Disguise♔ z.m

Forty seven

My heart ceases when I realize I have been sleeping on his shoulder. The knots forming at the bottom of my stomach per second become worse as I realize I have also been drooling and holding on to him as though he was some sort of pillow (not that I complain) but it is so shameful to know he has seen me this way.

“Had a good sleep?

He’s beginning to pull away. No, no, no! Not yet!

“Yeah.”

His arm is literally slipping away from my hold. I want to let go, but I want to hold on so tight because 1)It is more comfortable and 2)I have no idea but number 1 seemed like the best damn excuse I could get.

“Don’t pull away just yet.” He seems taken a back from my statement. Then I realize how stupid I sounded but before I get the chance to tell him that it’s okay to pull away, he replies.

“Okay.”

Okay?

For him to say ‘okay’, means that he did enjoy having me in such a position. It means he didn’t mind if I did this throughout the flight—

“Okay.” I stop myself from overthinking.

“Okay.” He nods and stares at me, the several orbs running around his irises sparkling like the stars I usually look at whenever I felt alone. His bronzed irises were something else. They held such strength, such emotion, yet such warmness I thought I could die.

We hold on to one other like book endings, several pages between us as our mind drift into several oceans and seas, trying to understand if this is wrong or right.

I was feelings and smiles away from telling him that I was feeling so joyous, I could fly the plane.

Perhaps it was the wine I took before sleeping off, or the cologne spread all of my senses from his chest. Sugar, spice and everything nice…

I must have been biting my lips too hard when Zayn cleared his throat, making me come back to reality where we are still so close.

“So, like, I know, uh, we can’t like, um,” his words are like puzzles to my ears, fragments of sentences always so incomplete and complete, “change the fact that Liam is not here and that, I’m the, I mean, your boyfriend, you know?”

“Yes,” I breathe, feeling my cheeks burn from the way he says ‘boyfriend’. Oh my god, I feel ecstatic. I could literally record his voice on a tape and listen to the word ‘boyfriend’ a million times.

“We’ve got to talk it out. The basics, like things they ask you about me that you should know.”

“Like?”

“My job, age.” He simply states.

“Why would they ask for your age?”

“Whatevs.” He off heartedly says. “You just got to know.”

This is like morning-after-sex-with-Liam-conversation again.

“So, ask me stuff.”

“Your age.” I simply say.

“Twenty-five.”

“Job?”

“Artist. Have a degree in art and literature.”

“Really?” I never knew this about Zayn. I could have never picked him up being into literature or art.

He nods as a reply and I ask him all the little basics that really don’t actually matter but mean the entire universe to me.

“How did you come about to like art?” My questions were getting out of hand, but he didn’t complain.

“I was a funny kid, always painting stuff or spraying walls. One day, I come home and tell my mother I want to paint on her walls and she says, and in quote ‘You’re not painting on my walls’ and like, it’s really funny ‘cos I now got my place and I paint wherever I want to. Funny, yeah?”

“Yeah.” An imaginary child figure of Zayn is drawn in my mind, a helpless kid with a wandering talent and amazing character.

He then sighs out of thinking as much as I did, relaxing back, and looking upwards, flicking his tongue against his bottom lip, slowly blinking as his fingers tap according to some beat he got going on in his head.

This is hard.

All of this.

Being on the plane with Zayn is hard.

No, it’s rather suffocating. Suffocating in the good way, that is, if suffocating has two ways. I don’t even know anymore! I’m rambling all sorts of things in my head, and when Liam pops up, I frown.

The amounts of things that remind me of him are countless, and that freakin’ sucks because no one is entitled to such position.

      Then, I look at Zayn, he looks back. We stay that way, no words needed to fill in because we were already content with looking at each other. Not for a nanosecond did he blink, neither did I because I was willing to stare at him for as long as I could before we arrive.

      Spicy scent radiates of his warm skin, blown minds and nimble heartbeats being foundations of his secrecy. He should spare a segment of his perfection, not that I would need it for personal purpose, but for a bottle I could hide underneath my pillow and think of him until the moon and sun meet, not that it’s a possible phenomenon, but an expected outcome.

      We still look at each other, seconds, minutes and hours only constituents of scarcity. My God, was Zayn finer than The Sistine Chapel ceiling by Michelangelo, or more perfect than The Birth of Venus by Botticelli (even the goddess in the portrait would feel her heart leap) or flawless like the water lilies of Claude Monet (zayn’s eyes were better than the garden’s Claude could ever possess).

      “Kairos.” He says.

“What?”

“Kairos, as in, the fleeting moment of time and place that sort of creates the opportune atmosphere for actions words, or movement.”

“Kairos.” I repeat like a dumb child who has recently learnt its first word.

“Kairos.” He then takes a hold of the airplane’s magazine, flipping the pages, unconsciously and consciously sticking out his tongue from the corner of his lip as he continuously comes across movies he could interest himself with. Consciously and unconsciously was he aware of his environment, but hell did he not know how opportunistic this moment slash atmosphere was for our lips to come in contact.

Kairos.

[zen is finer than the aurora borealis for crying out loud wow and if u aren’t a zayn girl, u are a zayn girl. KAIROS wassup how u feel. AND I PROMISE TO FOCUS ON THIS FANFIC AND FINISH IT UP SOON BC I AM WRITING OTHER STORIES THAT U SHOULD ALSO CHECK OUT- elissa]