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Stepping out onto the loft’s large rooftop terrace, Zayn is greeted by a draft of ice-cold London night air. With the cigarette already plucked, unlit, between his lips, he impatiently fumbles through the pockets of his black, lambskin-lined leather jacket in search of the lighter, exhaling almost in relief when his fingers finally tap against the cold metal. The city beneath him glows dimly golden with the lights of Friday-night life, creating a pleasantly soothing atmosphere. He hears the door falling shut behind his back, muffling the sounds of music and laughter emerging from the party going on inside. Quickly glancing around, Zayn makes sure that no one else has found their way up here before he walks towards the end of the platform. Leaning against the golden railing, he lights the cigarette. Eagerly taking two deep drags, he feels the nicotine filling his lungs. The familiar burn brings tears to his eyes, but only moments later, he feels his body relaxing and his heartbeat slowing down in response. Exhaling smoke through his nostrils, he flicks the remaining ashes down onto buzzing Regent Street. Zayn closes his eyes and tilts back his head. With every passing second, he blissfully feels the tension in his muscles release and the usual inner calm returning to his senses.
Snorting lightly, he shakes his head. Laughing at himself in disbelief, Zayn runs a free hand through his hair. It has grown rather long again and desperately needs a cut. A silver strand falls loose—at that moment, though, he couldn’t care less.
Contrary to popular belief, he wasn’t hiding out. Though he had to admit, the evidence rather spoke against him—at least if the incredulous look on his girlfriend’s face had been anything to go by.
It had hit him then, like a kick in the gut, and his stomach had instantly dropped—not in panic, but in slight shock.
Still, Zayn had managed to keep his face straight and the tone in his voice steady, not even slightly trembling with discomfort, when he had excused himself, mumbling, “Babe, I’m gonna head for a smoke,” into his girlfriend’s ear. Indicating with a small wave of his hand toward Kendall that he intended to give the two of them some privacy. However, the sharp look Gigi had shot him in response, while soothingly patting Kendall’s hand, made it very clear that she was having none of it. The ‘You've got to be fucking kidding me’ had practically been written all over her face. Still, because she was fucking ace, she didn't call him out for bailing, and Zayn had made a mental note to thank her appropriately later that night.
Still, it felt like a safe bet to say that the sudden turn of events had taken Gigi’s open dislike of Harry Edward Styles to a whole new level..
Zayn feels the cold winter breeze scratching at his face, a shiver running down his spine. Though, being honest, he isn’t necessarily sure that his chill comes from the weather..
So you see, he isn’t hiding out. Technically, he isn’t avoiding either—he’s just buying himself time.
The thing is, Zayn isn’t fucking stupid. He knows that a run-in like this had been bound to happen. It was kind of inevitable, with them moving in the same social circles in L.A. and London. Though, between himself usually avoiding these kinds of parties and Taylor unofficially running that Anti-Harry campaign among her friends, it had seemed less likely. But Gigi dragged him here tonight, and Taylor’s influence on Universal apparently wasn’t big enough to keep them from inviting Harry. So here they are.
Zayn had known that it was going to happen eventually. He just hadn’t expected it to be tonight.
They hadn’t seen each other since. In person, that is. Seeing him on TV, magazine covers, in paparazzi shots, or on Gigi’s phone, when Kendall had sent five pictures from St. Barth’s in a row, had been inevitable. Needless to say, they hadn’t spoken either. Though, contrary to what he’d told the press, this one was entirely on him. Up to this day, he hasn’t heard back from either Louis or Niall—that’s the truth. But when it comes to Harry, Zayn had never even reached out.
It isn’t that he doesn't want to talk. But Zayn knows Harry, knows the polite restraint and silky charm he’ll greet him with. Just like everyone else, strangers and distant friends alike. And Zayn won’t be able to bear that. Being shown nothing but Harry's smooth limelight persona—just open enough to not seem fake, and secretive enough to not reveal anything too personal. That version of Harry people are fascinated by and ultimately feel drawn to. The same version of Harry that, to this day, Zayn has been avoiding. Because he just can’t. He can’t have Harry treating him like any other stranger—not when Zayn still remembers a time when they had been so much more.
He has smoked through half his pack, fingers almost frozen from the cold breeze, when he hears the glass door open and fall shut again. Not bothering to look up, he keeps his eyes trained on the glittering streetlights reflecting off the snowy streets. His breath has evened out by now. Another cigarette glows between his fingers, his left hand buried in the pocket of his leather jacket. Listening to the muffled sounds of traffic and party chatter, Zayn kind of feels at peace.
He senses the presence of another body, before he can even see or hear it.
“You’d rather freeze to death out here than say hello to me?” Hearing his voice live for the first time in over a year, as deep and husky as ever, the familiar slur in his speech, makes Zayn realize just how much he has actually missed it.
He takes his sweet time to reply. Sighing to himself, he slowly takes a final pull, before flicking the cigarette butt over the edge of the platform. When he finally turns around to look at him, the “Don’t flatter yourself, Styles,” slips easily from his lips. His tone is slightly bored, the usual smolder back on his face, hands in his pockets as he meets Harry’s gaze.
There he stands. Long curly hair held back by a pair of aviators, despite the clock ticking close to midnight. Button-down shirt flying open, revealing bare skin and collarbones, despite the ridiculously cold temperature. YSL coat casually hanging from his shoulders—completing the look rather than fulfilling its purpose. Long legs in black skinny jeans, brown leather boots.
So painfully familiar, one could almost think he’d done it on purpose.
“Your sweetheart of a girlfriend told me where to find you.” Harry blinks slowly at him. He doesn’t move closer, though.
Zayn smirks, slightly amused at his tone of voice. “She really is… a sweetheart.”
“She doesn’t like me much.” Neutral. Very unemotional. Harry just shrugs.
“Yeah,” Zayn hums in agreement. “S’whatcha get for sleepin’ around, isn’t it? ”
“Suppose so.”, he clearly doesn’t give a fuck. To be honest, neither does Zayn.
They fall silent after that, simply staring at each other, until Zayn decides to turn his head and stare at London’s skyline instead. He watches the blinking neon lights dance while he can feel Harry still watching him. Strangely enough, it leaves him feeling empty inside. Not numb. Just completely blank, like every emotion had been sucked out of his body.
Minutes must have passed when Harry finally breaks from his stillness and moves closer, until he’s suddenly right next to him.
““Hey.” Zayn can practically feel the warmth of Harry’s breath against his cheek.
“Hey.” He mumbles back, glancing at Harry from the corner of his eye.
They fall back into silence after that. Standing together, with nothing but the sound of their breath mixing.
They fall back into silence after that. Standing together, with nothing but the sound of their breath mixing. Zayn wasn’t gonna lie—he hadn’t expected it to go like this. Their second encounter. There were so many things he’d been wanting to say. Now, given the chance, he doesn’t really know where to start. Thinking about it, he isn’t even sure whether he really wants to say them. If it would actually change anything. Maybe there isn’t even anything left to say. Maybe it’s simply just over.
'I miss you', is what he means to say.
“So, how’s the hiatus going..” is what he settles for instead.
When he turns his head, Harry is already looking at him. Face unreadable.
“Your album’s coming out in 2 weeks.” Is what Harry replies with.
Zayn takes a deep breath and cocks his head: “Yeah..", he slowly blinks again.
“Anything about me on there?” Harry winks, a wide grin lighting up his face. Fucking dimples make him seem so genuine.
Zayn laughs out loud, then shrugs.
'Everything.', is what he means to say.
“Go buy yourself a copy.”, is what he says instead.
"I will." The tone in Harry's voice is smooth and soft. Indicating, it was the only sincere thing said tonight.
Several seconds pass until Harry clears his throat, pretending to shiver from the cold, and pulls his coat tighter around his body.
“Anyway, I’m gonna head back inside...It was good seeing you.”
““Yeah.” Zayn breathes, holding Harry’s gaze. Unable to say anything else, unable to move. He feels frozen in place.
Neither of them asks to meet up again. To properly catch up.
To step forward and circle his arms around Harry’s body, to hug him tightly enough to make them both gasp for air. To close every bit of distance left between the two of them, emotionally as well as physically. To breathe him in, to fist his fingers into the long curls, and to never let go. That’s everything Zayn wants to do.
Nothing, but to stay frozen in place is what he does instead. He watches Harry hesitate for the briefest of moments before nodding goodbye, turning around, and making his way back to the party without glancing back.
No matter how sure you are of everything you’ve become. Of who you want to be, of how you see the world, and of how you think the world sees you. There will always be that one single exception to every rule. The one person you will never be able to pin down and place. The one who just doesn’t fit. But who you also just can’t shake.
When Zayn returns back inside, he finds Gigi and Bella sipping champagne out of plastic cups instead of crystal glasses. A loose smile plays on his girlfriend’s lips as she laughs at something her sister is whispering in her ear. The blonde hair is slightly disheveled, radiating sunshine with every move. She is a sight to behold, breathtakingly beautiful. But when she sees him near, her brows furrow in concern.
"“You okay?” she whispers as soon as he’s in reach, placing a tender hand on his cheek. Zayn isn’t sure what good in the world he had done to deserve someone like her. That girl was way too good for him. Instantly, he can feel his heart cringe, aching with remorse for making her worry.
“You know I always am, babe,” he smiles convincingly and places a gentle kiss on her forehead. Zayn can feel her leaning into his touch, a moment later snuggling into his embrace. Her soft lips brush against the sensitive skin of his neck as she whispers, “I hate him so much,” against the crook of his neck.
“I know you do,” he mumbles in response. Looking up, Zayn finds Harry staring at them from across the room. He’s standing with Nick, Ben, and a couple of girls Zayn has never seen before. Even from a distance, he can see them flirtatiously batting their eyelashes. Neither Zayn nor Harry breaks eye contact, holding each other’s stare, not turning away. Not backing down. Zayn places a soothing hand on Gigi’s back, patting her lightly. “…Sometimes I do too.”
For the rest of the night, Zayn doesn’t stray from Gigi’s side. He spends his time sipping far too much Jack Daniels out of ridiculously expensive crystal glasses, his decency the only thing keeping him from drinking it straight from the bottle. After all, it’s still a business event. Occasionally, he halfheartedly participates in a conversation with whatever party guest happens to find their way to their table. Most of the time, however, he just focuses on getting drunk.
And observing. Observing people.
Which actually means watching Harry Styles.
Watching him move among the party crowd, charming everyone within reach. Watching people naturally circle around him, showering him with attention—willingly, not because he’s asking for it. Watching Kendall and occasionally Taylor throw dirty looks when Harry starts chatting up the newest of all Victoria’s Secret Angels, whom Zayn himself wouldn’t be able to tell apart from Gigi’s fellow model friends, even if his life depended on it. It was one of the few things they occasionally fought about—him not remembering their faces. To him, they all looked alike. Nothing special there. Nothing worth remembering.
Harry, however, didn’t seem to notice. Or care. Zayn would guess the latter. For a matter of fact, the less Harry cared, the stronger his spell seemed to cast. He wasn’t gonna lie—honestly, Zayn could see the appeal. There had once been a time he’d been falling for him too.
A time when it had been Harry’s hands on Zayn’s body. When it had been all teeth and tongues. When it had been whispers and gasps, desperate kisses and reckless selfishness. When it had been heaven and hell. Fighting and fucking. A paradise and a warzone.
There are things Zayn will never forget. Like the taste of Harry’s skin on the tip of his tongue, or the fragrance of his hair. How to tell the difference between his genuine smile and the one he flashes for the cameras. How to read him without listening to the actual words he’s saying. How to do all the right things. How to be everything he wants. How to never fully give in to him.
Maybe he should freak out, when Harry finally catches him looking. He merely blinks, though.
Because there is one thing Zayn will always be best at. He’ll always be best at staying away.
From everything that might cut too deep to ever properly heal.
From everything that might hurt too bad for him to ever fully recover.
From everything that might look like a blessing, but would ultimately turn out a curse.
Zayn will always know how to play safe.
How to not loose himself in someone unpredictable.
How to not emotionally depend on someone who gets bored easily.
How to not trust promises made by people who always choose personal freedom first.
He knows how to not fall for people like that. Because he is just the same.
So he knows how to emotionally distance himself, regardless of what he might really feel inside.
And Harry knows, he knows.
And he might as well know, Zayn knows, he knows.
Zayn knows how to not get hurt.
So when Harry smiles at him, his hands already on the girls hip like on a prize, Zayn just nods, smiling back, and grabs Gigi by the wrist.
Leaning down, as he whispers: "Let's go home" into her ear.
Walking out, he can feel Harry's eyes burning in his back.
He doesn’t look back once..