This Thing Upon Me [Order The eBook] [Harry Styles]

Chapter 9 (Re-post)

Things hadn't been exactly copasetic between us in a while. We seemed to fight every time we met up those days. And it seemed we were having the same argument over and over—rehashing old talking points, both refusing to budge from self-serving positions. Both degenerating the conversation to petty insults and jabs whenever we weren't getting our way.

How many times had I called him a selfish dick? Too many to count. How many times had he called me a miserable twat? One could only imagine. Although these words may have sounded harsh to an outsider, overtime they had become more like dysfunctional terms of endearment. Backwards as f—k, but theoretically we only fought because we cared. Both of us wanted to stick around for as long as possible, and to do that, sometimes you had to go to war.

By now I was well aware that Zayn wanted an out. He wanted a fresh start and a break from the relentless pace we had taken up in 2010, which undoubtedly had begun to have adverse effects on his physical and mental health. I understood that, and longed for nothing more than him to be well and content. Problem was, no part of me could fathom or stomach a Zayn-less world.

**********

After flinging my earpieces onto the nearest sound cart, I caught up with him outside the stadium on his way to the bus. He was already puffing away on a Marlboro; the pack hanging out of his back pocket (black skinny jeans leaving nothing to the imagination). He had changed into a white tank-top midway through the show, and since it was oversized it billowed in the wind, exposing the lines of his lean figure. There was always an unaffected grace in the way he carried himself. It exuded confidence, sex, and dominance.

His cousin Jawaad chatted animatedly at his side, flinging his hands around and breaking into songs from the setlist every so often. It was late and warm out, and I could feel the exhaust from the two running busses several yards away. Z halted short of climbing onboard to finish off the cigarette, kicking idly at one of the tires in the meantime.

Sensing my approach, he glanced up and ran a hand through his hair, raising his brows a bit. Then he squinted through the smoke, eyeing the way I wrung my hands.

"Hey..." I said.

"Harreh..." Jawaad said, stepping away to speak with Preston [Z's security guard] a few feet away.

"It's warm out." Z muttered, brow furrowed, taking another drag and exhaling the smoke away from me. I watched the cherry flare and ash over, before venturing,

"Got a minute? Can we talk?"

"Um...sure. I guess..." He glanced around, shrugging. "Um, f'sure." He was already aware of how the conversation would play out (this owing to months and months of us having the same unresolved discussion). I always initiated it, and I guess my body language was a dead giveaway by now.

Z knocked the cherry off the tip of the cigarette and slid it back into the pack before indicating the stadium with a chuck of his chin. He wanted to go back inside, since neither bus would provide the privacy this conversation required. I followed wordlessly, watching his shirt fling about his body, buffeted by the night air. Once inside, he found a backstage storeroom that was lit only by a window overlooking a vacant part in the rear of the building. There was nothing to see there other than what appeared to be a few employee cars parked on a field in hopes of escaping the day to day madness of the main lot.

Inside, he moved to sit atop a desk pushed up against the right wall, with one boot planted into the seat of a metal chair. High stacks of supplies and boxes sat in a heap at the center of the floor and a few folding chairs against the far wall. The room was a mess and barely spared room enough for two bodies.

In a show of capitulation, I approached, leaning into him where he sat, forcing him to catch me. He laughed, wrapping his arms around me with a grunt. I took a hold of his face with both hands and watched him uncertainly.