olivia [zarry]

chapter two| your hands touching me, they're touching me

"Zayn," Harry says on a breath and promptly allows the vase to plummet down to his foot.

He's surprised to see him to say the least, but here he is, standing at the door of Harry's parents' cabin in the mountains, wrapped in a dark pea coat that accentuates his body, much to the delight of Harry's eyes, but can't possibly be keeping him warm enough because it's freezing outside, and he doesn't appear to be wearing much layers.

Unfortunately, Harry'll have to savour how good Zayn looks and inappropriately think of ways to warm him up another time, because right now, there are more pressing matters to be dealt with.

"Oh, fuck me!" He curses on a wince on impact, as he simultaneously experiences a staggering pain shooting through his right foot. "Are you shitting me?" Of all the mortifying situations his innate clumsiness has gotten him into, in the back of his mind, Harry absently rates this one in the top three. Kill him now, please.

"What the hell, Harreh," Zayn says in lieu of hello as his eyes enlarge at the glass shattering. He instantly drops his bag to the ground and rushes inside, slipping an arm carefully under Harry's to hold him up. "Fuck. You alright?"

His brown eyes are wide with worry, and Harry manages to nod slowly, despite almost getting sidetracked by them. He averts his gaze and also resolutely decides to ignore the first-degree burn he now feels present at his back. He's sure that it's just as a result of the cold unexpectedly rushing in and catching Harry in less than warm-enough-for-outside clothing or summat.

"Ever the fucking klutz, yeah?" Zayn goes on and slightly smirks because Harry was always particularly graceless around him, even more so than he usually was. He abruptly lifts him off his feet and sets him down a few feet away, out of all the shards of glass. "What are we going to do with you?" Harry tries his best to will the color staining his cheeks to go away- since when does he fucking blush- but it's not like Zayn's even noticed with the way he's glancing down at the mess Harry's made. "I have to clean this up. Don't set your foot down," he tells him sternly.

"'m fine," Harry stubbornly mutters because he's a fibber now, but that's expected with all the necessary little white lies he's convinced himself he's had to tell in last couple months. No, what's more surprising is the fact that he could even get words out with the way his heart is uncomfortably lodged in his throat. "I just cleaned that vase." He frowns down at it.

Zayn ignores that. "Can you walk?" He asks, still not looking at Harry, and Harry tries to turn a blind eye to how much he feels that he wants him to. His brow is furrowed as he surveys the damage, and Harry wants more than anything to smooth it out because Zayn shouldn't look like that. "Using the one foot," he elucidates. "Or I could carry you." He suddenly glances up, causing Harry to almost lose all breath at the intensity, the allure. Bloody hell. He can't seem to recall the last time he was physically this close to Zayn. He tends to forget (another lie) just how brown his eyes actually are, just how insanely dark and thick his eyelashes appear, just how- "Harry?"

"Hmm?" Was he staring? Fuck. He almost groans out loud. How did he manage to get himself in this situation? He's tried so hard this year to avoid this very thing. Well, not this very thing because that would be weird if he'd known that he'd end up in a situation like this where he'd idiotically hurt himself at a higher degree than he's used to because he's so pitifully uncoordinated, leaving Zayn to look at him like that, like he's concerned and cares, and- and- "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I think so. Walking. Walking's fine."

Zayn nods and slams the door shut behind them with his foot. He helps Harry amble over to the couch, still gripping onto him very tightly, not that Harry has noticed. He falls into it with a grunt. "You're such a clumsy idiot."