Tell Me I'm Your National Anthem

The humiliation was more than Harry could bear, and before he could go through whatever rejection Zayn had in plan for him, he bolted from the club, and scrambled into a cab. He gave the driver the address to his home, then insisted that he hit the gas when he saw Zayn follow him out. Harry watched Zayn’s figure get smaller and smaller as the cab put more distance between them, and he only settled back in his seat when he could no longer see him. He thumped his forehead against the window a couple times, as a painful punishment for what happened back at Jalouse. Harry should have never told Zayn. There were things best kept to the grave, and those goddamn unnatural feelings were one of them.

But it didn’t feel unnatural.

When Zayn touched him, accidentally or purposely, goosebumps were left in the wake of his fingers. When they spoke, Harry would lean in and hang on to every syllable. He’d watch the way Zayn’s lips formed words, and take note of the small breaths he took between sentences. He’d watch his eyes and try to memorize the things that made them light up, and the ones that dulled them. The feel of Zayn’s scruff against his cheek when he leaned in close to whisper to him beneath the harsh lights with a roaring crowd before them were moments he lingered on. And Harry loved him, he loved him, he loved him.

He barely remembered the ride home, and he wasn’t quite sure how he ended up in his bed. But he no longer wanted to be awake with his thoughts and the mortification he endured earlier. Sleep could temporarily relieve him of everything. But then there was the trouble of waking up.

—-

The sun spilled in through the window, waking Harry. He squinted, let out a grunt, and rolled over, wanting to steal a few more minutes of precious sleep. But he was interrupted by the beeping of his phone. Glancing at it, he made out Zayn’s name on the screen through his blurry exhausted vision, and it was enough to wake him up. There were four messages from him, three from last night and one from this morning, all pretty much the same. Where did he run off to, why did he run off, and if they could talk. The answer to the last question was obviously “No” but Harry wouldn’t text back. He understood full well that he had been rejected, and he wasn’t about to go through it a second time.

Harry’s eyes became exhausted again just by reading Zayn’s texts over and over, and he decided that doing so wasn’t going to change anything. He couldn’t face him yet, not after last night. Working with him was so inconvenient, and there was no way he could go through a full day being in the same room as him. He could barely do it before without Zayn knowing about his feelings, but now that he did, it was just impossible.

“I can’t come in today. I’ve lost my voice” he texted to Liam. It was total bullshit, but he’d rather have everyone frustrated with him than have to leave his house today. If they could grant Niall some time off for his voice, they could surely do the same to him. Harry didn’t wait for a text back from Liam. He put his phone on silent, burrowed under the blankets and fell back asleep.

—-

He woke again abruptly, the incessant ringing of the doorbell combined with heavy pounding on the door yanked him back from sleep. Harry wasn’t expecting anyone today, and fans usually weren’t that rude. He was pretty nervous now. He quickly rose from bed, made his way to the front door, and looked through the peephole. He now wished it was some insane fan instead of who was actually standing on the other side of the door. He hesitated before unlocking the door and opening it.

“What the hell happened to you?” a furious Zayn pushed himself past Harry, and quickly shut the door behind him. Despite the anger, Harry couldn’t help but notice the worry behind his eyes. And although it was completely inappropriate, he also couldn’t help but notice how gorgeous he was when angry. He was breathing hard, brows furrowed, hair unruly. It was almost unfair. “I called, I texted, and you didn’t bother showing up today. Why are you avoiding me?”

Harry laughed, which infuriated Zayn more.

“Why am I avoiding you? Oh god, uh, let’s count the reasons, shall we?” Harry rolled his eyes. “Except it really is just one big reason. Sorry for being human, Zayn. Usually us humans want to avoid making a fool of themselves, and I wasn’t in the mood to feel like a complete loser around you. Does that answer your question?”

Zayn didn’t respond.

This was Harry’s worst nightmare come true. “Perfect,” he mumbled, and crossed his arms over his chest.

Still, Zayn was quiet, and the silence was driving Harry mad. Just as he was about to break it with another comment, Zayn finally spoke. “You love me?”

Of course Harry had expected that question, but when he got it, he didn’t know how to give an answer. He had an answer though. A definite answer. But knowing something was completely different from the ability to verbally express it. There was nothing else he could say, so he gave a simple reply.

“Yes.”

Zayn’s expression was unreadable, and Harry wanted to just curl up and disappear.

“How do you mean you love me?”

This, Harry didn’t expect, and he wasn’t in the mood to break out into Shakespearean sonnets to explain what he meant. He thought it was clear. “What part of it don’t you understand? I want to be around you all the time. I care about your well-being more than mine, and I’m happiest when you’re happy. And when I look at you, I just—” his breath was stuck in his throat, and if he didn’t resume control of himself, he would cry right there. “—I die a little every time I see you. Because I know you won’t be mine. You can’t be mine.”

His eyes blurred. He couldn’t see Zayn’s face because the tears distorted his vision. It was probably for the best. If he had to see a look of disgust on the other boy’s face, he would break apart.

Zayn began to speak, softly and controlled. “I have a girlfriend.”

Harry sniffed and turned his back on him, briskly wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater. “Yes, thank you, I know you’ve got a bloody girlfriend.” He twitched when he felt Zayn’s hand on his shoulder, and he shrugged it off before turning around. “Don’t! Don’t fucking touch me. Don’t try to comfort me because I don’t need any of your fucking pity. I know when no means no.” Zayn reached for him again, and Harry shoved him back. “I told you not to touch me!”

Zayn stood there with his arms at his sides, looking defeated. “It just can’t be, Harry,” he said in a hoarse voice, his bottom lip quivering slightly. “We’ll get torn apart by the media, we’ll damage the band and everything we’ve worked so hard for. We can’t—”

“We can’t, we can’t, we can’t,” Harry interrupted, his eyes blazing. “I know! How many times have you got to rub it in, and how many times have I got to tell you that I know. God, just shut up, Zayn. And get out.”

“Harry—”

“Get out!” he flung the door open, grabbed Zayn’s arm, and pushed him out before slamming the door shut. Harry’s breathing became shallow as he took a few staggering steps back. He had never done anything like that before, especially to someone who was supposed to be one of his best friends. He felt disgusted with himself, and angry with Zayn for pushing the subject, for having a girlfriend, for telling him no. And for not loving him back.