zarry one shots and mini fics

colors - zouis

Zayn hands the blunt to Louis' eager hands.

Louis inhales deeply, studying Zayn as he saw the different shapes and sizes adorning his arms and the mismatched colors on his fingertips from the brushes as he retracts his hand.

He liked Zayn. Platonic love, he'd like to think. Zayn was, well, Zayn. Louis admires how passionate he is about his art and music. How soft his hair looks. The deep reds and blues on his hands and the warm hues of orange and yellow on his sweater.

The way he holds a cigarette. Gentleman style. How he's so spontaneous. The works by his creative visionary. Yeah. Louis likes Zayn. How he always washes his best friend's hair when he falls into a pit of sadness and self-hate. How he cards his long fingers through his hair as he reads to him about the Greek Gods and West Africans and their lifestyle.

Zayn was a gem and Louis was lucky to have him.

-

Another day, another blunt.

He sits on the comfy chairs in the balcony and watches as Zayn stumbles in haphazardly, the scotch in his glass spilling a tad.

He sits across Louis, his hair falling over his forehead as one hand loosens the tie he wore to an opening of a new art musuem.

Louis thinks about how Zayn showed him a painting inspired by one of his favourite artists, René Magritte. His lips curve upwards.

Zayn lights up a perfectly rolled joint and inhales deeply, immediately feeling some sort of haze clouding his brain.

He passes it to Louis and brushes his hand, loving the soft skin.

They ended up smoking two and Zayn offers a Molly. Louis declines. They sit in silence. The orange tree rustled. Zayn spills more scotch. Louis plays with the loose thread on his jeans.

He stands up, getting bored of seeing how tight he could wrap the thread around his finger.

He walks towards Zayn. He looks up to his best friend with half shut eyes. They reminded Louis of the cresent moon.

He get down on both knees, his hands on both armrests.

Zayn is confused, but not confused enough to ask. Maybe he was just lazy.

Louis leans foward. He steps out of his universe. He kisses Zayn.

Zayn isn't caught off guard. This was inevitable. This whole thing.

He kisses Louis sensually as he leans to the side, his neck on display for Zayn to paint his own picture with his tongue as the brushes, his teeth as the paint.

He does a marvelous job. They kissed and kissed, getting painfully hard.

Zayn had forgotten about the world. Gigi, his father that would get vitroilic and go on a rampage for liking the same sex, his manager, everyone.

Why would he be thinking about the world when he saw his universe in front of him.

Louis was the stars, the sun, the planets.

They hold each other close until the sun rises, the oranges and pinks shining upon them. Louis likes how they look like Zayn's hands after a painting. He likes the whole metaphorical meaning behind it. Even if he was a million miles away, all he had to do was watch the sun, and he would feel a little less lonely.

He smiles. Zayn plays with his hair. They fall asleep, holding each other.

I asked for the stars. He gave me his universe.

---

fluff. editing soon.

might have a part 2. put on quite a show pt 3 next