“You shouldn’t smoke,” says Harry. “‘S bad for your lungs.”
He pours himself another shot of tequila and downs it. Zayn strikes a match and watches it glow. He bought a special pack in Mexico with a fancy lion on the front to smile at on the bad days. The matches are almost gone, because it’s been all bad days, lately. He lights another rolled spliff over the balcony so that he doesn’t get caught for weed possession via the smell of the room. . .again. A few years ago, he’d be concerned with Harry snitching on him and wouldn’t smoke around him at all. However, the time for Harry giving a shit has long passed. It’s a mystery as to how he even ended up staying at the same hotel tonight, let alone stumbled into Zayn’s room half-drunk at three in the morning.
He’s not opposed to the situation, but maybe that’s just because he’s high.
“Since when do you care about my lungs?” says Zayn. It has no bite; he’s too tired. Harry dangles his legs between the bars of the balcony and looks down, down.
“You should care about your own lungs. Then I won’t have to – what are the words you used in Italy. Oh!” He gives Zayn a shit-eating grin. “Nag you like a bored housewife.”
Zayn gives him a light punch on the shoulder. He takes another draw off his spliff and coughs it into the cold air.
“Could mistake you for one from the back. How long are you growing this out?”
Zayn toys with it, sticking his whole hand deep into Harry’s curls. He doesn’t usually risk overfamiliarity offstage, but Harry isn’t usually here. Harry doesn’t pull away from the touch. Instead, he pulls in a drunk, shuddering breath and closes his eyes.
“Til it feels right,” he says.
Zayn smokes as they fall into a heavy silence. Harry’s always saying shit like that, talking about ‘rightness’ and ‘wrongness’ as though he’s the only one who feels uncomfortable in his own skin. Sometimes, when Harry is acting superior for drinking nothing but beet juice, Zayn wants to shake his collar and tell him they’re just alike in all the ways that keep him up at night. But getting a rise out of Harry means giving him attention, and few things drive Harry crazier than not getting attention. Better to pretend he doesn’t exist when he’s being an arse.
Eventually, Zayn’s weed runs out. He flicks the empty butt off of the balcony. Harry pulls his legs up and leans into Zayn’s shoulder. He puts his hand on the outside of Zayn’s thigh.
“Do you miss it? Wanting to be here?” says Harry.
Breath caught in his throat, cock half-hard already, Zayn moves Harry’s hand to his inner thigh.
“I’ve never wanted to leave,” lies Zayn. “Why – have you?”
Harry slowly strokes along the inner crease of his thigh with his index finger.
“Wouldn’t trade it for the world,” he murmurs into Zayn’s neck.