Chapter Text
july, 2014
Like most things do, it starts with a question. So quiet it can barely be heard, but so potent it can almost be seen. It comes out of Harry’s mouth hazy and in the midst of sleep. He’s tucked into Gemma’s side, summer breeze drifting in through the open rafters of the church, and he’s watching a girl and boy touch faces.
“Can boys like boys?” he whispers.
Gemma tilts her head, and her face is a silhouette against the dark blue washed canvas of their 8pm curfew.
“Why?”
“Just curious.”
“You mean...like, like like?”
Harry hums. It strikes him now that it may have been a bad idea to ask, and that Gemma probably doesn’t even know herself. It’s not that he’s worried the answer will be no; he’s more nervous the answer will be yes, because that will mean he has bigger thoughts to conquer.
“Anyone can like anyone, Haz. Long as they’re a good person. And happy.”
“Hm.” His gaze drifts back over to the boy and girl, maybe a couple years older than him. They must be just on the cusp of aging out of the shelter system. They’ll have to live on the streets soon, until the camps catch them.
He’s not sure why this information seems relevant to him at this moment, but at the answer he receives, he settles deeper into the corner crevice of the chapel, and sighs to himself. He might need it later, is the thing. When he’s older. So Harry tucks the thought away into the back of his brain, saving it for whenever that ‘later’ comes, and falls asleep.
april, 2015
He’s fifteen, and they’ve survived the winter.
It had been harsh. Really harsh. The food had run out in January, and the water in February, and everything had frozen over in March’s vortex. But the ice has finally melted, and the shelters have space again, because in the warmer months it’s easier to keep moving. Harry’s not scared of dying like he is when it’s cold, and so he detenses a little bit, starts staying up to watch the sunset before disappearing into whatever chapel they’re holed up in for the night.
Tonight they’re in Stafford, just outside of Wolverhampton, and the place is rather industrial. They’d walked down some train tracks to get here.
It’s important that Harry stays close to Gemma’s side throughout their admission to a shelter, to prove that they’re siblings, and that he’s young enough to be let in. In a year from now, he’ll have to begin providing proof of age and his relationship to Gemma, because boys over sixteen aren’t let in unless they’re with a sibling. Harry’s not looking forward to being sixteen. He doesn’t have any proof of his age.
They get inside, and Gemma makes a beeline for the restroom, which leaves Harry to entertain himself until she’s addressed her appearance. He’s balancing on the pews, pacing, when he looks up to see a group of boys about his age perched on the rafters. Their legs are swinging, and Harry has no idea how they got up there.
He sticks his hands in his pockets and squints up at them. They’re not up high, or else they would get yelled at. A boy on the far left, one with curly blonde hair, is wearing a ragged pair of Timberland boots. They look warm. Harry could use a nice pair of boots like that. His own are falling apart.
“What’re you starin’ at?” one of the boys shouts, and, startled, Harry realizes they’re addressing him.
Harry just shakes his head, cheeks flaming, and keeps walking.
It’s supper a few hours later, and the children in the shelter gather in the chapel for the night to prepare for sleep. Harry catches sight of the blonde boy again, scooping stew into his mouth hungrily, boots gleaming in the light. Harry’s not fast enough to look away; the boy turns to see him staring, and Harry flinches automatically, waiting to be reprimanded.
The boy doesn’t reprimand him. He just offers Harry a small smile and a wave.
Twenty minutes before curfew, when Harry retreats to the back to wash up, he runs into the same boy. He’s cradling a book in one hand and a toothbrush in the other.
“Sorry,” Harry says automatically, because they’d almost walked right into each other.
“That’s okay,” the boy replies. “What’s your name?”
Harry blinks. His name? The boy wants to know his name?
“Harry,” Harry replies slowly, and a little cautiously.
“I’m Joe,” Joe answers. “You from around here?”
The questions seem suspicious, but Harry’s not really thinking about that. He’s thinking about Joe, and Joe’s blue eyes, and his nice smile. He’s not even thinking about Joe’s boots anymore.
“Manchester,” Harry says. “With my sister. We move around a lot.”
Joe grins. He has a dimple in his chin. “Nice. Same with these guys. We’re almost too old. It is what it is, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Harry echoes.
There’s a somber moment of silence, and then Joe laughs a little. “Well, I’ll let you get to it. You’ll be around tomorrow?”
Harry feels a little pink in the face and a little dizzy with the sensation of talking to another boy his age. “Of course.”
“Sick. I’ll see you around, Harry.” Without another word, Joe leaves and goes to bed. Five minutes later, Harry is standing in the exact same spot.
*
Harry and Gemma are around for three more days, and in these three days, Joe and Harry become very good friends, to the point where Harry is with him more than he’s with Gemma.
He doesn’t feel guilty, but he feels a little guilty about not being guilty. Joe is really sweet. He doesn’t treat Harry like a little kid. They eat supper together the last two nights, and they sit so close their shoulders are touching. Harry feels giddy and glowing with the attention.
“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Harry reminds Joe their last night, legs swinging from the rafters, but this time he has Joe to himself.
“I know. Gonna miss you, to be honest.”
Harry’s heart pounds. “Really?”
“Of course. You’re sweet. And just look at your curls.” Joe tugs one for good measure, which leaves Harry a right giggly mess.
The curfew bell rings, and Harry and Joe climb down from the beam in the roof.
“Sun up,” Harry murmurs before they go to bed. “Will you be awake?”
“Definitely,” Joe says back.
The next morning, Gemma packs up all their things and they sign out of the Stafford shelter. Joe is waiting by the door for Harry.
“Safe travels,” Joe says softly. “I hope I see you around sometime, Harry.”
“You too,” Harry answers. “Watch your back out there.”
Abruptly, Joe shoves his Timberlands into Harry’s hands. Harry stands there looking down at them, his mouth hanging open.
“For me?”
“Of course. They’re good shoes. You’ll need ‘em.” And then...Joe leans in and kisses Harry’s cheek, very, very gently.
“Oh,” Harry says, feeling like he’s burst into flames suddenly. “I...thank you. So much.”
“Don’t mention it,” Joe says, lips turned up in a tiny smile. “Bye, Harry.”
“Bye, Joe.”
Gemma practically drags him out of the church by his hair, and then they’re on the road again. Harry thinks about that little thought he’d tucked away the year before.
Hm. Funny.
november, 2016
“You’re shaking.”
Harry looks down at his hands. They’re all raw and bleeding, nails bitten down. The boy in front of him is right. Harry’s been trembling since they’d let him out of the truck. It’s an awful kind of fear, one that he knows he’ll feel for a long time. One he won’t ever be able to shake.
“Are you cold?”
If there weren’t screams coming from every direction, half from the batch of boys the camp had caught from the shelter, and half from Harry’s own head, he would probably start wailing right about now. He feels like throwing up, except there’s nothing in his stomach.
Harry nods.
He finds out, shortly after, that the boy’s name is Z. And his sister is probably dead. Harry thinks they could find a way out of here.
But Z doesn’t talk to Harry again for a while.
*
It’s been two months since camp caught him now, two months since he’s seen Gemma, two months since he last breathed real air.
He hasn’t really spoken to anyone. He watches a lot. There’s just...there’s just so many people. So many boys. More than he knows how to function around. Gemma had always kept him close, kept him on the girls’ side of the shelter, never taken her eyes off him. But none of these boys give two shits about him.
Except. Harry catches Z staring at him every now and again. His eyes are full of something, but Harry’s never able to look at them long enough to figure out what it is.
Nonetheless, Harry’s never felt more alone.
spring, 2017
Admittedly, Harry’s been a little dramatic with the several month long adjustment.
He feels like he sort of has a right to, though, and maybe that makes him a shitty person, but he can’t be judged terribly hard on that front. Harry passes their first military exams with flying colors. The board by the head cabin has their rankings pinned to the door.
Harry is number one.
Face burning, he can barely hide his smile. His squad is congratulating him, slapping him on the shoulder playfully. He’s getting some dirty looks from the older boys, the over 18s.
“Good job,” Z says quietly in passing, his mouth quirked up in an amused smirk.
And then...holy shit. The light changes a little bit, a deliciously golden sunset, and suddenly Z is the prettiest person Harry’s ever seen. Harry thinks he falls in love the second Z makes direct eye contact with him.
“Do you wanna pick flowers with me?” Harry blurts out.
Z gets all squinty and smiley. “Okay.”
*
Harry returns to his tent with two peonies he tucks into his journal as bookmarks. He feels pretty good.
*
Harry and Z are inseparable within the week. Harry wonders, maybe, if they could be more; Z makes him happy, he’s a sweet personality and nice to look at, and Gemma had told him all that time ago that it’s okay to be happy. Harry’s gotten rather clingy, and they sit close together often, Z playing with his overgrown hair out of boredom sometimes.
Harry’s waiting for when summer hits, so he can begin to estimate what month it is, but it’s chilly during supper one evening, and Harry forgets himself, and rests his head on Z’s shoulder, yawning.
A guard grabs him by the throat and beats him into the ground in front of everyone. Then he’s thrown in solitary for the night, and he pretends he can’t feel bugs crawling up his legs and arms in the dark.
summer, 2017
He needs to stop.
He touches the back of Z’s hand to get his attention, and a guard slaps him on the cheek. He pinches a strand of Z’s hair after it’s been messed up from the rain, and he almost has his wrist broken. He links arms with Z on the first warm-ish day of the year, and he’s clocked in the jaw, so hard he can’t eat for two days.
Harry wishes Gemma was here to set things right, but she isn’t, so Harry stops touching Z.
After a bit, he stops smiling at Z too. He still forgets himself sometimes and the guards hurt him for it, so he decides to stop making eye contact with Z.
With anyone, for that matter.
*
They take him to the head cabin, and he almost breaks down in tears.
He hasn’t even done anything wrong. He’s been so well behaved lately, not interacting with any of the other soldiers outside of his cabin, not talking, eating all his food. There’s a pit forming in his stomach, and he almost throws up when his escort shuts him in a tiny room, adorned with decorations and office-y things he’s never seen before in the vicinity of this camp.
Nobody comes in for a while, so he sits in silence and wills his heart to slow down. Then the door slides open, and in walks one of the head guards, the kind of person Harry’s told to never look at, speak to, think about. Harry freezes, seals his lips, and averts his gaze down to the floor.
“Harry Styles?”
Harry nods automatically. The man speaks with an odd accent, and Harry catches sight of his hand, covered in metal rings.
“You can look at me.”
Trembling, Harry does. The man’s face is rough and unkind. Harry fears he’s about to be killed.
“Your scores are good,” the guard says. “How old are you?”
He has to clear his throat before speaking, because his airway’s closed up. “Seventeen, sir.”
“Stand up.”
Harry does.
“Are you a cheater?”
“Wh...I’m sorry, sir?”
“Do you cheat?” the guard asks harshly.
“N--no, sir,” Harry stammers.
“How are your scores so high then?”
Harry stares at him dumbly, opening his mouth uselessly, but he’s already taken too long. He still doesn’t have an answer when the man’s heavy hand slams into his throat, forcing Harry against the wall behind him. Suddenly he can’t breathe.
He flails weakly, pulls at the man’s arm, scratches down his skin, because Harry’s eyes are bulging out of their sockets and his lips feel like they’re swelling and he can’t see anything . And then, just when he thinks he’s going to die, the hand is removed, and he drops limply to the floor.
A lot happens after this, a lot that Harry knows is happening but can’t do anything about. He’s crying, he’s sure of that; he tries to scream but his throat is all swollen and nothing comes out. The whole time, the man tells Harry if he says anything, he’ll be killed.
The man leaves eventually, just leaves Harry an empty shell, swollen and bruised and paralyzed with terror. Harry lies there, and time drags on, and Harry wishes he could call for help, but he can’t, so he weeps.
And now’s when the shame sets in.
Harry wishes the man had just killed him instead.
fall, 2017
Harry tries for a month to wash the man’s fingerprints off his skin, but it doesn’t work, so he stops trying.
Z also stops trying to get him to talk again. He knows something’s happened, but Harry won’t tell him.
And so the leaves change color, the days roll by sluggishly, bleeding into the next, and just as Harry thinks he might be able to live again, might be able to endure looking Z in the face, he’s taken to that room again.
He puts up an insane fight this time. Screaming, clawing, biting, every violent gesture he can possibly conjure up, even this weak. But it doesn’t work. Harry never wins; he knows that by now.
He doesn’t see the same person when he looks in the mirror.
december, 2017
“It’s December 14th.”
Harry hasn’t cried in a while now. He stopped after the fourth time; he’s become rather hardened, after everything. But there’s a new kid in his cabin, this bleach blonde haired, blue eyed kid who looks a little like Joe, if Joe is still alive, and something about the way he’s peering over Harry’s shoulder at the estimated date in his journal makes Harry want to wail .
Well. The kid is beaten on his second day at camp. Harry watches it happen. Harry watches it because it was his fault.
The kid’s name is Niall, and he’d offered Harry some food off his own plate, and Harry hadn’t had time to decline before the guards were on him like mad dogs, tearing him off the bench and throwing him into the dirt. Niall’s been left with a black eye, and a bloody nose, and that night, even in the shelter of their cabin, the poor kid won’t stop shaking.
“I’m--” Harry means to say he’s sorry, built up in a burst of courage, but Niall stops him before he can even get the word out.
“Don’t. Was my choice, wasn’t it? No need to say sorry.”
Niall has a thick Irish accent, which means he’d gotten far before being caught and taken to Manchester.
“You’re H, aren’t ya’?” Niall asks kindly, leaning forward from his perch on his bunk.
Harry nods, very careful to not look in Niall’s eyes.
“Ah. So you’re the top lad, then?”
“I dunno.”
Niall grins, and Harry’s stomach flutters.
“Don’t hide it. You gotta find things that make you special. Being top lad’s a good one. Hold onto that.”
Harry looks across the cabin. Z is watching him.
harry’s birthday, 2018
“Please, H.”
“I can’t.”
“H. You’re bleeding.”
“Don’t touch me.”
“You’ve scrubbed your skin raw.” Z takes a gentle hold of Harry’s hand, which is red and blistered with the kitchen’s hot water. Harry has to resist the urge to throw him off with all his strength. “Jesus, show me your hand.”
Harry’s going to kill the person who’d put their shift together tonight. Harry had thought he’d been completely inconspicuous up until now; not talking to anyone unless he’s had to, keeping to himself and his journal. But Z is smart, and he’s finally figured it out. He’s seen the bruises on Harry’s lower back, and around his throat. Z has put two and two together.
Harry must be mumbling nonsense, ready to tear out his hair, but Zayn catches some words here and there.
“You’re clean. H. Look at your hands? There’s no dirt.”
It’s freezing outside, but there’s sweat all down Harry’s face. He feels like he can’t breathe. Everything feels sticky and disgusting and he’s repulsed at himself, at the germs all over him, and the bug bites, and the bruises. He just wants to be clean.
“Not dirt,” Harry manages miserably. Z looks awfully distressed. “Please, please don’t tell anyone.”
“They can’t do this to you,” Z says, mouth set in a line.
“They can. They are . Just please promise me you won’t tell anyone, I’m fine, just--these clothes are so dirty--”
“Breathe, H.”
Throat aching, Harry drops into a sitting position on the frozen ground, and tucks his head in between his knees. He thinks if he could only make himself smaller, he could just disappear.
But he does what Z says. He squeezes his eyes shut and pushes air out of his lungs until his vision clears and his mind feels less foggy.
“Listen to me, H.” Z touches his calf gently, and Harry hiccups. “It feels like they’re taking everything from you, but they’re not. This is just a thing. You’re still you. You don’t need to change a bit. You understand me? They haven’t taken anything. ”
Harry doesn’t say anything; he’s not sure he could if he tried.
“You’re strong. You’re stronger than they are. Don’t let them take away who you are.”
Z’s voice is almost in a whisper, but Harry hears all of it clear as day. Not any outside noise; not the hot water dripping into the sink, not the stove crackling away.
“You’re still you ,” Z repeats.
Harry looks over at the winking camera in the upper corner of the kitchen. They’ll pay hell for this later.
But Harry’s alive. That, right now, is all that matters.
march, 2018
It gets better.
Harry doesn’t know how it does, but it does. Z helps a lot. He teaches Harry how to be human again.
Z finds all the best, secret places for them to be close, and all the blind spots where they can talk to each other. Behind the kitchens. The wheatfield. Niall and Ed haven’t caught on yet, but Harry thinks they will soon, and funnily, he’s not worried. They’ve formed a pretty tight knit group since Harry’s opened up again. They’re all happier, and Harry can’t help but figure that’s because of him. It’s nice to be needed.
Talking and being close to Z turns into grazing knuckles, which turns into holding hands, and Harry isn’t so scared of himself anymore.
Z kisses him on the first day of spring. It’s perfect. Harry feels a little more clean.
*
They kiss a lot after that. It’s normal.
The assaults don’t stop. Neither do the regular public beatings. Harry stops resisting, because there’s no point to it. Z had told him to take his mind to another place while it’s happening, so Harry does. And he thinks it works, because he doesn’t feel as broken when it’s over. He just lives for a while. Spring drags on slowly, and turns into summer. Him, Z, Ed, and Niall are inseparable. There’s not a minute they aren’t together. They dye Niall’s hair, and Ed teaches them how to read music, and Z and Harry hide in their secret spots and kiss until the sun disappears.
It’s been a month since the last time, and Harry thinks things are finally looking up.
Then their mission fails. And Ed dies. And Niall probably won’t ever walk again.
And it’s all Harry’s fault.
may, 2018
Harry is shot in the chest on a mission.
He can’t help but think he deserves it. That is, once he’s realized he isn’t going to die.
july, 2018
Disease.
Heat makes it worse. Boys start getting sick, and then they start dying, and...fuck, is that a welt on Harry’s shoulder?
They take him in the middle of the night. He doesn’t know how they found out, because he’s not showing any symptoms. Z is the only one who knows about Harry’s welt, anyway, and he wouldn’t tell a soul, would he?
september, 2018
Warmth is leaving, and quickly.
Winter will be here soon. Z develops a sense of urgency, out of nowhere, and asks Harry if they can do it. Harry panics. Z has to coddle him out of his tears.
Harry, really, is waiting for the next assault. But it doesn’t come. It hasn’t in a couple months now. He feels more himself than he has in a while. So he complies, reluctantly, but in the end, he’s glad he does.
Z is sweet, and caring, and everything Harry’s never had. Harry thinks he’s in love with Z.
Falling in love will end up being the worst decision he’s made in his entire life, but now, it feels right.
january, 2019
Z lied.
Harry does the only thing he knows; he flees, and he tries to forget.