Inspired by this video +
thanks to @ziampoets for the inspiration too, here’s a first part of a possible story to come some of which is under the cut as it’s
“This is the worst idea you’ve ever had Harry, even worse than the time you put me on that tv show for kids where I got gunged so I’d do better in the charts and I ended up getting covered in yellow god knows what and my single went down 20 places.”
Zayn glares at Harry whose facial expression changes several times from one of mock outrage to indignation to a smug smile.
“Yeah but the fun we had on all the Christmas cards and Birthday cards you received in the year after that though with your pouty face and that expensive haircut covered in yellow stuff, I mean who cares about your career when you give us material like that for years.”
Zayn mutters a swear word or three under his breath and questions once more why on earth he picked Harry Styles as his manager then as the driver stops the car and turns round from his seat to say, “We’ve arrived,” and Zayn looks out the window at the sign, he just wishes he could steal Marty McFly’s car and basically go back to when he ended up sat next to Harry at an event four years ago, and sit anywhere else but there.
The door opens next to him and Harry’s there holding it open and gesturing with a flourish towards the pavement and Zayn could hold the driver hostage, go back home and get his passport and travel to Australia and hide somewhere in the outback but Harry would probably be there first so there’s no use delaying the inevitable so he mutters a, “I really hate you,” which doesn’t even sound convincing to his own ears and jumps out the car.
It’s quiet on the streets but then again it would be as it’s just after 5am because this what he’s about to do, or think about doing more like, is top secret for at least a few more weeks and though it’s not the first time Zayn’s been up at 5am, it’s the first time he’s been up at 5am to go the gym.
He looks up at the sign, “Metaboli London’ and he could say no right now, he could turn away right now and Harry would try and persuade him, but ultimately Harry never forces anything, just like the gunge tank tv show, just like everything, and that’s why they work so well cause Harry as much as Zayn hates it, gets these things right and that’s why Zayn never says no, cause the reason his single plummeted twenty places was because it just wasn’t very good and yes he could say no to all this, and it goes so far against the grain that it’s crazy and yet he feels like if he doesn’t just try then he’ll regret it so before Harry can say anything before he can be that cajoling voice that’s more like his mum when he was trying to ride a bike for the first time, Zayn, strides forward and opens the door calling out, “Well are you coming?” before Harry can even blink.
Zayn’s not the first one there, there’s a few faces he recognises, the people Harry had mentioned would be taking part. He kind of knows a couple of them already, at least to say hello to, or in Louis Tomlinson’s case sing along drunkenly to Oasis songs at 4am at some crap showbiz party a few years back.
There’s a couple of daytime tv celebs and then a few others milling around who he sort of recognises but hasn’t a clue who they are and well, if he signs up to this, officially that is, then he guesses he’ll know them pretty damn well by the end of this journey.
“Here you go,” Harry slips a bottle of water into Zayn’s hand which Zayn pulls his face at.
“Water? Seriously Harry, does my face look like the face of a man that can even hold a conversation with someone at this time of the morning without a coffee in my hand or what?”
“Well it can definitely whinge for England at this time of the morning,” Harry responds drily, “Anyway, coffee dehydrates you and your body my friend needs to become a temple in the coming weeks if you aren’t gonna collapse and die on the first day out there so quit whining, have a sip or two of water and then, oh hey up, I think your motivation just walked into the room.”
Harry finishes his sentence with an accompanying waggle of his eyebrows and that’s all Zayn needs to know that someone fit’s walked into the room though fit in Harry’s eyes is a whole different kettle of fish to Zayn’s view of fit, but the sound of a someone clearing their throat pulls Zayn away from that thought as he undoes the lid of the bottle, turns around and well, okay maybe Harry’s idea of ‘fit’ isn’t all that different after all.
There are three fellas in front of them, two of them are engaged in conversation and nudging into each other laughing, one of them’s got bleached blonde hair with little bits of brown poking through at the roots, he’s whippet thin but there’s a solidity to him that speaks of someone able to take care of himself, and then the other guy is bigger and taller, dark haired and even from a little way away, Zayn can hear his Irish accent.
Then there’s the other guy who’s stood a little bit further apart, he’s about the middle in terms of height and size, he’s got hair and a lot of it, that looks far too artfully styled almost for this time of the morning and for a gym, and brown eyes, and even from here Zayn can appreciate the fella’s lips especially as he chews at them, he’s got a pair of pale yellow jogging bottoms on and a cream coloured top on, just like the smaller bloke, he’s whippet thin but as the guy puts his hands on his hips and blows out what seems to be a frustrated breath, Zayn can see his arm muscles and well, fuck, no one told him he’d have to wear looser jogging bottoms today.