Drawn Out Dreams. [A Zarry Fanfiction.]

Chapter Thirty

Harry’s large hand was wrapped around Zayn’s skinny wrist as the taller boy dragged the other into the small art closet. The heavy door had barely slotted back closed into it’s rightful place before Harry had pushed Zayn against the wall, his arms tightly wrapped around him as his lips peppered kisses across the boy’s face. Zayn still had his artwork gripped against his chest, yet Harry didn’t even care whether it was poking into his collar awkwardly, he just needed the reassurance of Zayn’s closeness. Harry had panicked over the boy all morning and seeing him now was just too much; not even getting started on the letter.

Zayn Malik was unaware of the mental mess that was hidden beneath the locks of brown curls. He was too busy giggling as Harry kissed around his face. Harry’s lips were placing small, rough kisses across his cheek bones, before he would catch the corner of Zayn’s mouth, which made the boy blush pink and giggle even more as his hands tried desperately to keep the art books within his arms. The boy found it increasingly hard to keep hold of them when he had Harry placing kisses on his face. Harry’s lips finally gave up and he looked over the boy’s face with a sigh of relief.

“Never scare me like that again, fluffball!” Harry whined, before he leant his forehead against Zayn’s and closed his eyes. His large hands were settled on either side of the boy’s neck, his thumbs slowly grazing along the tanned skin of the raven-haired boy in front of him, savouring the softness and warmth of him. Even with his eyes closed, Harry could still see the innocent stare that Zayn was giving him, and he knew that those big brown eyes would be staring at him, waiting for him to talk, waiting for him to move, just waiting.

“Never ever think for a moment that I wouldn’t want to be your friend.” Harry whispered, before he slipped his hands around the back of Zayn’s neck slowly and brought the boy into a tight hug once again. The feeling of the sketchbooks pressed against his torso couldn’t distract Harry from the beautiful smell coming from the boy, as he nuzzled his face into Zayn’s neck. His eyes were still closed, as he just stood with Zayn, in their tiny little art closet.

“I just thought that you didn’t want to be my friend. Liam said so.” Zayn spoke quietly, smiling a little from the feeling of Harry’s curls that were tickling the side of his face. Harry’s eyes immediately opened at the mention of Liam’s name. He slowly looked up until his eyes were staring into Zayn’s chocolate pools, which very rarely left his.

“What do you mean, Liam told you so? Why is Liam talking to you?” Harry asked quickly, when he thought back to the letter and reflected on the mention of Liam Payne’s name once again.

Harry’s mind started to work overtime, as he put the pieces of the puzzle together. Zayn had left on Friday afternoon, it was extremely out of character for the boy and had Harry wondering all weekend whether the boy was alright and what had happened, and now, as he stared at the huge bruise that went across the bridge of the boy’s nose, Harry’s teeth gritted together, a ragged sigh leaving his mouth. Zayn could only look and take in the boy’s features as the curly haired lad stayed silent. Harry’s pink lips were set in a strong line, his jawbone carrying them prominently as it sat stuck in its position.

Zayn didn’t know what to answer as he looked into the glossy green eyes, which were showing so much anger. He had seen angry eyes many times before, and at this closeness too. Zayn’s eyes quickly counted over all the small flecks of gold that belonged to Harry’s mossy irises as he thought of his Father’s eyes. His Father’s eyes were always dull. They were made of a deep brown colour, dulled by the alcohol and anger that would flood his system like a dam. Zayn always caught small flecks of a lighter chocolate colour when his drunk and volatile Father was close, and the frown lines that were etched into his skin. As he looked at Harry, he observed that the boy seemed to get the same frowning lines into his brow. He quickly decided that even without alcohol, Harry could still look as angry as his Father did.