Chapter Text
Lately, it had become a silent competition to see who could arrive the latest. It had been raining for a full week in England, and Zayn, who was just over half an hour late, saw Harry, who was exactly an hour late, using the same excuse Zayn had used when he arrived at the studio: "Sorry, everyone... uh, the rain..."
He rolled his eyes, because it was ridiculous when Harry did it. As ridiculous as him showing up like that in a satin top that was clearly from the women's section and a hickey on his neck as if he were sixteen and wanted to show it off. Not as ridiculous as him wearing sunglasses inside a closed studio while London hadn't seen a ray of sunshine for a week.
"Right, right, the rain," Sam, who was like the production's dictator, said while pushing Harry by the shoulders towards the makeup chair. "Funny how it didn't rain that much for the rest of us. Guess it only poured for you two."
She shot him a fascist look only a middle-aged white person could truly master. "Zayn, put that shit out and go change. You and Niall are up first for photos."
Zayn shrugged and flicked his half-smoked cigarette out the window. "Yes, ma’am.”
Niall was throwing out some cheap flirty lines to the costume designer girl, and Zayn joined them, stripping off his clothes right in the middle of the crew. Through the haze of hairspray, he watched Harry being fawned over by the makeup team. They exchanged a look that meant nothing and also something as Zayn undid his pants zipper and someone covered the hickey on Harry's neck with makeup.
“What’s up with you two?” Niall asked. Some guy — not the cute stylist girl — was putting Zayn into a green vest he’d never wear by choice. He just let the crew move his limbs like a puppet.
"What?"
"You and Harry." Niall says it like it's something he should already know, but Zayn just gives him a crude, questioning look, so Niall elaborates. "Did you guys have a real fight or are you shagging?"
The girl froze, eyes wide, hands halfway up Niall’s shirt buttons. Zayn was quick to deny it, gesturing so much he messed up the stylist’s work. “No, no, he’s joking. I’m not gay.” He slapped Niall’s arm. “What the hell, man?”
Niall laughs. "Come on, you two are acting fucking weird."
Zayn takes one last look over at Harry, who isn't looking back at him. "There's nothing. I'm just not friends with the guy. And I don't wanna be, either."
This is such classic Niall shit, he was always sitting on the fence about everything. How can someone witness Harry's evil presence in real-time and still shake the guy's hand like it's nothing? Louis wouldn't be asking this kind of thing; he knows what a Judas Harry is.
During the photoshoot, the production team constantly tells Harry to stand in the center. Niall and Zayn go first and then change clothes once again while Louis and Liam also take pictures as a duo. Harry is the only one who gets solo shots. Harry Styles and His Directions. Zayn remembers that stupid joke Liam made back when they were in Dublin; it's always funnier when Louis brings it up, though.
“Move the light more toward the center,” the art director said— And the center, of course, was where Harry stood. “Zayn, could you smile a bit more? It’s not a funeral.”
“Sorry. Do you think my teeth are white enough to help light up Harry’s face?” He made a little joke, that only him and Louis laughed. Liam pretends not to.
Harry, however, never retaliates. It's not like he plays along either, but he does something worse, he acts as if he's above it all. He doesn't laugh, nor does he give it any importance; it's as if he doesn't even see the rest of them from up there.
“If you want to act like children, do it outside. Let’s get back to work,” said Ben, the asshole.
Later, as they were leaving the building, Liam said, “I’m telling you, soon they’re just going to call us over to fix Harry’s hair and bring him some coffee.”
It sounded bitter in a different way, because Liam didn’t hate Harry just for being a fake plastic doll who’d aligned with the enemy, he hated him because Harry got more attention doing it.
“At least Ben is already in charge of giving him a blowjob then.” Louis jokes.
“Niall asked me today if I’d actually had a fight with Harry.”
“Seems like it,” Louis said.
“What? Why?” Zayn asked, genuinely confused. It wasn’t like he was doing anything different from the other guys. Except Niall. “I haven’t even said anything!”
Louis leaned against the elevator mirror. “It’s just… you two look at each other like you’ve really fought. Or like you’re about to.”
“Yeah,” Liam added his two cents.
“Come on…” Zayn huffed.
“Like– you stare at each other sometimes.”
“And…?”
“It’s kind of weird, man.”
Zayn huffed again, thinking they were exaggerating. At first, he figured it was just some Niall bullshit because he’s Harry’s friend, but now Louis was saying it too.
Sure, he and Harry didn’t even say good morning to each other anymore; cordiality had gone out the window a long time ago. But every time they caught each other’s eyes, it was never a big deal either, just kind of acknowledging each other's presence, somehow. For Zayn, it was always about figuring out what Harry was up to now, because… despite everything, he was curious.
They used to be friends. The kind who spent New Year's Eve together, and Zayn even spent an entire holiday at Harry's family's house. Like, that's real friendship man. All of them were good friends back then, really. Being a teenager rocketing to fame with other guys in the exact same situation truly bonds you. But after a while, Harry stopped being that chill guy that Zayn used to tell his friends back in Bradford about.
Nowadays, he can't see a single trace of that in Harry. It's as if he'd become just a product of what he once was. Even though they were teenagers back then, he was someone Zayn wanted to be close to– play Call Of Duty with on the tour bus or get shit-faced with on a Thursday night with a bunch of LA bitches, because hey, they were famous now.
Zayn even fucking cried in front of him, not once but twice! That’s something he just doesn't do.
But now, years later, it's like he knows Harry less and less. Like, who the fuck is that?
When they pile into the van to head to another building, for another campaign shoot, with another crew and all that bullshit, he sees Harry getting into Ben's expensive ass car.
As the days pass, Zayn doesn't think about Harry at all anymore. Except when he sees him on a TV commercial, or on street banners, or billboards on the avenues, or on the bottle of Pepsi he buys along with his cigarettes at the gas station. Or every single time he opens any social media app, or when someone mentions Harry to him, which is pretty much all the time. But other than that, Zayn doesn't even remember Harry exists.
Until Friday night, at Niall's birthday.
Niall is the kind of guy who decides to throw a party on a boat. He's drunk and wearing a sailor's hat. The styling girl from that day is there, and they're apparently having a fling. Poor chick. Liam is with his new girlfriend, and she doesn't let go of him for a single second. Zayn is sitting with Louis and Eleanor and plenty of bottles of Heineken. Perrie is in the States with her band, and Zayn is almost grateful for it because they haven't been doing too well lately. Louis is right, he is a terrible boyfriend.
“Hey, I need to take a piss,” Zayn says, downing another bottle of beer
“Mate, you don’t say that in front of a lady,” Louis jokes, nodding toward Eleanor. She kisses him on the cheek and says, "To be honest, I'll probably need to take a piss soon too."
Zayn is happy to be with them, he reflects, halfway drunk on his way to the bathroom, descending the little stairs that make him even dizzier. They're good friends. Eleanor is good for Louis, who is a guy who deserves someone real by his side. It's a good party, and Niall is wearing a sailor hat.
Down in the lower part of the boat, it feels like a club, and Zayn is surprised they managed to fit a DJ in there too. It's dark, but when he tears his eyes away from the DJ and looks ahead on the path to the bathroom, Harry is coming out of it. Wiping his nose, holding hands with a blonde model and that Korean fashion designer whose name Zayn had forgotten.
He and Harry exchange a look that lasts a beat too long.
Of course he's doing coke in the bathroom with those pretentious Milan people. That's all Harry does now. Look how cool I am with my fucking gay pants and my stupid ass shirt unbuttoned down to my navel as if I'm not on a fucking boat, Zayn almost mutters as he stares at the urinal in that cubicle.
When he gets back from the bathroom, Lou, their makeup artist, grabs him by the shoulders as if he was the man of the hour. "Zayn!!!" she hugs him without spilling her glass of who-knows-what.
“Me!!” He plays along.
"My God, I haven't seen you at a party in ages!" She pulls him towards the stairs to the upper deck. "Let's dance!"
And they do dance. Zayn drinks gin and margaritas and piña coladas and red-fruit cocktails with names he doesn’t bother to remember, and more beer on top of that. House music was always boring without drugs — but that’s easily fixed! Lou shakes a small bag of cocaine in front of his face.
Lou and her friends are the kind of people you’d expect to meet in Los Angeles or New York, the ones wearing clothes that will be trendy in a few months, all bleached hair and overpriced everything. Harry fits right in with them now, because he’s become one of those people everyone wants to be associated with.
But Zayn doesn’t want to think about Harry, not tonight, not when he’s actually in a good mood.
But you know what? Zayn’s having a good time, so he decides not to pick a fight with Harry either, at least for once. He even lets himself look at him without that usual bitterness, watching as Harry greets everyone with his big, dimpled smile and then greets Zayn, too, with a kiss on the cheek, like they all do in this group.
His shirt seems even more unbuttoned, and the blue light washes over his face. He strikes up a conversation with Zayn in a very Harry way, by saying something Zayn doesn't see coming.
"Not hating me tonight?"
Zayn even laughs. "Not that much," he sways to the beat. “Yet.”
Harry mirrors him. Dimples. "Good."
A current of electricity runs through him, just a feeling that reminds him of when there was no hostility between them. Of when there were no private meetings with Ben, Jeff, and Simon, and all the things that came with that. They even drink from the same straw, from Harry's tropical drink with the little umbrella.
Zayn feels the sugar on his tongue. "Ahh, what is this?"
"Sex on the Beach, duh."
"Was I supposed to know that?"
Harry seems to really assess him, furrowed brows and all. "I guess not. You're straight."
Zayn laughs, genuinely laughs. He looks at Harry, who’s being funny too, and says, “Yeah… you’ve always been kinda gay, man. I suspected it, but I guess I missed a few chapters.”
"Are you asking me if I'm gay or stating it?" he laughs.
“I have no idea. I guess neither.”
Harry takes another sip through the straw. They never stop dancing. “But I’m not gay Alright?”
“It’s all good, man,” Zayn says, giving his shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Like, I’m Muslim, and I know there’s this whole stereotype thing around that, but I’m not homophobic or anything.”
“No, no—” Harry looks more serious now, maybe not as high as Zayn thought. “That’s not what I meant. I’m just saying I’m kind of… just living, you know? I try not to label things too much anymore.”
"Yeah, I can tell by the pants you've been wearing," Zayn jokes. But then a lightbulb goes off in his head, and he thinks about using this moment to find out once and for all what's going on with him and Ben, subtly, of course.
"What the hell is going on with you and Ben?"
Harry blinks, like he wasn’t expecting that. His giggly persona fading. “What do you mean?”
"Ah, come on."
“What?”
“Do I have to spell it out?” Are you actually dumb or…
Harry seems… a little less chill. Less of 'the cool Harry'.
Zayn might have fucked it up. Harry goes, voice cracking a little, “Are you the one going around saying I’m fucking Ben?”
“What?” Zayn’s actually surprised by that… he wasn’t. “No!”
Harry seems to think about something. He’s not as relaxed now. “Someone’s been talking, and I know you all hate me now.”
“Gee, I wonder why.”
They exchange a look, the weapons are back. But now they aren't meters apart on a studio set. They are face to face with noses filled with coke. Wars start like this.
"What is your problem?" Harry seems genuinely confused and irritated, but he doesn't raise his voice.
"My problem? You're the one who walks around like a little puppy on Jeff and Ben's leash. What the fuck is that about, Harry?"
Harry scoffs. He lets out a disbelieving laugh. "And what's so wrong with that? They're my bosses, am I not allowed to be friends with them?"
Zayn can't believe this weak-ass argument. "Are you for real? You know damn well what this 'friendship' of yours with them means for you and for us. You're either friends with them or with us. It's that simple."
Harry rolls his eyes. “It’s really not that deep.”
“Oh, yes it is. We can’t fucking trust you anymore so don’t expect us to treat you like a friend.”
“What the fuck are you even talking about–” Harry starts but Zayn cuts:
“Look, it’s basic math. But I suppose you don’t need to know it since your prince charming face does everything for you.”
“Sure,” something is heating. “Useful enough for sucking Ben off and securing my career, right?”
“What? You gonna deny it?”
It looks like sparks could fly from Harry’s eyes at any moment. “Fuck you, Zayn.”
“It’s amazing how you just won’t deny this shit,” Zayn spits. “Why do you get mad if people are talking, then?”
“I’m not mad.”
“Hah–of course you’re not.” They’ve stopped dancing; Zayn notices the rest of the group has deliberately moved away from them. He doesn’t even want to look back and catch Louis, Niall, and Liam watching the scene like it’s a football match even though they can’t hear shit.
“I’m not. I don’t have any feelings toward you guys anymore.”
Zayn has to laugh because, of course. “Yeah, you obviously don’t.”
Harry sucks on the empty straw even though there’s nothing left in the drink before he makes a move to leave. “Except Niall, ok? He still treats me normally. As for you, Zayn, go fuck yourself. If you’re so jealous, take advantage of the fact that you’re hot and go try, you too, to fuck someone who’ll give you more than all this resentment.”
Harry brushes past him, almost pushing on purpose. Zayn wants to follow him and shove him off this fucking boat into the sea so a shark can eat him and he never has to see Harry’s stupid face again.
But he doesn’t do it. Because if Harry got eaten by a shark right now, his face would be everywhere — a global tragedy, wall-to-wall coverage, candlelight vigils — and Zayn would have to stare at that stupid face forever. Worse, he’d have to give some kind of statement about how devastated he was.
Surprisingly, they didn’t make enough of a scene to stop the party. Most people barely noticed. When Zayn makes his way back to the table, Louis, Niall, and Liam are, in fact, there, waiting like press reporters after a scandal.
“Fucking jerk,” is all Zayn says.
“Yeah, but what’s new? What happened?” Louis pushes.
Zayn shrugs, lighting a cigarette. “Nothing, really. He just didn’t deny anything about sleeping his way up with Ben. Fucking hustler. Whore.”
Niall, international minister of peace, “C’mon, mate… I don’t think that’s really our business.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Zayn exhales smoke. “He can go fuck himself. I don’t care.”
“Right,” Louis says dryly. “Totally sounds like you don’t care.”
Zayn ignores him. But then he spots Harry across the deck. Laughing, dancing, surrounded by people, the picture of effortless charm. And something burns in his chest. The sheer audacity of him. How he gets to be a complete asshole and still have the world adore him. How everyone buys into the act.
Fuck that.
That’s what Zayn hates, the way Harry gets away with everything, the way people worship him for breathing.
They lock eyes again, because this time, Zayn doesn't look away for a single moment. Their stare-down becomes so intense it seems like Harry might actually cross the room and punch Zayn in the face, even though he doesn't look angry. And then Zayn looks at him as if challenging him to actually come and do it.
Harry, however, doesn't move, but he returns a look that establishes something. And Zayn doesn't know what it is, but he returns it with the same intensity.
And now that's it. Whatever it was that just happened, happened. Zayn knows he has just sealed the cold war with Harry, and even if he doesn't know what to do or what the prize will be, he is going to win.