S-s-stutter [Zarry]

keepsakes

+Zayn

What was I thinking? Seriously. I scared him half to death. I shudder at the thought of him, so innocent, so unsuspecting, cornered by strangers. Pinned to a brick wall, defenseless. I squeeze my eyes shut but it's just so graphic. Fumbling with his zipper, yanking down his jeans. Like savages. Hunger flashing in their eyes, hands roaming his thighs and warm tears streaking his cheeks. Feeling helpless and weak and utterly worthless.

He isn't. I hope he knows that.

It makes me so angry I'm seeing stars. I swear if I knew those guys they'd be dead in a fucking ditch. They deserve to rot in hell. They-

I try to shake the thought.

The haze in my mind clears away and it's just flashes of sparkling emerald green eyes and scarlet cheeks.

Our fingers entwined, my heart quickening; pulse strumming like a drum.

We make our own rhythm. Our two pumping hearts, his face nuzzled in the crook of my neck, those chesnut brown curls tickling my skin.

It could lull me to sleep, the tick of his heart. The sound of his voice, sweet like dripping honey. Smooth like velvet. Rich like dark chocolate.

He probably didn't even notice how his stutter vanished on our date.

I did. I pick up on subtle things. Gestures and nuisances. His body language.

The crinkles at the corners of his eyes, his deep set dimples, the way he brushes curls out of his face and twiddles with the rings on his fingers. How he taps tabletops when he's anxious and bites his bottom lip when worried. His bright laughter and the sway of his hips when he walks.

He strides, shoulders back, chin up.

Unless he's sad. Sagging shoulders, slumped in a chair or sinking into the couch, eyes fixed on the floor or the ceiling. Hunched, hunkered, hiding. Adverting eye contact, clearing his throat. Mumbling.

Stuttering more than usual, his deep voice higher pitched. Cracking and faulting. Feet tapping the floor.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Rings scraping over the table. Scratching his chin, grimacing and wincing and pressing his eyelids shut.

Sometimes he's chatty. On rare occasions. Talking about his one-eyed rescue cat Dusty or telling some horrible joke.

I always laugh because it makes him happy, his eyes shimmering.

If I could capture that sound I would. Store it in my heart.

A keepsake.

There's a sliver of my heart carved out just for him. My favorite client. One of my closet friends.

Maybe that's pathetic but I don't have many friends. I'm a reserved guy. It's just me. No dad. No mum. No silly cat or furry dog.

Just some Rothko art prints and canvas art. Edison bulbs strung from bare wooden rafters. A vintage record player and a carton of cigarettes. A bookshelf filled with timeless classics and physiological thrillers.

Lots of tea and samosas and spicy chicken curry.

Burning incense and smoking weed. A closet jammed full of jackets. Demin and leather and satin bombers. Skinny jeans and a drawer packed with sweatpants.

My guilty pleasure.

Boots and trainers and a splurge pair of Gucci slides.

And hoodies galore.

Then there's my bed. Plain white. White sheets. White comforter. White pillows, a large bay window in my room allowing light to seep through in the mornings.

Filtering through my plain drapes.

Concrete flooring that's bloody cold in the winter.

I wonder if Harry is cozy at his place. I can see him with fuzzy blankets and decorative throws. Not a modern, industrial flat like mine but quaint. Warm and inviting.

Well loved books and brown vanilla sugar candles. Polaroid photos and fairy lights and plush rugs.

Maybe he'll invite me over. And maybe his flat will be just like I imagine it.

I know I'm crazy, creating a fantasy of what it looks like.

That's probably why I have no friends.

Ed is my closest friend. Pretty much my only friend besides Harry. A fiery redhead, chasing his dreams. Strumming a guitar with calloused fingers, singing his heart out. Pouring his soul into his music. He's a kind, gentle person. Always encouraging and supportive but also brutally honest.

He's really fucking talented.

I value our friendship. Late night calls and me crying into my phone. Us drinking until we can't see straight and smoking until our brains are fogged up.

Pouring our sadness and heartache over ice. Sharing our blunders. Bad blind dates. Being stood up. Me admitting my sexuality. Him helping me come to terms with it.

And then there's Harry. Knock knock jokes and him listening intently to my stories. Laughing and nodding along. Telling me I'm not stupid for flirting with a bloke that had a boyfriend by accident. In my defense, I didn't know. Assuring me it's okay to spill beer all over myself in a pub, to puke on the side of a curb, outside a nightclub.

Begging me to stop smoking. Pleading with his gleaming green eyes.

Asking me what it's like to be high. Me providing an explanation.

Him trying to teach me how to dance. Me stepping clumsily on his feet and admitting defeat. Him letting gravity tug him down. Tripping up and stumbling and laughing it off. And him humming some strangely familiar tune.

He's blessed too, never stutters when he sings. He has the voice of an angel. I keep forgetting to tell Ed he can sing.

I feel like they'd really get along.

It's 1:00 a.m. and I can't sleep. Keep rustling beneath the covers. So I phone Ed.

He picks up on the second ring.

"Are you fucking kidding me Zayn? I need my ginger sleep."

"Sorry," I chuckle. "I just need to tell you something important."

"Damn well better be," he grumbles. "You're lucky I'm not hungover."

"You might not be ready to settle down but I am. I'm tired of being lonely, of coming home to emptiness. Hearing my voice echo down the hall."

"What are you getting at? Do you wanna fuck or something? Geez Zayn. I mean I'll come over but I want fifty quid."

"You're so vulgar."

"And you aren't?"

I sigh dramatically and roll my eyes. I wish he could see me through the phone.

"My point is I found someone and I want to invite him over."

"Simple," he snorts. "Invite him over. Is he up for sex?"

"We aren't intimate yet. Calm your dick down. He...we aren't ready for that. But do you think it's too soon for him to come over? I don't want him to get the wrong idea."

I chew nervously at the inside of my lip. Remind me why I thought this was a good idea.

"Course not. Just snog and watch a movie or some sappy shit. He'll love it."

"You're no help," I laugh. "But I love you."

"Zayn," he says seriously.

"Ed," I reply sternly, biting back laughter.

"Do you love him?"

"I...I think I do."

A/N: DIS BISH KEEP UPDATING