Induratize [h.s/z.m au]

chapter one

induratize // chapter one

Clark presses her forehead to the cold glass window and stares down the street, already fiddling with the half-empty pack of cigarettes in her hand expectantly. It's fucking pouring, is the thing, and there's no chance of her going for a smoke without ruining her leather boots.

London in the spring hardly redeems for the winter; instead of slushy rain that makes the streets dirty and dingy, it just pours endlessly for days, giving no one the chance to actually enjoy the mildly warmer weather. Despite the shit temperatures, though, London has this unrefined, quirky charm that Clark has always loved.

She's about to give up and go smoke in the bathroom, but right as she moves to grab her jacket, a dirty cab rounds the corner, sending up sprays of muddy street water from its tires. "Fuck," she curses, scrambling to shove the pack back into her pocket to keep dry.

As soon as the cab gets close enough, Clark pushes out into the downpour, holding her leather jacket over her head in a weak attempt to avoid getting wet. In about two seconds, though, her new jeans are soaked and her favorite leather boots are already fucked, so she gives up keeping dry, swallows her dignity, and starts sprinting for the back door of the cab.

The artfully crafted curls from this morning are plastered to her face by the time she reaches her dry haven. "Holy shit," she chokes out, slamming her door, "it's fucking pour-"

All of the sudden the rapid beat of the rain is back again as the door is wrenched open, because apparently there is no escaping the London rain, and someone wearing a ridiculously ugly green rain jacket half falls, half crawls into the open seat opposite of Clark. The person has a huge duffel bag over their shoulder, and their boots are ratty, the toes almost worn through from overwear.
Clark hugs her purse closer to her chest. "Out. I got here first."

The boy - man? - looks up at her, shaking out his hair like a wet dog. He's got on a grin that is way too big for a rainy Tuesday afternoon, eyes bright and alive and shining with mirth. "I'm the one that flagged it down, love," he drawls, "I think that means I was here first."

"Wow, look at how clever you are. But you have a rain jacket and I don't. Out."

He stares at her blankly. Despite the fucking rain jacket and hair that currently resembles a wet mop, he's actually sort of cute. It's very unfortunate that Clark has already decided she hates him.

"Driver saw me first, I get the car," he says after about ten seconds too long. "Simple as that."

Clark sighs. "Out. Now. I have somewhere to be and this is the first cab I've seen in ages, for fuck's sake."

"I heard you," the boy frowns. "You think I don't have anywhere to be? I've been sitting here waiting, too."

"Jesus Christ. Be a gentleman, would you, yeah?"

"Fine. I'll let you share the cab that is actually mine, because I'm a proper gentleman. Now where to, love?"

Clarke glares at him and his patronizing little love for a second before leaning towards the front. Her eyes light up in recognition as the familiar cabbie gives her a knowing look, poorly hidden amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Fuck off, Frank," she laughs. "Just take me home and take care of him when I'm out?"

Beside her, the boy knits his eyebrows for a split second, and then he's laughing, a disbelieving smirk on his face. "Of course you know the driver," he murmurs.

Clark shoots him an unamused glare. Like today already hasn't been stressful enough, from the rain to that one artist being a complete prick, now there's a wet Tarzan sitting beside her who apparently never learned his manners. She needs a fucking cigarette, and maybe a drink. Or two. Or ten.

And the only thing she needs more than a good buzz, except maybe to be out of this goddamn cab, is Zayn. Clark needs smoke-sticky kisses and his stupid artistic ramblings to take her mind off of everything, even if it's just for a little bit.

Fuck, she's ready to be home.

After what is definitely much longer than usual, Frank's pulling over in front of her flat, a warm smile on his face letting her know that the ride was on him and there won't be a fare this time. "See you tomorrow morning?" Clark grins.

Frank raises an eyebrow. "Depends. Will you have coffee for me?"

"And here I thought you just enjoyed my company," she teases. Clark's smile fades as she turns towards her annoying backseat companion. "God, would you move? Other people in the world exist other than you, you know."

The boy scowls. "You've got a door right there."

"Can't get out if you're sitting on my jacket, arsehole."

His grin is sheepish, almost apologetic, as he moves off of it, but Clark needed a cigarette and a shot and ink-littered hands on her skin five minutes ago and really can't bring herself to care. With a quick nod and grin, she's flying out the door and into her home.

Seconds after storming through the door, Clark is in Zayn's lap. There's no greeting, no soft, hesitant kisses. Clark doesn't have time for that. She's been waiting for this - Zayn's familiar hands running over her sides, touching her exactly how she likes - all day. She licks into his mouth, quick and dirty, grinning when a low moan resonates in his throat.

"Rough day today, eh?" he breathes, voice already wrecked. "Get a lot of people in to check out the artwork?"

"Mmm."

"I've been thinking about the inspiration for my next piece, you know, like batman or something."

The fact that Zayn is still calm enough to be talking about art right now makes her frown. That needs to be stopped. She bites down gently on his collarbones, grinning when he chokes on whatever words he was going to say next. "Clark -- "

"Zayn, just shush," she hisses, tugging on the hair at the base of his neck and kissing him harder.

Zayn's mouth doesn't open up against hers; instead, he gently pushes her shoulders back. "Clark, we can't right now."

She instantly straightens up and shoots him a piercing glare, lips formed in a tight frown. "And why not, Zayn?"

"Becau--"

He's interrupted by the sound of the door opening.

And footsteps.

And the hideous sight of an awful green raincoat.

"What the hell? Did you follow me here?" Clark screeches, scrambling to move off of Zayn's lap as Annoying Taxi Boy just stands in the doorway. "Holy shit, Zayn, hit him or something."

"Jesus, Clark." Zayn rolls his eyes. "What d'you mean Harry followed you?"

"Well Harry over here stole my cab. And now he's here. You know him?"

"Well, I mean," says Zayn, pinching his lower lip between his thumb and his forefinger. He shrugs and drops his hands into his lap. "Yeah."

It's such an inadequate answer that Clark isn't really sure how to respond. She just stares between the two of them for a long time. Harry doesn't seem like he's going to, like, attack her or anything, so Clark settles back beside Zayn with her eyes still narrowed on Annoying Taxi Boy - Harry, Zayn had called him.

He's got a long, thin frame, and his wet hair brushes the tops of his shoulders. His shirt is unbuttoned way too low, dipping down to reveal birds inked in his collarbones and the beginning of another unidentified tattoo just under his chest. He's gorgeous, really, so it's unfortunate that she hates him.

Clark tilts her head to the side. "Taxi boy. What are you doing in our apartment?"

"That's what I was trying to tell you before you attacked me, babe," Zayn grumbles. "Harry's the one staying with us for awhile. I told you a few weeks ago."

"...You're shitting me," she mumbles with disbelief.

"Nope," Harry answers, because apparently he thinks it's okay for him to speak.

Clark looks back helplessly at her roommate. "Please tell me you're shitting me."

Zayn's shoulders hunch, just a little bit, when he realizes that she's glaring at him.

Fuck.