
“She’s not thrilled,” Harry says, quietly, lightly, in contrast with the heavy press of his body.
Zayn wraps his arms around Harry’s waist, clasps his hands behind Harry’s back. Holds steady until eventually Harry pulls away.
“I’m going to shower,” Harry says. “Then let’s go somewhere.”
--
They walk down the shore and back again, and even though Zayn’s bones ache like someone has been drilling into them all night long, he keeps pace with Harry.
They stop at the docks on the way back, and Harry asks, “For dinner?” and then Zayn nods, he asks for, “Two, please.”
The fisherman pulls a live crab out of the trap, cracks it in half across the edge of the dock and throws the guts back into the water in this big wet flourish.
They take the crabs home in a clear plastic bag still dripping with seawater and Harry melts half a pound of butter in the microwave, pulls out a matching set of metal shell crushers and sets the table while the crabs cook quickly in a giant stock pot full of boiling water.
He’s good in the kitchen and Zayn sits at the table and watches him navigate the billow of steam when he takes the lid off the pot, the quickness of his hands pulling crab halves out of the water with plastic tongs.
The crab meat is soft and salty, from the ocean and from the butter, and Zayn sucks the last of the flesh off a piece of cartilage before throwing it into the pile of red shell shards. It’s easy with just the two of them, Harry licking a drip of butter off his wrist, bumping his toes against Zayn’s under the table. It’s too easy.
“What are the guys doing tonight?” Zayn asks.
“I don’t know,” Harry says. “Should we invite them over?”
“Yeah,” Zayn says, pushing away from the table.
Harry texts while Zayn clears the table and eventually the rest of the boys show up.
“Liam wants to get his books before classes start,” Louis announces, dropping a six pack of Piper’s Pale Ale on the table. “Roadtrip to Victoria.”
Zayn dries off his hands on the back of the t-shirt he borrowed from Harry and grabs one of the bottles. He only ever sees Liam in the summer, so it’s easy to forget that he actually goes to school, especially since Liam cares a lot more about his performance on the rowing team than his grades.
“Might as well swing over to Vancouver too,” Harry says. He looks over at Niall, “We can start setting up the place again.”
“I still can’t believe your parents are covering rent for the summer,” Niall says. “We could have just got subletters.”
Harry shrugs. “Easier this way.”
--
It takes forever to drive down to Victoria, even though Liam comes around to pick him up at 6 am, blasting the horn when Zayn wasn’t waiting outside. Zayn wasn’t technically out of bed either, but he got his bag together pretty fast considering. Hopefully someone else brought extra t-shirts, toothpaste, and deodorant. And shampoo, and also a charger for his cell phone.
There are a lot of bunnies on campus and Niall stalks around angrily as they wait for Liam to finish in the bookstore.
“Classes don’t start until September, right?” Louis asks.
“Yeah,” Harry says.
“And it is currently August?”
“Yeah.”
“So why are we here?”
“Liam’s going to get a head start,” Harry says. “I don’t know, you’ve known him longer than I have.”
“He doesn’t make more sense with time,” says Louis.
Harry’s sitting on the metal bench, his feet out straight in front of him, crossed at the ankles.
“This seems to be taking a long time,” Zayn says. “They’ve probably got coffee here, somewhere, I’ll be back.” It’s either that or curling up in one of the lusher bushes for a nap.
--
“Zayn,” Liam says, and no one has ever manage to sound so long-suffering and yet still so fond. “We’ve been here ten minutes and already you’re a member of the four-twenty club.”
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Zayn says, passing the joint back to the very nice girl with dreadlocks. He was looking for coffee, honestly, but the group of people smoking up beside one of the buildings proved easier to locate.
“So where is the coffee?” Zayn asks, follow Liam back to where the rest of the guys are waiting.
Turns out that the coffee shop in the SUB serves Kicking Horse as well. Life on an island is like an infinite loop.
--
Liam says they have to try for the 7 o’clock ferry because if they miss that one, there’s still the nine o’clock, but if they miss that then they’re screwed. Zayn feels like his hip is going to pop out of its socket from all of the sitting he’s done today, and when they finally get the car in park, Zayn bolts and spends the rest of the ride playing an elaborate game of hide and seek with Louis.
They’ve taken Liam and Harry’s cars because Liam’s Jeep isn’t really meant to hold three in the back. Niall’s riding with Liam because he has more idea of where they’re going, and Louis and Zayn are with Harry.
Hey Rosetta comes on the radio. Zayn looks out the window and listens while Harry sings along quietly, “Did you notice that happiness happens less the more often you stop to find where it's been hiding.”
Harry drives them up South Marine Drive, and Zayn stares out the window. The houses here are from another planet, a place that Zayn has only seen glimpses of through movies. Harry takes Dunbar until they’re in Point Grey, weaves through side streets and pulls down a wooded driveway that stretches on and on. Parks the car and hops outside, their ambassador to the other planet. Zayn looks over at Louis and grimaces before unbuckling his seatbelt. It seemed like a good idea to stay at Harry’s family’s house instead of sleeping on the floor of his apartment, but Zayn is now questioning that.
Harry unlocks the door to the house, keys in the security code, and locks the front door again once they’re all inside.
“Where’s your mom?” Niall asks. The rest of the house is audibly silent.
“I don’t know, she’s on the board of the Heart and Stroke Foundation, so she’s usually gone doing something for that.” Harry pokes at the wall, and the hallway slowly illuminates, spreading light down into the rest of the house. “You guys hungry?”
Harry’s kitchen is made of this white stone that doesn’t take any of the heat from the room; it is so, so cool beneath Zayn’s fingertips. He’s got this weird stove that’s just a black rectangle with the stencils of circles, no actual burners. At first it seems like there’s no fridge, but Harry opens what had looked like a wooden cupboard door and it turns out the fridge was hiding back there. There are two ovens, neither of which Harry uses when he loads of a plate with tortilla chips, black olives, sweet peppers, and nukes cheese over them in the microwave.
Harry’s a good host. He knows how to make everyone happy, comfortable, even in this monolith of a house.
“What should I do with this?” Zayn asks, carrying the mostly empty plate back into the kitchen when they’re finished with it.
“Just put it down the garburator,” Harry says, pilling glasses into the dishwasher.
Once Harry is finished, there’s nothing on the counters but the bowl full of lemons.
“Can’t even tell we were here,” Zayn says.
“Nope,” Harry says, closing the door of the dishwasher. He leads them down a long hallway and says, “There are two guest rooms, put your stuff down and then we can watch TV in the family room or whatever.”
Getting the TV turned on seems like it would be an impossible process, given all of the different lights that start flashing from a half-dozen different boxes, but all it takes it the press of a button.
Liam lasts through one Family Guy rerun before he says, “I’m beat,” and Niall leaves with his laptop shortly after.
“Harry?” a woman’s voice calls out.
“In here, Mom,” Harry yells.
“Hi, sweetie,” his mom says, sliding off her long tan jacket and throwing it over the back of the chair. “You got in okay?”
“Yeah, it was good,” Harry says. “Got the seven ferry.”
“You should have just taken the helijet,” his mother says.
Harry shrugs and follows her out of the room.
“This is kind of fucked up,” Zayn whispers to Louis across the huge stretch of white leather couch.
“I know,” Louis says, giggling high in his throat. “What are we even doing here?” Louis grew up just north of Courtenay Comox, and then he backpacked his way up to the Yukon and back. The best thing about Louis is that no matter how drunk someone gets, he’s always already seen someone drunker.
“Leaving tomorrow,” Zayn says.
“What do you think Harry and Niall’s apartment is like?”
“Can’t be as bad as this,” Zayn says. “Right?”
“Nothing is as bad as this,” says Louis.
Eventually Harry comes back and says goodnight, and then Louis heads to bed as well. Zayn needs to get to sleep, but he’s so tired he’s gotten wired and he knows he won’t be able to sleep.
He watches three episodes of The Trailer Park Boys before he hears noise in the house, and clicks the TV off just in case. He would have tried to find the mute button, but that’s one very tiny button to locate in a pile of remote controls.
“Why are you still up?” Harry asks, padding into the room. He’s just wearing boxers and they’re hanging low, low around his hips.
“Not tired,” Zayn says.
“We’ve been up for like twenty hours. Come on,” Harry says. “I’ve got something that will help.”
Harry takes them back to his bedroom, disappears inside of his closet, and walks out holding a metal lockbox.
“How old is that?” Zayn asks when Harry pulls out a dimebag.
“Since Christmas. That’s okay, right?”
“Just stale,” Zayn says, shrugging. “What about your mom?”
Harry shakes his head. “She didn’t notice when I was fourteen, she’s not going to notice now.”
Harry sits down at his desk while Zayn lingers at the foot of the bed, kicking at the bedskirt without sitting down. Harry rolls and then he opens his window, pushing his bedside table out of the way so that they can stand in front of it, side by side. The window starts at Zayn’s waist and he can lean out, pushing his head into the night air when he inhales, his shoulder pressed against Harry’s. They pass the joint back and forth until it’s so tiny it burns his fingers.
It’s really quiet outside, and dark. Not dark like it gets in the forest, but all the landscaping is thick enough to block out the light of the other houses.
“You going to sleep?” Harry asks without moving away from the window.
“Maybe,” Zayn says. “I’ll let you have your room back.”
“I’m not tired now either,” Harry says, though he looks like a stiff breeze would roll him right back into bed.
Zayn walks backwards, hops onto Harry’s bed, and spreads himself out like a starfish.
Harry comes up beside him, sits cross-legged on the bed in between Zayn’s bent knee and the outward reach of his arm.
“I bet this bed has stories,” Zayn says, pushing himself up so that he can lean back against the wall, his legs out straight in front of him.
“I guess,” Harry says, slow and easy.
Zayn’s fully dressed, but Harry’s only in his boxers, this careless sprawl of bare skin beside Zayn. Zayn wonders if Harry knows what he looks like -- how could he not?
Zayn can feel his buzz at the top of his head, shimmering down over everywhere else.
“You usually hook up with girls, right?” Zayn asks. The words come out easy but don’t feel thick on his tongue. Zayn’s not that far gone; the stuff Harry smokes must be pretty mild.
Harry answers slowly, “Yeah, but, like. You’re not the first guy I’ve ever --”
“It didn’t seem like I was,” Zayn says. He can’t even imagine what Harry had looked like when he was a virgin, however long ago that must have been, but something twisting up from the bottom of his rib cage likes to think about Harry learning how to be with a guy. “Tell me about the first.”
“His name was Nick,” Harry says. “He’s the, um, manager or whatever of the campus radio station.”
“And?”
“And, I don’t know. Um, I was volunteering there last year and we became friends and whatever. It was mostly just friends.”
“And he taught you how to like sucking cock.”
“Yeah,” Harry says, his voice raw after toking up. “Someone asked if he was my dad once, but he’s only, um, ten years older than me.”
“That’s what you’re into,” Zayn says. “Someone older, to teach you the ways of mice and men.”
“I don’t have a type,” Harry says. “Just worked out that way a couple of times.”
“Right,” says Zayn.
“I just like nice people,” Harry says, “pretty eyes,” and he curls his fingers around the back of Zayn’s neck and leans in for a kiss.
It’s so strange being here, letting Harry stretch out on his back and then pull Zayn down, slotting his thigh between Zayn’s. Harry’s childhood bed in this Dwell cover shoot of a house. Zayn knows there are any number of good reasons not to be doing this right now (one of the guys could hear, Harry’s mom could hear) but it’s easy to forget himself in the wet heat of Harry’s mouth. Too easy, which is just another reason not to. Zayn lets them all float away, grounds himself in the friction of Harry’s hips jerking up, his thighs squeezing tight around Zayn’s leg to hold him in place. Zayn’s got jeans on, but Harry’s just in his soft boxers, the head of his cock poking out through the flap. Zayn should take off his clothes, but it’s hot to lie over Harry fully dressed, to watch the pink flush spread across Harry’s chest as his hips hitch and his breath catches in the back of his throat.
Zayn flexes his thigh between Harry’s legs and grinds down.
“Did Nick teach you how to want this?” Zayn asks, bracing himself on the bed with one arm and rubbing his thumb over Harry’s nipple.
“I already knew about wanting,” Harry pants. He clings to Zayn’s hip, his other arm tangled in the pillows above his head. “He just showed me what to do about it.”
“How did it start?”
“We were drunk and dancing and I kissed him.”
“You made the first move.”
“Yeah.” Harry lets go of Zayn’s hip and reaches up so that both hands are twisted in the pillow.
“How did you know he wanted you?”
“I don’t know,” Harry says. “Worth a try.”
“But he kissed you back.”
“Uh-huh,” Harry says. He closes his eyes and tips his head back, baring the line of his neck. “He took me back to his place.”
“What did you do?”
“I sucked his dick.”
“And?”
“And he liked it,” says Harry.
“Then what?”
“Then he sucked my dick and I liked it,” Harry says, rolling his hips, rubbing against Zayn.
“Just like that.”
“Wasn’t complicated.”
“You’re easy,” Zayn says. “You’d let anyone give you what you want.”
“Maybe,” Harry says, lifting his leg to hook around Zayn’s waist.
Zayn moves his thumb off Harry’s nipple and runs his hand up the back of Harry’s thigh, fingers spreading just under the hem of Harry’s boxers. He holds Harry’s thigh with tight fingers to control the impact when he thrusts against him, grinding down. It’s got to be a lot of friction, but Zayn holds Harry close for it.
“Did Nick ever fuck you?” Zayn asks.
“Once,” Harry says. His back arches, but it doesn’t feel like he’s trying to get away “I was drunk.”
“Did you like it?”
“No,” Harry says, pressing his cheek into the underside of his arm.
“But you did it anyway.”
“I wanted to know what it was like.”
Zayn dips his head and sucks at the base of Harry’s neck, listens to the harsh sound of Harry’s breath as he rocks his thigh up against the hard line of Harry’s cock. They’re both sweating, and Zayn’s palm slips against Harry’s thigh.
Zayn kisses the underside of Harry’s jaw. Asks, “You want me to suck your dick now?”
Harry makes a sound that has no vowels through clenched teeth. “I can come like this,” he grits out.
“It’ll hurt,” Zayn says.
“I know.” Harry gasps. “Please.”
Zayn flattens his hips so that his belly is pressed against Harry’s, no space between their bodies. “And then who?” he asks.
“What?” Harry asks. He’s started to tremble.
“You learned how to suck Nick’s dick, and then who?”
“And then you,” Harry says, gasping so sharply, “Zayn, please.’
He bucks so hard when he comes that he almost throws Zayn off, curling in on himself, his whole body pulsing and contracting. Zayn eases the pressure of his hips and holds still while Harry shakes beneath him, rolls onto the bed when Harry finally settles, chest heaving. The front of Zayn’s jeans and t-shirt are wet with come.
Harry slides his arms down and covers his eyes with his wrists.
That wasn’t really buddies, Zayn thinks, slightly abashed, as he watches Harry rub at his eyes. One day Zayn is going to learn the right way to do casual sex.
Harry scrubs his wrist across his face, laughs into the crook of his elbow.
“Alright, babe?” Zayn asks lightly.
“No more talking from you,” Harry says and then he rolls himself over, folds onto the bed between Zayn’s legs and show Zayn exactly what Nick taught him to do with his mouth.
--
Harry and Niall have a mostly normal apartment, except that it’s on the top floor of their building and has a balcony that wraps all the way around.
They walk inside and Harry says, “Well, looks like it’s alright in here,” and makes like he’s going to walk back out again.
Niall catches him by the elbow and shoves Harry in the direction of the kitchen. “Go make sure we didn’t leave anything in the fridge.”
“Do you wish you’d come to Vancouver for school?” Zayn asks when Liam sits down beside him on the couch.
“Don’t think I would have got into U.B.C.,” Liam says, shrugging. “And rowing at U.Vic is good, so I was happy to stay on the island.”
From inside the kitchen, Harry mutters, “Aw, crap,” and then there’s the sound of jars clanging together.
“Salsa does go bad,” he narrates helpfully. “In case you might have been wondering about that.”
Louis pushes off the armchair and wanders into the kitchen.
“Oh my god,” he shrieks, and then Harry shouts, “No, don’t open the lid!”
“Well, this is going to end with someone getting salmonella,” Liam says. “Think you’ll be able to drive Harry’s car back to the island?”
“We can just leave it here,” Zayn says. “Load them into the back of yours.”
Niall comes out of his bedroom, his eyes open wide in extreme alarm. “I need a garbage bag,” he says, walking into the kitchen. Then, “For the love of human decency, do not put that into the sink, what are you doing?”
“How about you?” Liam asks. “Ever think about moving to Vancouver?”
There are windows along two sides of the room and Zayn can see green stretching out endlessly; Harry’s apartment looks down onto a golf course.
“Nope,” Zayn says, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table.
--
They go to lunch -- “Someone needs to clean that kitchen before anyone cooks anything. And Louis needs to be locked out on the balcony when it happens.” -- at the Medina Cafe and spend the rest of the afternoon planning a party.
Harry says, “Niall got a 60-pounder of rye, so that’s going to go well, I think.”
“Wasn’t the point of coming back to get your apartment set up for the year?” Liam asks. “This seems like doing the opposite.”
“No, it’ll be good,” Harry says. “Gotta blast out the cobwebs.” Harry’s been cheerful all day even though he got almost as little sleep as Zayn did last night. He’s different here, more comfortable in the city, louder where Zayn can feel himself fading away. This is how it goes, Zayn already knows. Harry comes back to his real life.
Harry and Louis do a food run and come back with takeout from Vig’s, which is spicy enough to bring tears to Liam’s eyes. Somehow that makes it even more delicious for Zayn, who helps himself to seconds. Harry shovels paneer into his mouth, his full attention on his phone.
The batcall they sent out worked and people start arriving early into the evening and don’t stop arriving even when night crashes in.
Harry has spilled something down the front of his shirt, which is a noticeably different shade of black than his pants. He’s wearing three silver chains around his neck and they’re tangled together, this knot of metal under the v-neck of his t-shirt.
He knows everyone here -- of course he does, these are his friends. Niall knows everyone here as well, and he’s louder about it, chatting animatedly in the center of the room. Harry’s just quiet on the couch, a girl on either side of him, and another guy sitting on the arm of the sofa. One of the girls crosses her legs and makes a point not to notice when Harry’s gaze slides down the endless curve of her thigh.
Oh, Zayn thinks. This is how it goes. But knowing doesn’t make seeing any easier.
The door to the balcony is open, and Louis dangling the top half of his body over the railing. Zayn thinks about walking over to him, but stays where he is.
Someone switches the music to The Weeknd and Harry’s grin changes. He pushes off the couch in one movement, twists himself into the middle of the room, shakes his hair and throws his arms in the air, and just like that everyone is dancing.
Zayn watches: learns the way Harry looks when he’s grinding up behind someone, quick and dirty before he’s dancing with someone else. Learns the curve of his wrists as he claps just shy of the beat. Harry’s penthouse apartment and the Range Rover parked underground. The view from the balcony. Zayn wonders if he could see the impossible mass of Harry’s mother’s house from here. He looks at Harry, learns how Harry looks when he works a room. The summer is going to end and Zayn still won’t know Harry at all. They’ll never be friends.
Nial bounces up beside Zayn, wraps his arm around his shoulder warmly. Zayn grins, bumps their hips together. He sings along with the chorus in falsetto, breathy, “You always come to the party to pluck the feathers off all the birds. You always come to the party on your knees. I will not beg you, please.”
Harry dances over to them, folds himself between Zayn and Niall, his face pressing into Zayn’s neck. Niall gives them both a hug before stepping away and there’s a moment where it’s just him and Harry, the heat of Harry’s mouth against Zayn’s skin. In the space of the breath before Harry pulls away, Zayn closes his eyes. He opens them and from across the room, he can see Louis watching them from his perch on the balcony.
--
Louis doesn’t say anything until a couple of weeks later, when they’re chasing the last of the night’s darkness across the beach, treading across sand in the final stretch before dawn.
“So,” Louis says as they walk up the coastline. “You’ve had a bit of fun this summer.”
Zayn looks over at Louis.
“With our young Mr. Styles.”
“Oh,” Zayn says. “You know about that.”
“No details,” Louis says. “I must insist.”
“O-okay,” Zayn says, laughing.
“Just thought we could have a friendly chat. Open the doors of communication,” Louis says, in that stupid way he has that actually makes him easy to talk to, even though Zayn knows it’s just a matter of time before Louis drags them into the tide to start a kelp fight.
“Did Harry tell you?” Zayn asks.
“Harry’s a filthy slut and he doesn’t kiss and tell,” Louis says. “Much.”
Zayn shakes his head.
“Just don’t tell me any details,” Louis says. “I’m being serious here.”
“You’ve got it, buddy.” Zayn stuffs his hands into his pockets.
“Summer love,” Louis says.
Zayn kicks at his ankles.
“It’s sweet!”
“I’m not in love,” Zayn says. “No one’s in love.”
“Give me a break,” Louis says. “You fall in love as regular as rain. And Harry doesn’t know how to exist in a world where people don’t love him.”
“Not this time,” Zayn says, and he almost truly means it.
“I love you and I love Harry,” Louis says, “but I’m pretty sure I’ll only be seeing one of you again once the summer is over.”
“Yeah,” Zayn says. He twists his foot in the sand, rocking sideways so that his shoulder bumps against Louis’s. Maybe this is why Louis can always barrel forward at full speed -- he’s always got a clear view of the finish line.
“Just checking,” Louis says.
The tide is higher than Zayn realized and the first shock of water against his toes gives him a jolt. It’s good after that, treading in the last centimeter of water the ocean leaves behind when the waves roll out, feeling the surge against his ankles when they flow back in. The water makes the sand go soft between his toes.
“We should go somewhere,” Zayn says. “A year-round city.”
“Yeah.” Louis nods. “Where?”
“I don’t know,” Zayn says. “That’s the catch, right?”
“We’re never going find anywhere more beautiful than this,” Louis says. The ocean is just visible against the cut of trees and mountains further in the distance. It’s almost morning, the first light of dawn before the orange sun rises.
They walk back towards the boys. Only the five of them are left after everyone else cleared out. The fire’s gone out and Niall is poking at the pile of ash with a stick. Harry’s sitting on a log, a plaid blanket wrapped around his knees.
“It was a good summer,” Zayn says, just before he and Louis are close enough to the guys that they’ll be able to hear.
“Yeah,” Louis says. “You’re not really going to leave, are you? We know how to do it right come fall -- we’re year-round.”
“Nah,” Zayn says. “Idle threats. Just got to keep you on your toes.”
The ocean crashes against against the shore in this tremendous exhale, sucks the water away again. Maybe this winter he and Louis can save up for kayaks. It’s easy to think about leaving until the point where he has to find somewhere else to go.
Zayn sits down beside Harry, who lifts the edge of his blanket and drapes it over Zayn’s knees.
Two more weekends until September.
Zayn remember the first time he saw Harry, walking across the sand. His black trousers and his sharp white shirt. The heavy silver watch hanging off his bony wrist and the clean line of his leather belt. He looked like everything that Zayn had always known better than to try to touch.
Across the stretch of sand and over the ocean, the sun is starting to rise. Zayn twists his fingers together, breathes through the raw morning light and the sound of the waves breaking against the beach, the slow slide into morning. He rests his hand on the log in the space between his thigh and Harry’s, watches as the ocean ignites under the new sun.
And every night I give my body up
limb by limb, working upwards
across bone, towards the heart.