Neon Red [Order The eBook] [Zayn]

3

(DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. It's important to remember this is all totally fabricated, embellished, and exaggerated for entertainment purposes.)

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When he got cold, I brought him inside to the theater where we sat unaffected in the dark and kept talking like nothing had interrupted the earlier discussion. The projector was shut off, so we were surrounded by silence, apart from our own voices. There was a funny stench in this place, which I hadn't sat in for over a year. The seats needed to be aired. The carpet could do with a shampooing. This whole place could use a touch up actually; as it was musty and dusty as fuck.

We had taken our boots off at the door, now he propped his feet up on the back of the seat in front of us, flexing them about. His socks were slightly mismatched, but similar enough where he probably hadn't noticed when he was pulling them on. I wanted to rub his feet and get him a cup of hot cocoa, and help him unwind, but I figured I needed to ease into things. We'd taken our coats off too, so he was slowly but surely loosening up. Our elbows were touching on the armrest, and it felt right.

Rolling Stone had offered him a cover spot, which he accepted. He would tour sometime later this year, God willing, taking on iconic showrooms he had seen his idols play. Places he had dreamed of playing his entire life—undercutting his worth in my opinion—but I respected his decision to establish an intimate relationship with his audience before he returned to arenas. In them huge places the fans all sort of faded into the background and became a bedlam of screams and flailing hair and red-rimmed eyes. Without doubt, the smaller shows would be a nice warm-up for whatever came next.

"This here got me a bit down, I'll admit," he flexed the fingers of the injured hand. "Can't play as much as I'd like. M'thinking about surgery later this year—"

"Oh yeah?"

"—but that might set me back a bit more." He looked at me, hopeful I'd provide a solution.

"Better to get it o'va with before the shows start, I guess. What would they even do to it? It's not broken is it?"

"I've had it looked at a few times here and there last year. Nothing's broken really...just, uh, tight tendons or something."

"How'd youh even hurt it?"

"Jerking off too much—" We burst out laughing.

"To be honest, that wouldn't be the least bit surprisin'. If anyone injured their hand violently jerking off, it'd be youh, Haz—"

"Oh c'mon, mate, you jerk off way more than I do. I remember that shit—"

"Fuck off broh, youh know that's a lie! Youh literally can't goh a day, I'd bet." At that he laughed and buried his face in his palm because he knew it was true. I wanted to run my fingers through his hair. His grey Carhartt beanie was begging me to snatch it off.

"Touche, mate, touche..." he conceded, settling in the chair and tossing his head back over it.

"Takes one to know one, I suppose. Don't worry, you're not alone...my wrist is all fucked up." I assured him. He kept on about the things coming up this year. How it would make or break his life. He wondered if the fans would think he switched up too much and choose not support his new sound; or the new look; or the new crew.

"I'm sohhh jealous, broh...I tried to get a band together a while back. It's hard to trust people to stick around, yeah?"

"Well, sumtimes. But you, uh, just have to vet them better I find. I was lucky I guess, especially when I found Mitch—"