Chapter Text
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SEVEN MONTHS LATER
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Time is not a universal measurement.
That is certainly something Harry Styles knows to be true. It doesn't matter how much our lives are governed by the same seconds, minutes, hours, days, and weeks. Regardless of where we live on the planet, time will never be absolute. It depends on the person living it, their circumstances, who they are deep down.
Einstein says time is relative, that the speed at which one lives dictates how they perceive time, the rate at which they age, and even how other people appear when moving in an opposite direction. Or stood completely still.
Harry knows that time is relative, and that really, it’s just a fucking joke, because some mornings when he’s alone and groggy, with a cup of tea in their over-budget remodeled kitchen, he looks at the clock on the wall and feels about seventy years old. The breakneck speed of his childhood, growing up so fast, with so many hardships and emotional gut punches, he wonders if time has taken a toll on him. If that’s why it feels so wonky, why some years were barely blips on his radar, and some seemed to last a millennium. He sips his tea and thinks of his friends, of their clocks in their home kitchens, how their time is marching on. If it’s just as hurried and rushed as Harry's tends to seem, or if their time feels a bit more slowed down. If instead of seventy, if they feel their actual age.
He’ll have to ask Zayn how old he felt when he woke up this morning, to compare.
This morning especially, the morning of the big reveal.
A writer at heart, that’s the main thought that bounces around Harry's brain, as he walks around the Foster Montgomery campus with his hands in his pockets, how his final day as a student here feels like it was yesterday, and also another life entirely, at the same time. Today it's mid-afternoon in April. He tugs at his jacket from a slight breeze and almost reaches for the small notebook he keeps tucked next to the photocopy of his Zayn letter, since he wanted to keep the original safe in a box of trinkets in his home office. His first collection. He grips the notebook, deep in thought, because as always, he needs a journal on him, for moments like this, when something random pops into his head and he can’t seem to shake it.
Time. I used to be so afraid of it, tried so hard to hold onto it, so that nothing would change. God bless F.M., it sure hasn’t changed at all.
Harry has always agreed that time is relative, that even if he still sometimes moves too quickly through his life, Gemma can tell him one hour with a newborn feels about as long as a week, and that it feels different to everyone. But the thought smacked him across the face immediately when he stepped back onto the campus he knew and loved for four years. When he exited the Jag, suddenly at a complete standstill, and knew it for sure: time really is a fucking joke. He’s older, sure. But back here, he feels exactly as he did at eighteen.
Foster Montgomery. Lush and green again, coming alive after a harsh winter, Harry tries to take it all in. He weaves in between buildings and parked cars, goes to see the football field and tennis courts, the track, the stables. The air tickles his skin like it did then, here where everything makes sense.
F.M. is exactly as he left it.
It’s like stepping into a wormhole and coming out the other side, back in time. The school and the grounds, still picture perfect. It’s still all mountains and trees surrounding the students lounging around on a spring Saturday, the main gate at the entrance with its same phrase, even the signage for the individual buildings and dorms, unchanged. God, the dorms. Harry smiles to himself and heads towards Morton Hall, wonders if even with two new boys inside, does his senior dorm smell the way he left it, if it’s the same furniture, the same names carved into little crooks and crannies along the baseboards. He wonders if his stash’s hiding place is still there, the knowledge being passed down class to class, if the kid sleeping in his old bed had a bag of pills just like he used to. Harry sends up a silent prayer, hoping that isn’t the case, and that the current F.M. students aren’t as reckless as the students of yore, that after Wallace left for another job, they don't give their RA as much trouble. Maybe that’s the change, Harry thinks.
Right as Harry places his foot on the first step of Morton, he hears numerous cars honk their horns just over his shoulder. He startles and turns, holds a hand up over his eyes to block out the sun. His smile creeps up slowly, his heart almost leaps out of his chest.
Late, of course.
“More proof," Harry actually mutters to himself out loud, as he stands there smiling like an idiot at his family arriving for Zayn's big day, late by caravan. "Nothing ever really changes, does it?”
Zayn wanted to arrive with Louis, Gemma, and baby Winnie, asked them to pick him up on their way in from Philly. He said he wanted to catch up and check in on them, how it’s been with Winnie, gather a few thoughts for his speech, while also holding Winnie’s hand in the back seat. During the reveal later, Zayn needs to say a few words, give a bit of context, say some thank yous, and so far Harry had been no help at all. So he asked Harry to take the Jag, to meet them at the school, same as the other invited guests.
Harry watches each car pull in through the gate, park, begin to congregate and chat. Eventually he runs forward, to hold Winnie for a bit, as Gemma helps Louis with his tie, who is still helping Zayn gather his thoughts. Harry and Winnie look up at Morton together. He kisses her forehead over her curls, tells her she’s so amazing, so smart and sweet and beautiful, the best godchild and birthday buddy to ever exist. Then it's more hugs all around when their group greets more of Zayn's invited guests, the ones who had arrived on time. Harry holds Winnie tighter, afraid she'll catch a cold. He gives a polite nod to Yaser Malik, asks Gemma and Zayn's sisters if they’d like any water. Niall and his girlfriend, Liam and his fiancé. Jack fucking Darcy, in the flesh. Harry tells him how handsome his new boyfriend is, half-hugs him for a full minute and a half, which Jack allows even though he hates it, because he can't say no to Harry and because Winnie smiles at him.
It's almost time, so signals Jack and his watch alarm.
So before the dean of students gathers them all over near the tree line, Harry hands Winnie back to Gemma, and whispers for the boys to follow him. To go see it all.
They walk together, their group of five.
It’s nice, to explore more of their old stomping grounds not on his own, but with his best friends. The five of them. It’s their first time seeing each other since the wedding, laughing and joking as they check out the media arts center to make sure the Payne/Tomlinson donations haven’t gone to waste in the years since they graduated. The band rooms where they partied too hard and almost lost one of their own, the indoor pool, even the science lab where Zayn almost burned off his eyebrows sophomore year when that weird kid from Canada almost blew up their chemistry station. Zayn snorts when Harry reminds them of that, grabbing for Harry's hand to kiss his fingers.
They walk and talk, as students amble around them and hardly notice their presence at all. Now they are the old, weird alumni who come back to reminisce and talk about old memories, and these children could care less, semi-famous Harry and his old-news-book be damned.
Eventually the five of them go a bit quiet, as they loop back around to where the unveiling will take place. Harry reaches for Zayn's hand this time, to wind their fingers together. F.M. lives on as it always has, the memory of their fucked up class long gone. New kids live inside these walls, with new lessons to be learned. It’s theirs now, a new generation taking it all in for themselves. Not just the chemistry notes or French verbs, but how to navigate being in a place like this, alone and without family, finding new families, growing into themselves. Growing up.
As they join the main group near the massive tented sheet billowing in the wind, Harry tells the boys that he loves them. He says it a lot now, not just to Zayn, but to anyone he loves. They of course mostly make fun of him for being a sap, fuck up his hair, try to slap at his nuts. But Zayn brings their clasped hands up to kiss at Harry's fingers for about the millionth time since they got together, so in the end, it’s worth it and rather fitting for the five of them at F.M.
They all gather around the little podium set up near the billowing sheet. It's the dean, Zayn's guests, some faculty, and a few board members. Zayn's speech is concise, to the point, like he doesn't want to get over emotional. He reminds them all why they’re here: the board of directors at F.M. voted to give the grounds a bit of a spruce, beautify the gardens along the main road winding through campus, add additional benches and outdoor tables for students to study at when the weather was nice. And near the tree line, not far from where students used to (and probably still) sneak off to have unsupervised “get-togethers” in the dense woods, is where they wanted to commission an F.M. alum for a sculpture or piece of art. Zayn pulls off the sheet to reveal his work, to a chorus of oohs and ahhs.
He smiles and gives them a few seconds to appreciate the size of it, what he's been working so hard on.
And then he thanks Louis, who had heard about the school's plan and with just one phone call, a promise to donate more Tomlinson money the following year, Zayn Malik was chosen.
To the naked eye, it’s rather abstract. A massive metal sculpture Zayn has been slaving over for months now, out of the gallery just below his and Harry's Brooklyn apartment. Harry surprised Zayn by renting him an art space in the back room of the gallery owned by their now-friend Rich, only a few steps from their front door. Harry said that it was Zayn's personal place to work, a place to be alone, in the gallery were Rich now features some of Zayn's recent socially conscious inspired paintings. Harry arranged everything, he put a canvas sheet on the floor, new paint, wood and metal scraps, Zayn's sketches and other odd bits of art hung up on the walls. He even brought in a brand new tattoo needle and kit, for when Zayn wanted to fall back into his old tattooing habit, whenever he felt like his creative juices were running a bit dry. (Zayn loved it and they fucked right then and there on the sheet, knocked over two whole paint cans, which Rich almost murdered them for.)
Zayn loved his space. And ever since he was selected for the F.M. commission, in between studying for his classes, and adding to his personal portfolio, he has spent countless hours there, just him, a welding mask, and a blowtorch, for this. For their beloved alma mater.
The sculpture isn’t as big as the Arch statue on the opposite side of campus, the one students superstitiously kiss under for good luck. Zayn looks up at his abstract sculpture with pride, the two winding pieces of metal, dark and slightly scorched at the bottom where it rests against the earth, but lighter, thinner up towards the top. He says it represents the duality of F.M., as he experienced it over the years. A place to grow up, but the last place he ever felt like a kid. It’s where he found his lifelong friends, his partner, where he learned about himself, and grew into the man he is. But it’s also a place where it’s easy to feel pressure, anxiety over the future, the mounting fear of going out into the world as an adult. Zayn looks right at Harry, when he says he loved here, but lost here, too. And that the beauty of Foster Montgomery, for so many kids, is that it can be everything at once.
Harry loves it. He can’t believe that it’ll sit here on the F.M. grounds for the rest of time, near the woods that were so important to them once upon a time. At that moment, the sun hits the tips of the metal, and as if by magic or Zayn's touch, they appear to turn white. On fire. Zayn lets everyone clap at the sight of it, bows a little, since he asked the dean for this time of day to reveal it to everyone in the perfect light.
Zayn turns and looks to Harry, thanks him especially, since the sculpture also has a little plaque at the base of it, with words that have become very important to Zayn over the last few months. Words he asked Harry if he could borrow, to put a little of both of them into the piece.
“My thoughts create my world.
My words tell my story.
My actions dictate my future.”
Words by Harry Styles
Art by Zayn Malik
Harry's face goes a bit pink as Zayn reads his words to everyone, waves off their claps for him, looks at Zayn again and winks.
Zayn ends his speech by thanking everyone for coming, thanks the school for entrusting him to create something out of nothing, to give their campus a bit more artistic value. They all clap and cheer for him, Zayn's bashful head dipping when it gets to be too loud and excessive. Gemma kisses Zayn's cheek, gets lipstick all over him, as Winnie sleeps against her chest. And then F.M.’s hired photographer takes Zayn's picture with him stood next to his sculpture for the alumni newsletter, hands behind his back. He doesn’t smile right away, keeps that classic Malik edge to his eyes and set jaw. Gorgeous, beautiful Zayn Malik, in his custom jeans and another shirt he designed with his friend Maria, the jacket of Harry's he has suddenly claimed to be his own.
But once Niall whistles and Liam yells at him to smile, to cross his eyes or make that dumb face he used to make as a kid in photos, he can’t help it. Louis claps harder, tells everyone to look over at the Vogue cover model in their midst, until Zayn fully lets loose. He takes his hands from behind his back, puts one up on the sculpture itself, and pretends to pose with it.
Harry starts to get a bit misty eyed yet again, when Zayn smiles and smiles for more photos, with his father looking on. Yaser, who may never understand Zayn or his choices, who still doesn’t say much when Harry goes with Zayn to Malik Sunday dinners, came anyways. He held hands with Zayn's sisters, greeted Louis and all the rest of Zayn's friends as warmly as he was able to, and took about thirty pictures of Zayn as he spoke, to show Trisha later once she's back in town. Yaser came, he's here, because he loves his son and he knows it’s important to show up for the people you love. Just like Harry's parents, when they showed up for their big talk in Des's office before the wedding, Zayn's dad did too.
As adults, seeing their parents as adults, peers, as real, flawed people, has been the biggest revelation of the last year. Harry’s eyes get a bit wetter when Yaser asks Jack to take a picture of him with all of his children together near the sculpture, his arm around Zayn. Harry watches, his hands in his pockets, and a tear threatens to fall when he remembers the fact that Des asked him to get lunch next week, in between meetings and Harry writing his next novel, just because.
Because that's a thing they do now, the Styles family. They talk. They get lunch.
Now, as Zayn smiles wide, posing for more solo pictures next to the sculpture he secretly designed to represent him and Harry, them, their wrists in the woods and every body part that has touched since, Harry wipes his eyes, so that he can smile too. The two boys from “The Things I Don’t Ask,” the novel F.M. mostly pretends doesn’t exist, curled up here on their campus, on fire, scorching, when the sun hits it just right. Harry whistles for Zayn to model more and then winks again when Zayn sees him watching with a smile.
That's how they are, always have been. They smile. Because if Zayn is smiling, Harry is. That’s just how it works.
As the sun sets and the group begins to say their goodbyes, Zayn and Harry lean against Zayn's art for a few minutes alone. Zayn holds Harry's head in his hand. Cradles it the way he knows Harry likes, wrinkles his nose at Harry's mention of their long drive all the way home tonight. He kisses Harry, surrounded by all of their favorite people, never embarrassed to show affection. Harry isn’t sure the thrill of it will ever go away, having Zayn close to him like this, for anyone to see.
They kiss about five hundred times a day, now that they live together, their plan for a shared life well underway. Maybe they’ll get married, or maybe they won’t. Kids, a house in the suburbs, or maybe they’ll grow old in Brooklyn just the two of them, who knows. But the possibilities are endless, so many exciting paths to choose from, now that Harry can envision a future within all of those realms, and more. And there’s still a lot they want to do first anyways. Travel, hosting dinner parties, vacations with their found family. The future can wait, they can take their time figuring it out.
Even after all of the time they spend with their tongues in each other’s mouths, in their bed, in their massive shower that fits them both, this kiss on the grounds of F.M. back where it all started, might be one of Harry's favorites.
The picturesque and regal Foster Montgomery, the prestigious boarding school that has produced vice presidents, a Secretary of State, countless important people curing illnesses all over the world, will always be a special place for Harry and Zayn, and their little life together. As Gemma likes to remind them, “F.M. also shit out a New York Times best-selling author who has another book halfway finished, and an up-and-coming artist working out of an amazing gallery in Brooklyn, thank you very much.” She says F.M. is special because of them, too. Today Harry agrees with her, that what they have, what they are, is special. "Fucking epic," Zayn said once.
Harry inhales the fresh air, hears the wind in the trees around them, and kisses Zayn again. He’s not sure when they’ll be back on campus, maybe a future class reunion in a few years. He soaks it up while he can.
Eventually the dean and board members shake Zayn's hand, to return to their offices. Their guests head out, walking away from the sculpture near the woods, to get into their cars and go home to their own clocks in their kitchens, to their own versions of time. Harry and Zayn aren’t in any rush, they don’t have any babies waiting on them, no big plans for the night, no worries at all. They kiss a few more times, even whisper about some of their more R rated nights out in these woods, in the Jag, that one amazing time in the dorm shower.
But in true Jack Darcy fashion, he calls out to them, says to hurry up before the sun goes down, to not get lost in the woods, to be careful.
Zayn rolls his eyes at that, but yells back that they’re coming.
So they do as Jack asks. Hand in hand, they slowly make their way towards the Jag, time slowed down to where it should be, not as fast, not as crazed. Harry asks what Zayn wants for a late dinner, if he has anything in mind for them to cook. Or maybe they could pick up some takeout once they’re back in the city.
Zayn snorts and says that if they do pick up food, it cannot be salads, and instead has to be something greasy and unhealthy. Harry will have to suck it up and eat fried food, just for tonight, Zayn's night, and since Harry got a whole book tour and a party to celebrate his big accomplishment, Zayn should at least be allowed to clog his arteries if he so chooses.
Harry shakes his head in disagreement, but of course gives in and says a burger sounds good, even if a salad would be the better, more mature choice.
Their last conversation while on the grounds of Foster Montgomery that night is very mundane. The choice they need to make, this time, is ordinary and boring. The kind of choice an old married couple might make together, a silly disagreement about dinner and how vegetable-dense salads are good for the body.
It’s not a life altering discussion, no wise words or deep questions between them. Nothing memorable or important, just a simple back and forth about nothing, two people in love and without any worries about the future.
No eye twitches, no thoughts of running if it gets too hard. Their choice to be together, to choose each other for real and for always, has been made.
They’re solid.
Happy and content.
And after everything they’ve been through, after all of the time they spent together in secret, and then apart, Harry Styles and Zayn Malik wouldn’t have it any other way.
THE END
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