S-s-stutter [Zarry]

symphony of syllables

+Zayn

There's something about Harry.

The sadness in his emerald eyes and the way he gets so lost in thought, twiddling his thumbs and chewing at his bottom lip.

Something unnerving and terribly sad.

Because Harry is beautiful. He's bouncy curls and a nice smile and deeply set dimples. He's porcelain skin and rosy cheeks.

He's been victimized.

That's what he tells me. Victimized by dry, rough lips and wandering hands and dominant tones in the dark of night, shadows casting from dim lamp light.

Near a dumpster of all things, feeling just as worthless as its contents.

Being violated and exposed and vulnerable and ashamed. Too embarrassed to call for help, stuttering out for them to stop.

And I wonder why things happen, why someone would want to strip away his innocence. How someone could just make him bleed out and cry out and discard him like waste.

Harry is sensitive. He has a soft heart and a gentle soul and he's a good listener. He's silly too, giving me small smiles and bright laughter.

If I'm lucky of course.

Because he has mostly shut himself off. He's a recluse, a spider dangling in a web he wove just so he won't get hurt again.

Hesitant to talk to me.

But it's been three months and he trusts me now. Talks to me a bit about trivial things.

I like the sound of his voice. I'm sure he hates it, the way he struggles to spit out simple syllables, he just can't quite string them together.

But I could listen to him all day.

I know I shouldn't have kissed him. He's scared of this; of physical contact but I would never hurt him.

When he gazes down at the carpet bashfully, his cheeks flushed crimson I hope he understands that.

"I tried to scrub away the taste of his lips, tried to wash the memories down the drain but they just swirled all around me and suffocated me. I'm still afraid of the dark," he admits. "It's so fucking stupid."

"No it isn't," I whisper back. "It's okay to be afraid Harry."

"Most people aren't scared of sex," he jeers. "Nobody understands. They don't-" he turns away from me, another tear slipping down his face. "I've said too much."

"Harry, look at me."

My hand beneath his chin, titling his face up, my thumb running along his bottom lip.

"You didn't stutter at all just then. I mean...it doesn't matter if you do. It isn't something to be self-conscious about. Your voice is a symphony of soft syllables; violin strings and piano keys."

Harry is a sad soliloquy.

Harmomics and articulation and complex vibrations and him humming when I kiss him again, just briefly.

Someone has been plucking at his strings too harshly. Jarring, brassy sounds. He doesn't sound sweet, he's weeping. Singing out in minor key but there is no intermission.

No audience.

Nobody hears a sound. So it transforms into silence and his music fades away.

Diminishing, growing gradually softer.

Then a dramatic decrescendo.

His heart beating unsteadily, hitching.

Strumming like a drum. Pounding, pouding, fear coursing through his veins and gasping for air.

"Maybe I don't know what it's like but it hurts, seeing you like this. I don't want to imagine it...picture what they did that could make you break like this."

So he latches onto me and my fingers continue to knot up his hair and the clock ticks on the wall.

I'm aware that his scheduled appointment is over but my body is glued in place and he isn't letting go.

Clutch onto me and drench my shirt with tears and I promise your eyes will never be wet with them again.

That's what my heart says but my mouth doesn't move.

It's just the tick tock of the clock and my heart and his heart.

Connected. Finding a common rhythm. Communicating.

His body is warm, pressed against mine and he smells like strawberries.

I have to painstakingly break the silence.

"I think it's time for you to go. I'll see you next Thursday, yeah?"

He shakes his head furiously, blinking back tears.

"C-can I s-s-see you before then?"

There goes his tongue tripping up again, his words faltering, fumbling for the right things to say.

"Uh...of course you can babe. Here," I rip a page out of my notepad and scribble down an address.

"What's this, your place?"

His eraser pink tongue flicks over him lip, his eyes darting up towards me.

"Coffee date, this Saturday" I smile. "S'that okay?"

"Um," he bites his lip bashfully, his cheeks flaming. "Yeah that sounds nice."

"Hey," I press my nose to his and he giggles. "Why are you blushing?"

"Stop," he bats his lashes, casting his glance downward.

"Okay," I reply gently. "Don't stand me up."

"I won't Zayn."

He skips to the door and I laugh, my heart fluttering in my chest. Who knew it had wings?

This is how Harry should always be. Happy and carefree and spirited. Excited about the future.

Not scared.

"Saturday," he sighs softly.

"Saturday," I return a small smile.

And he's all I can think about the rest of the day, my heart pounding in my chest.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

I'm pathetic, wondering what coffee he likes. Cold brew or espresso or a mocha or cappuccino...soy milk? Extra whipped cream? Black?

I eliminate the last one. Too bitter for someone so sweet.

Maybe he likes medium roast or french vanilla.

This is absurd.

Pull yourself together Zayn.

I try to shake the thought but when it grows dark outside and my head hits the pillow it's images of him behind my closed eyelids.

The boy with soft lips and a stutter that I don't mind a bit.