"You're really starting to creep me out, Hazza."
Niall's words make my grin falter slightly and I glance over to see him side-eyeing me like I'm a crazy person who might attack him any second. This makes me laugh deep in my chest and his expression only grows more extreme.
"I'm happy, how is that creepy?" I laugh, pulling on my shoes and checking my phone again for what feels like the hundredth time.
"Because your grin looks like a serial killer's."
But, I am barely paying attention to his amused tone because my phone vibrates just as I am taking it out of my pocket and that serial killer grin only grows, actually painful this time with how wide it is.
Red: Actually, Twinkies don't last forever either... They only last up to 45 dyas. They wouldn't survive an apocalypse anyway.
Red: *Days. Ugh, texting is hard. My thumbs are too fat for this.
The giggle that falls from my lips surprises even me and I catch Niall pretending to gag before he rolls his eyes and heads out the door for work. I plop down on his place on the couch and think of a reply.
It's only been a week since we had dinner at my mum's, but Layla and I have barely seen each other.
I've had to work doubles at the shop almost every day to make enough money to pay my mum's hospital bills and any free time I do have I have either spent painting or sleeping.
Layla has been busy herself at the café, taking more shifts than necessary without telling me why. And all her other time... Well, I'm not exactly sure what she does, but she is almost never at home.
Texting has been our go-to for communication: mostly just chatting about our lives or funny things we saw that day or asking random questions, like our conversation now - what we would take in the apocalypse.
But, with our opposite schedules and Layla's terrible texting manner it's been difficult.
I miss her.
Me: Well, we don't even have Twinkies in England so you'd be shit out of luck anyway.
Red: You... You don't have twinkies here?!
Me: Nope... surprised you wouldn't know that, Miss Encyclopedia.
Her reply is instant and makes my grin only grow and the ache in my chest only deepen.
Red: I don't think I can live here anymore. What kind of place doesn't have Hostess?
Me: If you move now then you will ruin my plans on what to have in the apocalypse.
Red: Why? What would you take?
Me: You.
I wait.
And I wait. And I wait.
When she doesn't reply within two minutes I begin to worry that I had scared her off again, that I was getting too mushy and it was too much for her.
Those moments don't happen often anymore, but on the days I do see her I have to be careful not to smother her with too much affection. It's hard to always get a read on her and how she is feeling; one minute she could be holding my hand and laughing with me and the next... she is closed off and distant and doesn't want to be touched.
It's completely understandable, but I'm afraid one day I may push her too far too soon and she will pull away from me and never come back. And that would be it.
I would be done for –easily annihilated.
The smallest flick of her wrist, snap of her fingers and the fire she had started in my heart would be extinguished.
Gone without a mere flicker.
A sudden knock on my door pulls me out of my sullen thoughts and I trudge over, my mood suddenly dampened.
But, when I swing open the door and am met with fiery hair and jade eyes and a bright smile my heart flutters wildly in my chest and that same grin graces my lips again.
"You're such a dork, you know that?" But, her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are soft and she is biting a smile back from spreading on her face.
And almost impulsively, without even thinking about it, I am bending down and swooping her up into my arms, swinging her around the threshold and reveling in the squeal that falls from her lips.
It's only been three days since I last saw her face, but it feels like a lifetime.
When I finally set her back on the ground, she sways slightly, shoving my chest lightly and laughing, "What in the world was that for?"
"I just missed you is all."
She tucks her hair behind her ears and glances up at me, eyes growing soft at the excited expression on my face. A small smile tugs at her lips and she places her hands on my shoulders, standing up on her tiptoes.
So softly, I almost don't feel it, she presses a light kiss to my lips. But, even when she pulls away, a light blush on her cheeks, I can feel still feel them there.
"Hi."
"Hi," I breathe, closing the door behind her and tracing every inch of her face, "What are you doing here?"
"Eliza let me off early and... Well, I missed you, so I came here."
Her eyes dart down to the floor instantly and her ears tinge pink and my heart flutters wildly at her bashfulness. But, they quickly turn to sharp stabs in my chest when I remember what I have to do today.
"I have to paint today... I promised a client one of my pieces by tomorrow, but it's not finished yet."
Her smile only falters for a second before her eyes light up, "I can help you or just watch or whatever. I don't want to leave..."
"Are you sure? It's not exactly entertaining."
She smiles up at me, eyes crinkling at the corners, "As long as I'm with you I'm fine."
And I actually almost choke on my own spit and my heart squeezes painfully in my chest at her shocking words. Layla isn't one to really be this affectionate and open. She doesn't often tell me how she feels about me.
My heart swells in my chest and I wish I could record her saying it again so I can replay those warm words whenever I doubt her feelings.
It's not the three words I long to hear, but it's enough.
My excitement turns into nerves when she begins to lead the way towards the door I always keep closed when she's here -a door leading to something I'm not sure how she'll react to.
"Wait Layla," I clasp her hand in mine and tug gently, but she only glances at me over her shoulder, "Before you go in there I should-"
But, her hand grasps the doorknob anyway and I practically fling myself against the door to stop her. She staggers back in shock, shaky palm to her chest. I sheepishly apologize for startling her, but she continues to look at me as if I'm crazy.
There seems to be a theme here...
"I just... Uhm..." My face is as hot as an oven as I try to think of something to say, avoiding Layla's curious gaze, "Remember that sketchbook I gave you?"
Her eyebrows raise in suspicion, eyes narrowed, "Yes... Why?"
"Well, you see," I laugh awkwardly trying to hide my blush, "It didn't... It didn't start there... There is... Uhm..."
I'm stuttering wildly until my words just die in my throat and are reborn as nervous chuckles, unstoppable and embarrassingly high-pitched.
Layla bites back a smile and much too fast to stop her she is reaching beneath my arm and shoving the door open in a flash. I stumble back and allow her in squeezing my eyes shut as tight as possible when I see her make a dead stop as soon as she enters.
I don't see her, but I can hear her light footsteps on the tarp I laid over the hardwood as she makes her way around the room.
I try to put myself in her shoes -try to imagine what she would feel or look like as her eyes take in the canvases on the wall, the ones stacked in the corners, the half-finished ones on easels.
Some of empty rooms with dusty furniture, some with mundane objects, some with abstract worlds that make no sense.
But, most... Most of her.
Just her eyes staring straight at you -the green leaking out of the canvas, just her silhouette against her balcony railing, a portrait of her face half-distorted -one side laughing and the other crying.
But, when I peak open my eyes she is stopped at the half-finished one on the easel.
Coming up from the bottom of the canvas is an inked arm with a hand that is grasping a hand belonging to the much fairer and freckled arm coming from the top. The focal point, though, is the red and angry burn on the inside of her palm.
It feels like that same hand is around my throat and grasping tight and I really didn't think this whole thing through.
"Layla..."
But, whatever I was going to say dies in my throat when her dainty fingers reach up to trace the pink paint before she flips the hand over and compares her real life scar to the one I depicted.
She still hasn't said anything but I can see the way her hand is shaking and I slowly approach her, making my presence known with my loud footsteps.
"You didn't quite get the frayed edges of the burn right." Her voice is steady and calm, like a ship staying afloat in an angry storm.
I glance from her vicious scar to the one on the painting and my heart constricts painfully. I slot myself behind her slowly, resting my head on her shoulder.
My hands slide down her arms slowly, leaving raised hairs in their wake, until I have her hand grasped in between. She watches as I trace my thumb over the puckered skin, the scar tissue rough.
"How did this happen?"
My voice is quiet and hesitant, though it is a question she suspected because she doesn't even flinch. She lets me caress the scar a bit longer, gathering her thoughts.
When she does speak again her voice sounds almost resigned. As if she is so used to living with the pain it hardly affects her anymore.
And I don't know if that is worse or better.
"I broke Louis' ashtray awhile back. Knocked it right off the table when I was dusting. It was his fathers and meant a lot to him, so there was no replacing it. And.... He needed something to put his cigarettes out on."
I feel the rage burning up inside of me like a hot inferno. How anybody could hurt this delicate-hearted girl in front of me in almost unfathomable. I can't even imagine the scene she is portraying: this man she loved whole heartedly yanking her palm towards him and stubbing out his cigarette on her flesh without even flinching.
It makes me sick to my stomach.
I would be lying if I said I didn't suspect the scar came from Him, but hearing it said aloud just spurs the beast in my belly –makes me want to find him and kill him for hurting her. But, it also has me wondering what other scars she may have under her clothes.
What other scars does she have besides this one and the oozing one on her heart?
I trace over the scar again and again, hoping my gentle touch could erase the burnt flesh, the memory of how it got there. But, we both know that's impossible.
She pulls her hand form my grasp in a flash and turns away from me before I can see the expression on her face.
I swallow down the bile in my throat and watch as she surveys the room once more, and I try to tamp down my anger, choosing to focus on the here and now and not the demons that try to claw out from the shadows and drag us down.
"I thought you would think this was creepy." I try desperately to bring back the light atmosphere between us.
Her fingers lightly brush against the only canvas I have hung up; one of her leaning against the balcony, staring out at the people below her, "Oh, it's definitely creepy."
I feel a deep heat rush to my cheeks and my jaw drops to the ground. She looks at me from over her shoulder, laughter on her lips, and the sun shining through her eyes.
"Only kidding," I exhale loudly, jutting my lips into a pout as she saunters towards me, drawing her lips into her mouth to stop from laughing. When she reaches me, she places a palm on my chest, "It's very endearing and a little bit... intimidating to know that you sketch me when I'm not looking."
"You're very sketchable."
She laughs heartily at my goofy grin, but her eyes catch on a painting just behind me, one I had raced to this room to start right after I met her; red hair flying in the wind, green eyes shocked and scared, hands grasping tight onto the railing as she tries to climb over onto my balcony.
She approaches it slowly, reaching out to touch the long-dried paint. She stares at it a long time before walking back over to me, eyes glazed over, and confusion written all over her face.
"This... This whole time... why did you never say anything?"
I grasp her hands in mine, entwining them as I try to formulate an appropriate answer, "Well... I had deluded myself into thinking that Jaime was the one I wanted and that I was just fascinated by you... And I knew that if I said anything it would just ruin our relationship."
A sad smile pulls up the corner of her lips and she slowly lowers her head to my chest, wrapping her arms around my waist. I revel in the attention – the rare affection I receive from someone so closed off.
"Thank you... For not giving up on me."
I feel a light pressure in the skin over my heart and look down to see her placing a soft kiss there. My fingers tap under her chin, pulling her face up a bit so I can place a soft, lingering kiss on her delicious lips.
"The evidence of how crazy I am about you is kind of all over this room. I think it's safe to say that would never happen."
She laughs into our kiss and it is the sweetest thing I have ever tasted.
We pull apart begrudgingly and I set up canvases back to back so I can watch her paint. I lend her some paint and a few brushes and watch -trying to hold back laughter- as she places her chin in her palm, sticks out her tongue, and scrunches up her eyebrows to decide what to paint.
We paint in silence for a few minutes, but my eyes almost subconsciously keep glancing her way. She's so concentrated on what she is painting -tongue stuck out and eyes squinting at her canvas that I have to force myself to paint so I don't end up bursting out in laughter.
But, when I glance back up at her fifteen minutes later, her eyes are on me.
Her clear eyes trace over every inch of my face as if I'm an art piece she is trying to dissect. When she finally lands on my eyes to see them on her she blinks in surprise, cheeks blushing violently.
"What?" She mumbles, eyes snapping back to her canvas, pretending she wasn't just staring at me.
"See anything interesting?"
She narrows her eyes at me, bites back a smile, "Oh shut it, you just had something on your face," She waves her hand -paintbrush and all- dismissively and I feel the flecks of leftover paint freckle my cheeks and the collar of my shirt.
I freeze instantly, Layla gasps and closes a hand over her mouth, trying to stifle laughter.
She bites her lip, cheeks redder than before, "See, I told you you had something on your face."
Calmly, I raise a finger to swipe my cheek, only to reveal fresh green paint. I smack my lips together, nodding my head and smiling at Layla. But, she must see something in my eyes because she stands from her stool and begins to back away slowly, hands up.
But, I already have the brush in hand and my legs are much longer than hers and before she can make it to the door I am bounding towards her and casting a bright red streak down her neck.
She freezes, glancing from the paintbrush and to my face multiple times, gasping dramatically and narrowing her eyes at my playful smile.
"This scene is all too familiar isn't it?"
Instantly, I'm all too aware of what she is referring to. A certain baking session a few months ago that involved chocolate fighting and licking it off of her skin.
I get goosebumps at the memory, my lip curling up into a smirk, "Well, I think if I tried to lick this off of you I would die."
Her eyes almost bulge out of her head and her cheeks turn as red as her hair at my outright mention of that day. Of what we did.
"Harry!" She scolds, biting back laughter and rubbing at the red stripe on her neck. I start to turn away to set down my brush, but her arm stops me, "Wait! Don't you dare peak at my painting it's not done yet."
And of course when she tells me not to, I have to.
So, I turn around and stop at her easel and am instantly torn between the urge to laugh hysterically or hug her until she can't breathe.
I laugh first.
Because there, so meticulously drawn, is a boy with outrageously fluffy brown hair, wide green eyes, misshapen tanned arms, smudgy black ink on his skin, and baggy black pants on his too long legs.
It's adorably awful.
I cover my mouth to stop the giggles and see Layla stomp up next to me from the corner of my eye. She knocks her shoulder into mine, huffing unhappily.
"Don't laugh, okay? I tried to paint you since you paint me all the time and it's only fair, but I obviously don't have your talent."
And the tips of her ears are pink and she is trying not to smile either and that is when I hug her.
She resists at first, though it is a feeble attempt. I swallow down the rest of my laughter and instead let that endearing painting dig Layla into my heart just a little bit more.
She is embedded there, beating beside my heart and pumping the blood through my body –keeping me alive and happy. There is no getting her out of it now.
I don't know if there ever was.
"I quite like it actually, thank you. It's very... Picasso with it's odd proportions."
This time she does put up a stronger fight, shoving me in the chest and pulling away with laughter on her lips. She is quick, too quick to stop as she swipes her paintbrush down my cheek in retaliation.
"Well sorry I'm not creepy enough to draw every detail of you perfectly."
She is laughing much too hard and the sound of it makes me want to set it as my ringtone, but I have more important things to take care of.
Revenge.
I grip the handle of my brush tighter and begin to stalk towards her -instantly silencing her laughter. She raises her hands up, wielding her paintbrush like a gun.
"Don't you dare, Curly."
She backs out of the room, looking behind her every so often to make sure she doesn't trip.
"You're the one that started this, Red."
I continue to stalk towards her calmly, brush raised to attack.
"But, I'm going to finish it."
And then I break off into a run, causing a squeal to escape Layla as she turns and busts out into a sprint towards the door. She doesn't hesitate in opening it, laughing and yelling all the way.
She tries to slam it behind her, but I catch it just in time and laugh hysterically as she fumbles for the keys to her apartment. I grab her just as the door to her apartment swings open, wrapping my arms around her petite frame and lifting her up.
Layla wiggles in my hold, laughing breathlessly, "Harry no! Put me down!"
But I carry her all the way over to the couch and drop her down on it, climbing over her waist on my knees and raising my brush high above my head.
"Harry!" She tries to snatch the brush from me, but I use my other hand to pin her arms above her head.
"Apologize."
She continues to laugh, though it's breathy and winded and I try to keep a straight face but it's hard when she looks so adorable.
"What?"
I wave the paintbrush above my head, "Apologize and I won't turn you into a tomato."
"Harr-"
"Apologize."
She sighs dramatically, rolling her eyes at me, "Fine. I'm sorry."
"For?" I prompt like a mother scolding her child and Layla looks like she may want to punch me in the balls so I tighten my grip on her wrists just slightly.
"I'm sorry for getting paint on you."
"Good," I smile in triumph, "Now say, 'Harry is the nicest and hottest and most amazing boyfriend in the whole world."
"I was taught to never lie."
This time I'm the one gasping dramatically, a chuckle falling from my lips and the brush above my head lowering towards her face. Layla struggles in my hold when she sees the descending paint.
"Okay, okay!" I pause and Layla rolls her eyes, forcing the words from her mouth so fast I can't even understand them, "Harry is the nicest and hottest and most amazing boyfriend in the whole world."
My dimples dig deep into my cheeks, my grin almost splitting them.
"Okay now just one more thing and I'll let you go." She whines from underneath me and I lower my face to hers slowly, "Kiss me."
She stops struggling, rolling her eyes, and blushing slightly before she leans her head towards mine.
Her lips brush mine softly, though the sparks it causes is anything but. She presses her plush lips against my chapped ones gently, lingering for a beat too long.
I smile into the kiss, as does she, and our teeth clash together, but it couldn't be more perfect.
I pull away with a sigh, begrudgingly removing myself from on top of her and letting out a deep rumble of laughter when she sticks her tongue out at me.
"You're such a child." But her grin is wide and her cheeks are pink and she is looking at me like she loves me.
And I really hope that she does.
"Yeah, yeah. Come help me get this paint off."
She nods her head, getting up from the couch, but her eyes catch on something and she freezes instantly. The warmth that was in her cheeks drains all too quickly and I feel the light atmosphere fading in one fell swoop.
"What? What is it?"
But, she ignores my slightly panicked voice and starts walking towards her coffee table. The lucky toad Betsy got her for her birthday sits on top of the glass innocently, but Layla holds it as if it's a bomb.
"Layla," I slowly walk towards her, watching as her eyes snap from the mantle, to the road, to the coffee table and back again, "What? What's happening right now?"
Her eyebrows are furrowed and her eyes are dark and she seems to be somewhere else, deep in thought.
But, when I place my hand onto her shoulder she jumps harshly and snaps out of her daze.
Her expression screams confusion and nerves and she seems to be looking to me for an explanation.
"Nothing... It's nothing," She glances at the mantle again, "I just could've sworn I left this on the mantle, not the table."
She seems genuinely bothered by this and I know a big part of that is because of her paranoia, her fear that involves anything regarding her past and how it may leak into her present.
I can already see her hands shaking as she lets her mind run wild.
Gently, I grab the statue from her hands and place it back on the mantle place.
"You probably just forgot you moved it, Layla," Her eyes are trained on the toad in suspicion, but I grab her chin in my palm and lift her head to face me, "Don't overthink this, Layla. You're safe, okay?"
She hesitates, and I can see the battle in her eyes -to agree with me and let it go or to read more into this. After a beat I see her visibly relax, stuffing her anxiety back down and letting the clouds clear from her eyes again.
She nods her head, "You're probably right... Yeah, you're right, I'm just being crazy. Let's get you cleaned up."
She grabs my hand in hers and begins to lead the way to the bathroom, and I begin to think I may have calmed her nerves.
But, before we turn the corner, I see her eyes latch onto the toad one more time. Suspicion, confusion, doubt.
Fear.
______________________
FINALLY UPDATED! So sorry for my shitty update schedule, but my spring break is next week so I can get some writing done then. Notorious won't be published tonight, but I am aiming for Tuesday! But, as some of you may know, my notes suddenly disappeared on my phone and I had the Savior epilogue, Notorious' last chapter, and the first chapter to the deal -PLUS, my outlines for all three stories.
SO YEAH IM REALLY FUCKING BUMMED OK
So, thoughts on the fluffiness of the chapter? Is Layla just being paranoid? Will we finally get some action? TUNE IN NEXT WEEK TO FIND OUT
loljk the rest of the chapters will have fluffy scenes, but I don't forsee a chapter like this again lol. There is a big storm coming (multiple storms)
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