remember that one time i told you guys i was going to write fic about hipster!harry who’s in an indie band and urban!zayn not wanting to join until he realizes that liam is a member of said band
well this is part one of that
Zayn should have seen it coming.
The thing is, Harry has always been obvious about it. He wears plaid shirts that he’s owned since high school, sweaters that he’s run through the wash close to a hundred times with faded stripes and matted fabric near the pocket. And sometimes he’ll even match his cardigans to his shoes—his ridiculous secondhand suede shoes with pointy toes and torn laces. And Harry, sweet Harry, is constantly taking photographs of things—stupid things, empty shopping carts and cloudy skies—then plastering his artsy pictures all over Instagram for the world to see.
Harry is, as firmly as he denies it, a hipster.
Such a hipster, in fact, that he has obscure albums stacked up the walls of the studio apartment he shares with Zayn, necklaces and braided friendship bracelets scattered around his bed, ridiculous band t-shirts and skinny jeans and TOMS stuffed in drawers.
And Zayn, Zayn isn’t a hipster. He avoids the moody cafes and the dreary music that filters through his windows from the streets below. He sticks to the snap-backs and baggy shorts and R&B that composed his childhood, clings to the urban scene.
But Zayn has been okay with Harry, for the most part, because Harry isn’t the in-your-face kind of hipster who tests people on their Bon Iver knowledge or anything. He’s just that quiet guy who doesn’t watch TV all that much, who likes to eat paninis, who considered veganism at one point but wasn’t too loud about it.
But fast forward to now. Now, when Zayn is standing in his doorway looking into his living room, mouth agape. There are four people situated in his apartment.
There’s Harry, which is fine, because Harry lives with him so he’s expected to be there. Harry’s presence is normal. And next to Harry is Louis, which makes sense because he’s been dating Harry for a few months now and they make out in the apartment pretty frequently. But Louis is holding a guitar, a classic-looking guitar with four strings and a sharpie-d exterior. Slightly less normal.
And next to Louis is this blonde kid, Niall, who sometimes sat in front of Zayn in English back when Zayn went to uni, but has never actually spoken to Zayn and has certainly never been in his apartment before. And Niall has this huge drum set in front of him and a pair of sticks in his hands that he’s tossing up, up, up, toward the brick ceiling before they come clattering down. And what the fuck, why are there drums in their apartment?
Then there’s this total stranger, this kid who Zayn has never seen in his life, going at a keyboard as if his life depends on it. He’s kind of cute, with the straightened hair and the white t-shirt that outlines the muscles of his arms that are moving, moving, moving. His eyes are crammed shut and his fingers are just flying over the keys and-
And Harry, Zayn realizes, is singing. Harry’s voice is deep and low and ricocheting off of the walls, and it’s accompanied by the tones of the keyboard and the dribbling beats of Niall’s drums and the moody strums of Louis’ guitar.
And there’s a motherfucking indie band playing in Zayn’s living room.